‘Fast Fella planted its feet. Refused to come out of the starting gate.’
‘So it was withdrawn from the race? It didn’t run. Do I get my bet returned?’
‘Afraid not; it was under starter’s order. All bets on that horse are lost.’
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ Daly said, ending the call.
The Apologist looked at him. ‘Bad?’
Daly nodded and shook another cigarette out of the pack. ‘Bad.’
‘Sorry.’
47
Shortly after 2.30 p.m. Roy Grace pulled up outside his favourite bookshop, City Books, an independent store on Western Road. He loved the way it truly smelled of books, and despite the small exterior, it opened up inside to a maze of crammed shelves. Whenever he had time, which was not often these days, he loved to go in and just get lost among its shelves.
‘Do you have anything on the early gang history of New York?’ he asked a young, brown-haired woman behind the counter, who had a studious air. Behind her stood a serious-looking man, with short grey hair, pecking at a computer keyboard. He looked up in recognition and smiled broadly.
‘Detective Superintendent Grace, nice to see you! Early gang history? How far back do you want to go? The start was really the Irish Dead Rabbits Gang in the 1850s, or their later White Hand Gang, or Al Capone’s Italian Black Hand Gang.’
‘I need to cover everything,’ he replied.
Ten minutes later, with five books lying in the shop’s carrier bag on the rear seat, Roy Grace drove slowly up Shirley Drive, passing Hove Recreation Ground on their left, while beside him Guy Batchelor looked at the numbers on the detached houses on the north side.
A quarter of a mile on he said, ‘Here, boss!’
They pulled up outside a smart detached house. A silver Mercedes SLK sports car occupied one of the two spaces on the driveway, in front of the integral garage; the other one was empty. They climbed out and walked to the front door, entering the porch, and Grace rang the bell.
They could hear an aggressive beat of music coming from somewhere inside the house.
‘The Number of the Beast,’ Guy Batchelor said.
‘Iron Maiden?’ Grace asked.
He nodded.
‘Didn’t know you were into music, Guy?’
‘Yeah, well, when you have a teenage daughter . . .’
Grace grinned, and at that moment the heavy oak front door was opened by a barefoot woman in a cream silk dressing gown. She looked smaller in real life, and without make-up her face looked a little bleached out; her long, dark hair was pushed up inside a towel, wrapped around like a turban. For a moment he hesitated in recognizing her as the strikingly attractive local TV news anchor he had so often seen. She also looked a little nervy, a little frightened. Not at all the confident, assured woman on his television screen.
‘Hello?’ she said suspiciously. ‘Who are you?’
‘Sarah Courteney?’
‘Yes.’
Grace held up his warrant card, and Batchelor did likewise. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Grace and this is Detective Sergeant Batchelor of Sussex and Surrey CID, Major Crime Branch,’ he said. ‘Would it be possible to have a quick word?’
She glanced down at her watch. ‘This is to do with my husband’s aunt, presumably?’
‘Yes,’ Grace replied.
‘So dreadful. I still can’t quite believe it. Okay, come in. I can only give you a few minutes – the car’s on its way to take me to the studio. But I’d rather you came in than stood out here – I’ve been besieged by the press over this.’
‘Of course. I’m a big fan of yours by the way!’ Grace said, then blushed, aware just how cheesy that had sounded.
She gave him a genuinely warm smile. ‘Thank you so much!’
They entered a hallway which smelled of fragrant pot-pourri. It was decorated with an exquisite antique table, two high-back chairs and a long-case clock. Photographs of the newscaster lined the walls. One was of her with Fatboy Slim, another, together with the man Grace presumed to be her husband, with sports commentator Des Lynam. Another was her with Dame Vera Lynn, and another with David Cameron. The music, coming from upstairs, was much louder in here. ‘Apologies for the din,’ she said with a grin. ‘My son, home from uni for the summer. That’s all he does all day long.’ She led them through into the drawing room. ‘Can I offer you something to drink?’
‘No, we’re fine, thank you. We’ll be very quick.’ Grace’s eyes roamed the large, elegant but comfortable room; it was furnished almost entirely in antiques, with a view out onto a well-kept lawn and a swimming pool. Two large, brown leather chesterfields faced each other in front of a marble fireplace, separated by an ornate wooden chest which served as a coffee table. A huge television screen peeped out of what looked like an adapted mahogany tallboy. A trophy cabinet sat in one corner, and the mantel above the fireplace was stacked with invitations. The room had a masculine feel, with just a few feminine touches. The sign of a dominant husband, Grace thought. Her dressing gown gaped open momentarily, before she clamped it shut defensively, and in that moment he noticed some bruises high up on her chest. Had her husband done that? A man who might brutally torture someone, who also beat his wife?
‘Have you had any luck on the case?’ she asked.
‘We’re making progress,’ Grace replied. ‘But no arrests yet.’
‘These people are monsters – I hope you get them.’
‘We’re very hopeful,’ he said.
‘I can’t believe what they did to her.’
‘Were you and your husband close to Mrs McWhirter?’ Batchelor asked.
She was quiet for a moment then she said, ‘I’m afraid no, not really. She and I always got on really well – we actually became quite close – but she had issues with Lucas.’
‘What kind of issues?’
‘Well, the thing is that Lucas and his father don’t get along.’
‘So I’ve gathered,’ Grace said. ‘What is the problem there?’
‘His father’s a tough act to follow – a highly successful self-made man. I think he put a lot of pressure on Lucas, and my husband’s a strong man – it’s like fire against fire.’
‘I think there’s often a problem when a relative works in a family business.’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose the truth is my husband doesn’t have his father’s business acumen. He’s lost a lot of his father’s money over the years in trying to diversify the business – you probably know the antiques trade isn’t what it used to be. Lucas set up a large bar and restaurant in Brighton which failed. He’s sunk big sums of money into other businesses and for one reason or another they didn’t work out. When he came into the business, Gavin Daly Antiques was one of the biggest dealers in the UK – they had six stores in Brighton and two in London. Now they have just the one.’
Grace nodded. ‘What about the relationship between your husband and Aileen?’
‘I’m afraid the old man rather poisoned his sister against Lucas. He convinced her to cut him out of her will.’
‘Why did he do that?’
She hesitated. ‘I rather feel I’m talking out of turn.’
‘You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to.’
‘I think he felt Lucas needed a reality check. That if he inherited a large amount from her, he’d just blow it. Squander it.’
‘Families and money,’ Grace said with a wry smile.
‘Maybe this terrible thing will bring Lucas and his father closer together.’
‘But you and Aileen got on well?’
‘Yes, Aileen and I got on very well. I used to pop in and see her every now and then – and she’d pour me a massive sherry! She was fiercely independent, still going really strong at ninety-eight. Her brother’s amazing for ninety-five – they have some good genes in that family, for sure. And they’ve been through a lot in their lives.’
‘Oh? Such as?’