‘They were born in New York. Their father was, I guess, what you’d call a gangster. He was high up in the White Hand Gang. One night their mother was shot dead by a bunch of men who entered the house – they actually went into Gavin’s bedroom first, then they shot the mother dead and took the father away. Gavin and Aileen never saw him again. A few months later an aunt took them to Ireland, thinking they’d be safer there than in New York. Then in their teens – I suppose that must have been in the early thirties – their aunt met and married a man from Brighton and they moved over here.’
Grace listened intently, the books he had seen in Aileen McWhirter’s study starting to make sense now, together with the conversation he had had with Gavin in the garden. Then he walked over to the cabinet, and peered in at the trophies. ‘Are these yours or your husband’s, Mrs Courteney?’
She blushed slightly. ‘All of them are mine – mostly broadcasting, and a couple of tennis trophies and one for Salsa dancing. I go to classes – a good way of keeping fit. Actually I’m Mrs Daly, but Courteney is my professional name.’ She gestured for them to take a seat, then sat on the sofa opposite them, crossing her bare feet, and looked at them expectantly.
‘We need to have a word with your husband, Lucas,’ Grace said. ‘I understand he’s away at the moment.’
‘For the weekend.’
‘Where’s he gone?’ DS Batchelor asked.
‘Marbella. A boys’ golfing trip.’
‘He’s a regular golfer, is he?’ Grace asked.
She hesitated. ‘He’s a social golfer.’
‘What club is he a member of locally?’
Suddenly, she looked very uncomfortable. ‘Umm, well, you know, he only plays occasionally. Societies, mostly. I’m not actually sure what club he’s a member of here – I don’t know for sure if he is actually a member of any of them.’ She hesitated. ‘I mean – he plays at different ones.’
‘Very expensive game,’ Guy Batchelor said. ‘I nearly gave up membership to my club because I don’t play enough. It would be cheaper just to pay green fees.’
‘Does your husband play regularly in Spain?’ Grace asked.
‘No – not at all.’ She shrugged, looking increasingly uneasy. ‘He – we – used to have a place in Puerto Banus and we still have friends there.’
She showed none of the confidence she exuded on air as a newscaster, as she nervously twisted her wedding band. Grace was almost certain she was lying. Covering up for her husband. Covering what up?
‘So he doesn’t often make you a golf widow?’ Grace said with a smile.
‘No.’ She smiled, then shot a pointed glance at her watch.
‘We’ll be gone in just a second. When will your husband be back?’
She hesitated. ‘Sunday. Late Sunday.’
Guy Batchelor handed her his card. ‘I wonder if you could ask him to call me when he returns – as soon as convenient.’
‘Of course.’ She laid the card on the coffee table.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, you’re a very good newsreader,’ Grace said.
‘Thank you so much!’
‘Are Fridays one of your regular nights?’ he asked.
‘Well, they rotate, but this past month I’ve been doing the Friday evening regional news, after the 6 p.m. and 10 p.m. national news.’
Sounding as nonchalant as he could, Grace continued, ‘I suppose with these long summer evenings, your husband plays golf while you’re working?’
She blushed, looking very uncomfortable now. ‘Well – not that often.’
‘Out of interest, can you recall if he played last Friday evening?’
She looked at her watch again. ‘Last Friday. No, he went over to see his father – Gavin’s very upset about Aileen. I think he had dinner with his father while I was at work.’
‘Have you had to read out any of the coverage on this story yourself, on air?’ Guy Batchelor asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘And I’d rather not. Not sure I could cope with that emotionally.’
The two detectives stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, and we’ll have a chat with Mr Daly when he’s back.’
‘I’ll make sure he gets your card.’
*
Back in the car, Grace said, ‘I didn’t see a single golfing trophy in there.’
‘So maybe he’s a crap golfer. Where are we going with this, boss? Sorry if I’m being dumb.’
‘I don’t think he plays golf at all. Golfers always have trophies, even if just a wooden spoon.’
Batchelor pulled over, got out of the car, shook a Silk Cut cigarette out of a pack, and offered the pack to Grace. ‘Want one?’
‘No, not right now, but go ahead.’
‘Have you given up?’
‘I gave up a long time ago, but I still have the occasional one with a drink in the evening.’ He shrugged. ‘I enjoy them, so sod it!’
‘Why’s Daly’s shop manager and his wife saying he’s on a golfing holiday, Roy?’
Grace was silent as the DS leaned against the outside of the car, lit his cigarette, and blew a perfect smoke ring.
‘I’ve always wondered how to do those,’ he said.
The DS grinned and blew two more in rapid succession. For an instant, as they closed together, they looked like handcuffs.
‘I’m impressed!’ Grace said.
‘My party trick.’
‘Then you wave a magic wand and turn them into steel?’
‘Depends whose party I’m at.’ He grinned back. ‘So we’re safe to assume that whatever Lucas Daly’s doing in Marbella, golf isn’t a feature?’
‘Once again we’re on the same page. Or maybe I should say the same fairway.’
‘Or bunker?’
48
At 7 p.m. Lucas Daly and the Apologist watched Tony Macario and Ken Barnes lock the gate at the top of the Contented’s gangway, and strut ashore.
They were rough-looking men; neither of them was tall, but they both had a wiry meanness about them. Macario, with short dark hair, sported several days’ growth of stubble, and even from this distance Daly could see a long scar beneath his right eye. Both men wore jeans, and white T-shirts with the yacht’s name stencilled across the front. They headed off along the quay, Macario in flip-flops, and shaven-headed, tattooed Barnes in trainers.
‘They coming back or should we follow?’ the Apologist asked.
‘They’d sodding well better come back. Wait here.’ Daly got up and sauntered after them.
The two crewmen did not walk far. After a couple of hundred yards they made a left into an alley lined with buzzing bars and restaurants, then a right, and entered O’Grady’s Irish Pub. The word GUINNESS and its harp logo were etched onto the windows and the glass panes of the open doors. Daly waited, watching them make their way slowly through the crowd towards the bar. Then as he saw their drinks being served, he returned to fetch the Apologist.
Ten minutes later the two of them were positioned with their drinks in the pub, a safe distance from Macario and Barnes, watching them attempting to chat up a small group of uninterested teenage girls. Daly hoped to hell they wouldn’t pull, as that would complicate his newly formed plans.
An hour and a half later, to his relief, the girls left, despite the entreaties of the two men, who were clearly a little sloshed, to stay. Just after 11 p.m., Macario and Barnes staggered out of the bar and up the alley. Daly and the Apologist followed them, and saw them stop at a takeaway pizza joint.
Then, carrying their large polystyrene boxes, they headed unsteadily back to the Contented and boarded the yacht, disappearing through the saloon doors.
It was approaching 11.30 p.m. The evening was warm, and the streets seemed to be getting even more crowded. Daly and his colleague entered a bar opposite. He ordered a Metaxa brandy, to steady his nerves, and another Coke for the Apologist. Ten minutes later he said, ‘Okay, time to rock and roll.’