Dead Man's Time

offer, at the full asking price, had now been confirmed
by the solicitors for the purchaser.
Our client, currently resident overseas, has assured us that she is in funds, and has lodged the deposit with her solicitors here in Brighton, subject to
contract.
    Grace felt a quiet thrill of excitement. Finally, finally, he could truly move on.
    *
    Twenty minutes later as he drove slowly past the wrought-iron gates, which were the entrance to Cleo’s town house, he noticed the TO LET sign on
the outside wall had been removed. It was for the adjoining house in the old factory that had been converted into seven urban dwellings. The house had been empty for some months –
Cleo’s neighbours were overseas, working on a long-term contract in Dubai.
    He found a parking space a short distance away, then sat in the car for some minutes, debating whether to call Glenn and see how he was. It was bad to think ill of the dead, he knew, but he was
finding it hard to be sad about Ari’s death. She had been a total and utter bitch, treating Glenn, who was one of the loveliest guys on the planet, like complete dirt for this past year. It
was terrible for their two lovely kids to have lost their mother so suddenly. But now they had their father back, who was, frankly, an infinitely better person.
    Holding the flowers, he walked back, let himself in through the gates, and then into Cleo’s house. Humphrey came bounding over to greet him, stamping his paw expectantly, demanding a
walk.
    Roy Grace bent down and stroked him. ‘I’ll take you out in a minute, okay?’
    Then he listened for any sound of a greeting from Cleo. But there was none. Hopefully she was asleep.
    Starving hungry, he tiptoed through into the kitchen area. On the worktop was Humphrey’s red bowl, filled with dog food. It was covered with cellophane and had a handwritten note taped to
the top.
    Please feed Humphrey.
    He is starving.
    Grace frowned.
Great
, he thought.
Thank you so much, darling.
    Humphrey looked up at him expectantly.
    ‘That’s all I am, isn’t it, boy? Your servant, and Marlon’s servant. Right?’
    Humphrey barked. Instantly he hushed the dog, not wanting to wake Noah. He removed the cellophane and lifted the bowl. Beneath it was another note.
    Yours is in the fridge.
    You don’t deserve it.
    But I love you.
    XXXXX

43
    This region of the southern Spanish coast, officially named in all the sunny tourist brochures as the
Costa del Sol
, had long been known to the British police by the
less welcoming sobriquet the
Costa del Crime
. In the immediate aftermath of the Second World War, its main town, Marbella, was rumoured to have offered open house to fleeing wealthy Nazis.
And until 2001 it had no properly enforceable extradition treaty with England. For decades it was a safe haven for British crooks on the run, who could live the good life with impunity.
    If corruption were an Olympic sport, two of its recent mayors, both jailed, would have had gold medals in their trophy cabinets, and ninety-four dignitaries, also jailed, would have slugged it
out for silver and bronze. Today the area played host to brutally active Russian, Albanian and Irish Mafia clans, along with a thriving community of British gangsters. Yet despite the occasional
shooting, the crime rate was relatively low, and with its year-round benign climate, it was a long-established playground for expats and tourists.
    Several miles west of Malaga airport, Lucas Daly drove the rented Jeep fast up a twisting highway cut through the mountains, keeping an eye on the arrow on the satnav. He used to know the area
well, having owned an apartment in Marbella’s bling suburb of Puerto Banus for some while, until he had been forced to sell it to pay gambling debts four years ago. He had not been back here
since.
    It was 11.30 a.m. local time. Down below them to their left was a town of white houses, and the cobalt-blue Mediterranean beyond. Although the air-conditioning was whirring away on maximum
power, Daly kept his window wound down, savouring the blast of 34-degree heat on his face after the crap English summer he’d endured. ‘Shit, it’s hot,’ he said, shaking a
Marlboro Light out of the pack.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ the Apologist said.
    ‘You don’t always have to apologize for everything.’
    The Apologist said nothing for some moments. Then he said, ‘Okay, I’m sorry.’
    Lucas Daly grinned then patted his henchman on the shoulder. ‘You know why I like