Potting responded eagerly, although his voice sounded a little strange, a bit croaky, and there was a knock on his door less than a couple of minutes later.

  ‘Yes, chief?’ he said as he entered, his voice definitely sounding a little hoarse, as if he’d been shouting. He stood massaging his neck between his finger and thumb, and Grace could see the worry in the detective’s eyes.

  Grace signalled for him to sit, and Potting perched on one of the two chairs in front of his desk. He was looking, as he had been for several days now, paler and less confident than normal. Grace knew the detective was living on his own and probably didn’t have many people – if anyone – to share his worries with. But he saw something in the way the DS was looking at him that reminded him of the fear in his father’s eyes, despite the brave face he’d tried to put on after his diagnosis of cancer.

  ‘Sorry about my voice, chief.’ He coughed as if trying to clear his throat. ‘Woke up with it like this.’ He grinned nervously. ‘Just a bit of a frog in my throat. What can I do? Better than a toad in my hole some might say!’

  ‘I just thought it would be good to have a quick catch-up on your health, Norman. Do you have any news?’

  ‘Thanks for asking, chief. That’s really kind. I don’t want to trouble you with my problems at this really tough time for you. But I am worried – shit scared, to be honest with you.’

  ‘I want to help. Where are you at with everything?’

  ‘Well, as I think I told you, my GP sent me to an ENT consultant – she was a pretty cold fish. When I told her I smoked a pipe she said it was quite possibly laryngeal or oesophageal cancer, straight out, just like that. But she also said it might just be laryngitis.’ He lowered his head, to avoid meeting Grace’s eyes. ‘I’m worried sick.’

  Grace nodded sympathetically. ‘But it could be one of a number of other things, couldn’t it, Norman? Cancer is only one possible diagnosis. Have you tried Fisherman’s Friends?’

  Potting smiled bleakly, then shrugged. ‘Yeah, I’ve tried them, they don’t work. Used to, but not any more. It may seem strange to say this, but ever since Bella died, I’ve been feeling under a cloud, chief. As if it was my fault she died, and that if I’d been there, it wouldn’t have happened.’

  Grace looked at him face to face, with a sympathetic frown. ‘Norman, Bella was on her way to work when she heroically went into a burning building to try to save lives. And in a couple of months we’ll be recognizing that gallantry when we go to the Palace to receive her medal. How can you possibly blame yourself for not being there when she died?’

  Potting shrugged and said lamely, ‘I know, chief. It’s daft, but I do.’

  ‘So now you think you’re being punished by being given a cancer diagnosis? Really? Do you have some kind of death wish to join Bella, where you’ll both be happy together in an eternal afterlife?’

  Potting shook his head. ‘I’m not religious, chief. She’s gone – the only woman I truly loved – and I know I have to move on. I don’t buy all that crap that we’ll be together in some kind of eternity.’

  ‘So how can you believe you’re being given terminal cancer as some kind of retribution, Norman?’

  Potting shrugged. ‘I know, it’s stupid. But that’s what I keep thinking.’

  ‘Want to know what I think?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘It’s something my mother used to say: Don’t paint the Devil on the wall.’

  Potting grinned. ‘I like that,’ he said. ‘I like that a lot. Maybe it is just laryngitis – I have had that before, although this somehow feels different. She sent me to the laryngologist, who asked me all sorts of things. How long has it been going on? Have I noticed blood in my phlegm? Does it feel like something is stuck? Do I smoke? Do I drink?’

  ‘Well, she’s got you there!’ Grace said humorously.

  ‘Fair enough, right. Then she massaged my neck to check my glands, which was all fine, but then she shoved a snake-like object down my nose and said she could see a polyp. They need to remove it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, it could be anything,’ Norman said solemnly.

  ‘Well, whatever it is we’ll tackle it; you are not alone.’

  Potting coughed again, then squeezed his throat between his finger and thumb. ‘Bloody frog. They are down all our throats since Brexit, aren’t they?’ He gave him a wry smile.

