Dead Man's Time

family used to be big players in this city’s underworld. A couple of decades ago, no one would have dared, ever, hoot at a Smallbone. He ignored them all,
contemptuously, now.
    A little way along the pavement he entered the newsagent’s, and was taken aback to see the bastard cop’s rugged, serious face staring out of a copy of the
Argus
at him.
Close-cropped fair hair, blue eyes, busted nose, beneath the front-page splash.
    TRIAL OF BRIGHTON MONSTER RESUMES
    He bought the paper and a packet of cigarettes, as he did every day, and filled out a lottery ticket, without much hope.
    *
    A short while later, back in his basement flat, Amis Smallbone sat in the ripped leather armchair with its busted spring, a glass of Chivas Regal on the table beside him, a
smouldering cigarette in his mouth, reading with interest about the case. Venner was on trial for murder, kidnap and trading in illegal videos. Last year, one of Detective Superintendent
Grace’s officers had been shot and wounded during the attempt to arrest Venner. Too bad it hadn’t been Grace himself. Shot dead.
    How nice would that be?
    But not as nice as something he had in mind. To have Detective Superintendent Grace dead was too good for him. He wanted the cop to really suffer. To be in pain for the rest of his life. Oh yes.
Much better. Pain that would never ever go away!
    Smallbone dragged on his cigarette, then crushed it out in the ashtray and drained his glass. He had gone to prison still a relatively young man of fifty. Now he’d come out an old man at
sixty-two. Detective Superintendent Grace had taken everything he had. Most of all he had taken those crucial twelve years of his life.
    Of course, Grace hadn’t been a Detective Superintendent back then; just a jumped-up, newly promoted Inspector who had picked on him, targeted him, fitted him up, twisted the evidence, been
oh so clever, so fucking smug. It was Grace’s persecution that had condemned him, now, to this cruddy rented flat, with its shoddy furniture, no-smoking signs on the walls in each room, and
having to report and bloody kowtow to a Probation Officer regularly.
    He put the paper down, stood up a little unsteadily, and carried his glass over to the dank-smelling kitchenette, popping some ice cubes out of the fridge-freezer into his glass. It was just
gone midday, and he was thinking hard. Thinking how much pleasure he was going to get from hurting Roy Grace. It was the one thing that sustained him right now. The rest of the nation had Olympic
fever – the games were starting in a month’s time. But he didn’t give a toss about them; getting even with Roy Grace was all he cared about.
    All he could really think about.
    He was going to make that happen. His lips curled into a smile. He just had to find the right person. There were names he knew from before he’d gone to prison, and a few more contacts
he’d made inside. But whoever it was wouldn’t come cheap, and that was a big problem right now.
    Then his phone rang. The display showed the number was withheld.
    ‘Yes?’ he answered, suspiciously.
    ‘Amis Smallbone?’ It was not a voice he recognized. A rough, Brighton accent.
    ‘Who are you?’ he replied, coldly.
    ‘We met a long time back, but you won’t remember me. I need some help. You have connections in the antiques world, right? Overseas? For high-value stuff?’
    ‘What if I do?’
    ‘I’m told you need money.’
    ‘Didn’t anyone tell you that you shouldn’t be calling me on a fucking mobile phone?’
    ‘Yeah, I know that.’
    ‘Then why the fuck are you calling me on mine?’
    ‘I’m talking a lot of money. Several million quid.’
    Suddenly, Amis Smallbone was very interested indeed. ‘Tell me more.’
    The line went dead.

6
    They were right, thought Roy Grace, all those people who had told him that having a baby would totally change his life. He yawned, leadenly tired from endless disturbed nights
with Cleo getting up every time Noah had woken needing a feed or his nappy changing. One of his colleagues, Nick Nicholl, a recent first-time father, had told him he’d taken to sleeping in a
separate room so he wouldn’t be disturbed by the baby. But Roy was determined never to do that. The baby was a joint commitment and he had to play his part. But, shit, he felt tired; and
grungy; it was a sticky August day and, although all of the windows were open, the air was listless, warm and humid.
    The television was on, playing the