Dead Man's Time

about that; change of plans. We’ll get one on the way back, but I’m going to have to return you to prison right away. I’m afraid it’s not your lucky day,
Gareth; it’s mine.’

82
    Shortly after 1 p.m. Roy Grace and Guy Batchelor pulled up outside Lucas Daly and Sarah Courteney’s house in Shirley Drive. He told Batchelor to wait in the car, then
walked up to the front door and rang the bell.
    She answered, moments later, casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and blushed when she saw him. ‘Detective Superintendent, good afternoon.’ She smiled pleasantly.
    ‘I’ve just been to the shop and I’m told that Lucas is away for the weekend. Playing golf again, is he?’
    She looked edgy, but her eyes were steady, telling the truth. ‘No. He – ’ She hesitated. ‘Actually he’s had to go away on business.’
    ‘New York, by any chance?’
    She again looked hesitant. ‘Yes.’
    ‘I need to speak to him rather urgently. Do you know where he’s staying?’
    Her eyes were still telling the truth. ‘I don’t, no. He said he would call me when he was there. It was all a bit sudden, actually. Would you like to come in?’
    He entered and she closed the front door behind him. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea, coffee?’
    ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
    She was a really beautiful woman. What the hell had she been doing sleeping with a total scumbag like Gareth Dupont? Maybe anything was a relief from her bully of a husband. ‘Does he go to
New York regularly?’
    ‘No. Well – ’ Suddenly she looked awkward, and her eyes were all over the place. ‘His father – my father-in-law – has contacts all over the world.
Occasionally there are important auctions that he goes to abroad, either to buy or sell pieces. Or pieces he goes to view to possibly buy.’
    ‘Is that what he’s doing in New York?’
    ‘As I understand. He doesn’t tell me much about his business. We lead pretty separate lives.’ She gave him a knowing look. ‘As I think you might have noticed.’
    This time it was Grace’s turn to blush. ‘I’m not here in judgement of your private life.’
    ‘Thank you,’ she said.

83
    Every time Roy Grace entered the grand Queen Anne building, which housed the senior brass at the Sussex Police headquarters complex in Lewes, the county town of East Sussex, he
felt himself regressing to childhood. He was once again a small, nervous boy in the headmaster’s study.
    ACC Peter Rigg, his boss, was a dapper man, with a healthy complexion, fair hair neatly and conservatively cut, and a posh, occasionally caustic, voice. Although several inches shorter than
Grace, Rigg had fine posture, with a military bearing which made him seem taller than his actual height. He was dressed in a well-cut dark suit with a striped shirt and what looked to Grace like a
club or old-school tie. His office was decorated with framed motor-racing pictures, a passion which Grace shared, and which had given them something in common to talk about in more relaxed
circumstances. On his desk sat a photograph of his attractive, blonde wife, Nikki, whom Grace had met recently at a function, and two children, a boy and a girl.
    ‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, sir,’ Grace said.
    ‘I’m hoping you have more good news,’ the ACC said, waspishly. ‘Well done on potting Dupont. So, tell me.’
    ‘Well, sir, in the past few hours there have been a number of developments, all of which point to New York. I need to take a team over there urgently, because I don’t think I can
influence things effectively from here.’
    Grace explained the developments of the day so far.
    To his surprise, instead of a lecture on police budget cuts, Peter Rigg said, ‘Have you thought about how many of your team you need to take with you?’
    ‘I’d like to take a minimum of two, sir: ideally a skipper and a DC. I have a good contact in the NYPD, who is already briefed, but I don’t know what to expect there, and I
don’t want to be dependent on anyone else.’
    ‘Your man Branson seems very adaptable.’
    ‘He has major problems because his wife has just died. But yes, he’s a good man. I’d like to take DC Exton – he’s an exceptionally intelligent officer,
sir.’
    ‘When do you want to go?’
    ‘The first possible flight. There’s availability tomorrow.’
    ‘I’ll speak to the Chief,’ he said. ‘But in principle, I’m with you on this, Roy. Just come back with a result, and I think