Dead Man's Time

clipboard.
    The driver got out; a week short of his seventieth birthday, he was thin as a rake and stooped, with ragged silver hair poking out beneath his chauffeur’s cap that was two sizes too
big.
    ‘Sorry about the bumps, boss,’ he wheezed as he opened the rear door.
    Gavin Daly put down the SuDoku he was working on, stepped out, steadying himself with his black, rubber-tipped cane. Its silver head was a hawk with a piercing gaze. He ignored his
minder’s proffered helping hand, and pulled himself upright.
    Tanned, with immaculate, veneered teeth and a ramrod posture, Daly could have passed for a man two decades younger. He had a hooked, down-turned flat nose that gave him the air, like the head of
his stick, of a bird of prey, a shoulder-length mane of white hair, and electric-blue eyes that were normally filled with warmth and charm, but today burned bright with anger behind his horn-rimmed
glasses. He was dressed in a beige linen suit, open-neck blue shirt with a paisley cravat, tasselled brown Ferragamo loafers, and held an unlit, half-smoked Cohiba in his hand. Only the liver spots
on his face and hands, his wrinkled neck and his slow pace gave any real clue to his age.
    Masking his fury as he walked up to the police officer, he spoke calmly but firmly. ‘My name is Gavin Daly,’ he said. ‘This is my sister’s house. Detective Superintendent
Grace is expecting me.’ His voice was rich and polished, carrying just the faintest trace of his Irish antecedents. When he needed it, he had the true gift of the gab. He could sell snow to
Eskimos, sand to Bedouins and bathing suits to fish. He had made his first fortune in clocked old cars, and his second, much greater one, in high-end antiques, specializing in watches and
clocks.
    She looked down at her clipboard, then spoke into her radio.
    A few moments later a tall black man in a white protective oversuit and overshoes approached him. ‘Mr Daly, I’m Detective Inspector Branson, the Deputy Senior Investigating Officer
on this case. Thank you for coming – and I’m sorry about the circumstances.’
    ‘Not as sorry as I am,’ Daly said, with a wry smile.
    ‘Of course, sir. I understand.’
    ‘You do? Tell me what you understand? You know what it feels like, do you, to see your ninety-eight-year-old sister in Intensive Care, and to be told of the vile things that have been done
to her?’
    ‘We’re going to do everything in our power to catch the despicable people who did this, sir.’
    Daly stared back at him, but said nothing. He was going to have his son do everything in his power to find them too. And if his violent son got there first, as he intended, the police
weren’t going to find them. Ever.
    A stocky man, fully suited and hooded, appeared holding a protective suit and boots. ‘I’m David Green, the Crime Scene Manager, sir. I’d appreciate it if you would put these
on.’
    Glenn Branson helped the old man struggle into them. As he did so he said, ‘I understand you’ve flown back from France today – and you’ve been to see your
sister?’
    ‘I have.’
    ‘How is she doing?’
    ‘Not good,’ Daly replied, curtly. ‘What would you expect? That she’s standing on her bed performing a jig?’
    Branson was grateful that Roy Grace was here at the scene. This man was not going to be easy to deal with – as he had already been forewarned. David Green handed Daly a pair of gloves,
then the three walked around to the front of the house. As they entered the porch, and walked onto SOCO metal stepping plates through the doorway into the hall, Daly saw two Scenes of Crime
Officers, a male and a female, both in white over-suits, the woman on her knees making tapings, the man taking photographs.
    He looked around at the dark rectangles on the walls. He’d last been here a fortnight ago. Then it had been filled with paintings and beautiful objects. Now it looked like removals men had
cleared the place.
    ‘Your sister lived here all on her own, Mr Daly?’
    ‘She has a part-time housekeeper – but the woman’s away on holiday. And a gardener who comes once a week.’
    ‘Would you consider both of them trustworthy?’
    ‘The housekeeper’s about seventy-five – she’s been with my sister for over thirty years – and the gardener for at least ten years. No question.’
    ‘We’ll need to talk to them, to eliminate them from our enquiries – if you can let me have their contact details, please.’
    Daly