5 Brighton, 28 June 2012 From a distance, the man cut a dash. He looked smarter than the usual Brighton seafront crowds in their gaudy beachwear, sandals, flip-flops and Crocs. A gent, with an aloof air, in a blue blazer with silver buttons, smartly pressed slacks, open-neck shirt and a natty cravat. It was only on closer inspection you could see the shirt collar was frayed, there were moth holes in the blazer, and his slicked-back hair was thinning and a gingery-grey colour from bad dyeing. His face looked frayed, too, with the pallor that comes from prison life and takes a long time to shake off. His expression was mean, and despite his diminutive stature – five foot three in his elevated Cuban-heeled boots – he strutted along with an air of insouciance, as if he owned the promenade. Behind his sunglasses, Amis Smallbone, on his morning constitutional, looked around with hatred. He hated everything. The pleasant warmth of this late June morning. Cyclists who pinged their bells at him as he strayed onto the cycle lane. Stupid grockles with their fat, raw skin burning in the sun, stuffing their faces with rubbish. Young lovers, hand in hand, with their lives ahead of them. Unlike him. He had hated prison. Hated the other inmates even more than the officers. He might have been a player in this city once, but all that had fallen apart when he’d been sent down. He hadn’t even been able to get any traction on the lucrative drugs market in the jails he had been held in. And now he was out, on licence, he was hating his freedom, too. Once, he’d had it all – the big house, expensive cars, a powerboat, and a villa in Marbella on Spain’s Costa del Sol. Now he had fuck all. Just a few thousand pounds, a couple of watches and some stolen antique jewellery in the one safety deposit box the police hadn’t managed to find. And one man to thank for his plight. Detective Superintendent Roy Grace. He crossed the busy four lanes of King’s Road without waiting for the lights to change. Cars braked all around him, their drivers hooting, swearing and shaking their fists at him, but he didn’t give a toss. His family used to be big players in this city’s underworld. A couple of decades ago, no one would have dared, ever, hoot at a Smallbone. He ignored them all, contemptuously, now. A little way along the pavement he entered the newsagent’s, and was taken aback to see the bastard cop’s rugged, serious face staring out of a copy of the Argus at him. Close-cropped fair hair, blue eyes, busted nose, beneath the front-page splash. TRIAL OF BRIGHTON MONSTER RESUMES He bought the paper and a packet of cigarettes, as he did every day, and filled out a lottery ticket, without much hope. * A short while later, back in his basement flat, Amis Smallbone sat in the ripped leather armchair with its busted spring, a glass of Chivas Regal on the table beside him, a smouldering cigarette in his mouth, reading with interest about the case. Venner was on trial for murder, kidnap and trading in illegal videos. Last year, one of Detective Superintendent Grace’s officers had been shot and wounded during the attempt to arrest Venner. Too bad it hadn’t been Grace himself. Shot dead. How nice would that be? But not as nice as something he had in mind. To have Detective Superintendent Grace dead was too good for him. He wanted the cop to really suffer. To be in pain for the rest of his life. Oh yes. Much better. Pain that would never ever go away! Smallbone dragged on his cigarette, then crushed it out in the ashtray and drained his glass. He had gone to prison still a relatively young man of fifty. Now he’d come out an old man at sixty-two. Detective Superintendent Grace had taken everything he had. Most of all he had taken those crucial twelve years of his life. Of course, Grace hadn’t been a Detective Superintendent back then; just a jumped-up, newly promoted Inspector who had picked on him, targeted him, fitted him up, twisted the evidence, been oh so clever, so fucking smug. It was Grace’s persecution that had condemned him, now, to this cruddy rented flat, with its shoddy furniture, no-smoking signs on the walls in each room, and having to report and bloody kowtow to a Probation Officer regularly. He put the paper down, stood up a little unsteadily, and carried his glass over to the dank-smelling kitchenette, popping some ice cubes out of the fridge-freezer into his glass. It was just gone midday, and he was thinking hard. Thinking how much pleasure he was going to get from hurting Roy Grace. It was the one thing that sustained him right now. The rest of the nation had Olympic fever – the games were starting in a month’s time. But he didn’t give a toss about them; getting even with Roy Grace was all he cared about. All he could really think about. He was going to make that happen. His lips curled into a smile. He just had to find the right person. There were names he knew from before he’d gone to prison, and a few more contacts he’d made inside. But whoever it was wouldn’t come cheap, and that was a big problem right now. Then his phone rang. The display showed the number was withheld. ‘Yes?’ he answered, suspiciously. ‘Amis Smallbone?’ It was not a voice he recognized. A rough, Brighton accent. ‘Who are you?’ he replied, coldly. ‘We met a long time back, but you won’t remember me. I need some help. You have connections in the antiques world, right? Overseas? For high-value stuff?’ ‘What if I do?’ ‘I’m told you need money.’ ‘Didn’t anyone tell you that you shouldn’t be calling me on a fucking mobile phone?’ ‘Yeah, I know that.’ ‘Then why the fuck are you calling me on mine?’ ‘I’m talking a lot of money. Several million quid.’ Suddenly, Amis Smallbone was very interested indeed. ‘Tell me more.’ The line went dead.