Dead Man's Time

  Roy Grace was nervous. He did not like being out of control, and that was how he felt right now. Although he had a lot of faith in Pat Lanigan, and two of his team, Keith Johnson and Linda Blankson, seemed very helpful and competent, Detective Lieutenant Aaron Cobb had continued to give the impression, at their late-afternoon review meeting, that he considered the presence of the Brits here unnecessary. Cobb was a loose cannon, and in his own manor Grace could deal with someone like him; but here, as a guest in another country, all he could do was to try to win him over – and that was not happening. Further, it was clear that in the pecking order, Aaron Cobb was the senior of the NYPD detectives.

  Surveillance had been placed on Eamonn Pollock’s hotel, but when Grace questioned Cobb about having only two officers covering the building, he was curtly told that was all the manpower he had available.

  By 6 p.m. there had still been no trace of Gavin or Lucas Daly. Door-to-door enquiries on all New York hotels were continuing into the night but, as Aaron Cobb suggested, the old man in particular was probably tired and needed time out to be fresh for the morning.

  Guy Batchelor announced to Roy Grace that what he needed, more than time out, was a cigarette and a stiff drink – and that he knew a place in New York where he could get both.

  The three Sussex policemen walked the fourteen blocks from their hotel to the Carnegie Club on 56th Street. On the way Grace called Cleo. It was late in Brighton, and she was sounding sleepy, but pleased to hear from him. Noah was fine, she reported, and he’d been good all day and was now asleep. But, and she was really excited to tell him this, she had seen a house that she loved – and her parents had really liked it too. It was slightly above their price range, but her parents had offered to help them, if they wanted to buy it. The estate agents were going to email the particulars to her in the morning, and she’d send them on to him. It was a cottage, with an acre of land, and surrounded by farmland. ‘And,’ she added in her excitement, ‘there was a hen run!’

  Grace, for reasons he could not explain, had always had a desire to own chickens. He had been born and brought up a townie, in Brighton, but there was something that appealed to him about going out in the morning and collecting his own eggs for breakfast. But, more seriously, from the tone of her voice, he knew Cleo had found the house she wanted to live in, and that really excited him.

  ‘Can’t wait to see it!’ he replied.

  ‘You’ll love it, I promise!’

  ‘Is there anyone else interested?’

  ‘The agents said there is a young couple going back for a second viewing on Tuesday. When do you think you might be back?’

  ‘I don’t know, darling. Later this week, I hope.’

  ‘Please try!’

  ‘I’m missing you both like crazy! Give Noah a kiss and tell him his daddy is missing him.’

  ‘I will!’

  He ended the call, then looked at his watch again. He had been expecting to hear from Peregrine Stuart-Simmonds, to find out which dealers were expecting Eamonn Pollock in the morning, but it was too late now. It wasn’t good news that the man hadn’t called.

  Five minutes later, as they entered the front door of the club, into the rich aroma of cigar smoke, Roy Grace felt instant nostalgia. This was how bars used to smell, and he loved it. There was a long bar, with two men seated on stools, drinks in front of them, smoking large cigars, watching a ball game on a gigantic television screen. All around the room, which had the air of a gentleman’s club, were leather sofas and chairs, some occupied by people smoking cigars or cigarettes, some vacant.

  A cheery, attractive waitress, who gave Jack Alexander a particularly flirty smile, showed them to a corner table, then fetched them the drinks menu. Grace glanced at it, and decided on a Manhattan, a drink he had got smashed on one night with Pat Lanigan, last time he was here. He was starting to feeling a little frayed from jet lag, so what the hell? It would either slay him or fire him up.

  Then Grace’s phone rang. It was the antiques expert. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace, I hope this is not a bad time?’ Peregrine Stuart-Simmonds said. ‘Apologies for calling so late, but I’ve been waiting for information for you. It seems as if Eamonn Pollock is messing everyone around in New York.’

  ‘In what way?’ Grace asked.