  Roy Grace looked him straight in the eye for some moments, then shook his head and said, trying not to sound too stern, ‘Norman, we’ve known each other a number of years, right?’

  Potting nodded. ‘We have indeed, chief.’

  ‘You’re a highly valued detective and I’m very fond of you, and I do enjoy your humour, but we’re in a very different world to when we first worked together, and sometimes you run your humour pretty close to the line. I’d hate to see your brilliant career ended because of something you said without thinking. I’m a good one to talk – I still occasionally say the wrong thing, but we’ve all got to be aware and think about other people’s sensitivities. So here’s my suggestion – before you open your mouth to say something witty, count to three, OK?’

  ‘Good advice, chief. I’m suitably chastened.’

  ‘I’m not criticizing you, Norman. I’m giving you a survival lesson.’

  Potting nodded, looking downcast. ‘I appreciate it, chief. I was always rubbish at maths, but I can just about manage to count to three.’

  ‘I was pretty crap at maths, too.’

  Potting shook his head. ‘You and I – we’d never have made it into the force today, would we?’

  Grace smiled.

  22

  Friday, 27 September

  Bail security had been set at £50,000, which Archie Goff did not have. So he was resigned to staying in prison until his trial. There were two big changes since he had last been inside, neither of which he was happy about. The first was the non-smoking rule; the other was that meals were no longer served in the canteen but had to be eaten in the cells. He’d been told it was to stop the violence that frequently erupted in the canteen. All very well, but he missed sitting at a table with his mates. His double-bunk cell hardly cut the mustard for a great dining experience.

  After his arrest, he found himself back again in his second home, the remand wing of Lewes Prison. Although, with the amount of his life he’d spent in here, it was pretty much his primary home, with his time away from it more of a holiday.

  To his amazement, Isabella had accepted his story that he’d been fitted up by the police, and came to visit him regularly. He still hadn’t yet figured out how he was going to explain things to her when it came to his trial, but hey, that was some months away yet. Bless her, she’d done her best to raise the money for his bail, but all she had been able to come up with was just under ten thousand quid.

  His brief had told him that although he’d been nicked red-handed in Hope Manor, he hadn’t actually taken anything from the premises, since he’d only got as far as the swimming pool. Therefore he would only be charged with burglary with intent to steal. If he was lucky, he’d get away with a couple of years, unless he came up in front of a particularly mean judge. The potential downside was that, so far throughout his life, he’d not yet come up in front of a judge who wasn’t mean – in his humble opinion.

  At 5 p.m. on this Friday afternoon he left his cell and walked along the corridor to the meal trolley, collected his pre-ordered dinner of tuna bake and spotted dick with custard, and carried the cartons back to his cell. The telly was on, cricket, which had never interested him – he had no idea how the scoring worked – but his cellmate, three decades his junior, who reminded him uncannily of a former home secretary, Sajid Javid, was addicted to the game. Archie enjoyed ribbing him by calling him Home Secretary.

  And right now, Mr Home Secretary was perched on the bottom bunk, forking vegetarian pasta into his mouth, watching a bowler hurl the ball at a helmeted batsman, who blocked it. Archie hadn’t yet asked him what he was in for, knowing it could be a sensitive subject for many prisoners.

  He sat down on the toilet, a few feet from Sajid – the only other place to sit in the tiny cell. Placing his dessert on the floor, he removed the foil from his warm tuna bake, on his lap. His body hunched over his food, he dug his plastic fork in, blew on it to make sure it didn’t scald his tongue, then ate a mouthful. It was OK, it tasted like it might, once upon a time in its distant past, actually have been from a fish swimming free in the sea – albeit one filled with plastic waste – and the pasta might have come from something that had been grown in a field, rather than cultured in a lab.

  Averting his eyes from the screen during an ad break, Sajid asked, ‘How you doing, man?’

  ‘Living the dream,’ Archie replied.

  Sajid smiled.

