Dead Man's Time

expensive, I would imagine, and nearly new, judging from the number
plate.’
    Dupont shrugged.
    ‘The insurance must be high, I would think?’ she continued.
    ‘High enough, yeah.’
    ‘These days, on expensive cars, the insurance companies make all kinds of demands, I’m told. Such as you’d need to have a tracker fitted. Do you have a tracker on your
Porsche?’
    Dupont suddenly looked deeply uneasy. He shot a glance at his solicitor. ‘I do, yes.’
    ‘Smart devices, trackers,’ Guy Batchelor said. ‘They track your car, every few yards of every journey you ever make. And they keep a log. You’re with a company called
NavTrak, right?’
    Dupont hesitated, not liking where this was going. ‘Yes.’
    ‘They’ve obligingly given us the log of your Porsche’s movements for the past four weeks. Every journey you’ve made, every stop, and the length of time. On Tuesday,
August the 14th, you were outside Aileen McWhirter’s house in Withdean Road, Brighton, from 6.43 p.m. to 7.21 p.m. Presumably, as you claim not to know it, you were lost?’
    ‘Very witty,’ Dupont said.
    ‘You were outside the house again, for a shorter time, on the nights of Wednesday August the 15th, Thursday August the 16th, Friday August the 17th, Saturday August the 18th, and Monday
August the 20th, the night before the attack,’ Guy Batchelor said. ‘Can you explain your reasons?’
    Dupont gave Leighton Lloyd a look of desperation. Then turned back to Batchelor. ‘Could I have a private word with my solicitor?’
    Batchelor and Moy switched off the recording equipment, including the CCTV feed, left them alone in the room, and went outside to have a quick playback of the interview with Roy Grace. After ten
minutes the solicitor asked them back in.
    ‘My client is willing to make a statement,’ he said, as they recommenced. ‘He accepts what your information from the tracker shows, but that doesn’t put him inside the
house. That’s a very important point he wants you to understand.’
    The two detectives nodded. Batchelor signalled to Dupont to begin.
    Dupont rested his hands on the table, looking confident. ‘The thing is, yeah, I was contacted by someone I know, who said I could get good money doing a driving job. A couple of overseas
blokes were coming over to do a posh house; they needed a driver who knew the area. So I had to organize a van, meet them at the airport. I admit I drove the van, but I never went in the
house.’
    Neither detective spoke for some moments. Then Batchelor said, ‘Not even to give them a hand with the furniture? There were some big pieces.’
    ‘Well, yeah, I helped them load, outside.’
    ‘You are absolutely certain you never went inside the house?’ Bella Moy asked.
    ‘Certain. I’m certain.’
    Batchelor frowned. ‘You’re going to have to help us out here, Mr Dupont. You see, there was a spot of blood found on a radiator on Mrs McWhirter’s landing – the one she
was chained to. The report from the lab, which we only got in a short while ago, shows it contains your DNA.’ Batchelor’s eyes fell on Dupont’s knuckle; the scab had gone, leaving
a small red mark.
    Dupont looked stricken. He curled his thumb around the mark, twisting it as if he could make it disappear.
    Leighton Lloyd raised a cautioning hand. ‘My client has no further comment.’

73
    Lucas Daly was having a shit day, and he didn’t know yet, but it was about to get a whole lot worse.
    He stood outside his shop, in light drizzle, smoking a cigarette, then went back inside, repeatedly dialling a number that went to voicemail. Up until a few days ago he’d been able to
leave messages, but now when it answered, it no longer gave him that option. He rang again.
    ‘
Mailbox full; please try again later.
’
    ‘Bastard,’ he said. ‘You bastard.’
    There had been no customers all day, no phone enquiries, not even anyone trying to sell
them
something. 3.30 p.m. His lunchtime beers had worn off and it was too soon to start drinking
again. He was feeling in a murderous mood.
    Call me. Call me, call me, call me, you bastard. If I have to come and find you, I’ll wring your fucking neck.
    He went out again, got a couple of coffees for himself and his assistant from a cafe a short distance away, then returned to the shop. He sat at his desk, his email inbox full of spam and online
statements, bills he could not afford to pay. He watched the endless stream of people, mostly tourists, wandering