Grace’s phone rang. He raised a finger at him, then answered. It was Norman Potting.
‘All good on the Costa del Sol?’ he enquired.
‘Costa del Crime, chief,’ he chuckled. ‘I have a couple of things to report. Firstly, the post-mortems on Ken Barnes and Anthony Macario. Both men died from drowning, with excessive alcohol consumption a probable cause – their overturned dinghy supports this. However, the Coroner here’s unhappy about the men’s physical injuries – it looks like they might have been in a fairly brutal fight prior to drowning. But there were no disturbances reported that night to the police and, significantly, none of the people on any of the neighbouring yachts, or in the apartments overlooking the harbour, heard or saw anything. The Guardia Civil have been brought in to investigate more thoroughly and that’s where it stands, for the moment.’
‘Okay. Thanks, Norman. What is the second thing?’
‘The local police had all the outgoing passenger lists for the past week from Malaga Airport checked and Eamonn Pollock’s name popped up.’
‘Flying where?’
‘Last Thursday, August the 30th, domestic from Malaga to Madrid. He must have stayed overnight in Madrid, then on August the 31st he boarded an international flight to New York.’
Grace was conscious of Dupont behind him listening to every word. He stepped out of the car, closed the door and walked a few paces along the street. A blustery wind was blowing. ‘Brilliant work, Norman. We need to find out where he’s staying in New York. I remember when I went over last year you have to give that information to the airline before you board.’
‘I have it, chief,’ Potting replied, sounding smugger than ever. ‘The Ritz Carlton, five-zero Central Park South.’
‘Top man!’
Grace ended the call, his brain spinning. His tip-off from Donny Loncrane in Lewes Prison had been Eamonn Pollock. Just over a week after the robbery, Eamonn Pollock flew to New York. A week after that, Peregrine Stuart-Simmonds reports a Patek Philippe, matching the description of the one stolen, being hawked around New York dealers. Then his phone rang again.
It was DC Exton in MIR-1. ‘Boss, I’ve got a result for you on Gavin Daly. You asked us to find out what flight he was booked on today – it’s a British Airways, to New York, JFK, leaving at 1.50 p.m.’
Grace looked at his watch. One hour and twenty minutes. ‘Good work, Jon,’ he said.
Grace climbed back into the car and turned to Gareth Dupont. ‘What was it you said earlier? About serendipity? Sometimes in life you get lucky?’
Dupont nodded.
‘Yep, well, you’re right. Sometimes in life you get lucky.’
‘Does that mean I get my burger?’
‘Sorry about that; change of plans. We’ll get one on the way back, but I’m going to have to return you to prison right away. I’m afraid it’s not your lucky day, Gareth; it’s mine.’
82
Shortly after 1 p.m. Roy Grace and Guy Batchelor pulled up outside Lucas Daly and Sarah Courteney’s house in Shirley Drive. He told Batchelor to wait in the car, then walked up to the front door and rang the bell.
She answered, moments later, casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and blushed when she saw him. ‘Detective Superintendent, good afternoon.’ She smiled pleasantly.
‘I’ve just been to the shop and I’m told that Lucas is away for the weekend. Playing golf again, is he?’
She looked edgy, but her eyes were steady, telling the truth. ‘No. He –’ She hesitated. ‘Actually he’s had to go away on business.’
‘New York, by any chance?’
She again looked hesitant. ‘Yes.’
‘I need to speak to him rather urgently. Do you know where he’s staying?’
Her eyes were still telling the truth. ‘I don’t, no. He said he would call me when he was there. It was all a bit sudden, actually. Would you like to come in?’
He entered and she closed the front door behind him. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea, coffee?’
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
She was a really beautiful woman. What the hell had she been doing sleeping with a total scumbag like Gareth Dupont? Maybe anything was a relief from her bully of a husband. ‘Does he go to New York regularly?’
‘No. Well –’ Suddenly she looked awkward, and her eyes were all over the place. ‘His father – my father-in-law – has contacts all over the world. Occasionally there are important auctions that he goes to abroad, either to buy or sell pieces. Or pieces he goes to view to possibly buy.’