  ‘He has not confirmed any of his appointments. Which means I can’t tell you where he might be going. There’s always a possibility he’s already disposed of the watch to a private buyer.’

  ‘Great,’ Grace said grimly. As soon as he ended the call he rang Pat Lanigan.

  ‘We know he’s in his hotel room right now,’ Lanigan said. ‘We could go in and bust him right there.’

  ‘But if he doesn’t have the watch there, we’ve got nothing on him. We can’t be sure he has it with him – I don’t think I’d entrust something of that value to a hotel safe – I think I’d put it in a bank safety deposit box.’

  ‘Good point,’ the detective said. ‘What do you want us to do, Roy?’

  ‘We’ll have to follow him in the morning – I’d be grateful if you could give us everything you can to ensure we don’t lose him.’

  ‘I’ll speak to Aaron Cobb right away.’

  That did not fill Roy Grace with confidence. His drink arrived and he bummed a cigarette off Guy Batchelor, feeling badly in need of one suddenly. It was the first he had smoked in several weeks, and it tasted every damned bit as good as ever.

  95

  Noah was crying. Amis Smallbone, listening on his headphones, looked at his watch: 11.30 p.m. The little bastard had settled into a routine. It would cry, then its mummy would come with her soothing voice, and there would be twenty minutes of breastfeeding sounds. Followed by three hours of quiet, broken only by the occasional gurgle.

  Mummy sounded tired; exhausted. Within minutes of finishing and putting him back in his cot, she would go back to bed and fall asleep.

  And he would be ready.

  Rain was lashing down and the wind was still rising. It was like an autumn-equinox gale out there, not a late summer’s night, and that could not have suited his purposes better.

  His clothes and equipment were laid out. His night-vision goggles were okay, but didn’t give him as much clarity as he had hoped, so he was taking a small torch, in order to see to carry out his handiwork; but that was the only time he intended to switch it on.

  He studied the floor plans of the Grace house one more time. Apart from one closet in a different place, the interior was a mirror image of this house he was in now. He had googled several websites to try to see how blind people coped in unfamiliar territory, and he had practised moving around in here, in darkness, every night for the past week. He had done one final practice this evening.

  The unknown factors would be pieces of furniture that he might bump into, something left on the floor he might tread on, and the dog, but the goggles should pick those up.

  And the dog should not be a problem.

  Mummy’d let the dog out onto the little terrace, where it shat and pissed every night. And tonight it had greedily gobbled up the shin of beef, stuffed with enough powdered barbiturate to knock out a horse, which he had dropped from the fire escape in front of its nose. He had done the same last night, too, as a test, but without the barbiturates. The dog had loved it, wolfed it all down, and then looked up at him wanting more.

  It was a simple and effective way of neutralizing guard dogs, and he’d done it plenty of times before in his younger days. Just as he’d broken into numerous buildings in the past, and almost always at night, in the dark.

  He removed his clothes, completely, until he stood naked. Then he put on a one-piece body-stocking, leaving only his head exposed, which would reduce the chances of him dropping any skin cells or body hairs for DNA. Over that he pulled on a thin black polo neck, black tracksuit bottoms and a black hooded top. Then he stretched a black Lycra swimming cap over his scalp, pulling it down over his ears and the back of his head, trapping all his hairs, and
then pulled black neoprene windsurfer boots onto his feet.

  Next he clipped on a webbing belt, threaded through the hoops of a zipped nylon pouch which contained his tools: a glass cutter and suction cup; lock-picks; screwdriver; chisel; small hammer and some small but extremely strong levers; a small roll of masking tape; bottle of chloroform and a small cotton wool pad. His intended route into the Grace house was through the house’s roof hatch, but as yet he had no idea how it was secured. If the fixings were the same as his own, it would be a doddle, but he thought it very likely that Grace, with his policeman’s mind, might have fitted something more robust. If that proved the case, at least with his kit he had plenty of options.

  One final item lay on the floor: a barber’s razor he had recently bought for this purpose. No better tool had ever been invented. He put that in the pouch, carefully checked the rest of the tools, then zipped it shut and went into the bathroom to check his appearance.

