Dead Man's Time

assistance of the operator, steadily scanning the 27,000-strong crowd, it took Grace just under fifteen minutes to spot Lucas Daly, on the twelfth row of the West Stand. He was wearing
a leather aviator’s jacket with a fleece collar, a roll-neck sweater and jeans, and a blue and white Seagulls scarf draped around his shoulders. Grace recognized him from the photographs in
the living room of his home when he had gone to talk to his wife, Sarah Courteney. He also recognized the men seated either side of him. One, Ricky Chateham, was a local wheeler-dealer, in the
vending-machine trade as a day job, but a known handler of high-end stolen goods, whom the police had been watching for some time; he was also suspected of being behind the supply of drugs into
several clubs around Sussex and its neighbouring counties, but so far there had never been enough evidence to nail him. The Albion records showed he was the season-ticket holder for the three seats
they occupied. The other man was a criminal solicitor favoured by many of the city’s villains called Leighton Lloyd. Handy, Grace thought, cynically. Daly might well be needing him sometime
soon.
    It was a lacklustre game, enlivened by a couple of early yellow cards, and then some minutes later by a tantrum thrown by the team manager, Gus Poyet, after a player was sent off in a highly
disputed decision by the referee.
    The crowd roared and broke into their regular angry chant against the ref.
The referee’s a wanker!
    But Roy Grace wasn’t following the game. He was glued to Lucas Daly’s every movement. Daly wasn’t following the game, either. He was engaged in what looked like very intense
discussions with the two men. Grace dearly wished he had a lip-reader with him at this moment.
    Ten minutes before the final whistle he left the observation room and made his way along past the exits to the West Stand, then waited. All the supporters would have to pass him, whether heading
towards the car parks, the buses or the train station.
    As they poured out, his target, flanked by Chateham and the solicitor, stopped less than ten yards from him to light a cigarette. Grace stepped forward, holding up his warrant card. ‘Lucas
Daly? Detective Superintendent Grace. I’m the Senior Investigating Officers on your aunt’s murder. Wonder if I could have a quick word?’
    Ricky Chateham gave Grace an uneasy glance of recognition and strode on. The solicitor stood his ground, giving Daly an inquisitive glance.
    ‘See you in the car park, Leighton,’ Daly said, dismissing him. Then he looked levelly at Grace, showing no surprise or any other emotion. ‘Yes?’
    Grace put Lucas Daly’s age at around late-forties. He studied his face for any signs of his father in it, but saw none. Unlike his father, whose aged face was etched with character, Lucas
Daly had blandly thuggish good looks, with an unreadable expression, and exuded all the personality of an unplugged fridge.
    ‘How was your golf this weekend?’
    Daly frowned, then took a moment to reply. ‘It was all right.’
    ‘Nice golf courses around Marbella?’
    ‘Does my golf have something to do with my aunt, Detective – er – sorry – didn’t get your name?’
    ‘Grace.’ Then in answer to the question he said, ‘Yes, perhaps it does.’ He noticed the man’s discomfort, and his eyes all over the place. ‘You were in
Marbella this past weekend?’
    ‘What of it?’
    ‘On a golfing holiday?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Who did you go with?’
    ‘On my own – went to meet up with some friends who live out there.’
    ‘Expats?’
    ‘What of it?’
    ‘You didn’t actually go alone, did you?’
    Daly stared at him, looking uneasy, his eyes all over the place. ‘What are you saying?’
    ‘You travelled with a gentleman called Augustine Krasniki – you bought return tickets for both of you on easyJet.’
    ‘Oh yeah, right – him.’ His eyes continued moving around wildly. ‘He’s my assistant, you know.’
    ‘Caddies for you, does he?’
    ‘Yeah, exactly.’
    ‘Good golfer, are you?’
    ‘Average.’
    ‘What’s your handicap?’
    As Daly dragged on his cigarette, Grace watched the man’s eyes.
    ‘Twelve.’
    Roy Grace had had a go at taking up golf some years back, but had given up after a few months of Sandy complaining about him being away so much during his precious hours of free time. He knew
that a twelve handicap was impressive; you didn’t get that unless you played regularly. And if