Dead Man's Time

you see, because he doesn’t pay us any wages. We’re all on commission only, so time is a
bit important, like.’
    ‘We’ll be quick,’ Grace said. ‘I’d like you to cast your mind back to the afternoon and evening of ten days ago, Tuesday, August the 21st. Could you talk us through
that?’
    Despite the low temperature in the room, both detectives noticed the tiny beads of perspiration popping on the salesman’s brow. He touched his nose.
    ‘Umm, let me think. Umm.’ He pulled out his phone. ‘Just check the diary. Ah – yeah – well, I was working. Yeah.’
    ‘Where were you working?’ Grace asked him.
    ‘At my last company. Ransom Richman.’
    ‘In the office?’
    Both detectives noticed the brief hesitation. ‘No, I was at home. Do a lot of my work from home. Early evening’s a good time to catch the householder in – and before
they’ve settled down for the evening.’
    ‘At 7 p.m. you made a phone call from your mobile to this number,’ Batchelor said, and handed him a slip of paper.
    Dupont looked at it. ‘A Brighton number, yeah, could have – well, that code covers a big area I’d been working.’
    ‘Would you remember anything about this particular number?’ Roy Grace asked.
    The salesman shot a glance at both of them, hesitating, before shaking his head. ‘No, sorry, I make dozens and dozens of cold calls every day and night. I remember the names, of course, of
anyone who becomes a prospect.’
    ‘Might you remember the name Aileen McWhirter?’ he asked, watching the man’s face intently again.
    ‘Aileen McWhirter?’
    ‘Yes.’
    He shook his head a little too quickly, Grace thought. Then he raised a finger in the air. ‘Wait a sec – she’s been in the news, right? A nasty robbery at her home?’
    ‘Very nasty,’ Grace said. ‘She died.’
    ‘Yeah, I read that, that’s why I recognize the name.’
    Grace pointed down at the piece of paper bearing the phone number, lying on the table. ‘You ought to recognize that number. You phoned her the evening she was attacked.’
    ‘I did?’
    ‘She was in pretty poor shape,’ Grace said, ‘but she told officers it was about 7 p.m., Tuesday, August the 21st. The records show you phoned her at that time. Quite
coincidental, wouldn’t you say?’
    ‘I – I dunno what to say.’
    ‘You claim you were at home, Mr Dupont?’ Guy Batchelor cut in. ‘Why didn’t you phone on a landline?’
    ‘Coz it’s cheaper on my mobile. I got one of those deals with O2, one thousand free minutes per month. In the office I use a landline; at home it’s cheaper on my
mobile.’
    ‘Can anyone vouch for where you were at 7 on the evening of Tuesday, August the 21st?’ Grace asked.
    ‘I was home alone. I guess God could.’
    ‘God?’ Grace smiled at him.
    Dupont shrugged.
    ‘You could get an affidavit from Him, could you?’
    Dupont looked down at his watch. ‘I’ve told you all I can – I really need to get back to work.’
    ‘Of course. We’re sorry to have bothered you.’ Grace smiled again. ‘It’s just that on a murder enquiry we have to check out everything, so we can eliminate people.
I hope you understand that?’
    ‘I do – perfectly. I hope you catch the bastards who did it.’
    ‘Oh, we will, Mr Dupont. You needn’t worry about that. We will.’ He gave him a confident smile. ‘By the way, what car do you drive?’
    He hesitated for a moment, then replied, ‘A Golf GTI.’
    ‘Nice car,’ Grace said. ‘I don’t suppose you remember the registration?’
    ‘Just one moment.’ Dupont left the room, then returned a minute later holding a set of keys, with the registration tag attached. He handed them to Grace.
    ‘Almost brand new,’ Grace said.
    ‘Much less grief, having a car under warranty,’ Dupont said.
    ‘And who wants, grief, eh?’ Grace said, handing him the keys back.
    As the two detectives left, Gareth Dupont sauntered back into the open-plan office, looking more carefree than he felt, and handed the keys back to a colleague whose car it was. ‘Thanks
mate,’ he said. ‘I owe you one.’

45
    The two detectives said nothing until they had left the building and climbed back into Roy Grace’s work car, the standard silver Ford Focus estate issued to all
superintendents. As they buckled up, Grace turned to his colleague and said, ‘So, what do you think?’
    ‘The little shit was squirming.’
    ‘He lied about working at home. He lied about not recognizing the number. He lied