Dead Man's Time

office, then,’ Grace said. ‘I think we’d better get a search warrant in case our friend isn’t in when we turn up to spin his
drum.’
    ‘Whose drum is it, boss?’ Guy Batchelor asked.
    Roy Grace smiled. ‘I’ll tell you whose it isn’t. It’s not Ringo Starr’s. So don’t bother bringing your autograph album. That was the Fingerprint Department
calling me. A bronze statuette that was found in Lester Stork’s house, among his hoard of nicked goods, was identified by Gavin Daly as belonging to his sister.’
    ‘We’ve got a result?’
    Grace grinned.

62
    It was 10.35 p.m. by the time Roy Grace had all his ducks in a row. Norman Potting had sworn a search warrant in front of a magistrate called Juliet Smith, and had the document
signed. Roy Grace, who wanted to be there himself, had assembled a group of police officers from the Local Support Team. One carried the ‘big yellow key’, as the battering ram was
known, and another held the hydraulic ram for pushing out doorframes. Alongside them was a POLSA – a Police Search Advisor – Lorna Dennison-Wilkins, with her team of specialist search
officers.
    They climbed out of their vehicles in the Brighton Marina yacht basin, in front of the steep escarpment of the white chalk cliff. A strong breeze was blowing in off the English Channel. Rigging
clacked and pinged, and there was a steady creak of mooring ropes and squeak of hulls against fenders from the dark, empty yachts moored a short distance away. In front of them was a modern,
low-rise apartment building.
    ‘Flat 324, guv?’ said the Sergeant in charge of the LST.
    ‘Yep,’ Grace said, then looked at DS Potting for confirmation.
    Potting checked his notepad and confirmed, ‘Three-two-four.’
    There was a row of parking bays in front of the building. In number 324, Grace clocked a black Porsche cabriolet. He memorized the registration.
    Their first task when raiding a flat in a block was to get into the building without being seen. With advanced planning, they could usually get a key or entry code from the caretaker, but
tonight they’d not had sufficient time. Grace despatched three of his team to cover the fire-escape exits from the building, and the rear entrance to the block.
    Norman Potting pressed a couple of buttons on the entry phone and waited. After some moments, he tried another two flats.
    A young, cheery female voice responded to one of them. ‘Hello?’
    ‘FedEx delivery,’ Potting said.
    ‘FedEx?’
    ‘Flat 221?’
    ‘Yes. that’s me!’
    ‘I’ve a FedEx delivery.’
    ‘Ah – you from Amazon?’
    ‘Yes.’ Potting said.
    There was a loud click. He pushed the door and they were in.
    ‘Is there a name on the package?’ the woman’s voice said. But she was history now.
    The rest of the team of officers walked quickly along the corridor, ignoring the lift, and took the stairs. They assembled outside the front door on the third floor. There was a faint whiff of
curry. All eyes turned to Roy Grace.
    Grace was aware that he and Potting were the only officers not wearing body armour, or even a stab vest. So he kept Potting back with a restraining hand. ‘Go!’ he said.
    One officer rang the doorbell, then waited. After thirty seconds, he rang again.
    They waited for some moments, then, in unison, they shouted, ‘POLICE! THIS IS THE POLICE.’ They stepped aside as an officer put the door in with the bosher. Then, all of them, in a
standard shock-and-awe tactic, shouting ‘POLICE’ at the tops of their voices, crashed into the apartment. Grace and Potting brought up the rear. It was a smart, minimally furnished
modern flat, with a huge picture window looking onto a row of berthed yachts, barely illuminated in the darkness.
    Moments later there was a shout from one of the LST. ‘Guv, in here!’
    Grace ran in the direction of the voice, followed by Norman Potting, through an open-plan living and dining area and into a bedroom. Then stopped in his tracks.
    A king-sized four-poster bed almost filled the softly lit room. Occupying the centre of the bed was the telesales man, Gareth Dupont. He was lying on his back, his hands and feet secured with
silk ties to the bedposts. And he had an erection that, by any standards, Grace considered impressive. A gravelly, sultry female voice was singing in Italian on the sound system.
    Standing beside Dupont, and holding a stick on the end of which was attached a bright red feather, was a woman wearing a sinister,