‘Is that what he’s doing in New York?’
‘As I understand. He doesn’t tell me much about his business. We lead pretty separate lives.’ She gave him a knowing look. ‘As I think you might have noticed.’
This time it was Grace’s turn to blush. ‘I’m not here in judgement of your private life.’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
83
Every time Roy Grace entered the grand Queen Anne building, which housed the senior brass at the Sussex Police headquarters complex in Lewes, the county town of East Sussex, he felt himself regressing to childhood. He was once again a small, nervous boy in the headmaster’s study.
ACC Peter Rigg, his boss, was a dapper man, with a healthy complexion, fair hair neatly and conservatively cut, and a posh, occasionally caustic, voice. Although several inches shorter than Grace, Rigg had fine posture, with a military bearing which made him seem taller than his actual height. He was dressed in a well-cut dark suit with a striped shirt and what looked to Grace like a club or old-school tie. His office was decorated with framed motor-racing pictures, a passion which Grace shared, and which had given them something in common to talk about in more relaxed circumstances. On his desk sat a photograph of his attractive, blonde wife, Nikki, whom Grace had met recently at a function, and two children, a boy and a girl.
‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, sir,’ Grace said.
‘I’m hoping you have more good news,’ the ACC said, waspishly. ‘Well done on potting Dupont. So, tell me.’
‘Well, sir, in the past few hours there have been a number of developments, all of which point to New York. I need to take a team over there urgently, because I don’t think I can influence things effectively from here.’
Grace explained the developments of the day so far.
To his surprise, instead of a lecture on police budget cuts, Peter Rigg said, ‘Have you thought about how many of your team you need to take with you?’
‘I’d like to take a minimum of two, sir: ideally a skipper and a DC. I have a good contact in the NYPD, who is already briefed, but I don’t know what to expect there, and I don’t want to be dependent on anyone else.’
‘Your man Branson seems very adaptable.’
‘He has major problems because his wife has just died. But yes, he’s a good man. I’d like to take DC Exton – he’s an exceptionally intelligent officer, sir.’
‘When do you want to go?’
‘The first possible flight. There’s availability tomorrow.’
‘I’ll speak to the Chief,’ he said. ‘But in principle, I’m with you on this, Roy. Just come back with a result, and I think in the current climate of cuts, best not to let the press know.’
‘I don’t want the press to know in any event, sir. I need the element of surprise over there.’
‘Two other things. I know you’ve had previous experience in the USA, but don’t take any independent action without the full knowledge of the New York Police – which I know you won’t. And also, I’m up for a Deputy Chief Constable appointment, so don’t do anything to embarrass me, okay?’
Grace grinned. ‘Good luck with that, sir. And don’t worry, my role in New York will be purely liaison.’
‘Good luck to you too, Roy.’
Grace had a heavy heart as he walked back to his car. He really did not want to go; he wanted to be at home to help and support Cleo, and he wanted to be with his son.
Every time he left the house he missed Noah. The thought of spending several days away from him made him unhappy. But he really could not see any option.
84
His next-door neighbours were arguing! And the baby was crying.
He loved it!
But what Amis Smallbone loved most of all was the news Detective Superintendent Roy Grace had brought home to his beloved Cleo.
‘Roy, do you really have to go?’
‘I do. I’m the one who has the relationship with the NYPD and we really need their help on this.’
‘I really need your help here. Surely with your whole merged Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Branch you have someone else who could take your place?’
Sitting in the big armchair on the top floor of his new house, smoking a cigarette and drinking whisky, Smallbone heard the words through his Bose headset. Detective Superintendent Roy Grace was flying to America tomorrow, at 11.30 a.m. Leaving his beloved Cleo Morey behind. And their son, Noah.
Uh oh.
Not smart. Not smart at all. So many options dancing around in his brain. Disfigure Cleo Morey with acid. Kill the horrid little baby, Noah, who was crying now. Kill Cleo. Kill the baby. Break the little bastard’s spine and paralyze it for life.
