There was a titter of laughter. Several members of the team knew Roy Grace’s past history with Amis Smallbone, one of the Brighton underworld’s nastier specimens. Almost thirteen years ago, Grace, then a young Detective Inspector, had been his arresting officer, and almost single-handedly responsible for putting Small-bone away for life. Just over two months ago, Smallbone had been released from jail on licence.

Smallbone’s late father, Morris, the brains behind what was, at one time, a widespread crime empire, had slipped through police hands countless times. Other people did time inside for him, but never Morris – he was too smart. Less so his son, whose sadistic streak had been his undoing.

Amis Smallbone had gone down on a charge of murdering a rival drug dealer in the city, by dropping an electric heater into his bathtub. At the time of his arrest, the villain had threatened retribution against Roy Grace personally, and against his wife, Sandy. Three weeks later, with Smallbone in prison, someone had sprayed every plant in the garden of Grace’s home with weedkiller.

In the centre of the lawn had been burned the words:

UR DEAD

Smallbone had been on Roy Grace’s radar right from his very earliest days as a detective, after he had been the prime suspect in a number of scams involving tricking elderly, vulnerable people out of their cash and valuable possessions, using threats and actual violence whenever necessary. There wasn’t an area of the Brighton and Hove crime scene, including burglary, drugs, protection racketeering, prostitution, fake designer goods, vehicle theft and car clocking, that Smallbone’s family didn’t have a finger in. But what interested Roy Grace now was that Smallbone’s credentials included fencing high-end antiques – most of which were shipped overseas, predominantly to Spain, within hours of being stolen.

If an offender was freed on licence, as Smallbone had been, then if that person committed just one offence, of any nature, they would be straight back inside for many years. ‘Is there anything to connect Smallbone with this?’ he asked.

‘Surely he wouldn’t be that stupid so soon after coming out, would he?’ Emma-Jane Boutwood said.

‘If it’s in the blood, it’s in the blood,’ Norman Potting said. Grace noticed he was perspiring heavily. ‘Smallbone was used to living high on the hog,’ Potting continued. ‘From memory, we pretty much cleaned him out after his conviction. He’ll be needing to earn again.’

Grace nodded, then addressed Sam Tovey and Bella Moy. ‘Smallbone will have an alibi for last Tuesday evening, I’ll guarantee. He’ll have spent the evening in a pub where he’s known, and there’ll be a dozen people there who can vouch for him. But just rattle his cage, let him know we think he may be involved. It’ll make him nervous – and the more nervous he is, the more likely he’ll make a mistake.’

‘Could we get surveillance on him, chief?’ Guy Batchelor said. ‘Or a phone tap?’

‘We don’t have hard enough evidence to justify the cost of surveillance,’ Grace said. ‘And I’m afraid a phone tap is a non-starter at this stage.’ Surveillance was extremely costly in terms of specialist manpower and Grace could not see the ACC sanctioning it. The criterion for obtaining a phone tap order was evidence that a human life was in immediate danger. It had to be signed by an ACPO and the Home Secretary or a Secretary of State. He turned to DS Potting, who had been given the action at a previous briefing of seeing if any activity had taken place on the dead woman’s credit cards or bank account.

‘Norman, do you have anything on her credit cards?’

Again, Grace noticed a quick, almost imperceptible, glance between the old detective and Bella Moy.

For some moments, Potting’s gloom lifted, as he looked distinctly pleased with himself. ‘I do, chief. During the twenty-four hours between the night of August the 21st and 22nd, two hundred pounds was withdrawn from Aileen McWhirter’s bank account with her debit card. During this same period, three hundred pounds was withdrawn on her Amex card, three hundred pounds on her MasterCard and two hundred and fifty on her Visa. All CCTV footage from the cashpoints has been checked. In each case the money was withdrawn by someone with their face hooded.’

Grace frowned, then said, ‘The estimated value of the articles stolen from the victim’s house is in the region of ten million pounds. It seems odd that anyone would bother with such relatively small amounts of cash in addition, with the risks involved.’

‘Well, chief,’ said Potting, ‘to me that would indicate hired thugs. They’re either on a flat rate or a small percentage of what they nicked. So they helped themselves to a bit more, perhaps?’

‘Quite possible,’ Grace agreed. ‘Her brother, Gavin Daly, is a major player – or was – in the antiques world. And his son, Lucas, has the business now. Any thoughts on whether either or both of them might have had a hand in this?’

‘I’ve interviewed the old man and the son, boss,’ DS Guy Batchelor said. ‘Gavin Daly’s grief seems pretty real. The son seems pretty upset too. He doesn’t have a record but Operation Reduction have had an eye on him for some time.’ Operation Reduction was the long-term operation of the Brighton Drugs Squad.

‘Can you tell us more on that?’ Roy Grace asked.

‘They’re building a file on him. He’s running his father’s shop in the Lanes and he’s married to the television news presenter Sarah Courteney.’

‘She’s a bit of all right, she is!’ Norman Potting said. ‘Phwoar!’ Then Grace noticed Bella glare at the detective and he fell silent, blushing slightly.

‘But no history of involvement with robbery?’ Grace asked Batchelor.

‘No, but I did find one thing, running a search on him through the serials. Two years ago a crew were called to his home – his wife had phoned for help saying he was attacking her. He was arrested, but subsequently released, because she refused to press charges.’

Roy Grace nodded. ‘Useful to know. Thanks, Guy.’ On the long list of members of the human species that the Detective Superintendent despised were men who hit women.

‘The only other person with regular access to Mrs McWhirter’s property,’ Guy Batchelor continued, ‘is the housekeeper who comes twice a week. She’s seventy-five, bless her, and has worked for Daly and his family for thirty years. Other visitors to the property include the gardener, who’s almost equally ancient, the milkman, the newspaper boy, a plumber called Michael Maguire, who did some work on a toilet about four months ago, and a builder, Bryan Barker, who did some roof-tiling work in April. We’re checking them all out.’

‘Good. Thanks, Guy.’ Grace turned to the Press Officer. ‘What’s the situation on press and media interest, Sue?’

‘I’m getting a lot of calls and emails asking whether we’ve established a motive, other than burglary, and if we have any suspects.’

‘At this moment I’m regarding Amis Smallbone as a Person of Interest, but no more than that,’ he replied. ‘I don’t want that announced. Is there any urgency on holding another press conference?’

‘Not at the moment, sir, but we’ll need to by the end of the week,’ she said.

‘Okay. Friday afternoon.’ He turned to David Green, the Crime Scene Manager. ‘Anything to report?’

‘Not until we get the detailed footprint analysis back from the forensic podiatrist, Haydn Kelly, chief. We haven’t found anything else in Aileen McWhirter’s house yet.’

Normally, Grace kept his cool, but his tiredness and the grilling from the ACC were getting to him. ‘Bloody hell!’ he exploded. ‘The woman’s been tortured, and her house has virtually been stripped bare. No one could have done that without leaving a damned trace! There has to be more than three sets of shoeprints!’

‘If there is, we’ll find it, boss!’ Green said.

He turned to Ray Packham, from the High Tech Crime Unit, a man in his mid-forties who could easily have been mistaken for a provincial bank manager. ‘Anything for us from the victim’s phone, Ray?’