‘No. I apologize if I was a bit short with you previously. This is all very stressful, as I’m sure you can understand.’

‘Indeed, sir.’

Grace noticed him glance anxiously at his watch.

‘You have a plane to catch, sir?’ he asked him.

‘Yes – I do – I’m off to France; to Nice. I thought I’d get away to my villa there for the weekend. I need a break from all of this.’ He gave him a smile that was more affable than at their last meeting.

‘I can understand. A nice luxury to have. Although if I lived in a house as beautiful as this, I’m not sure I’d ever want to leave it.’

Daly sat stiffly and just smiled. ‘Do you have some news for me, Detective Superintendent?’

‘We’ve recovered an Art Deco mirror that we think belonged to your sister – I’d like you to identify it at some point, if that is possible?’

Daly nodded with enthusiasm.

‘But that’s not my reason for coming. Actually it’s a rather delicate situation, sir.’ Grace glanced down at the fine inlaid table between them. It was 9.30 a.m. and he craved a coffee, but that did not seem to be about to happen.

Daly looked at him inquisitively.

‘We know how well protected your watch was, in the safe with the dummy door. And we’ve been fairly sure all along that there must have been inside information.’

‘From the knocker-boy?’

Grace shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t have thought your sister would have shown him the safe, would she?’

‘Never,’ he said fiercely, and glanced at his watch again. ‘It was when they tortured her; that’s when she must have told them.’

‘That is of course one distinct possibility, sir. But I’d like to ask you something. How friendly was your late sister with Sarah Courteney?’

‘Extremely. Aileen was very fond of her. She never got on with my son Lucas, but she liked Sarah a lot. Sarah called in on her often, keeping Aileen company.’

‘Would you think it possible your sister might have shown Sarah Courteney your watch at some time?’

His face darkened. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying? That Sarah had something to do with this?’

Grace, faced with a difficult decision, looked back down at the coffee table, studying it intently for a moment, as if he might find the answer to what he should do carved there in the wood. ‘There’s no delicate way of saying this, but it would seem your daughter-in-law was having an affair,’ he said, looking Daly in the eye.

Daly shrugged. ‘Good luck to her. She deserves better than my son, that’s for sure.’

Surprised and relieved by the man’s reaction, Grace went on. ‘The man she’s been having the affair with is Gareth Dupont – who has been charged with your sister’s murder.’

There was a long silence. Grace saw Daly clenching both his hands so tightly he could almost see the bones through the thin, white skin. ‘This explains a lot,’ he said, finally.

‘Do you think the two of them might have been in cahoots, sir?’

Daly shook his head. ‘Not for one moment, no. Sarah is a decent person. I would imagine this Dupont character would have targeted her, and just gently, gently got the information from her. Have you talked to her?’

‘Yes, and I’m inclined to agree with you,’ Grace replied.

‘I’d say she was used, exploited. Lucas treated her like dirt. She was a ready target for a piece of vermin like Dupont.’

Grace watched his face closely. ‘What time is your flight to Nice, sir?’

‘One o’clock.’

‘Safe travels, and I’ll keep you updated on any news.’

‘I’d appreciate that.’

*

As he left Daly’s house, two things were preying on Roy Grace’s mind. The first was Sarah Courteney’s uncomfortable reaction when he had asked about the cost of her watch, which he still did not understand. But at the moment, as he pulled into his parking space at the front of Sussex House, there was something more immediate: the suitcase in Gavin Daly’s hallway. He had watched a documentary on television some months back, about people with second homes in France and Spain. They talked about the cheapness and convenience of hopping on and off a low-cost flight. The secret, all of them said, was to take no luggage. No wasting time with checked baggage. Just a small carry-on holdall.

That was a substantial suitcase in the hallway of Gavin Daly’s house. Very definitely it would be checked baggage – unless of course he was flying in a private jet. But even so, surely a seasoned and wealthy traveller like him did not need to lug baggage around?

Unless of course he had lied about his destination.

His phone rang. It was Peregrine Stuart-Simmonds. ‘Roy, I think this will interest you. I’ve just put down the phone from a friend: a dealer in very rare watches, Richard Robbins, in Chicago’s Jewelers Row. This is a man of impeccable integrity. He’s heard through the grapevine about a Patek Philippe watch, which sounds from the description very much like our missing one, being hawked around in New York.’

‘Does he have any names? Anyone our team could talk to?’

‘Yes, several. I’m on it now. Just thought you might want to know.’

‘I do indeed, thank you.’

The moment he ended the call, Roy Grace phoned MIR-1 and put in a request for a search of all passenger lists on outbound flights to New York for the rest of the day. The name he gave them to look for was Gavin Daly.

80

The beep-parp . . . beep-parp . . . beep-parp of the siren grew closer, six floors below them, racing along Munich’s Widenmayerstrasse. It was a hot, late-summer day and Dr Eberstark’s consulting room window was open several inches to let in some air – and with it the traffic noise.

The psychiatrist frowned at Sandy. ‘Are you intending to tell him you are actually alive?’

‘Roy?’

‘Yes, Roy.’

‘No.’ She felt a refreshing waft of breeze, as the siren peaked right beneath them.

‘So you are a dead person?’

‘Sandy Grace is a dead person. That doesn’t make me a dead person.’

Dr Eberstark was a small man, in his mid-fifties, who had the knack, she always thought, of making himself seem even smaller still. It was partly the suits he wore, which all appeared one size too big, as if he was waiting to grow into them, partly the way he sat in his chair opposite the couch, hunched up, and partly the large black-rimmed glasses which dwarfed his hawk-like face. ‘Legally you are.’

‘Legally I am Frau Lohmann.’

He gave her a quizzical look. ‘You told me that you got your German citizenship by paying someone. Was that lawful?’

She shrugged, then said, dismissively, ‘No one died in the process.’

The psychiatrist stared at her for some moments. ‘No one died, but someone must have been hurt, right?’

She lapsed into one of her long silences. Then she answered, ‘Who?’

‘Your husband, Roy. Did you never think about what your disappearance might have done to him?’

‘Yes, of course, a lot. Constantly, at first. But . . .’ She fell silent again.

After some minutes he prompted her. ‘But what?’

‘It was the best of a bad set of options. In my view.’

‘And that still is your view, isn’t it?’

‘I’ve made a mess of my life. I guess that’s why I’m here. People don’t come to a shrink because they’re happy, do they? Do you have any patients who are happy?’

‘Let’s just focus on you.’

She smiled. ‘I’m a train wreck, aren’t I?’

He had tiny, piercing eyes that usually were steely cold and unemotional. But just occasionally they twinkled with humour. They were twinkling now. ‘I would not say that, not just yet. But you are heading towards becoming one, in my opinion, if you go ahead and buy that house.’

She fell silent again for the remaining minutes of the session.