Dead Man's Time

recognized from fireworks on the Fourth of July. And a coppery, metallic smell.
    He felt around until he found the switch for the electric light and snapped it on. And, for an instant, wished he had not. He wished that darkness could have stayed for ever. So that he had
never seen it.
    The terrible sight of his mother on the floor beside the bed. Blood leaking from her shoulder; the whole front of her nightdress sodden with a spreading, dark-crimson stain. Blood everywhere,
spattered across the walls, across the sheets, the pillows, the ceiling. She lay on her back, her black hair matted by blood. Part of her head was missing, exposing something wet, gnarly, a brown
and grey colour. She was twitching and shaking.
    Then, as if someone had reached over and pressed a switch, she fell silent.
    He ran forward, crying out, ‘Mama, Mama!’
    She did not respond.
    ‘Mama, wake up!’ He shook her. ‘Mama, where’s Pop? Mama!’
    She did not move.
    He fell to his knees and crawled up to her and kissed her. ‘Mama, wake up, Mama!’ He hugged her and shook her. ‘Wake up, Mama! Where’s Pop? Where’s Pa?’
    Still she did not move.
    ‘Mama!’ He began crying, confused. ‘Mama! Mama!’ His arms and face felt sticky. ‘Mama, wake, Mama, wake up . . . !’
    ‘What’s happening? Gavin? What’s happening?’ His sister’s voice.
    He backed away, took a step forward, then backed away again, uncertainly. Kept backing away through the door. And collided with his sister, Aileen, three years older than him, in her nightdress,
chewing a pigtail as she always did when she was afraid.
    ‘What’s happening?’ she asked. ‘I heard noises. What’s happening?’
    ‘Where’s Pop?’ he asked. ‘Where’s Pop? Pop’s gone!’ Tears were streaming down his face.
    ‘Isn’t he in bed?’
    He shook his head. ‘He’s gone with the bad men.’
    ‘What bad men?’
    ‘Where’s Pop? He has to wake up Mama! She won’t wake up.’
    ‘What bad men?’ she asked again, more urgently.
    There was blood on the landing. Drops of blood on the stairs. He ran down them, screaming for his pa, and out through the open front door.
    The street was deserted.
    He felt the rain on his face, smelled the salty tang of the river. For some moments, the rumble high overhead of another train drowned out his cries.

5
    Brighton, 28 June 2012
    From a distance, the man cut a dash. He looked smarter than the usual Brighton seafront crowds in their gaudy beachwear, sandals, flip-flops and Crocs. A gent, with an
aloof air, in a blue blazer with silver buttons, smartly pressed slacks, open-neck shirt and a natty cravat. It was only on closer inspection you could see the shirt collar was frayed, there were
moth holes in the blazer, and his slicked-back hair was thinning and a gingery-grey colour from bad dyeing. His face looked frayed, too, with the pallor that comes from prison life and takes a long
time to shake off. His expression was mean, and despite his diminutive stature – five foot three in his elevated Cuban-heeled boots – he strutted along with an air of insouciance, as if
he owned the promenade.
    Behind his sunglasses, Amis Smallbone, on his morning constitutional, looked around with hatred. He hated everything. The pleasant warmth of this late June morning. Cyclists who pinged their
bells at him as he strayed onto the cycle lane. Stupid grockles with their fat, raw skin burning in the sun, stuffing their faces with rubbish. Young lovers, hand in hand, with their lives ahead of
them.
    Unlike him.
    He had hated prison. Hated the other inmates even more than the officers. He might have been a player in this city once, but all that had fallen apart when he’d been sent down. He
hadn’t even been able to get any traction on the lucrative drugs market in the jails he had been held in.
    And now he was out, on licence, he was hating his freedom, too.
    Once, he’d had it all – the big house, expensive cars, a powerboat, and a villa in Marbella on Spain’s Costa del Sol. Now he had fuck all. Just a few thousand pounds, a couple
of watches and some stolen antique jewellery in the one safety deposit box the police hadn’t managed to find.
    And one man to thank for his plight.
    Detective Superintendent Roy Grace.
    He crossed the busy four lanes of King’s Road without waiting for the lights to change. Cars braked all around him, their drivers hooting, swearing and shaking their fists at him, but he
didn’t give a toss. His