Dead Man's Time

immediately wanted another.
    There was one absentee from the team of twelve people: DS Norman Potting. Grace looked at his watch. It was 8.35 a.m. Five minutes late in starting already. He was due to meet with his Assistant
Chief Constable Peter Rigg at 10 a.m., and Rigg was a stickler for punctuality.
    Suddenly he was distracted by his thoughts. He’d long had a near-photographic memory, and as he looked up again at Aileen McWhirter’s serene face, he could picture those books
packing the shelves on her study walls so clearly. Title after title, including
The Gangs of New York. American Gangsters Then And Now. The First 100 Years of the American Mafia. Young Capone.
Early Street Gangs and Gangsters of New York City. Irish Organized Crime. King of the Brooklyn Waterfront.
    There were fifty titles, probably more. She hadn’t been an academic or a writer, and this number of books amounted to more than just a passing interest in a subject – this was
bordering on an obsession. They might of course have been her husband’s books. Both Daly, which was her maiden name, and McWhirter were Irish names.
    He decided, later, to run the names Daly and McWhirter through some Internet searches. Then he turned to his notes, and began the meeting.

29
    Ten minutes after the start, Norman Potting shuffled into the briefing looking very gloomy. The Detective Sergeant, who was in his mid-fifties, had joined the police force
relatively late in life and was not popular, being regarded as a politically incorrect dinosaur by many, but Roy Grace tolerated him, because he was one of the most reliable and doggedly persistent
detectives he had ever worked with.
    ‘Sorry I’m late, chief,’ he said in his gruff voice. ‘Had to see the quack.’ Then, lowering his voice, he whispered to Grace, ‘Not very good news.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Norman. Do you want to tell me about it later?’ Grace quizzed, genuinely worried for the man.
    Potting shrugged, then gave a defeatist grimace and sat down. Roy Grace frowned as he noticed the exchange of glances between Potting and Bella Moy. He had wondered for a couple of months now if
something was going on between them. They seemed too different, and Norman, with his bad comb-over and constant reek of pipe tobacco, never struck him as an appealing man. Yet he’d had four
wives, and Grace had long ago learned that life never ceased to surprise you.
    Other assembled members of his team included recently married – and now pregnant – DC Emma-Jane Boutwood, Crime Scene Manager David Green, DS Guy Batchelor, Ray Packham from the High
Tech Crime Unit, two indexers, a HOLMES (Home Office Large Major Enquiry System) analyst, a crime analyst, the manager for the analysts and indexers, an Intelligence Officer, several Detectives and
Press Officer Sue Fleet, a striking redhead. The Chief Constable placed particular importance on keeping the public – or
the customers we serve
, as the public were now called in the
latest police newspeak – properly informed.
    Roy Grace had never been able to get his head around that word
customers.
The police force, in his experience, had always kept a distance between themselves and the general public. But
he had no option but to go along with changes, however absurd he felt some of the government’s diktats to be. He looked around fondly at his team, here to serve their
customers.
    The one regular who was missing was DC Nick Nicholl, who had recently been transferred to the Serious and Organized Crime Branch. He was sorry to lose him, but since becoming a father, Nick had
definitely become a less effective detective – in part from lack of sleep. Grace made a mental note not to go the same way. Somehow.
    Then he said, ‘Okay, this is the tenth briefing of Operation Flounder.’ He looked at Bella. ‘Can you update us on the actions from the Outside Enquiry Team?’
    ‘We’re continuing with house-to-house enquiries, sir,’ the DS replied. ‘One problem, as we know, is that Withdean Road is not exactly a closely knit neighbourhood.
They’re all large houses in their own grounds; only a few of the people we’ve talked to have ever met their neighbours. We believe the perpetrators must have used at least one
substantial van, if not two, for all the items they took, but no one in the area noticed anything – and there is no CCTV on that road or any intersecting roads. There is just one thing of
possible interest.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘It’s a call