Dead Man's Time

Bartholomews car park,
wrinkling his nose at the stench of urine.
    He needed to go home, and stopped to text Cleo that he was on his way. But the moment he had done so, he regretted it. Something had been preying on his mind for many hours, and now he realized
what it was, and what he needed to do.

40
    Cleo’s house was less than half a mile north from the car park. But instead of heading home after exiting, Roy Grace made a U-turn, then drove the Alfa west along the
seafront. Cleo was not going to be pleased, and he was not happy about that. But he could not help it. Whoever had tortured Aileen McWhirter was out there, and might well be planning their next
attack on a helpless, elderly victim. Cleo was wrong to say that a few hours weren’t going to change anything. In the early stages of a murder enquiry, every minute of every hour mattered. It
was quite possible that the people behind this robbery had already selected their next target.
    All kinds of emotions tugged at him, and for a moment he found himself envying Hector Webb, who appeared to have little to worry about beyond his garden and maintaining his boat and how to spoil
his grandchildren. He thought for a moment about Glenn Branson’s warning about what having children did to a relationship. Reflecting on Sandy, and her tantrums whenever his work wrecked
their plans, he wondered if it was not only children, but the nature of a homicide detective’s work. Like it or not, trying to solve the crime took priority over everything else in his life.
It always had done, and for as long as he remained in this job, he knew it always would. His first responsibility was justice for the victim and closure for the victim’s family. That was the
reality.
    He kept thinking about Glenn Branson.
    He selected a Marla Glen track, ‘The Cost of Freedom’, on his iPod, plugged into the car’s sound system. Her deep, rich, soulful voice often helped him think clearly. It filled
the car now, as he headed along by the winged figure of the Peace Statue, one of his favourite monuments, which sat exactly on the border between Brighton and Hove, then along past the Hove Lawns,
street lights flashing by overhead. He turned right at the Queen Victoria monument and up Grand Avenue, a wide, handsome boulevard. This section, close to the sea, was lined with high-rise blocks,
many of them populated by wealthy retired people. He crossed the lights at Church Road, and continued; on this section, The Drive, most of the original, imposing terraced Victorian town houses
remained – many now housing law firms and medical practices, or converted into flats.
    Half a mile on, he waited at the lights at the junction with the Old Shoreham Road, and then drove up Shirley Drive, the start of the area that Glenn Branson always jokingly referred to as
Nob Hill
. It was an appropriate sobriquet, Grace reflected. Few of the smart, detached houses in the area adjacent to the park were within the price range of police officers. Many of the
great and the good of this city lived here, along with a fair smattering of its successful villains.
    He turned right up Woodruff Avenue and reached Dyke Road Avenue, which ran along the spine of the city, where the houses became even larger. He turned left, then moments later he made a right,
then a left into Withdean Road, one of the city’s most exclusive addresses of all. It was a winding, tree-lined road, with a semi-rural feel, the imposing houses set back behind high fences,
walls or hedges.
    Something was bothering him about this case. Something that did not feel right. Something they were missing. He needed space, quiet time; to be alone at the crime scene without being distracted
by anyone and try to think through the sequence of events, and walk through them.
    A few hundred yards further on, the road curved left, and he turned right and coasted down Aileen McWhirter’s steep, winding drive, the headlights making shadows jump from the fir trees
and rhododendrons. He could see the grand, secluded house down to his left, dark and forlorn, and in truth a little creepy. At the bottom, he turned the car around, and held the beam of the
headlights on the rear of the house, staring at the windows, the rear door, the walls, the roof.
    He switched the engine off, but kept the lights on full beam. The rain had stopped and the blue and white crime scene tape fluttered in the light breeze. He was thinking through all that he knew
about the