Dead Man's Time

youngest
daughter recently got married. They bought lovely dining chairs from Ikea at thirty quid a pop.’ He helped himself to a handful of nuts. Chewing them, he said, ‘One thing’s for
sure, a raid of this magnitude was pre-planned – and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if a lot of the items weren’t already pre-sold. It would have been out of this country pretty
damned quick. I wouldn’t rule out the Russian Mafia being involved, Roy. More likely they’d have their tentacles wrapped around this crime and those expensive items than anyone in
Spain. But Marbella is a good starting point for the Russians – and the Irish, of course.’
    ‘Irish?’
    Webb nodded. ‘People forget them, but the Irish Mafia were around long before the Italians. The White Hand Gang? Al Capone may have kicked them out of New York in the late 1920s, but
they’ve never gone away. Drill down through the IRA and you’ll find Irish Mafia at their heart.’
    Grace gave him a wry smile. ‘Interesting.’
    ‘In New York in the twenties they slugged it out with the Italians,’ Webb continued. ‘Now in Marbella, Spain, ninety years later, they’re slugging it out with the
Russians – and the Albanians. That Patek Philippe watch, in particular. There are plenty of rich Russians who would desire a rare, vintage Patek Philippe, and pay big money for one. When I
was on the squad, we knew that two of our Brighton knockers had travelled to Moscow to buy stolen Russian icons which were then later traded in Finland – and I would imagine by now that even
better links have been made.’
    Grace sipped his Coke. ‘What routes abroad should we be watching – assuming the stuff is even still here in this country?’
    ‘Which is unlikely,’ Webb said. ‘The watch could have been taken over the Channel to France within hours of the crime by a trusted “donkey” travelling with it in
his pocket on a day trip on the Newhaven ferry – where virtually no checks are made – and a meeting made at an autoroute cafe for the exchange. The paintings could have been cut out of
their frames, and laid at the bottom of a suitcase for a similar exchange. Furniture would be harder.’ He drank some beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Furniture is
a bit more difficult and would probably need a container – out of Shoreham or Newhaven ports. Expensive pieces placed among ordinary furniture with a cover story for HM Customs that
it’s to be used in decorating a home in France. The ordinary Customs Officer has no idea about antiques.’
    ‘Great,’ Grace said gloomily. ‘So if it’s already overseas, where do I start looking?’
    ‘I’d start here at Shoreham and Newhaven. Have all the bills of lading checked on every shipment out of both ports that took place within hours of the robbery, and check everything
waiting to leave. I’d take a particular look at anything being shipped to Russia or Spain. Second-hand cars – stuff can be hidden inside them; container ships with timber cargoes on
board – and cargoes of steel, where a container full of antiques could be smuggled aboard. I’d look beyond the local ports, too. At Dover, Portsmouth, Southampton, Harwich, for
starters.’
    Grace drank some more of his Coke. ‘You’re talking about a massive operation, Hector.’
    ‘I am, yes.’ He shrugged. ‘You’re dealing with an horrific murder and a huge-value crime. I don’t envy you this one.’
    ‘Any chance of luring you out of retirement to come and help me on this?’
    Webb shook his head and smiled. ‘And get involved in all the politics again? No, thank you. I’m happy doing my gardening, tinkering with my sailing boat and spoiling my four
grandchildren. I just got my Yacht Master’s Certificate in July, which I’m pretty pleased about. Know what I learned in my thirty years with the Force?’
    ‘Tell me.’
    ‘Fighting crime is like lying down in front of a glacier and trying to stop it. If I could have my life over again, and had an ambition to be rich – which I never did –
I’ll tell you which businesses I’d go into: security, food or armaments. People are always going to steal, they’re always going to have to eat, and they’re always going to
kill each other.’
    ‘You’re a pessimist!’
    ‘No, I’m a realist, Roy.’
    *
    It was dark outside as Roy Grace left the Royal Pavilion Tavern. His watch said a quarter to ten by the time he walked down the concrete steps of the