Dead Man's Time

stared at it. A morbidly obese man in his mid-sixties, with a generous thatch of short, wavy grey hair, and an unbearably self-satisfied grin, stared back
at him. He was wearing a white tuxedo and holding up a glass of champagne in a mock toast to the photographer. ‘What intelligence do we have on him?’
    ‘He’s on a few historic Association Charts, but only one previous: for handling stolen watches and clocks – that was back in 1980. He got two years’ suspended.’
    Grace’s interest was instantly piqued. ‘Watches and clocks?’
    Branson nodded.
    ‘I think someone had better go and have a chat with him.’
    ‘Yeah, I wouldn’t mind a trip to Marbella – in normal circumstances.’ He shrugged and suddenly looked deeply forlorn.
    Grace put his hand out and squeezed Glenn Branson’s. ‘You okay, matey?’
    Branson nodded. Grace could see the tears suddenly welling in his eyes.
    ‘Did Ari ever say what she wanted?’
    ‘She didn’t want to be burned.’ Glenn Branson sniffed. ‘So I guess I have to respect that. I’ve told the funeral directors I want a plot for her at Woodingdean
Cemetery. Will you come with me to the funeral?’
    ‘Of course. Do you have a date yet?’
    The DS shook his head. ‘I’m waiting for the Coroner to release her body.’
    A young couple climbed out of a small Audi, then lifted a baby out of the rear seat. Looking at his watch, Grace saw it was five minutes to go. ‘Rock’n’roll?’
    ‘Yep.’
    As they opened their doors and climbed out into the warm sunshine, the Detective Superintendent’s phone rang.
    ‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.
    It was the Crime Scene Manager, Dave Green, sounding excited. ‘Roy, thought you’d like to know we’ve found a tiny blood spot, down the inside of a double radiator we removed
from the house.’
    ‘The one that Aileen McWhirter was chained to?’
    ‘Yes, it’s microscopic, but it looks in good enough condition to give us DNA.’
    Grace thought immediately of the scab on the knuckle of the arrogant telesales man, Gareth Dupont, and what Donny Loncrane had said to him in Lewes Prison yesterday. ‘Can you get it
fast-tracked?’
    ‘It’s en route to the lab now.’
    Only a couple of years ago, DNA results took several weeks. Now, less than twenty-four hours was sometimes possible. ‘Brilliant work, Dave!’ he said.
    ‘Thanks, boss, but let’s see.’
    ‘Of course.’
    He ended the call, and was about to tell Glenn Branson the news as they approached the chapel door when Branson’s phone rang.
    They stopped and stood still. ‘Yeah, you’re speaking to him,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘Sorry, not a good line – can you say that again?’ He was silent for a
moment; then, his face lighting up with excitement, he said, ‘Shit! Really? You’ve confirmed the IDs?’
    Grace watched his friend looking more animated than he had seen him in a long while. After a couple of minutes, the DS terminated the call and turned to Roy Grace. ‘I think you’re
going to like this!’

60
    Returning home from the funeral at 4 p.m., the large house felt emptier than ever and unusually gloomy. Gavin Daly, drained, sat in his study, drinking a larger than usual
glass of wine and smoking a cigar. He had gulped the first glass straight down. He stared out through the window.
    Aileen’s family had invited him to a restaurant for a meal after the funeral, but he wanted to be alone with his thoughts. At 6 p.m. he walked along to the dining room and sat down, with
the local Brighton paper the
Argus
in front of him, a little smashed and in need of an early supper.
    And if you couldn’t drown your sorrows in one of the world’s finest wines at the age of ninety-five, then when the hell could you? he liked to tell people, particularly Betty, his
housekeeper, who sometimes chided him for his drinking. But he knew she always kept a bottle of Bristol Cream sherry concealed in a kitchen cupboard – and it got replaced at very regular
intervals.
    Betty had prepared him his favourite supper, one he ate at least twice a week: smoked salmon from the local Sussex smokery, Springs, with a large wedge of lemon and scrambled eggs on the side.
Oily fish. Something else to which he attributed his fitness in old age. Not that he cared if he keeled over right now, in his current mood.
    But this evening he finished his meal more quickly than usual, anxious to return to his study.
    Back at his desk, with his study lights on, he removed the brown