The floor plans of his soon-to-be neighbours’ house lay unfolded on the crappy coffee table in front of him. Cleo Morey’s house. There was what looked like an easy route across the rooftop fire escape to her house. In his original thinking, he was going to hire someone to do the deed. But why should he pay good money for an act that would give him so much pleasure to commit himself? Whatever that act was. Maiming Cleo, perhaps. Or killing the baby.

There were endless possibilities. He could visualize lifting the baby from its cot. The stupid, dumb little infant, Noah, and hurling it through the air onto the cobblestones below.

Thud.

He liked that sound.

Thud.

Oh yes.

But far more he looked forward to seeing Detective Superintendent Grace’s pain. His grief.

Then he heard a thud. Followed by another. On his door.

He glanced down at his gold Rolex, which had been stored these past twelve years in a safety deposit box that the police had not managed to find. 4.20 p.m. He wasn’t expecting any visitors. But he was expecting his pay-off anytime now. A cut of the ten million pound haul from the Withdean Road heist. He stood up, swaying from the alcohol inside him, and made his way towards the door.

The cheapskate landlord of this dump hadn’t put in either a spyhole or a safety chain, so he had no way of finding out who his visitor was other than shouting through the door. ‘Who is it?’

‘Father Christmas!’

The voice was dimly familiar. If they were coming to pay him off, he did not want to turn them away. But he did not feel entirely comfortable. He unlocked the door, and the two safety bolts, top and bottom. Then he opened it a fraction. An instant later, it smashed him in the face, sending him hurtling backwards on his unsteady legs, before falling flat on his back.

A big brute in a dark suit picked him up off the floor by his shirt collar, half-throttling him.

‘You fucking moron!’ his assailant said, his face tight with fury. ‘You enjoy killing frail old ladies, do you?’ The other man stared down at him, silently.

When the pressure was released from his throat he replied, apologetically and shit scared, ‘I said that she was a vulnerable old lady. Hurting her was never the plan.’

‘Said? Said to who?’

He was shaken so hard he felt his teeth move. ‘Why should I be a grass?’ he gasped.

‘Because you’re the biggest fucking dickhead on the planet.’

‘Takes one to know one,’ Amis Smallbone retorted, defiantly.

Then he instantly regretted his drunken bravado, as a fist slammed into his mouth, destroying thousands of pounds worth of expensive reconstructive dentistry he’d had after the last fight he’d been in. Then another fist slammed into his rib cage.

‘You’re not in a good place to get smart on me right now. I want names. I want the bastards who did this, and I want to know where all the stuff’s gone – my dad and I want it back. All of it.’

Smallbone stared back at him sullenly, winded, blood pouring down his face. ‘I’m not getting killed for being a grass.’

Then he screamed in agony as a hand, hard as a mechanical pincer, grabbed his groin and began to crush his testicles. Then let go.

Smallbone fell to the floor, gasping in agony.

‘Want to tell me the names? He won’t be so gentle next time. Next time he’ll rip them off.’

With tears streaming from his eyes, Amis Smallbone looked at the giant of a man standing beside him, and believed him. ‘If I tell you, they’ll kill me,’ he gasped.

‘If you don’t, I’ll kill you, except I’ll have to get rid of your body – and that’s a hassle. Just make it easy for me. Names, Smallbone. Okay?’

Then his balls were crushed again, even harder than before.

Through his agony, he screamed out names. But he held back Gareth Dupont’s; even through his excruciating pain, he was able to think clearly enough to realize if Dupont was beaten up, he’d reckon he was behind it. And with that £100k reward out there, that could be a dangerous thing.

They left him vomiting on the skanky carpet. As the tall man closed the front door behind them, he turned and said, ‘Sorry.’

31

Roy Grace was still smarting from the grilling he’d had from ACC Rigg this morning. On his list of crimes that affected the quality of life of the Sussex community, housebreaking was at the top of the ACC’s priorities.

Just three years ago, Graham Barrington, the Divisional Commander of Brighton and Hove, had reported proudly at the daily meeting for all senior police officers, known affectionately as morning prayers, that for the first time since records had begun there had been no overnight domestic burglaries in the city of Brighton and Hove. It had seemed then that one aspect of crime in the community was firmly under control.

But since then, with the deepening recession, that had begun to change. Even so there had not been an incident as nasty as Aileen McWhirter’s savage attack for some time. The ACC had rigorously questioned Grace about the progress of the investigation.

To be fair to his boss, Roy Grace knew the man was under pressure from a number of different directions. The nationwide publicity from this case was doing a lot to foster Brighton’s long-held, and not strictly fair, reputation as a haven for criminals.

He needed to produce suspects, and fast. Amis Smallbone was the only name he had so far that he could give to the Assistant Chief Constable. But would Smallbone, out on licence for only a couple of months, having served twelve years of a life sentence, be so stupid to risk his freedom? The answer, he knew from long experience dealing with criminals, was that yes, he could be that stupid, or desperate. And it certainly had the scumbag’s hallmark.

Aileen McWhirter’s brother, Gavin Daly, had contacted him, saying he wanted to offer a one million pound reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the perpetrators. Grace had convinced him this was far too much and would result in the incident room being swamped with unhelpful calls. They had settled on one hundred thousand pounds, and informed the Argus as well as passing this on to the charity Crimestoppers to put on their website and posters for anonymous informants, and to Sue Fleet in the press office.

He was worrying about Glenn Branson. Twice when he had called, Glenn had told him he couldn’t speak at the moment and would bell him back.

As Grace looked down at his notes, preparing to start the 6.30 p.m. briefing, David Green said, ‘Chief, I thought that little turd Smallbone was inside.’

‘He’s out on licence,’ DS Guy Batchelor replied. ‘This has his handwriting all over it. High-value house with the victim tortured. Never him personally, of course. He gets scrotes to do his dirty work, gives them a cut. He’s his father’s son – except not as smart.’

‘I’d dearly love to go and have a chat with him myself, but I don’t think that would be too productive,’ Grace said, bearing in mind their past animosity. He turned to a new addition to his enquiry team, DC Sam Tovey, a slim, quiet-natured woman with short, dark hair and a pleasant, if slightly brisk, no-nonsense air about her. Smallbone was a bully, but like all male bullies he’d find it less easy to bully strong women, and Grace remembered him being intimidated by smart women officers in the past. As he looked around the team he thought hard about the best people to send, and decided Bella Moy should be one of them. At thirty-five, she was mature enough to stand up to Amis, who was sixty-two. ‘Sam and Bella, I’d like you to go and have a chat with Smallbone. Ask for an alibi for the night of Tuesday, August the 21st. I have an address for him on file, but he may have moved. The Probation Service will have it. Best not send him my regards!’