Dead Man's Time

really love you.’
    Branson squeezed his friend’s arm and blinked away tears. Then he took a deep breath. ‘Let me tell you something. It’s a warning, okay?’
    Grace frowned. ‘A warning?’
    ‘I don’t want the same thing to happen to you that happened to me. You’ve been through enough shit in your life. You’ve got to realize that ever since Noah was born, your
relationship with Cleo has changed for ever. You are no longer the most important thing in her life, and you never will be again. You’ll always take second place to your son, and to any other
kids you might have. I’m just telling you that because I know you’re a decent, caring man, but you’re overloaded with work and it might take time to sink in – it did for me.
Our kids didn’t bring Ari and me together, and I blame myself.’
    Roy Grace shook his head. ‘You don’t have anything to blame yourself for. You’re a good man, mate.’ At that moment his phone rang. He answered, then looked at his watch.
It was a quarter past eight. He had planned to take his work home and help Cleo, who was sounding stressed, by looking after Noah. But this was too important.
    Reluctantly, he said to the caller, ‘Okay, I’ll meet you there at nine. Forty-five minutes.’
    He ended the call and turned back to Glenn. ‘Drink up, you’re going home.
Home.
To your house and your kids!’
    ‘What – what do I say to them when I get there?’
    Grace balled his fist and touched his friend’s cheek lightly with his knuckles. ‘You just say, “I’m your dad, and I’m home.”’

37
    ‘In your dreams,’ Amis Smallbone said, through his missing teeth. Seated in a booth in the busy pub, opposite a glass tropical fish tank that acted as a dividing
wall, he cradled a whisky, feeling particularly ratty as he hadn’t had a smoke for over half an hour because it was pissing down with rain outside, waiting for this fuckwit who was late, and
hurting all over from his beating. He was dressed in his regular summer rig of blue blazer, open-neck shirt with a paisley cravat, chinos and Cuban-heeled boots.
    ‘I don’t think so,’ said Gareth Dupont, with a pint of Diet Coke in front of him and a packet of cheese and onion crisps. He was feeling equally ratty because he was running
very late for his date with Suki Yang. He sat there in a thin leather bomber jacket over a white T-shirt, jeans and flashy loafers. ‘And what the fuck happened to you?’
    ‘I walked into a door.’
    Dupont nodded, not expressing any interest in the details.
    ‘We made a deal,’ Smallbone said. ‘You don’t renege on a deal. And you don’t grass up people in this city.’
    ‘I don’t need to grass up anyone,’ Dupont said. ‘You weren’t straight with me. You didn’t tell me how much value was involved here – and you
didn’t tell me I was going to be at the wrong end of a murder enquiry. I’m out on licence like you. You asked me to find a home for some paintings. You never told me I was going to be
the driver for some psychos and ten million quid’s worth of gear.’
    ‘And you really think you can grass us all up and collect the reward? You’re fucking dreaming.’
    Dupont shook his head. ‘You’ve been inside a long time, Amis. But don’t tell me you’ve been out of touch.’ He dug his hand into the crisp packet. ‘You must
know about Crimestoppers?’
    ‘What about them?’
    ‘They’re a charity. Any member of the public can call them with guaranteed anonymity. They will never, ever reveal the caller’s identity to the police or to anyone else. But if
that anonymous call results in arrest and conviction, the caller will get the reward. Are we on the same song sheet now?’
    ‘You’re forgetting that I know everyone, Gareth,’ Smallbone said. He spoke kindly, like an uncle to an errant nephew.
    ‘You’re forgetting you’ve been inside for over twelve years, Amis. Most of your contacts are inside or have gone away. That’s why you contacted me.’
    ‘So what do you want?’
    ‘You offered me ten grand for this deal, right?’
    ‘That’s what you accepted, and very gladly,’ Smallbone replied.
    ‘Yep, well, now I want one hundred grand. Or you’re going back inside.’
    ‘In your dreams.’

38
    Grace sat outside Glenn Branson’s house in Saltdean, in his new – new to him at any rate – black Alfa Romeo Giulietta, which he had bought from the
second-hand lot of Frost’s at a bargain price. Hard summer rain drummed on