  He could barely recognize himself in the mirror. A black face with panda eyes stared back at him. He grinned. Oh yes, very good, very good indeed.

  He returned to his post, poured himself a whisky for some Dutch courage and lit a final cigarette. He looked at his watch again: 11.50 p.m. He picked up the headset and listened. It sounded as if the feeding was coming to an end.

  He smoked the cigarette right down to the filter. It was now five minutes to midnight. He crushed it out in the ashtray, drained the last drop of the whisky, stood up and said to himself, ‘Rock’n’roll!’

  As he began climbing up the loft ladder he thought, for an instant, that he heard a sound downstairs, and felt a flash of panic.

  The wind, just the wind, that’s all, he reassured himself, then reaching out and gripping a wooden support, he hauled himself off the top of the ladder and into the loft.

  Downstairs, the front door closed silently.

  96

  It felt strange that Roy was not here, Cleo thought, as she lay in bed looking at the pictures and details of the cottage in the estate agent’s brochure. She loved it; despite its dilapidated state it had such a warm, friendly feeling.

  She hoped so much that Roy would feel the same way, and she could not wait to take him to see it. It needed everything doing, but that was why it was almost in their price bracket. It was set a safe distance away from the main road, and backed onto farmland, with glorious views across the valley to the hills of the South Downs. It was the perfect place to raise Noah, and it would be paradise for Humphrey.

  She put the brochure down on the bedside table, worrying about that couple who were going back for a second viewing. She wished Roy could hurry home. And not just so he could see the house. This was the first time since they had brought Noah home that they had been apart, and she missed him badly.

  Feeling totally exhausted, she closed her eyes, but she was unable to sleep. The television was on, the sound turned low, just for company. An old episode of Frasier, which always made her smile, was playing. She picked up the third volume of the Fifty Shades trilogy and turned to her bookmarked place, but after only a few lines, she realized she was too tired to read and put it down, then drank some water.

  Then she looked at the baby monitor to make sure it was on. She turned the volume up high for some moments so she could hear Noah’s breathing. Reassured, she turned it down a little.

  She ought to be studying for her Open University degree. Several philosophy textbooks lay piled up on her bedside table, but she had no appetite for any of them at the moment.

  The wind was still howling outside and she could feel a draught on her face, through the window pane. Out in the distance she heard a siren wailing mournfully. She didn’t really know why, but she felt on edge tonight. Nervous of the sounds of the wind. Nervous for her child. Nervous for their future. Something she had read a few days ago, that Sophocles wrote, suddenly rang true. To the man who is afraid, everything rustles.

  And yes, tonight, everything was rustling.

  She shivered. Cold enough to swap over to the winter duvet. But it was still only early September. Humphrey, who normally slept in his basket down in the kitchen, was asleep on the floor at the end of the bed, and she hadn’t the heart to push him out of the room. He suddenly began snoring, loud, deep snores, and for a moment she smiled. He sounded like Roy when he’d had too much to drink.

  She closed her eyes. God, she had such huge responsibilities. They told you that your life would change when you had a baby, but they didn’t tell you that it was quite such damned hard work, nor that you would be permanently scared of something happening to your child. Her health visitor had reassured her, on her six-week check, that this was quite normal, and so had all her friends who’d had babies whom she had spoken to. But equally, no one had ever been able to tell her the depth of love she would feel every time she looked at Noah, and every time she held him in her arms.

  But was he ever making her nipples sore!

  Something scudded in the wind across the courtyard below. It sounded like a plastic bag blown loose. She thought about the case Roy was working on. The poor old woman who had been tortured in her home by burglars. What kind of world had Noah been born into? The world was a violent place; it always had been and it seemed it always would be. At least, she thought, both she and Noah were lucky in one respect. Roy always made her feel safe, and he’d always make sure Noah was safe, too.

  She turned up the volume on the television slightly. Frasier was trying to get rid of his brother for the night because he had a hot date with his old school prom queen, who was now a middle-aged vamp.

