Dead Man's Time

a row practising reversing, then pulled over to the right and halted in front of another gated mansion that, like all the homes on this side of the road, had magnificent views
south across Hove to the English Channel.
    ‘How about this place?’ Grace quizzed. ‘Four years ago the owners were attacked by two masked men, at midnight, as they waited for the gates to open. They were tied up and
threatened with a cigarette lighter until they gave the safe code and their bank pin codes.’
    Dupont shook his head. ‘No, not me, sorry.’
    ‘Think harder,’ Grace said. ‘Oh, by the way, I do have one more bit of bad news for you.’
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘My officers have found the Luton van that you rented from a company in Ipswich. I imagine you thought renting from far away would give you a better chance, right?’
    Dupont said nothing.
    ‘SOCO found fingerprints of you and your mates Macario and Barnes in there. You’re not coming out for fifteen to twenty years. So, just a friendly word of warning, don’t piss
us about. Shall we make a deal?’
    ‘What deal?’
    ‘We’re ten minutes, max, from the nearest McDonald’s. Where is the stuff you stole from Aileen McWhirter, and who hired you? Wasn’t by any chance someone called Eamonn
Pollock?’
    ‘I thought our deal was I didn’t talk about the case without my brief. I thought you were taking me around burglary sites.’
    ‘You don’t have to talk about it, and we don’t have to get you a Big Mac. We can drive you straight back to prison, if you’d prefer?’
    ‘I’m vulnerable in prison,’ he said. ‘I know that. I’d like a burger, but I’m not grassing anyone up. So if that’s your plan, you might as well drive me
straight back.’
    Grace’s phone rang. He raised a finger at him, then answered. It was Norman Potting.
    ‘All good on the Costa del Sol?’ he enquired.
    ‘
Costa del Crime
, chief,’ he chuckled. ‘I have a couple of things to report. Firstly, the post-mortems on Ken Barnes and Anthony Macario. Both men died from drowning,
with excessive alcohol consumption a probable cause – their overturned dinghy supports this. However, the Coroner here’s unhappy about the men’s physical injuries – it looks
like they might have been in a fairly brutal fight prior to drowning. But there were no disturbances reported that night to the police and, significantly, none of the people on any of the
neighbouring yachts, or in the apartments overlooking the harbour, heard or saw anything. The Guardia Civil have been brought in to investigate more thoroughly and that’s where it stands, for
the moment.’
    ‘Okay. Thanks, Norman. What is the second thing?’
    ‘The local police had all the outgoing passenger lists for the past week from Malaga Airport checked and Eamonn Pollock’s name popped up.’
    ‘Flying where?’
    ‘Last Thursday, August the 30th, domestic from Malaga to Madrid. He must have stayed overnight in Madrid, then on August the 31st he boarded an international flight to New York.’
    Grace was conscious of Dupont behind him listening to every word. He stepped out of the car, closed the door and walked a few paces along the street. A blustery wind was blowing.
‘Brilliant work, Norman. We need to find out where he’s staying in New York. I remember when I went over last year you have to give that information to the airline before you
board.’
    ‘I have it, chief,’ Potting replied, sounding smugger than ever. ‘The Ritz Carlton, five-zero Central Park South.’
    ‘Top man!’
    Grace ended the call, his brain spinning. His tip-off from Donny Loncrane in Lewes Prison had been Eamonn Pollock. Just over a week after the robbery, Eamonn Pollock flew to New York. A week
after that, Peregrine Stuart-Simmonds reports a Patek Philippe, matching the description of the one stolen, being hawked around New York dealers. Then his phone rang again.
    It was DC Exton in MIR-1. ‘Boss, I’ve got a result for you on Gavin Daly. You asked us to find out what flight he was booked on today – it’s a British Airways, to New
York, JFK, leaving at 1.50 p.m.’
    Grace looked at his watch. One hour and twenty minutes. ‘Good work, Jon,’ he said.
    Grace climbed back into the car and turned to Gareth Dupont. ‘What was it you said earlier? About serendipity? Sometimes in life you get lucky?’
    Dupont nodded.
    ‘Yep, well, you’re right. Sometimes in life you get lucky.’
    ‘Does that mean I get my burger?’
    ‘Sorry