The oldster was heading towards a little mushy-pea-coloured Skoda, and as he approached, he pulled something from his pocket – the key fob, Gecko guessed – and moments later the Skoda’s indicators flashed.

  Yes! Now!

  Striding fast towards the old man and his dog, Gecko was just ten yards away when he saw something moving, out of the corner of his eye.

  A police car.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Was it looking for him? Or just on routine patrol?

  He turned abruptly away and strode off uphill, trying to look nonchalant, like he was just out for a stroll in the park. He didn’t stop for a good minute, then when he did look back, he saw the police car had gone and the Skoda was reversing.

  No.

  He blew the spider out of his mouth, back into the container, closed the lid, then looked at his watch again: 3.50 p.m. No chance of finding another dog now. And even if he did, he’d never get it to the farm in time to be paid and get back to the shop before it closed. He was panicking. And thinking hard. His only credit card was maxed out and had been declined on the last two occasions he’d used it. He had £60 in his wallet, but he needed that to pay for their fish and chip supper tonight and for the rides on the pier.

  There was only one option now, his Plan B, and he needed to act before that closed out on him. Jumping into his van, he drove out of the park and headed towards Brighton.

  Twenty minutes later he was driving along Hove seafront, passing the Angel of Peace statue – an angel holding an orb and an olive branch, which delineated the border between the old towns of Brighton and Hove, now co-joined into one city since 2001. Almost in desperation, as he drove, he was looking across to his right for people walking their dogs on the upper promenade, although he knew that most of them would be down below, walking on the beach or along by the Arches.

  Plan B was still sketchy in his head. As was the local geography. It was 4.40 p.m. He took the slip road at the West Street lights and halted for the red. When they changed, he made a left turn, followed by another, then turned into the Cannon Place car park, found a space and parked the van.

  4.45 p.m.

  He hurried out of the car park, ran back to West Street, crossed it then walked quickly along an alley that took him into the network of Brighton’s historic Lanes district. He navigated the warren of pedestrian alleys, filled with antique and modern jewellers, artisan shops, cafes, restaurants, pubs and bars. He dodged through the dawdling window-shoppers and business folk heading home at the end of the working day. Alarmed at the number of shops already pulling down their metal shutters, he quickened his pace.

  Right then left. And, reaching East Street, he breathed a sigh of relief. Ahead, in the fading late afternoon light, Gecko saw the shopfront of the premises he had come to visit, looking still very much open. He stopped a short distance away, in front of an antique jeweller who was in the process of lowering his steel shutters, and pulled his scarf up over the lower part of his face. Happy for the cold weather today. Oh, so happy indeed!

  He’d be even happier if it was just the friendly old guy in the shop, and not his disdainful young male assistant who had looked at Gecko last time as if he was something the cat had brought in.

  With his beanie pulled low over his forehead and his scarf pulled high over his nose, he was confident that only his eyes were visible, as he entered the door of the Brighton Antique and Modern Watch Co., and approached the glass counter, beneath which was an array of modern watches, and behind which, to his relief, was just the elderly, silver-haired man, wearing a Perspex visor. ‘May I help you?’ he asked with a smile.

  Not wishing to remind the man he had been here before, a couple of days ago, Gecko said, ‘I have a lady cousin who is blind, and I wondered if you sell any talking watches?’

  ‘I do indeed, I have a whole range, sir.’

  ‘And which do you consider the best, money no object?’

  He saw the proud look in the man’s face behind his visor. ‘The Verbalise range, sir, no question at all. Elegant and with most clear diction. May I show you the very latest – just in stock this week.’

  ‘You may indeed,’ Gecko said. His eyes also fell, greedily, on a display cabinet of pre-owned Rolex watches. He pointed to one with a bevelled edge, a gold face with a date display, and a gold bracelet. ‘Would that be an Oyster?’

  ‘It would indeed, sir.’

  ‘I’d like to have a look at that, too.’

  ‘Absolutely, sir!’

  But then, to Gecko’s dismay, the proprietor turned and called out through an open door at the rear of the shop, ‘Toby, I need your help, please!’