  ‘Eating my meal on a toilet – what’s not to like, eh, Home Secretary?’

  Sajid smiled again. ‘This is my first time – you told me last night you’re not new to all this, right?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘House burglaries? That’s your thing?’

  Archie nodded and ate some more. ‘And yours is?’

  ‘I was fitted up by the police. Isn’t that what everyone here says?’ He shrugged. ‘You make good money burgling?’

  ‘Yeah. Good enough, yeah.’

  ‘How much is good enough?’

  ‘Five to ten grand.’

  ‘A day – or a week?’

  ‘Yeah, a week, maybe, if I get lucky.’

  ‘If I was to do what they think I did, know how much I could make in a day? Twenty grand, sometimes a lot more. Hypothetically, of course. Ever thought about doing something different? The world’s moved on, mate. The internet and drugs, that’s where the real money is today. Scams and dealing. Burgling’s shit, isn’t it? You’re out in horrible weather, got to deal with dogs, lights, alarms and always the risk of getting caught. Seems to me that burglars are extinct.’

  Archie bristled. ‘You’re calling me out of touch?’ Sajid was a muscular hunk who worked out in the gym every day. It wouldn’t be a smart idea to pick a fight with him, but his cocky arrogance was sure pissing him off.

  ‘Just saying.’

  ‘Saying I’m old?’

  ‘Know what they say about new technology, Archie?’

  Archie shook his head.

  ‘Technology’s like a steamroller. If you’re not riding in the cab you’re part of the road.’ Sajid ate another mouthful of his food.

  Archie stared at him. Maybe he was right, and he was just part of the road. Not even a motorway, just some sodding, crappy old B-road.

  ‘How many times have you been inside, Archie?’ he asked.

  ‘A few,’ he replied defensively.

  ‘Like three times? Five? Ten?’

  Archie realized he’d actually lost count. ‘Maybe ten, maybe more,’ he said, and ate some more of his own food in silence, as the cricket came back on, distracting his cellmate.

  Sajid didn’t speak again until the next commercial break, when Archie was scraping the last of the custard from the edges of the foil dish. ‘You’re how old?’

  ‘Sixty-four,’ Goff replied.

  ‘You’ve been inside ten times, or even more, right?’

  ‘Uh huh.’ He licked the last sweet drops from his plastic spoon.

  ‘You’ve got six kids with three different wives, you told me last night, right? You don’t see any of your exes and you’ve only got one kid who speaks to you, your daughter who’s studying to be a vet?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Do you own a property?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Not yet? What does that mean?’

  Archie shrugged. ‘I’m waiting for the big one.’

  ‘The big one? A burglary that’s going to earn you enough to buy a property for cash, because you wouldn’t get a mortgage in a million years.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘You don’t strike me as being an idiot, mate. But you’re gonna need two hundred K minimum to buy anything other than a shithole. What kind of burglary’s going to net you that kind of dough?’

  Archie stared into the empty aluminium carton. It was a good question, he knew.

  With a kinder tone now, Sajid said, ‘It’s not too late. You’re not an old man – yet. Why’ve you stayed with burglary, when you know you’ll keep getting caught? Haven’t you ever thought about nothing else? You’re not a bad-looking bloke, you’re in shape, there’s plenty of wealthy widows out there who could be rich pickings for you.’

  Archie shook his head. ‘If you’re so smart, how come you’re in prison?’

  He smiled. ‘My first time and my last. Like I said, I was fitted up.’

  ‘I thought the same, forty-five years ago, Home Secretary.’

  ‘And you never once reconsidered what you were doing?’

  Archie put his tray on the floor then sat bolt upright and a smile set his face alight. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Not once. It’s the adrenaline, you see, the rush, the buzz. When it goes right, there’s no feeling like it.’

  ‘And when it goes wrong, you’re banged up in here with a bunch of mostly losers. How does that make you feel?’

