Dead Man's Time

robbery. There had been no sign of forced entry, and it sounded like those responsible had posed as Water Board officials to gain entry. The loft insulation salesman, Gareth Dupont, had
made a call to Aileen McWhirter around the time they estimated the attack to have taken place. It was quite possible Dupont had nothing to do with it, but in Grace’s view, the man’s
previous record for aggravated burglary and handling stolen goods could well place him at the crime scene. There was something too coincidental about the timing of that call. He would be interested
in the man’s alibi.
    It was also a strange coincidence, he thought, that he’d had a cold call himself about loft insulation two days after Aileen McWhirter was attacked. But could there possibly be any
connection? He dismissed it, climbed out of his car and removed his powerful torch from his go-bag. He snapped on a pair of protective gloves, then walked around to the front of the dark, silent
mansion. The red eyes of a rodent suddenly lit up, then vanished. He reached the porch and took the duplicate key he’d borrowed from the Crime Scene Manager out of his pocket, opened the
front door and, once inside, noticed the alarm was not pinging. Had someone forgotten to set it?
    With the aid of the beam he found a row of old-fashioned wall switches, and pulled one down. Several sconces, with pink, tasselled lampshades, lit up dimly. He made his way past the dark shadows
along the nearly bare hall and through to the kitchen, where an open saucepan, with mouldy-looking green haricot beans at the bottom, lay beside the gas hob, and a wooden spoon lay next to it,
beside an elderly Aga, which was stone cold. A range of pans was stacked on a rack to the right of it. Near it sat a modern, pushbutton phone with extremely large numbers for people with poor
eyesight. Had she lifted the saucepan off the hob to answer the front door, he wondered.
    The front door had a safety chain and a spyhole. So either she knew her assailants, or she had been tricked into feeling comfortable enough with them to open the door. Who among the people she
knew might have done this? In his mind he went through the people who had access to this property: not her elderly housekeeper, or her almost equally elderly gardener. Her brother? But he did not
need the money. Her nephew? A slim possibility. The knocker-boy, Ricky Moore, was high on his list.
    The way the insurance company kept their records of high-value items, and who might have access to them, was currently being investigated. So was the window cleaner, the plumber she used,
Michael Maguire, the painters and decorators. The building firm, Bryan Barker, and the washing-machine man. Most household burglaries were opportunistic, but this robbery was in a different league.
The city of Brighton and Hove had many rich, elderly, vulnerable people like Aileen McWhirter. If the perps thought they could get away with this, for sure they would strike again. He had to stop
that, and there was only one way to do that – lock up the perps. But first he had to find them.
    Ten million pounds was, as Webb had said, an enormous sum. During the past few days he had spoken to several local antiques dealers, including a Chinese and Japanese porcelain expert called
Chris Tapsell, a jewellery expert, Derek le-Warde, and Simon Schneider, who appeared regularly on one of Cleo’s favourite TV programmes,
Secret Dealers.
All of them had told him that
it was likely to have been a planned burglary, using insider information, and that there would have been customers lined up for many of the stolen items. The Oriental porcelain would have Chinese
buyers. Much of the furniture was likely to be destined for, or already have been shipped to, Russia. The paintings would likely be bought by US, German, Dutch or Russian clients.
    Insider knowledge about the contents of the house could have come from someone bent at the company which insured Aileen McWhirter’s contents. But far more likely, all his contacts told
him, was that the knocker-boy, Ricky Moore, had sold information about the contents to someone. That was a regular business for knocker-boys who had managed to gain entry to houses rich in old
treasures.
    Moore had subsequently been tortured, Bella Moy had informed him over the phone a couple of hours ago. For what reason? And by whom?
    His phone vibrated, then pinged with an incoming text. He looked at the display. It was from Cleo.
    Roy,