  The old man opened the display case containing the talking watches with a tiny key then pulled out and held up an elegant, silver-cased watch, its face a pale blue and with a silver bracelet. ‘Top of the range, this is radio-controlled, so it is always accurate and is a most elegant timepiece.’ He handed it to Gecko, who cradled it in his palm, studying it thoughtfully.

  ‘Very nice,’ he said enthusiastically.

  ‘Oh it is, it really is, you honestly could not do better than this! And to make it even more attractive, if it is for a registered blind person, you can claim the VAT back.’

  ‘I can?’ he asked.

  ‘Absolutely, sir, I can give you the form to fill in. It will reduce the price from £69.99 to £55.99.’

  Gecko nodded, as the assistant, a man in his early twenties, in a sharp suit and with foppish black hair, appeared – and looked at Gecko with a faint, uncertain, hint of recognition.

  ‘Toby, please show the gentleman the vintage gold Rolex.’

  Giving Gecko a dubious look, the young assistant unlocked another cabinet, removed the Rolex and handed it to him.

  The proprietor said proudly, ‘It is a very fine example, in quite beautiful condition and very recently serviced by Rolex themselves. I’m asking nine thousand pounds, but I’m sure we could come to a deal.’

  Gecko smiled, studying it for a moment before closing his fist around it, and murmured, ‘Oh, I’m sure of that. Does it come in the original box?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Toby, help me find the presentation box.’ They fumbled around under the counter. While they were distracted, Gecko turned away and surreptitiously removed the container from his pocket. He then slipped his scarf down and popped the spider back in his mouth, before raising his scarf again.

  ‘And we could offer you a warranty of—’

  Before he could finish, Gecko had lowered his scarf and opened his mouth, to reveal the spider crawling around in there.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ the old man shrieked, backing away in revulsion. Then, before he could regain his composure, Gecko had turned away, still holding both watches, and was heading towards the door to the street.

  The assistant vaulted the counter and grabbed Gecko by his shoulder.

  Gecko spun round, punched him full in the face, sending him reeling backwards, and was out the door, running.

  22

  Thursday 25 March

  Most psychologists agreed that there were various stages of grief at the sudden loss of a loved one. Roy Grace knew from personal experience, with the loss of his elder son Bruno, that they were pretty much right. And he had seen it all too often when dealing with the loved ones of a murder victim.

  Grief would go through stages of shock or disbelief, denial, anger, bargaining, guilt, depression; before, finally, acceptance and – sometimes – hope.

  Each stage lasted only a short while, the first as little as twenty-four hours and, Grace knew, the best time to get information from a bereaved loved one, brutal though it might be, was during this initial period of shock or disbelief, before they went into the denial phase and shut down. Which was why he wanted to try to have another conversation with Sharon Ruddle while she was still in a state of shock; as well as, compassionately, trying to give her some crumbs of comfort.

  Glenn Branson turned the Ford onto the rutted track that was the driveway to Old Homestead Farm. As they lurched through the potholes, Grace was thinking hard, both about what he was going to say and about the pieces of the puzzle – those that he had, those that were missing and those that might or might not belong to this particular case. Dots to be joined up, or not.

  Ahead, in the failing light of the overcast day, the farm buildings were coming into sight. The blue and white tape of the outer cordon, with the frozen-looking scene guard on the far side, loomed ahead. They turned into the field that was the rendezvous point. The large white Crime Scene Investigator’s van was in there, along with a white Subaru, a marked and a couple of unmarked police vehicles, and a mud-spattered navy-blue C-class Mercedes coupe. Branson pulled the Mondeo up alongside the Mercedes and they climbed out. The rain had stopped and given way to a strong, icy wind.

  There were several people in the farmyard, beyond the second, inner cordon, all concentrating intently on their tasks. Three CSIs, in blue oversuits, on their hands and knees, doing a fingertip search of the area around the marked silhouette of where Tim Ruddle’s body had lain; the Crime Scene Manager, Chris Gee, also in a blue oversuit; and a man in a white oversuit and overshoes, stepping carefully around, taking photographs on his phone.