  Archie shrugged. ‘You know what, Home Secretary, I actually like it here. I’ve got television, the electricity’s paid for, the grub’s decent, and I’ve got my mates. And I don’t have to do my head in filling in tax forms. What’s not to like?’

  He wasn’t about to share how much he missed Isabella.

  23

  Saturday, 28 September

  Even this early, the cool September air was full of promise. A cloudless sky, the faintest hint of a sea breeze, a day to make anyone feel optimistic. And Harry Kipling was feeling very optimistic indeed, less so Freya.

  At 8.30 a.m. they stood outside the grounds of the historic Lancing College, a little bleary-eyed from their early start, sipping their thermos flasks of scalding coffee, and munching on the egg and tomato sandwiches that they had made for their breakfast. Warned that it could be a long wait, they’d also brought along a packed lunch and plenty of water in a cooler bag.

  Harry was glad they’d made the decision to come early, because there was already a sizeable queue gathered here, many sporting summery hats and caps of every shape, size and colour. There was a buzz of excitement, of anticipation, and many of the crowd of people were in a chatty mood. Harry and Freya learned that some had just come along in the hope of being caught on camera, so they could tell all their friends. Others had brought a vast assortment of stuff, some clearly junk, some family heirlooms, some items, like theirs, which they had picked up at a car boot sale and were hoping they would turn out to be worth a fortune.

  All around them, amid a sea of the branded red umbrellas and small white marquees, people clutched unwieldy packages, some of them parcelled in newspaper, or bubble wrap, or in supermarket carrier bags, as well as many unwrapped objects. A woman stood near them holding a set of fire dogs; another a wooden side-table; another a small rocking horse, and another a cake stand. There were objects of every different size and shape. It felt like they were in a rather posh, modernist take on a jumble sale, Harry thought. Except no one was buying anything. They were all here to get an expert’s appraisal on the objects they had. And all hoping for magic words from the expert. That the ugly vase they’d put flowers in, or the dreary bowl they fed their dog from, would turn out to be something from an ancient Chinese dynasty.

  One excited couple they’d chatted with told them they had a Chinese marble-top table which had been collected from their home yesterday, by the show, because it had sounded of interest. They were hoping to be told it would be worth enough at auction to pay for the new kitchen they were planning.

  Freya eyed the large Lidl carrier bag containing the bubble-wrapped painting on the ground beside them, propped against Harry’s right leg as he ate. Tired, because she didn’t do early mornings well, and especially not on weekends, she said, ‘There’s no wind, this would have been a great day to be on the beach with our paddleboards.’

  ‘Well, if we’re lucky and get seen early, we could get back in time to have an afternoon on the beach – and luxuriate in the knowledge that we’re now millionaires!’

  She put an arm around him, leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘My big dreamer! Let’s try to manage our expectations, eh? I don’t want you setting yourself up for a big disappointment.’

  ‘I know. I’m not expecting it to be anything other than a copy and pretty much worthless.’

  She stepped back and looked at him with the impish expression she had when she was teasing him and which he always loved. ‘Fibber! I don’t think you are expecting that at all.’

  ‘Well, maybe I’m a little optimistic – but hey, I’m a realist.’

  ‘Promise me one thing?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That if this turns out to be a worthless copy or whatever, we just bin it, or give it to a charity shop – I don’t want to keep it in the house.’

  ‘It’s very pretty.’

  ‘So are a lot of poisonous plants.’

  He grinned. ‘OK, I promise. And if it turns out to be genuine?’

  ‘Then I’ll send you a list of all the things I’d like for my birthday. Got my eye on some Louboutin shoes I’ve always dreamed of, and a Chanel handbag would be nice, too.’

  He looked down at the carrier bag and tapped it. ‘You heard what the lady said.’

  24

  Saturday, 28 September

  At 10 a.m., Harry and Freya Kipling had been marshalled, along with all the others – now numbering well over a thousand, he guessed – into various queues. Theirs was for the pictures expert. In spite of their early arrival, a good 150 people were in front of them and the queue was moving at a very slow pace.