He emerged with DS Batchelor from the Bartholomews seafront car park, and headed into the Lanes. They zig-zagged through the narrow alleyways, passing one landmark, the jewellery store of Derek le-Warde. Then they reached the large shop, filled with a wide range of antiques including a stuffed ostrich, a George III writing desk, a gilded chandelier, and a display of Chinese vases, the gilded sign above the door proclaiming: GAVIN DALY AND SON.

They entered. Seated behind a glass display shelf in the centre of the room containing a range of tiny ornaments was a man in a wheelchair, with a short ponytail, tiny oval glasses, his head tilted back, which gave him a hint of arrogance. He was dressed in a baggy Hawaiian shirt, with even baggier cavalry twill trousers.

‘Hello, gentlemen. Can I help you?’ His accent was Southern Irish.

Grace showed him his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Sergeant Batchelor. We’d like to have a word with your proprietor, please. Mr Lucas Daly.’

‘Ah, I’m afraid he’s away right now – he’ll be back in on Monday.’

‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

‘Yes, he’s in Spain having himself a golfing weekend. Can I give him a message?’

‘Where in Spain has he gone?’

‘The south. Marbella.’

Grace gave him his card. ‘Thank you – please ask him to call me on this number as soon as he gets back.’

‘Anything I can help you gentlemen with in the meantime?’

‘How much is the ostrich?’ Guy Batchelor asked.

‘Four thousand pounds.’

‘Yeah, right, thanks. I’ll think about it,’ the DS said.

‘They are very hard to come by,’ the man said.

‘A bit like your boss, you mean?’

He didn’t get it.

As they stepped out of the shop, into the late-morning sunshine, Roy Grace dialled Gavin Daly’s number. The old man answered almost immediately.

‘It’s your sparring partner from last night, Mr Daly. Detective Superintendent Grace. I should have you for assault.’

‘I’ll tell you something, if I’d been twenty years younger, you would not have got up!’ Grace detected humour in his voice.

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘So, what news? You’ve got some good news for me?’

‘Your son Lucas is a keen golfer, is he?’

Instantly he sensed the cagey tone of Gavin Daly’s voice. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘What club is he a member of?’

‘I actually don’t know, Detective Grace.’

‘But he’s a good golfer, is he?’

‘My son and I are not that close. I’m not able to tell you how he spends his leisure time.’

‘Not that close? Would you like to elaborate, Mr Daly?’

‘No, I would not. We have our issues, but I can tell you that following the death of my sister we are united.’

‘Because you don’t trust us to find the perpetrators?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Even though you put up the reward of one hundred thousand pounds?’

‘Is your father alive, Detective Grace?’

‘No. He died some years ago.’

‘Do you have anything belonging to him that you hold dear?’

‘A few things, yes.’

‘My sister and I only had one thing. His pocket watch. As you probably know, it’s worth about two million pounds. But that’s of no consequence. She and I were lucky in life, we both made a lot of money. We never ever put that watch on the market; it was the only thing of our father’s – in fact of our parents’ – that we had. Those bastards took it. I don’t care about the rest of the stuff that was taken, but I care about that watch. I want it back. Just so you understand.’

‘I understand, loud and clear,’ Roy Grace said. ‘I just want you to understand one thing, too, sir, equally loud and clear. We are doing everything we can to find out who carried out this crime, and to recover the stolen property. But we have to do it within the law.’

Gavin Daly said nothing.

46

Lucas Daly removed his Ray-Ban sunglasses as he drove the Jeep down the entrance ramp into the large, communal underground car park of Puerto Banus. All the time he was looking warily around for CCTV cameras. He did not want anyone to be able, later, to plot their movements. To his annoyance he saw several, and drove back up the ramp again. He was feeling edgy as hell.

The Apologist gave him a strange look. ‘Plenty of spaces there, boss.’

‘I didn’t like the shape of them.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Daly put his glasses back on as they emerged into the dazzling early afternoon sunlight. He looked at the car clock, then, as if he did not trust it, he checked his wristwatch: 2.26 p.m. They were an hour ahead of the UK here, which meant that in a little under an hour, the first race of today’s meeting at Brighton races, the 2.15 p.m. Reeves Flooring Cup, would be under way. With Fast Fella running at 33/1.

He’d bet the ranch on the horse, which was part of the reason he felt so nervous. But only part. He knew why he was here, and what he had to do, but carrying it out was going to be another matter. As yet he hadn’t fully worked out a plan, and he wanted to have all his ducks in a row.

But they had time; too much of the damned stuff; they had to wait for the cover of darkness, and with the clear sky at this time of year it wouldn’t start to be fully dark until around 9.30 p.m. Still, he remembered all the scantily dressed young women who swarmed around the port, seriously attractive totty, so passing a few hours over some cold beers in a quayside bar would not be too much of a hardship, even if he did have to endure the Apologist’s company – or rather, lack of it.

He drove around for a while, happy to be killing time, until he found a parking space in a narrow shady street that did not appear to have any surveillance. They left the car, walked down to the port, then ambled along, seemingly casually, just a couple of guys amid the early afternoon throng of holidaymakers admiring the swanky boats berthed along the quay. He clocked their names on their gleaming sterns. TIO CARLOS. SHAF. FAR TOO. FREDERICA. CONTENTED. Their flags hung listlessly in the still heat.

The bar owner, Lawrence Powell, had been right when he’d said Contented was a sodding great yacht. It was considerably longer, taller, fatter and even more gleaming than its neighbours. Two men in white uniforms were working on the rear deck, one cleaning with a mop and pail, the other polishing the chrome rails. The one with the mop had a shaven head and a tattooed neck; the other had short dark hair and worked with a cigarette in his mouth.

Surreptitiously, as they strolled past, Lucas Daly snapped both men with his phone camera, then stopped a short distance on, pulled the card Lawrence Powell had given him from his wallet, entered his mobile-phone number and texted him the photographs.

They seated themselves at an outdoor table that gave them a perfect view of the Contented. The Apologist studied the plastic menu, while Daly checked his watch. Fifteen minutes to the race now. The Apologist ordered a Coke and a lasagne with chips. Daly ordered a large beer. He was too knotted up to eat anything, and he shouldn’t be drinking, he knew; he needed to keep his wits clear for this evening. But that was still a long time away.

As their drinks arrived, his phone vibrated. He looked down. It was a reply from Lawrence Powell.

Dark-haired one on left Macario. Shaven head on rt Barnes.

‘We’re on,’ he said to the Apologist. He stepped outside the bar to make a phone call.

Five minutes later he returned, drained his beer in three gulps and ordered another. He looked down at his horse-racing app, and tapped on it for the tenth time, trying to log into the Brighton race meeting, but the connection was too slow and nothing happened. Twenty anxious minutes and a third beer later, whilst the Apologist was shovelling his food into his face, he lit a cigarette and phoned his bookmaker.