  Grace and Branson booked in with the scene guard, PC Dave Simmons, then ducked under the tape, which he obligingly held up for them, and walked along the metal track that had been laid on the mud, to create a path with minimal contamination of the scene up to the second cordon, and ducked under that, entering the farmyard, where they were greeted by Gee, who looked as frozen as Simmons. The barn which had been broken into was to his left, the door still open, and the small farmhouse was to his right, lights on in several windows.

  ‘How are we doing, Chris?’ Grace asked.

  Rubbing his gloved hands across his chest, he replied, ‘Making good progress, sir. There’s a back entrance to the farmhouse, which the lady, Mrs Ruddle, is able to use to get out and feed the animals without crossing the crime scene. The farmhand has stayed in his cottage most of the day – he’s in a state of shock. Looks like the offenders were a clumsy lot – we’ve recovered a cigarette butt, part of a broken index plate, and Professor Kelly says he already has a lot of good footprints.’

  ‘The professor’s here already?’

  Gee pointed at the man in the white oversuit. ‘Yes, luckily he was in the country and free today.’

  ‘Are you going to be at the briefing this evening?’

  ‘I’m leaving shortly, sir.’

  Grace thanked him and walked over to the renowned pioneer of Forensic Gait Analysis, a sturdy, ebullient figure, mask below his chin, who greeted him as ever like a long-lost buddy, as they bumped gloved fists. ‘Good to see you, Roy!’ Then he bumped fists with Branson. ‘And you too, Glenn.’

  ‘Good to see you too, Haydn. Thanks for coming,’ Grace said.

  ‘It worked out well for me, I should have been in South Korea this week, but I’m stuck in the UK at the moment. Sounds like a nasty murder.’

  ‘I’ve yet to come across a nice one,’ Grace replied, grimacing.

  ‘Those your wheels back there?’ Branson asked. ‘The Merc?’

  Kelly beamed proudly. ‘It’s a beast, AMG, 6.3 litre, last of the naturally aspirated ones. Not many years left to have fun on the roads, are there, guys?’

  Both detectives shook their heads.

  ‘So business is good, eh?’ Grace retorted.

  Kelly gave him an impish grin then glanced at Branson. ‘You guys are probably too young to remember the late grocery tycoon, Jimmy Goldsmith, right?’

  Taking Grace’s frown as a yes, Kelly went on, ‘Sir James Goldsmith famously declared there are only two kinds of businesses to be in – food and munitions. He said people are always going to have to eat, and they are always going to kill each other.’

  ‘He got that about right,’ Grace said, nodding ruefully. Then after a moment he added, ‘Maybe the funeral business, too. Had a colleague who retired a few years back and told us all, at his retirement bash, he was planning to start a funeral parlour. He said he was going to call it “Yours Eventually”.’

  ‘And did he?’

  Grace shook his head. ‘The Grim Reaper called his bluff. Dropped dead from a heart attack three days after handing in his ticket.’ He shrugged. ‘So, tell me, what do you have?’

  ‘Give me a little longer and I’ll be able to tell you a fair bit about the offenders. I’ve got some good, fresh footprints off the wet mud and grass – I need to exclude the farm manager and the deceased, and we’ll need to establish who visited this farmyard in the past twenty-four hours, to eliminate them, before I can tell you my estimate of the number of offenders – and vehicles they came in. Oh, and by the way, I’ve got two very distinct and different tyre treads that don’t match any of the farm vehicles. Two vehicles unaccounted for – but this is something you need to get your vehicle people on, after eliminating any legitimate visitors.’

  ‘Are you able to come to our evening briefing, Haydn, and present your findings?’ Grace asked.

  Kelly shook his head. ‘There’s heavy rain forecast for later. I’d like to use the remaining daylight to take impressions on the mud and grass to get the shoe sizes and a sense of the people you might be looking for. I’ve already identified one set, which might be helpful—’ He nodded at the barn. ‘They look to me like they were made by an endomorph with a limp.’

  ‘Endomorph?’ Branson quizzed.

  Haydn smiled. ‘In plain English, Glenn, a fat bastard.’

  Grace smiled. ‘Best keep that expression to yourself!’

  ‘Humble apologies. Would, a large bloke, probably very overweight be more acceptable?’

  Grace nodded. ‘Yes, it would.’

