Dead Man's Time

Crown Court. His father was beaming, arms wide out like he owned the world – and actually he had owned a handsome slice of it. In this
photograph, taken minutes after being acquitted by a coerced and frightened jury, his father was walking free from a whole bunch of charges.
    Amis Smallbone had not been so lucky, following in his dad’s footsteps.
    Thanks to Detective
Inspector
Roy Grace, as he had been back then.
    Promoted now. Huh.
    A father now.
    On Monday he would become Detective
Superintendent
Grace’s neighbour. Renting the three-storey house next door to where he was living with his blonde slapper, Cleo Morey. His
Probation Officer, who had to approve any change of address, had queried how he would pay the rent in his new abode. Smallbone had explained that his mate Henry Tilney, who owed him a favour, would
be paying it for him, until a new business they were setting up, dealing in second-hand cars, was up and running. The Probation Officers had swallowed it.
    Roy Grace thought his slapper and baby would be safe inside that little gated residence, did he?
    Smallbone smiled. As the saying went,
if you can’t beat them, join them.
    Roll on Monday!

52
    Roy Grace had to hold the Saturday morning briefing in the Conference Room of the Major Incident Suite in order to accommodate his growing team. He had a full turnout,
including, he was pleased to see, Glenn Branson, who told him his sister-in-law had taken the kids swimming and was looking after them for the day.
    Bella Moy was the first to speak. ‘Working on the information from your contact Hector Webb, who felt it likely the major portion of the items stolen would have been shipped out of the UK
in a container, I’ve been focusing on ships capable of carrying containers out of our local harbours.’
    Grace noticed that she shot two glances at Norman Potting while she was speaking. He was becoming increasingly curious about whether there was something going on between the two of them.
    ‘I talked to the Harbour Master at Shoreham Port yesterday afternoon, sir, in his office,’ she said. ‘I went through with him the list of all cargo ships that sailed after 8
p.m. Tuesday the 21st – the earliest time that the items stolen from Aileen McWhirter’s house could have arrived there. Cargo ships can only enter and leave four hours either side of
high tide. The next relevant high water was at 02.38 Wednesday the 22nd and then at 15.03.’
    She shot Potting another glance and this time Grace caught the old sweat’s wink back to her. Surely not? Bella with an old lech like Potting? But few things truly surprised him.
    Bella held up several sheets of paper clipped together. ‘All ships over 500 gross tons weight have to have CERS transponders switched on. It stands for Central European Reporting System
– it’s a progression from the Royal Navy’s wartime IFF system,
Identification Friend Or Foe.
Basically it works exactly the same way as the system for identification of
planes for air traffic control. All cargo ships around the world are plotted constantly at sea – this was something brought in after 9/11.’
    ‘What happens if they switch them off?’ Dave Green, the Crime Scene Manager, asked.
    ‘They need to have a valid reason,’ she responded. ‘For instance, if they’re in waters known to be at danger from Somali pirates, they’re permitted to turn them
off, but only in situations like that.’ She pointed to her sheets of paper. ‘This is a list of all ships that have sailed since 8 p.m. August the 21st, together with their bills of
lading. The
Torrent
, carrying scrap metal. The
Anke Angela
, carrying oats. The
Walter Hamman
, carrying fertilizer—’
    ‘Do we have their intended destinations, Bella?’ Glenn Branson asked, interrupting her.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Good work, Bella,’ Grace said. ‘First thing is we need to see if any of these ships divert from their stated destinations. Second we need the co-operation of Interpol to check
everything they offload against those bills of lading. I need you to circulate the inventory of everything stolen from Aileen McWhirter to Interpol.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘What about trucks on the roll-on/roll-off ferries, Bella?’ DC Alec Davies asked.
    ‘I’m getting a log of all of them within one hundred miles of Brighton,’ the DS answered. ‘It’s a mammoth task.’ She glanced down at her notebook. ‘Just
one thing more, sir,’ she said to Roy Grace. ‘We’re still