The air was dry and dusty and there was a fusty smell of old paperwork. In contrast to Rosenblaum’s office, which had been near freezing from the air-con, this room was hot and airless. He
stifled a sneeze, then saw the main office door open, and the secretary appeared for a moment. He watched Julius Rosenblaum rise from his chair, then Eamonn Pollock entered, dressed in a crumpled
beige suit, a gaudy yellow shirt and vulgar brown loafers. The sight of the man made Daly’s blood run cold.
For all his adult life, Gavin Daly had studied, with hatred, the faces of those men who had murdered his mother and taken his father away into the night. He’d trawled every major newspaper
archive in the world, and his sister’s extensive library of books on that period, and, of course, the internet, looking for new images. Those faces were ingrained in his mind.
And seeing Eamonn Pollock now was like looking at a ghost.
The shapes of the two men were completely different. Mick –
Pegleg
– Pollock was thin and tall; Eamonn, his great-nephew, was pudgy and below average height. But both men
had the same wavy hair, and the same arrogant leer. He was imagining Eamonn Pollock thinner, with his cheeks flattened out and the flesh gone below his chin.
Or Pegleg fatter.
Eamonn Pollock was like a Photofit composite.
He could not take his eyes off him. He sat shaking, his nerves on edge, something tugging at the base of his neck, a roaring in his ears, thinking how much he would like to wipe that smug leer
from the man’s face. Then another figure followed Pollock in.
For a moment Gavin Daly was convinced his eyes were deceiving him. Or that he was hallucinating from tiredness. He stared in total disbelief at the tall, muscular figure in a suede bomber jacket
and jeans who sauntered in after Pollock, looking around the room in his familiar, arrogant, bully-boy manner.
‘Julius, this is my associate,’ Eamonn Pollock said, with clear distaste in his voice. ‘Lucas Daly.’
Moments later, Gavin Daly felt the tell-tale fire burning in his chest followed by the tightening sensation. He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out the vial, shook a tiny nitroglycerin tablet into
his palm and popped it beneath his tongue. Breathing heavily, shaking with rage and suddenly clammy, he turned the volume up a bit.
‘Good to meet you, Mr Daly,’ Rosenblaum said with a frown, and indicated for them to sit at the conference table. ‘Can I offer you gentlemen coffee – or maybe
tea?’
‘A coffee would be very pleasant,’ Eamonn Pollock said. Lucas nodded. Rosenblaum went over to his desk, raised his phone and spoke to his secretary, then returned to the conference
table. ‘So, Mr Pollock, I presume you have brought the watch?’
‘I have indeed!’ Pollock pushed himself upright, onto his feet, with some effort. Then he unbuckled his belt, which had a small black leather pouch hooped through it, unzipped the
pouch, removed a large wad of cotton wool from it and laid it on the table. Slowly and laboriously, but beaming with greedy anticipation, he unpicked the cotton wool, lifted free the Patek Philippe
watch and placed it in front of them.
Julius Rosenblaum went over to his desk drawer, removed a magnifying eyepiece and wedged it into his right eye socket. Then he sat down, picked up the watch and began to examine it. ‘Nice
piece, but shame about the condition. Three million you want for this, right?’
‘That’s the minimum I – we – would accept.’ Pollock shot a glance at Lucas Daly, who nodded in agreement.
The New Yorker’s secretary brought in their coffees, set them down, then left. Rosenblaum continued to study the watch in silence. He turned it over, then using a thin-bladed tool he
opened the back, and carefully examined the interior. ‘It’s undoubtedly very beautiful, very rare. I’ve not seen many watches like this in all my life. But I have some issues.
What are you able to tell me about its provenance, Mr Pollock?’
‘It belonged to my grandfather,’ Lucas Daly interjected. ‘It was handed to my father in 1922.’
‘By my uncle, who came by it illegally and wanted to return it to its rightful owner’s family,’ Pollock added.
Gavin Daly watched, listening, his fury growing as his angina pains subsided.
‘You see, there are a few anomalies,’ Rosenblaum said calmly. ‘I checked with Patek Philippe, who keep records of every watch they ever made. The production date serial number,
049, 351 – oops – apologies – I’m a little dyslexic; I read numbers backwards oftentimes! The serial, 153,940, would indicate a date of 1911 or later. It should be between
149,100 to 150,000 for a manufacturing date of 1910. Do you have an explanation for this?’