  ‘I prefer the first description,’ Branson smiled.

  23

  Thursday 25 March

  Roy Grace and Glenn Branson left Haydn Kelly to his work and walked along the metal track the CSIs had laid. In front of the farmhouse was an old Land Rover with a canvas rear, and a more modern four-wheel-drive Fiat Panda. They followed the track around to the rear of the farmhouse, passing a plastic toy tractor, a wheely bin and a row of plastic sacks, and came to a conservatory in poor repair, with its door peeling paint.

  Through the glass he saw Sharon Ruddle, in dungarees and a big sweater, her hair a mess, slumped head in hands over the kitchen table, and two children on a sofa close by. A brown cat was eating from a red bowl on the floor, beside an Aga, almost at the feet of the Family Liaison Officer, Emma Gallichan. The FLO was occupied stirring the contents of a large, steaming saucepan on top of the range.

  Grace knocked on a pane of glass, softly, then louder. Sharon looked up, startled, at the same time as Gallichan looked round. Sharon said something to the FLO and walked towards them, like a zombie. She opened the door and gave a nod of recognition.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you again, Mrs Ruddle,’ Grace said. ‘Would it be possible to have another quick word?’

  She shrugged. ‘Come in – have you – have you found them?’

  Grace and Branson walked into the room, which was uncomfortably hot. Just like the houses of so many bereaved people he had visited in the past. It was as if they turned up the heat – and often drew the curtains, too – to exclude the reality of the old world they had once inhabited and which would now, forever, be different in the worst possible way.

  Gallichan took the pan off the heat and placed it on the side of the stove before turning round and acknowledging Grace and Branson with a respectful, ‘Sir, sir.’

  ‘All OK, Emma?’ Grace asked.

  ‘I’m just heating up the children’s supper.’

  ‘Please sit down,’ Sharon Ruddle said. She raised her right arm, holding it in the air like a limp flag, then dropped it again. ‘Would you like a drink? Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘We’re fine, thank you,’ Grace said, although he could have done with a pint of coffee right now. ‘We won’t keep you long.’ He signalled to Emma to continue with her task, then they joined Ruddle at the kitchen table.

  Grace and Branson exchanged a glance. Both of them were aware that she may now be moving from the shock to denial phase. Roy spoke. ‘Are you getting all the support you need, Sharon?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Emma’s been brilliant, helping me with the kids, and we’ve had the chance to sit down and talk about what is happening. She’s explained to me what you and your team will be doing and helping me get through this. It’s the kids, I just don’t know what the future holds for them. What am I going to tell them?’ she asked.

  ‘You have just these two, right?’ Glenn Branson asked gently.

  She looked down fondly at them. ‘Felix and Ava. We were going to take them to Florida this summer, to Disney World – that was the plan, anyway.’ She shrugged and gave a wan smile. ‘We have the tickets booked and everything – did you know you can get them much cheaper by booking a long way ahead? We got such a great deal on them.’

  Then she dropped her face into her hands and sobbed. Without looking up she said, ‘Oh shit. What am I going to do? I’ve lost my husband and . . .’ Her voice tailed.

  Grace and Branson waited patiently. After a few moments she said, ‘Brayley. The kids adore her – she’s just the sweetest dog. And Rudi. They keep asking where they are.’

  ‘Have you got anyone who could come and stay with you?’ Grace asked. ‘Any relative? Parents, sister, brother? A close friend?’

  ‘My sister, Jo, lives in Aberdeen, her husband flies helicopters to oil rigs. He’s starting a week’s leave so he can look after their kids. She’s coming down tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Branson said.

  Suddenly a sharp, synthesized voice, sounding like a Dalek, announced, ‘Game over!’

  Grace looked at the sofa. The little girl was fixed on an iPad. She tapped it again. ‘Next level!’ it said.

  ‘I’m not being a very good host, am I? I should offer you a drink.’

  ‘You did already, we’re fine. Thank you. I’ve seen your interview from this morning and just wanted to ask, since then have you remembered any more about the vehicles these people came in?’ Grace continued. ‘You said when we talked earlier that you thought one was a Range Rover and the other some kind of pickup truck.’