Dead Man's Time

evening.’
    ‘How old are you, Mr Daly?’
    ‘Ninety-five.’ He exhaled sharply again.
    ‘You’re damned fit. You’re damned fit for a man twenty years younger! What’s your secret?’
    Daly’s eyes twinkled for a moment. ‘Whiskey, cigars and the occasional wild, wild woman, Superintendent.’
    Grace grinned. Then he returned to serious mode. ‘I know you’ve been asked this before, but how long did your sister live here?’
    Daly thought for some moments. ‘It would have been since 1962.’
    Grace thanked him.
    ‘Is that useful information, Detective?’
    ‘It might be. Tell me, sir, you know the antiques world better than anyone in this area – do you have any thoughts on who might have been behind this? Anyone local who has the
ability to handle something of this size?’
    ‘Someone knew about the contents all right,’ Gavin Daly said. Grace stared at the single bed, which looked far too small for this huge bedroom.
    ‘The watch,’ Daly said. ‘You know, ultimately, that’s all I care about. Whatever else the bastards took, they can keep.’ He sat down on the bed, looking
defeated.
    ‘Presumably the insurance will cover much, if not all, that was taken, sir?’
    ‘To hell with the insurance. I don’t need the money. I hope they don’t pay out. My asshole son will only put it up his nose after I’m gone, anyway.’
    ‘Lucas?’
    ‘Yes.’ He sat in silence for some moments, then looked sheepishly up at Grace. ‘You probably think I’m a hard old bastard, and you’d be right.’
    Grace shook his head. ‘No, I don’t.’
    ‘Do you have children, Detective – Detective Chief – Chief whatever? Do you?’
    ‘I have a young son.’
    Daly nodded, then dug his hand into his inside pocket and pulled out a leather cigar holder. He removed the cover then held it out to Grace. There were three cigars in it.
    Grace shook his head. ‘Thank you. I’d love one sometime, but not at this moment.’
    Daly replaced the top, with a wistful smile. ‘That black detective feller I spoke to, your colleague?’
    ‘Detective Inspector Branson?’
    He nodded. ‘Quite a comedian, isn’t he? Bit of a film buff.’
    ‘He’s a walking encyclopaedia of movies,’ Grace acknowledged.
    Daly pursed his lips. ‘I told him something he didn’t know.’
    ‘Oh, really?’ Grace prepared to commit this nugget to memory, to rib Glenn with it.
    ‘That miserable old bastard, W. C. Fields. Know what he said when he was asked how he liked children?’
    He shook his head.
    ‘Fried.’
    Grace grinned.
    ‘Children, Detective Grace. I’ll tell you something. They’re almost always going to disappoint you. But that’s enough about me and my problems. What do you think? You
seem to be a smart guy. Everyone tells me I’m lucky to have you on this case.’
    ‘I don’t have enough information at this stage to give you an informed opinion, sir. But I will tell you what my gut’s telling me. Someone with inside information did
this.’
    Gavin Daly nodded. ‘That knocker-boy. That’s where you need to start looking.’
    ‘We’re looking at him,’ Grace replied. ‘But someone’s already been looking at him even harder.’ He gave Daly a questioning stare. ‘Any idea who that
might be?’
    The old man’s eyes darted to the right for an instant; then he returned his stare, silently and resolutely for some moments, before shaking his head. Then he said, ‘You said you like
cigars.’
    ‘I do.’
    ‘Come out into the garden. Let’s smoke a cigar together. I want to tell you my life story, about my sister and me. Maybe it will help you to understand.’

42
    To reassure Gavin Daly about security, Grace requested a patrol car to sit at the top of the drive of his sister’s house, while Daly called his chauffeur to come and
collect him. Grace then stayed on in the house for a while, on his own, thinking about his conversation with the old man.
    Thinking about why the old man had lied to him. He could tell from the direction the old man’s eyes had moved that there was a high probability he had lied. When he had asked Daly his age
a short while ago he’d had no reason to lie; as he thought about the answer his eyes had moved to the left, to the
memory
side of his brain. Similarly his eyes had moved to the left
when he had asked him the secret of his fitness, and how long his sister had lived in the house; but they had not moved left when he’d asked him who might have tortured Ricky Moore,