  She smiled, feeling a little better.

  97

  Roy Grace ate the Maraschino cherry, drained the last of his second Manhattan, then stubbed out his second cigarette. The men at the bar, smoking their cigars, continued to be absorbed in the ball game on the large television screen. Guy Batchelor and Jack Alexander were having an animated conversation about Brighton and Hove Albion’s prospects for the new football season, while Grace sat, silently immersed in his thoughts, trying to study the estate agent’s particulars on their website on his iPhone.

  He was missing Cleo and Noah, but it was now half past midnight in England – much too late to call again. And he was concerned about tomorrow. ACC Rigg had made a big leap of faith sanctioning this trip, and they had to deliver. But the fact that Eamonn Pollock had put a false address on his immigration forms was a clear indicator that he was in this city for an illicit purpose. Maybe he should go to the hotel where they knew he was staying, and join the guard. But he had to get some sleep, otherwise he would be useless tomorrow. The best thing he could do, he thought, was get a bite to eat, have an early night and head over there first thing in the morning.

  Guy Batchelor waved the waitress over and told her they wanted another round, but Roy Grace intervened. ‘Just the – um – check, please,’ he said, firmly. Then he turned to his colleagues. ‘You might not thank me now, but you will thank me at six o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Six o’clock?’ Batchelor said, looking horrified.

  ‘That’s when we’re starting. Still want another drink?’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  98

  Amis Smallbone pushed open the heavy roof hatch. Instantly, he felt the savage wind, hurling rain as hard as grit against his face. Later today he’d be in Spain, in the sunshine, out of all this shit weather. He lowered his goggles over his eyes and the night turned bottle green.

  He climbed out, slowly and carefully, onto the narrow metal platform. All around him the wind screamed. He could see the ambient glow of Brighton’s street lighting, a vivid green haze. Steadying himself, he once again rehearsed in his mind the short journey ahead to the Grace house. Fourteen paces along the three-foot-wide metal fire escape, with a single handrail to the right for support. Then the dog-leg left, ducking to avoid the satellite dish. Eight more paces and he would be alongside the Grace house roof hatch.

  And then, if all went well, he would
be in their loft.

  In their house.

  In their baby’s face. Right in it. Making it smile for the rest of its life!

  A strong gust buffeted him and he waited for it to pass, gripping the handrail, so much looking forward to what lay ahead. A dream come true. A dream that had been more than twelve long years in gestation. Now he was just paces away from his quarry. From ruining Roy Grace’s life. Just as the bastard had ruined his. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. A baby with a rapist’s grin. For the whole of its life!

  He took a few steps forward, gripping the handrail and looking around him. Looking down at the deserted courtyard. Looking over the rooftops at night-time Brighton. Well past midnight now, most people asleep in bed.

  The metal beneath him was vibrating, as if someone else was walking on it too. He turned his head, but it was hard to see behind him. He continued walking.

  Thirteen paces. Twelve. Eleven. Ten. Nine, he counted. His vision through these goggles was less good than he’d thought when he had tried them out. He could see straight ahead, but had virtually no peripheral vision. He glanced round once more, but still his view was restricted. Then he focused dead ahead, continuing to count the paces, to be absolutely sure.

  Eight. Seven. Six.

  A hand gripped his shoulder, as hard as a steel pincer.

  For an instant his brain froze. He turned, saw a hulk of a figure with a balaclava over its face. He squirmed in panic, somehow tore himself free and threw himself forward, feeling the metal gridding vibrating beneath his feet.

  Almost instantly, something smashed into the side of his face, like a southpaw’s punch.

  The fucking satellite dish. He reeled, dazed. His left foot suddenly found only air. He windmilled his arms, the wind pushing him sideways. He tried, desperately, to find the grid again with his left foot, crying out in terror. Then he fell, head first. Struck something hard and wet and slippery. He clawed at the roof slates with his gloved hands. He saw the courtyard looming towards him; he was sliding; slithering. Down a steep slope, face forward. The cobbles were getting bigger.