Then watch Roy Grace wheeling around his little cripple.
So many options. He was spoiled for choice, really he was. He listened intently over the sound of the little bastard baby screaming.
‘Cleo, darling, you have to understand. It’s me who has the relationship with the NYPD, with Detective Pat Lanigan – his help is going to be crucial to this.’
‘Does he know you have a two-month-old baby?’
‘I’ll only be a few days, I promise.’
‘I know you. You’ll be at least a week. And then probably another week. I understand your work is important, Roy, but you being around to help me with Noah is important too.’
‘What about getting your mother or your sister to stay with you?’
‘I can ask my mother, but we’ll probably start killing each other after a few days. Charlie’s away in Shanghai on her new job.’
‘Cleo, this is a really important case for me. If I send someone else and they screw up, I’m never going to forgive myself. Come on, you know the score.’
‘Why can’t you send Glenn? He’s deputized for you before.’
‘Because his wife is being buried on Wednesday, okay?’
Another long silence. The baby was silent, too. Then Cleo spoke again.
‘Who are you taking with you?’
‘Well, I wanted to take Jon Exton. But the idiot’s passport ran out in May. So I’m taking DS Batchelor, and a sharp new recruit on the team, DC Alexander. I’ll make it up to you when I’m back, I promise.’
Oh yes, you will, Amis Smallbone thought. You’re going to be making it up to her by buying a beautiful coffin for your son. And I will be there at the funeral, standing a short distance behind you with a smile on my face. So you will know, Detective Superintendent Grace. You will know who made you suffer. You will remember me for the rest of your life.
He crushed out his cigarette, lit another, adjusted the volume level on his headphones with shaking hands, and continued to enjoy the show.
85
As they had cleared immigration at New York’s Newark Liberty International airport, Roy Grace had texted Cleo. Landed! XX
Then he had phoned the Incident Room and spoken to DC Alec Davies, who gave him an update over the past few hours Grace had been out of contact, but there was nothing significant to report.
Now DS Guy Batchelor and DC Jack Alexander both had their suitcases loaded on their trolleys. Roy Grace, feeling increasingly glum, watched several unclaimed bags make their fourth, or maybe fifth, or perhaps their sixth circuit of the carousel. He held his phone in front of him, waiting equally forlornly for a text back. He was missing Cleo and Noah already, badly.
Then the carousel stopped.
‘Shit!’ he said.
‘Happened to Lena and me last year,’ Guy Batchelor said. ‘We went on holiday to Turkey. Didn’t get my suitcase for three days.’
‘Thanks, Guy,’ he said. ‘That’s cheered me up no end.’ It was 5 p.m. New York time, 10 p.m. in England. The three of them had sat side by side on the flight, discussing strategy for some time, before relaxing after their meal. Guy Batchelor and Jack Alexander had put on their headsets and watched a movie, but Grace had been too wired to watch a film or sleep. Instead he had been feeling bad about leaving Cleo, which was distracting him from focusing on the task ahead. Now he felt ragged.
Wearily he trudged over to the British Airways baggage office, joined a short queue, then presented his baggage stub. The man behind the desk tapped the details into his computer then gave him the news he really did not want to hear. ‘Sorry, it’s not showing up.’
‘Terrific.’
His phone pinged with an incoming text. Great! Now get the next flight home. Noah and I are missing you. X
No sodding suitcase, he texted back.
Ha! Poetic justice! XX
He grinned and texted, Call you when I get to hotel. Love you. XXXXXX
Moments later he got a reply. Love you too, but I don’t know why. XXXXXXXX
‘The best thing would be, sir, if you phoned us around 8 p.m. after the next UK flight has come in.’
‘Actually,’ Roy Grace said, ‘the best thing would be if you phoned me and told me you had my sodding suitcase.’
* * *
Roy Grace’s mood, already lifted by Cleo’s text, improved further as the trio entered the arrivals hall and he saw the smiling figure of Detective Pat Lanigan.