‘I do, yes,’ Lucas Daly said. ‘I understand it was common practice for top apprentices to make themselves a duplicate at the same time as they worked on a particular timepiece,
secretly of course. I suspect that’s what my father’s watch is. That is the reason the serial number is slightly out.’
‘I see,’ Rosenblaum said. ‘But on a watch of this period, every time it was repaired, there would be a little mark of who repaired it, with the date and initials. I don’t
see any here. Additionally, a watch like this would have been commissioned, and almost certainly the owner would have had his initials engraved on it. Sometimes, of course, when the watch changes
hands, the initials would be etched out, but that always leaves a trace. I can’t see any trace.’
‘This is bullshit!’ Lucas Daly said with rising anger. ‘Maybe it was stolen way back then, by my grandfather, before any initials were engraved. How would I know?’
Behind the two-way mirror Gavin Daly watched and listened, his brain fogged with fury. Lucas, his son, was sitting there with this fat, sanctimonious, lying shit.
My uncle came by it illegally and wanted to return it to its rightful owner’s family.
Oh yes?
His uncle having murdered the rightful owner.
And then Eamonn Pollock had murdered Aileen to get it back, and was now trying to sell it. But where the hell did Lucas fit in?
‘This may be a dumb question,’ Rosenblaum said, turning to Lucas. ‘With such a valuable piece, why did no one in your family get it repaired?’
‘I think they believed it might affect its authenticity,’ Eamonn Pollock replied.
‘No,’ Lucas said. ‘It’s very simple. My father – and my aunt – wanted the watch kept exactly as it was the day they got it back. It was the only link they had
with their father, so it had immense sentimental value. It would not have been the same if they’d had it repaired.’
‘And how do they feel about you selling this now?’ Rosenblaum asked, staring hard at Lucas.
‘Well, sadly, they are both dead now.’ He raised his hands in a gesture of sad despair. ‘The time has come, extremely reluctantly, for the family to sell it.’
A door burst open behind them. All three turned round to see Gavin Daly, holding his walking stick in one hand, and a black revolver in the other. ‘I’m dead, am I, Lucas? I will be
dead one day, all in good time, you’ll be pleased to know.’
He aimed the gun, with a shaky hand, at Eamonn Pollock. ‘But this bastard will be dead first.’
Detective Lieutenant Aaron Cobb threaded the grimy, brown Crown Victoria through the heavy Fifth Avenue traffic, siren wailing, lights flashing, heading downtown. He cussed at
everything in his way, especially the bicycle rickshaws for which he seemed to reserve particular venom.
Pat Lanigan rode up front beside him, while Roy Grace sat in the back, which smelled of feet and rancid kebab, trying to call Cleo, but both her home and mobile numbers went straight to
voicemail, indicating she was probably on both phones. He looked at his watch. It was 10.20 a.m.; 3.20 p.m. in Brighton.
‘Next on our list coming up, Roy,’ Lanigan announced.
Cobb pulled the car up alongside the Flatiron, one of Grace’s favourite buildings in the city, and stayed behind the wheel as Lanigan and Grace jumped out and hurried over to the entrance
of a small shop. The name was displayed, above the window, in olde worlde script,
The Seconds Hand
. Beneath, in smaller lettering, was inscribed,
Fine watches bought and sold.
The
window contained a display of Rolex, Patek Philippe and Omega wristwatches, among the classic brands Grace recognized.
The door was locked, and there was a discreet bell beside it. Lanigan pressed it, and moments later, the two detectives heard a sharp click from the latch. They entered a space that looked
considerably bigger than the exterior suggested, and which smelled pleasantly of old leather.
Roy Grace had always liked watches, although most of the ones he fancied were way out of his price range. There were floor-to-ceiling display cabinets, divided into sections by brand, and more
free-standing, glass-topped cabinets around the floor. Without peering too closely, in the one nearest him he could see handwritten price tags that ended in long rows of noughts.
A man in his late sixties rose from behind a desk at the far end of the showroom. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. May I help you?’ He spoke with a warm, cultured voice, in very slightly
broken English, and exuded courtly, old-world charm.
Pat Lanigan held up his NYPD badge. ‘I’m looking for Mr Turkkan? Mr Attila Turkkan?’
‘You have found him!’
‘Detective Lanigan, I called you a little earlier; said we’d be over.’
