Dead Man's Time

names on their
gleaming sterns.
TIO CARLOS
.
SHAF
.
FAR TOO
.
FREDERICA
.
CONTENTED.
Their flags hung listlessly in the still heat.
    The bar owner, Lawrence Powell, had been right when he’d said
Contented
was a sodding great yacht. It was considerably longer, taller, fatter and even more gleaming than its
neighbours. Two men in white uniforms were working on the rear deck, one cleaning with a mop and pail, the other polishing the chrome rails. The one with the mop had a shaven head and a tattooed
neck; the other had short dark hair and worked with a cigarette in his mouth.
    Surreptitiously, as they strolled past, Lucas Daly snapped both men with his phone camera, then stopped a short distance on, pulled the card Lawrence Powell had given him from his wallet,
entered his mobile-phone number and texted him the photographs.
    They seated themselves at an outdoor table that gave them a perfect view of the
Contented.
The Apologist studied the plastic menu, while Daly checked his watch. Fifteen minutes to the
race now. The Apologist ordered a Coke and a lasagne with chips. Daly ordered a large beer. He was too knotted up to eat anything, and he shouldn’t be drinking, he knew; he needed to keep his
wits clear for this evening. But that was still a long time away.
    As their drinks arrived, his phone vibrated. He looked down. It was a reply from Lawrence Powell.
    Dark-haired one on left Macario. Shaven head on rt Barnes.
    ‘We’re on,’ he said to the Apologist. He stepped outside the bar to make a phone call.
    Five minutes later he returned, drained his beer in three gulps and ordered another. He looked down at his horse-racing app, and tapped on it for the tenth time, trying to log into the Brighton
race meeting, but the connection was too slow and nothing happened. Twenty anxious minutes and a third beer later, whilst the Apologist was shovelling his food into his face, he lit a cigarette and
phoned his bookmaker.
    ‘It’s Lucas Daly. Have you got the result of the 2.15 at Brighton?’
    ‘One moment. Yeah. First number seven, Connemara, second number four, Kentish Boy, third number ten, Voyeur.’
    Daly felt a cold sensation in the pit of his stomach. ‘Are you sure that’s the 2.15 at Brighton?’
    ‘Yeah. The Reeves Flooring Cup.’
    He dragged on his cigarette, his hands shaking. ‘What about Fast Fella?’
    ‘Fast Fella? Hang on, I’ll check.’
    As he waited, Daly dragged deeply on the cigarette again. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Fuck.’
    ‘Something not good, boss?’ the Apologist said.
    Moments later Daly heard the male voice of the bookie. ‘It was left at the post.’
    ‘What do you mean, it was
left at the post
?’
    ‘Fast Fella planted its feet. Refused to come out of the starting gate.’
    ‘So it was withdrawn from the race? It didn’t run. Do I get my bet returned?’
    ‘Afraid not; it was under starter’s order. All bets on that horse are lost.’
    ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ Daly said, ending the call.
    The Apologist looked at him. ‘Bad?’
    Daly nodded and shook another cigarette out of the pack. ‘Bad.’
    ‘Sorry.’

47
    Shortly after 2.30 p.m. Roy Grace pulled up outside his favourite bookshop, City Books, an independent store on Western Road. He loved the way it truly smelled of books, and
despite the small exterior, it opened up inside to a maze of crammed shelves. Whenever he had time, which was not often these days, he loved to go in and just get lost among its shelves.
    ‘Do you have anything on the early gang history of New York?’ he asked a young, brown-haired woman behind the counter, who had a studious air. Behind her stood a serious-looking man,
with short grey hair, pecking at a computer keyboard. He looked up in recognition and smiled broadly.
    ‘Detective Superintendent Grace, nice to see you! Early gang history? How far back do you want to go? The start was really the Irish Dead Rabbits Gang in the 1850s, or their later White
Hand Gang, or Al Capone’s Italian Black Hand Gang.’
    ‘I need to cover everything,’ he replied.
    Ten minutes later, with five books lying in the shop’s carrier bag on the rear seat, Roy Grace drove slowly up Shirley Drive, passing Hove Recreation Ground on their left, while beside him
Guy Batchelor looked at the numbers on the detached houses on the north side.
    A quarter of a mile on he said, ‘Here, boss!’
    They pulled up outside a smart detached house. A silver Mercedes SLK sports car occupied one of the two spaces