Lanigan was a tall, imposing character in his mid-fifties, with broad shoulders and a powerful physique. He had a ruggedly good-looking, pockmarked face, a greying brush-cut, and was wearing a checked sports jacket over a polo shirt, jeans and workman’s boots. He was the kind of cop few people would choose to pick a fight with. He greeted Grace with a bear hug, then looking at his attaché case quizzed him on why he was travelling so light.
‘Don’t ask!’ Grace responded, introducing him to his colleagues.
‘I’ll go sort them out, don’t you worry!’ he said in his nasally Brooklyn accent. Pulling out his police badge, Lanigan strode in through the exit doors and was gone ten minutes. He emerged with a triumphant smile. ‘It’ll be at your hotel by ten o’clock.’
‘You’re a star!’ Grace was instantly feeling more confident about his mission.
‘Not a problem. I just explained to the baggage guy, the Chief of Police of England doesn’t want to have his bag lost. Sorted.’ He pinched Roy Grace’s face.
‘How’s Francene?’ Grace asked.
‘Francene’s great! If we get time, she’d love to see you. So, you’re a daddy now! Hey, you, congratulations!’
Roy Grace had always sworn he would never be one of those fathers who carried pictures of their babies in their wallets, but he dug his hand into his jacket pocket, and proudly drew out a photograph of Noah and showed it to the New Yorker.
‘He’s a good-looking fella! Going to be a tough guy, like his dad, I’d say. Can see a lot of you in him!’
Guy Batchelor and Jack Alexander looked at the photograph, too, and Roy Grace felt a sudden, intense moment of pride. His child, his and Cleo’s! Their son! He was a part of him, that tiny little pudgy-faced character they were all looking at.
* * *
Pat Lanigan’s private car, a Honda sports utility, was parked right outside, with an ON NYPD BUSINESS card displayed in the windscreen.
Five minutes later they were on the freeway heading towards Manhattan. ‘Figured you guys would like an early night. We’ll start in earnest tomorrow, 9 a.m. at my office. Anything you need, you tell me. I’ve got the antiques experts from the Major Case Squad working the streets. They have sources in New York City from auction houses and confidential informants. I’ve also got a detective coming along who’s not assigned to th
is squad, but has connections in this field. Keith Johnson, you’ll like him.’
Addressing the two detectives in the back, he asked, ‘Either of you been to New York?’
‘Yes, several times,’ Guy Batchelor said. ‘My wife was in the travel business.’
‘Never,’ Jack Alexander said. ‘If there’s a chance, I’d love to go to Abercrombie and Fitch.’
Grace thought about getting something for Cleo. They’d recently watched the movie Breakfast at Tiffany’s on television – and he wondered now if there would be anything in that store he could afford.
‘We’ll make time,’ Lanigan said. ‘This is a great city, know what I’m saying? Beautiful people. We’ll get these bastards, and maybe we’ll have time for fun too. First thing on my list to tell you, Roy: we checked out the hotel addresses put down on the immigration forms by Eamonn Pollock, Gavin Daly and Lucas Daly. None of them showed up at those hotels.
‘There’s a bunch of different ways of searching for a hotel – or hotels – the suspects might be staying in. We’ve checked the US customs forms for all three. They’ve all given false addresses. But they’ll have used credit cards on check-in. I’m having my team check to see if the details are merely held on the hotel records until check-out or if they are put through. If they are put through, then we’ll find them that way.’
‘And if not?’
‘Plan B.’
‘Which is?’
‘These are wealthy guys, right, Daly and Pollock? They won’t be staying in some shithole. We’ll start with all the five-star hotels in Manhattan and work our way through them.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘Okay, so we’ll get you checked in. I’ve booked you into the Hyatt Grand Central, which is a good location for you. Then I was going to take you to Mickey Mantle’s – remember it, Roy?’
‘You took me there last time I was here, I remember. He was a big baseball star.’
‘You guys would have liked it. Great food – simple, nothing fancy; great burgers, great everything – but it’s closed. But I know a great Italian. You guys like pasta?’