Dead Man's Time

shopping there.’
    Revson was relieved that she got some time away from the monster. He noticed the shiny Cartier Tank watch on her wrist. ‘Is that new?’
    She smiled. ‘Yes, got that there. I found a little jewellery place a few years ago that makes really good-quality copies – not like most of the rubbish. He’s a proper
craftsman, can get anything you want copied in just a few days.’
    ‘My wife wants one of those Cartier bracelets,’ he said, then frowned. ‘A
Tennis
bracelet, is it? They cost a fortune.’
    ‘He’d be able to make one for you – she’d never know the difference.’
    ‘Is it legal?’
    She shrugged. ‘I can give you his email address. You can send him a photo of what you want and he’ll send you a quote.’
    ‘Hmm, thanks, I might well do that.’ Pulling his goggles down over his eyes, he accepted the hypodermic needle from one of his two assistants dressed in identical navy tunics, and
stepped forward across the grey and white speckled floor. ‘Okay, ready?’
    Sarah nodded. It would hurt, she knew. But the pain was a small price to pay for the difference she felt it would make to her lips. ‘No gain without pain’ was one of her favourite
sayings. She said it now.
    Royce slid the slender needle through her upper lip.
    She winced.
    ‘Okay?’ he asked.
    She nodded with her eyes.
No gain without pain . . . No gain without pain . . . No gain without pain.
She repeated the mantra continuously, silently.
    Steadily, he worked his way along her upper, then lower lips.
    ‘It’ll look like an allergic reaction for a couple of days,’ he said. ‘Before they settle down.’
    ‘I’m not on television again until Tuesday,’ she said.
    ‘You’ll be fine by then.’
    ‘You think so?’
    ‘Aren’t you usually?’
    ‘Yep.’
    He smiled. Sure, it was clients like this that had helped make him a wealthy man, but money had never motivated him. Every time a beautiful woman like Sarah Courteney slipped off his couch with
a smile on her face, he wanted to punch his fist in the air and give two fingers to whatever sadist that cruel god of ageing was.

12
    Withdean Road was one of the city’s most exclusive addresses. Secluded houses were set well back behind high walls or screens of trees and shrubbery in a quiet,
meandering, tree-lined street. Susi Holiday drove slowly as Dave Roberts called out the numbers. The even ones were on the right-hand side.
    ‘Here!’ he said.
    She turned in through old wooden gates that looked in bad repair and drove down a steep, winding, potholed tarmac drive. There were rhododendron bushes to the right, and to the left down below
them, beyond a rockery and a steep lawn, the pebbledashed façade of a grand Edwardian house, with mock-Tudor features, leaded-light windows and high gables. Fixed high up on the wall was a
red LanGuard alarm box.
    At the end of the drive, to the rear of the mansion, was a courtyard in front of two dilapidated garages. Susi stopped the car and they climbed out. A fence to their right, with tall trees
behind, screening off the neighbouring house, was in a state of neglect, but the terraced lawns had recently been mown and there were sweet scents of cut grass and roses in the air. The property
had a fine view across the valley where the London–Brighton railway line ran at the bottom of a steep chalk escarpment, to the houses on the far side of Withdean and Patcham and the playing
fields of Varndean School.
    Close up, they could see the house was in poor repair, with the rendering badly in need of a lick of paint and some chunks missing; the paintwork around the window frames was peeling, the
condition that often signalled an elderly occupant. A thrush was washing itself in a stone birdbath in a small rectangle of lawn bounded by rose trees.
    ‘Shame not to look after such a beautiful place,’ Dave Roberts said.
    Susi Holiday nodded, looking around, thinking how much her dog would love it here, and wondering how many millions it would cost to buy, even in its current state.
    They took the pathway around to the front, peering through each of the windows they passed for any signs of the occupant. They walked by a rose garden that needed some TLC, then reached a large,
tiled porch. Rolled copies of the
Daily Telegraph
and the
Argus
were rammed into the letter box. More newspapers and some mail lay by the foot of the door. Not a good sign.
    Susi Holiday knelt and looked at the dates. ‘Yesterday – Wednesday