Dead Man's Time

indicating he wanted another banknote.
    Lucas Daly nodded at the Apologist. The Albanian grabbed him by the throat and lifted him in the air. Powell, choking, shook his head vigorously, making yammering sounds. No one behind them
looked round; they were engrossed in the football.
    The Apologist let Powell’s feet touch the floor, but kept hold of his throat. ‘My boss is not a hole-in-the-wall cash dispenser. He asked you a question. He’d like an answer.
Sorry to hurt you.’
    ‘
Contented
,’ Lawrence Powell croaked. ‘At Puerto Banus.’
    ‘It’s okay, let him go,’ Lucas Daly said. ‘
Contented
at Puerto Banus?’ he said to Lawrence Powell. ‘That the name of a house or apartment
block?’
    Powell, rubbing his throat, and gulping down air, croaked, ‘It’s a boat. A sodding great yacht, okay?’
    ‘You’d better be right,’ Lucas Daly said. ‘I’d hate to have to come back and disturb you again.’ He turned to the Apologist. ‘We don’t like
disturbing people, do we?’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ the Apologist said to Lawrence Powell. ‘For the inconvenience.’

44
    Mountainpeak Publishing, where Gareth Dupont worked, was on the third floor of a shiny modern building, on an industrial estate close to Newhaven Port, the commercial harbour a
few miles to the east of Brighton. Its affable proprietor, Alan Prior, had made Roy Grace and Guy Batchelor comfortable in a conference room, organized tea, coffee and biscuits, and then left to
fetch Gareth Dupont.
    Earlier, Grace had spoken to Glenn, telling him to take whatever time off he needed; he had to deal with the Coroner’s office in order to get Ari’s body released, and register her
death, then start making the funeral arrangements. Glenn had sounded very down, unsurprisingly, and Guy Batchelor was in a subdued mood, as everyone on the team had been at this morning’s
briefing.
    There was a chill from the air-conditioning and a strong new-office smell in the room, from the carpet, paint and furniture, which was overpowered, the moment Gareth Dupont entered, by the
cloyingly aromatic cologne he was wearing. He greeted the two detectives cheerily, oozing self-confidence, his demeanour more than a tad cocky, Grace thought. He looked flash, every inch a
salesman: white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, neatly creased black trousers, shiny black shoes, and sporting two vulgar rings and a showy watch.
    Grace carefully studied the man seated opposite them throughout the interview. Dupont was in his early thirties, with Hispanic good looks, short gelled black hair, tattooed arms, with the
muscular physique of someone who worked out regularly. There was a scab on the knuckle of his right pinky finger. Grace did a quick mental calculation. The robbery was ten days ago; about the right
length of time for a scab to still be present after a nasty gash.
    Dupont poured some coffee, helped himself to a biscuit, then dunked it carefully in his coffee. Grace wondered if he’d been dunked in cologne. Then he waited until the man had eaten it, so
he had his full concentration.
    ‘We appreciate time is important to you, so we won’t detain you longer than necessary, Mr Dupont,’ Grace said. ‘Can you tell me your date of birth?’ He watched
Dupont’s eyes closely.
    ‘Twenty-fifth of July, 1979.’
    ‘So you’re thirty-three?’
    ‘Yeah. Not good, eh? Fast turning into an old git.’
    ‘I think you have a way to go before that,’ Guy Batchelor said.
    ‘What is your home address?’ Grace asked, watching him carefully all the time.
    Dupont gave him the address of an apartment block in Brighton Marina.
    Grace wrote it down. Then he stared at the man’s wrist. ‘Nice watch.’
    ‘Thank you!’ He held it up for them to see. ‘Vintage Bulgari. My ex gave it to me a couple of years ago.’
    ‘Really?’ Grace said. ‘Bit of a coincidence, but it looks just like one that was stolen from a home in Withdean Road, in Brighton, last week.’
    He felt Batchelor shooting him a glance. For an instant, it felt to Roy Grace that the temperature in the room had dropped even further.
    ‘Is that so?’ Gareth Dupont said dismissively. ‘Tell me, gentlemen, how can I help you?’ He glanced down at his watch anxiously. ‘We’re on targets here, you
see.’
    ‘Don’t worry, Mr Prior kindly said we could take as long as we need,’ the Detective Sergeant said.
    Dupont glanced at his watch again, looking increasingly uncomfortable. ‘Well, he would,