Dead Man's Time

it smashed him in the face, sending him hurtling backwards on his unsteady legs, before falling flat on his back.
    A big brute in a dark suit picked him up off the floor by his shirt collar, half-throttling him.
    ‘You fucking moron!’ his assailant said, his face tight with fury. ‘You enjoy killing frail old ladies, do you?’ The other man stared down at him, silently.
    When the pressure was released from his throat he replied, apologetically and shit scared, ‘I said that she was a vulnerable old lady. Hurting her was never the plan.’
    ‘Said? Said to
who
?’
    He was shaken so hard he felt his teeth move. ‘Why should I be a grass?’ he gasped.
    ‘Because you’re the biggest fucking dickhead on the planet.’
    ‘Takes one to know one,’ Amis Smallbone retorted, defiantly.
    Then he instantly regretted his drunken bravado, as a fist slammed into his mouth, destroying thousands of pounds worth of expensive reconstructive dentistry he’d had after the last fight
he’d been in. Then another fist slammed into his rib cage.
    ‘You’re not in a good place to get smart on me right now. I want names. I want the bastards who did this, and I want to know where all the stuff’s gone – my dad and I
want it back. All of it.’
    Smallbone stared back at him sullenly, winded, blood pouring down his face. ‘I’m not getting killed for being a grass.’
    Then he screamed in agony as a hand, hard as a mechanical pincer, grabbed his groin and began to crush his testicles. Then let go.
    Smallbone fell to the floor, gasping in agony.
    ‘Want to tell me the names? He won’t be so gentle next time. Next time he’ll rip them off.’
    With tears streaming from his eyes, Amis Smallbone looked at the giant of a man standing beside him, and believed him. ‘If I tell you, they’ll kill me,’ he gasped.
    ‘If you don’t, I’ll kill you, except I’ll have to get rid of your body – and that’s a hassle. Just make it easy for me. Names, Smallbone. Okay?’
    Then his balls were crushed again, even harder than before.
    Through his agony, he screamed out names. But he held back Gareth Dupont’s; even through his excruciating pain, he was able to think clearly enough to realize if Dupont was beaten up,
he’d reckon he was behind it. And with that £100k reward out there, that could be a dangerous thing.
    They left him vomiting on the skanky carpet. As the tall man closed the front door behind them, he turned and said, ‘Sorry.’

31
    Roy Grace was still smarting from the grilling he’d had from ACC Rigg this morning. On his list of crimes that affected the quality of life of the Sussex community,
housebreaking was at the top of the ACC’s priorities.
    Just three years ago, Graham Barrington, the Divisional Commander of Brighton and Hove, had reported proudly at the daily meeting for all senior police officers, known affectionately as
morning prayers
, that for the first time since records had begun there had been no overnight domestic burglaries in the city of Brighton and Hove. It had seemed then that one aspect of
crime in the community was firmly under control.
    But since then, with the deepening recession, that had begun to change. Even so there had not been an incident as nasty as Aileen McWhirter’s savage attack for some time. The ACC had
rigorously questioned Grace about the progress of the investigation.
    To be fair to his boss, Roy Grace knew the man was under pressure from a number of different directions. The nationwide publicity from this case was doing a lot to foster Brighton’s
long-held, and not strictly fair, reputation as a haven for criminals.
    He needed to produce suspects, and fast. Amis Smallbone was the only name he had so far that he could give to the Assistant Chief Constable. But would Smallbone, out on licence for only a couple
of months, having served twelve years of a life sentence, be so stupid to risk his freedom? The answer, he knew from long experience dealing with criminals, was that yes, he could be that stupid,
or desperate. And it certainly had the scumbag’s hallmark.
    Aileen McWhirter’s brother, Gavin Daly, had contacted him, saying he wanted to offer a one million pound reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the perpetrators.
Grace had convinced him this was far too much and would result in the incident room being swamped with unhelpful calls. They had settled on one hundred thousand pounds, and informed the
Argus
as well as