The line went dead.

74

The world had changed in a lot of ways during the time he had been inside, Amis Smallbone was realizing. Technologically more than culturally. He needed to get up to speed if he wasn’t to be seen as a dinosaur.

Why was it, he wondered, that the instructions for all electronic equipment were written by someone for whom English was his – or her – fourth language?

The very expensive scanner, partially assembled, lay in front of him on the top floor of his rented town house. He had imagined opening the box, removing the scanner, and bingo!

Instead, the first thing he had to do was install the software, via the CD provided, on his computer. He had done that, although he was not entirely sure he had successfully followed all the instructions, which had been there to trick him at every level.

But finally, he had the thing working, and so far it had picked up little of interest. He had listened in on a banal conversation between Cleo Morey and a girlfriend, comparing notes on feeding babies and sore nipples.

Purrrleasse!

What he was most interested in was Roy Grace’s work pattern. He needed a few clear hours when Grace was out of the house and Cleo and Noah were home alone.

He still had not yet decided which one to hurt, or whether to hurt both. His priority remained, as it had all along, to destroy Roy Grace. What would work best? His beloved Cleo disfigured for life? Their baby dead? Both?

He felt a warm buzz deep in his bones.

Both was good.

75

Roy Grace and Guy Batchelor sat in the unmarked Ford Focus estate, in Shirley Drive, a short distance up the hill from Sarah Courteney’s house and on the opposite side of the road, giving them a clear view of the property. Her Mercedes SLK was parked in the driveway, alongside the black Range Rover Sport belonging to her husband. It was because of the Range Rover, indicating Lucas Daly was at home, that they had not gone to knock on her door. They knew, from checking with the BBC, that she was on the regional news tonight, at 6.30 p.m. Which meant she would be leaving for the studio very shortly.

After ten minutes, their guess proved accurate. She came out of the front door, hurrying through the drizzle, and climbed into her car. She reversed out and headed away down the hill, towards the Old Shoreham Road.

They waited for some moments, then Grace started the engine and drove after her, pulling up behind her at the lights. She was indicating right. He could see through the rear window that she was making an illegal call on her phone, held to her ear.

The lights changed and she turned right, heading west. He followed, a few lengths behind, as she crossed the junction with Sackville Road and continued heading west. Then he reached out his left hand, switched on the car’s blue lights and shot in front of her, braking gently, then pulled over onto the forecourt of Harwood’s garage, watching her follow in his rearview mirror.

He climbed out, walked back to the passenger side of her car, and signalled for her to unlock the door. Then, as she lifted her handbag onto her lap, he climbed into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut. There was a pleasant mix of smells: of leather seats and her fragrant perfume. ‘Using your mobile phone whilst driving is an offence,’ he said, with a grin.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, dropping it into the cradle on the dash. ‘The Bluetooth isn’t working. Is that why you’ve stopped me?’

‘No, but I wouldn’t let the Traffic guys see you.’

‘Thank you. I wouldn’t normally be driving myself, but I need the car to meet a friend later.’

‘I thought it might be better to have a discreet word with you away from home – after Tuesday night.’ He gave her a quizzical look and she blushed.

‘I thought I was going to die from embarrassment,’ she replied.

‘Let’s just make it clear that your personal life is of no interest to me, Ms Courteney. If it was, I’d have knocked on your front door, regardless of whether your husband was in or not.’

‘Thank you for not.’ She switched the engine off.

Rush-hour traffic swished by on the wet road. Roy Grace turned to face her. ‘So, if it’s not too personal, may I ask how long you and Gareth Dupont have been an item?’

‘It is pretty personal, actually.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I really can’t stop for long – I’m on air at 6.30.’

‘I know that. I don’t intend to make you late. But Gareth Dupont is a suspect in the murder of your husband’s aunt, and you were in bed with him two nights ago.’

‘Does that make me a suspect too?’

‘Not at this stage, no.’

‘But I might be?’

‘Excuse me being personal again, but does your husband beat you?’

Shaking, she opened her handbag and rummaged inside it, then pulled out a pack of cigarettes. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

‘I like the smell.’

She offered him a Marlboro Light, but he shook his head. She lit one, lowered her window, and exhaled. ‘He’s a bastard, if you want the truth, Detective – Superintendent?’

He nodded. ‘Is that why you’re having an affair with Gareth Dupont?’

‘We met at a salsa-dancing class. He was kind to me, fun to be with.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s been a long time since a man was kind to me.’

Grace remembered the trophy in her cabinet. ‘He was your dance partner?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I ask how long you’ve been seeing him?’

‘About three months.’ She looked pensive again. ‘Early June, when he turned up at the class.’

‘Did he ever talk to you about your husband’s aunt, Aileen McWhirter?’

She dragged deeply on the cigarette and flicked some ash out of the window. ‘Nothing specific that I can remember. I – ’ Then she frowned. ‘Actually, yes, now you mention it. I do remember one day, we were talking, and I mentioned that my husband’s father was Gavin Daly. Gareth got quite excited about that. Said he was one of the biggest antiques dealers in the country. Gareth had told me he had a passion for antiques. I think, actually, he is quite knowledgeable.’

‘Did he ever mention watches to you?’

‘Watches?’

‘Well, one in particular – a Patek Philippe?’

She shook her head and dragged on the cigarette again. ‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’ Grace watched her face carefully.

‘I’m sure. A Patek Philippe watch? They’re rather special, aren’t they? How does their advertising slogan go? Something like, You never actually own a Patek Philippe watch. You just look after it for the next generation.’

Grace smiled. ‘He never mentioned a Patek Philippe watch to you?’

She shook her head very definitely. ‘No.’ Then she held up her left wrist. ‘I would have taken note. I love watches.’

‘That’s a very elegant one. I don’t know much about them, I’m afraid.’

‘It’s a Cartier,’ she said. ‘A Cartier Tank watch.’

‘I’ve heard of Cartier,’ he said. ‘Very nice.’

‘Thank you.’

He had been thinking, for some time, about getting Cleo a present. Something to make her smile, to lift her spirits with the hard time she was having with Noah. Maybe a nice watch? A Cartier Tank watch? ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what kind of money would a watch like that cost?’

She hesitated. He watched her eyes. ‘Around three thousand pounds, I think.’

She was lying and he wondered why. Probably a gift from her husband, he concluded, and she had guessed the value.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to make you late. Thank you.’

He climbed out of the Mercedes and walked back to his car. Guy Batchelor was looking at him quizzically.

Grace shook his head. ‘Sounds like they met at a salsa class.’

‘Innocent?’