‘This is a good moment, gentlemen – as you can see, we are quiet this morning.’ He was dressed for this warm day in a navy and white striped seersucker jacket, a white shirt
and an elegant navy and white silk tie, and he carried himself well, with fine posture. His short, silver hair, elegantly cut, was receding at the front, and he had a thin, neatly trimmed
moustache, giving him, Grace thought, rather the air of a ladies’ man. He reminded him of the actor Omar Sharif.
‘My associate here, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace, is from Sussex Police in England,’ Pat Lanigan said. ‘The NYPD are helping his team on a case involving a rare pocket
watch of high value that’s been stolen.’
Attila Turkkan frowned, and Grace thought the man looked genuinely hurt. ‘Gentlemen, I have been in this business for forty-one years, and to my absolute certainty I have never handled a
stolen watch.’
‘We’re here to ask you for help,’ Roy Grace said. ‘That’s all. Not to accuse you of anything.’ He blinked. There was a bright ceiling light with an angled
beam striking his face, hurting his tired eyes, and he stepped a couple of feet to the right to get away from it.
The watch dealer looked a little relieved, but was still not comfortable. ‘Can I offer you gentlemen some Turkish coffee?’
‘I’m afraid we don’t have time,’ Lanigan said.
‘Before I buy any watch, I have to be one hundred per cent sure of its provenance. One hundred per cent, you understand?’ A phone started ringing on this desk, but he ignored it.
‘That’s how you build a reputation,’ Lanigan said. ‘Absolutely!’
‘Precisely. I am known the world over. I pay the best prices; I have the best watches – everyone trusts me. So, tell me about this pocket watch that you are concerned
with?’
‘It’s a 1910 Patek Philippe.’
He nodded. ‘There is already an alert out on the wire about this watch, I think. No respectable dealer is going to touch it.’
‘That’s our problem, Mr Turkkan,’ Roy Grace said. ‘The man we believe has the watch is called Eamonn Pollock, although he uses a number of aliases.’ He pulled out a
photograph and showed it to the dealer. ‘Do you recognize him?’
Turkkan studied it for some moments, while Grace watched his eyes. Then the dealer shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, no, I’ve never seen him before.’
He was telling the truth.
‘I presume there are people in this city who would be less scrupulous than yourself if offered a valuable timepiece?’ Grace continued.
Turkkan laughed. ‘Some indeed, oh yes, I have no doubt, but I do not know any of these people.’
‘Not even by reputation?’ Roy Grace asked.
‘It is not my world,’ he said. ‘Not – how do you phrase it in this modern jargon – not the space I inhabit?’ He grinned, and Grace saw a flash of gold among
his teeth. ‘I can’t help you gentlemen. I am so sorry, please believe me.’ He looked at Pat. ‘If you give me your phone number, and this Mr Pollip walks in here, I’ll
call you instantly and with pleasure.’
Lanigan produced a business card and handed it to him. ‘Any time, day or night.’
*
Back in the car, Roy Grace crossed out the circle on the map that had been drawn around
The Seconds Hand
. It was the third watch dealer they had crossed out in the past
forty minutes, from a long list of dealers, some totally legit, others less so, that had been compiled by Peregrine Stuart-Simmonds in England, and by two officers from the Major Case Squad here in
New York.
Guy Batchelor and Jack Alexander were in separate cars, with detectives Keith Johnson and Linda Blankson working their way through other dealers in the New York boroughs. Grace was about to call
and check in with them, when his phone rang. It was Cleo.
‘Darling, Humphrey won’t wake up,’ she said, sounding scared.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s half past three in the afternoon here, and he’s been fast asleep in his basket all day. I’m really worried about him.’
Humphrey was always awake before either of them, pulling at the duvet if they’d left the bedroom door open. He would never sleep this long. One possibility was that the dog was sick. But
he had always been a believer in applying Occam’s razor: that the most likely explanation was usually the correct one. Someone had tried to break into the house last night. Now the dog was
fast asleep, hours after he would normally have woken up. It was likely the two were linked.
‘Is Humphrey breathing okay?’
‘He’s snoring.’
‘Darling, this might be very important. Is there any way you could take him to the vet?’
‘Sure, and leave Noah to mind the house?’
‘Yep, teach him to use the vacuum cleaner and washing machine! Look, I’m serious, Humphrey could have been drugged – but we’d need some tests done before the stuff leaves
his system. If it’s difficult, I’ll see if I can get a police dog handler to take him.’