‘I would indeed!’ Pollock left the waiter and moved through into the bedroom to fetch a tip from his wallet, his mood greatly improved now that his dinner was here, and humming to
himself his favourite Dr Hook song.
‘Please don’t misunderstand me! I’ve got all this money, and I’m a pretty ugly guy!’
And he did indeed have it all. And tomorrow, he would have even more. Two million pounds, minimum! How nice! How very, very, very nice!
Hey ho!
In the next-door room he heard the clatter of crockery and cutlery as the waiter laid the table. He was salivating. What a feast! There were flashing red lights on the television. Police cars.
Some big incident on the local news. A shooting in the Bronx. Didn’t bother him, hey ho.
He trotted back out into the lounge area, holding a twenty-dollar bill between his finger and thumb, like a laboratory specimen he was presenting for inspection. He liked to make sure waiters
saw what a very generous man he was, in case they simply shoved the tip into their pockets without noticing it.
Then as he entered the lounge, he froze in his tracks.
The twenty-dollar note fluttered down onto the carpet.
The waiter held the room service bill, in a leather wallet, up for him to sign, with a pen in his other hand.
But Eamonn Pollock did not even notice him. He was staring at the man on the far side of the room, dressed in a thin leather jacket, jeans and black Chelsea boots, who was lounging back on the
sofa, removing a cigarette from a pack.
His beady eyes shot to the waiter then back to the man. He scribbled his name, like an automaton, on the bill, noticed the waiter hesitating, but just wanted him out, now.
‘Have a good evening, Doctor,’ the waiter said, with a forced smile, and lingered.
‘Just fuck off, will you,’ Pollock said.
The startled waiter removed the wedge from the door and left, closing the door a little too hard behind him.
The man on the sofa lit his cigarette.
‘This is a no-smoking room,’ Pollock said. ‘And what the hell are you doing here?’
‘You know why I’m here, you fat jerk. I want to know why your gorillas killed my aunt. And you did a runner with the watch . . . Did you really think I wouldn’t find
you?’
‘Killing your aunt was not part of the plan. That was never meant to happen. And there’s a five-hunded-dollar fine for smoking in this room,’ Pollock said. ‘Put that out
or I’m going to call Security.’
‘Yeah, why don’t you? Ask for those two cops who are standing in the lobby by the elevators.’
Pollock’s face blanched. ‘What cops?’
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.
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.
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.