Grace noticed that she shot two glances at Norman Potting while she was speaking. He was becoming increasingly curious about whether there was something going on between the two of them.
‘I talked to the Harbour Master at Shoreham Port yesterday afternoon, sir, in his office,’ she said. ‘I went through with him the list of all cargo ships that sailed after 8 p.m. Tuesday the 21st – the earliest time that the items stolen from Aileen McWhirter’s house could have arrived there. Cargo ships can only enter and leave four hours either side of high tide. The next relevant high water was at 02.38 Wednesday the 22nd and then at 15.03.’
She shot Potting another glance and this time Grace caught the old sweat’s wink back to her. Surely not? Bella with an old lech like Potting? But few things truly surprised him.
Bella held up several sheets of paper clipped together. ‘All ships over 500 gross tons weight have to have CERS transponders switched on. It stands for Central European Reporting System – it’s a progression from the Royal Navy’s wartime IFF system, Identification Friend Or Foe. Basically it works exactly the same way as the system for identification of planes for air traffic control. All cargo ships around the world are plotted constantly at sea – this was something brought in after 9/11.’
‘What happens if they switch them off?’ Dave Green, the Crime Scene Manager, asked.
‘They need to have a valid reason,’ she responded. ‘For instance, if they’re in waters known to be at danger from Somali pirates, they’re permitted to turn them off, but only in situations like that.’ She pointed to her sheets of paper. ‘This is a list of all ships that have sailed since 8 p.m. August the 21st, together with their bills of lading. The Torrent, carrying scrap metal. The Anke Angela, carrying oats. The Walter Hamman, carrying fertilizer—’
‘Do we have their intended destinations, Bella?’ Glenn Branson asked, interrupting her.
‘Yes.’
‘Good work, Bella,’ Grace said. ‘First thing is we need to see if any of these ships divert from their stated destinations. Second we need the co-operation of Interpol to check everything they offload against those bills of lading. I need you to circulate the inventory of everything stolen from Aileen McWhirter to Interpol.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What about trucks on the roll-on/roll-off ferries, Bella?’ DC Alec Davies asked.
‘I’m getting a log of all of them within one hundred miles of Brighton,’ the DS answered. ‘It’s a mammoth task.’ She glanced down at her notebook. ‘Just one thing more, sir,’ she said to Roy Grace. ‘We’re still working on black Porsches with Sussex registrations, but so far none of the owners is on our radar. I’d like to widen the parameters.’
‘Yes, do a nationwide search. It could easily be a second-hand car bought elsewhere.’
DC Jon Exton raised his hand. He had a stack of magazines in front of him. ‘Sir, I’ve got copies of the Antiques Trade Gazette, which I think might be helpful for everyone on the team to read. There’s a Turkish crime family in London who have a very good distribution system to the London antiques markets. This lists all the fairs and markets, as well as the auction calendar both here and overseas. It might be worth the team looking at to learn a bit more about the antiques trade – and just how many outlets there are.’
‘Thanks, Jon,’ Grace said. ‘Please circulate them.’
Exton handed a copy to DS Potting. ‘Sorry, Norman,’ he said, ‘there’s no Page Three girl. Not really your kind of reading.’
There was a titter of laughter. Even Roy Grace grinned.
Potting pursed his lips. ‘Actually, Jon, did you hear the one about the lady married to the archaeologist?’
Again Grace noticed the exchange of glances between Potting and Bella Moy.
‘No,’ Exton said.
‘She said, “The good thing in this relationship is that the older I get, the more interesting he will find me.”’
Everyone, except for Glenn Branson, laughed and Grace was happy to see his team smiling. In his experience, it was teams that had some kind of camaraderie that produced the best results. But he was concerned about his mate, and wanted to ensure he was kept involved.
‘Glenn, I’m giving you an action. I want you to liaise with Interpol in Spain. I want to know if there were any suspicious deaths reported in the Marbella area this weekend, or anyone attacked or beaten up, okay?’
‘Want me to go and check it out, boss? Could do with a weekend in the sun.’
Grace smiled. ‘Not at this stage.’ Then he turned to the analyst Annalise Vineer. ‘Have you found any similar MOs anywhere else?’
‘There’s one in Newcastle, sir, and one in Glasgow. I’m looking into them.’
Grace looked around at his team hopefully. ‘Anything else, anyone?’
There wasn’t.
‘I’m making this evening’s briefing at 5 p.m. If there’s nothing significant then, I’m giving you all the evening off, so you’re fresh in the morning. Okay?’
No one objected.
53
His day began at 5 a.m. It was nice, if a tad ironic, Gavin Daly thought, that the older he became, the less sleep he needed. There’d be plenty of sleep soon enough, he thought. Oh yes. The great bard understood.
To sleep: perchance to dream . . .
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.
He had pause, all right. Three nights a week for the past ninety years he had dreamed of that night his mother was shot dead and his dad was taken. In that dream, the same dream every time, he saw the blood pulsing from her; then the Statue of Liberty fading into the mist beyond the Verrazano Narrows. And then his promise.
One day, Pop, I’m going to come back and find you. I’m going to rescue you from wherever you are.
The words of Hamlet returned.
The undiscovered country,
From whose bourne no traveller returns.
He could not die without having found his father. It was still not too late. So long as he was alive, it was never going to be too late.
54
‘Still feeling in the mood for fish?’ Roy Grace asked.
‘Very definitely!’ Cleo said. ‘And I have a craving for oysters. Followed by a great big Dover sole!’
‘I thought you were only meant to have cravings when you were pregnant?’ Roy Grace looked apologetically at Marlon, swimming around his bowl. ‘Don’t take it personally, old chap,’ he said.
‘Unfortunately I’m not meant to eat shellfish while I’m breastfeeding. So you’ll have to eat some and I’ll just stare at them and enjoy them vicariously!’ She grinned wickedly. ‘Apparently they make men horny as hell.’
‘I don’t need oysters,’ he said. ‘Just being with you makes me horny as hell, all the time!’
‘Cravings aren’t restricted to pregnancy. I’ve got new cravings now.’
‘Oh?’
‘Some rather interesting stuff I didn’t know about that I’ve just learned.’
‘From that book you’ve been reading?’
‘I’m on the third one now. I went shopping this afternoon and bought a few things we could try out when I’m up to it again.’ She gave him a sideways look.
‘You took Noah into a sex shop?’
‘He loved it! He looked around quite excitedly – I think he liked the red and pink colours in Ann Summers.’
‘He’s two months old and you’re getting him into bad ways!’ Grace grinned.