‘They shouldn’t be hard to find,’ Larry Powell said. ‘Eamonn Pollock’s halfway up his own asshole. You just need a powerful torch. Tony Macario and Ken Barnes are all the way up it. They’re so far up it they could clean his teeth through his throat. They’re easyJet gangsters, them two.’
‘Meaning?’ Daly asked.
Powell shot a glance at the group in front of the television, to make sure none of them was listening, then leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘They do jobs for Pollock. He keeps his nose clean and his belly filled with the proceeds of their labour. Nice work. He fixes jobs for them in England, pops them on an easyJet flight. Twenty-four hours they’re back here. He makes sure never to use anyone with a British criminal record. No dabs, no DNA.’ He shrugged, and sipped his lager.
‘And if someone I knew wanted any of them whacked?’ Daly asked.
Lawrence Powell shrugged again. ‘Not a problem. Give a Moroccan a Bin Laden.’
Daly swigged down some of his beer, straight from the bottle, frowning.
‘What? Did you say, Give a Moroccan a Bin Laden?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you talk in English?’
Lawrence Powell led them outside onto the terrace, and pointed out across the Mediterranean, at two hazy shapes on the horizon. ‘That lump of rock is Gibraltar. The other’s North Africa. Morocco,’ he said. ‘Their police have a useless fingerprint database and an even more useless national DNA database. A Moroccan can come over here, do a hit and be back in his own country before the police have even reached the crime scene. He’ll be harder to find than a specific grain of sand in the desert.’
‘And a Bin Laden?’ Lucas Daly asked.
‘A five-hundred-Euro note. They say they’re as elusive as Bin Laden was.’ Powell grinned. ‘Morocco’s a short ferry ride away from Ceuta.’ He jerked a finger to his left, west. ‘A Moroccan can live a couple of years on that kind of dough. Life’s cheap there.’
‘And you have access to these Moroccans?’ Daly asked.
‘I have access to everything.’ Lawrence Powell rubbed his index finger and thumb together.
Behind them, in the bar, there was a loud cheer as someone scored.
Back inside, Daly put a hundred Euro note on the counter, followed by four more.
Powell slipped them behind the bar. ‘So what’s in it for me?’ He looked at them expectantly.
‘How long does it take you to deliver?’
‘Same day service. Just bell me.’ He pushed a business card across the counter.
Daly slipped it in his wallet, then pulled another hundred Euro note out and placed it on the counter. Powell looked at it like it was a dog turd. Daly added a second. ‘Pollock, Macario and Barnes. Where do I find them?’
Powell raised three fingers, indicating he wanted another banknote.
Lucas Daly nodded at the Apologist. The Albanian grabbed him by the throat and lifted him in the air. Powell, choking, shook his head vigorously, making yammering sounds. No one behind them looked round; they were engrossed in the football.
The Apologist let Powell’s feet touch the floor, but kept hold of his throat. ‘My boss is not a hole-in-the-wall cash dispenser. He asked you a question. He’d like an answer. Sorry to hurt you.’
‘Contented,’ Lawrence Powell croaked. ‘At Puerto Banus.’
‘It’s okay, let him go,’ Lucas Daly said. ‘Contented at Puerto Banus?’ he said to Lawrence Powell. ‘That the name of a house or apartment block?’
Powell, rubbing his throat, and gulping down air, croaked, ‘It’s a boat. A sodding great yacht, okay?’
‘You’d better be right,’ Lucas Daly said. ‘I’d hate to have to come back and disturb you again.’ He turned to the Apologist. ‘We don’t like disturbing people, do we?’
‘I’m sorry,’ the Apologist said to Lawrence Powell. ‘For the inconvenience.’
44
Mountainpeak Publishing, where Gareth Dupont worked, was on the third floor of a shiny modern building, on an industrial estate close to Newhaven Port, the commercial harbour a few miles to the east of Brighton. Its affable proprietor, Alan Prior, had made Roy Grace and Guy Batchelor comfortable in a conference room, organized tea, coffee and biscuits, and then left to fetch Gareth Dupont.
Earlier, Grace had spoken to Glenn, telling him to take whatever time off he needed; he had to deal with the Coroner’s office in order to get Ari’s body released, and register her death, then start making the funeral arrangements. Glenn had sounded very down, unsurprisingly, and Guy Batchelor was in a subdued mood, as everyone on the team had been at this morning’s briefing.
There was a chill from the air-conditioning and a strong new-office smell in the room, from the carpet, paint and furniture, which was overpowered, the moment Gareth Dupont entered, by the cloyingly aromatic cologne he was wearing. He greeted the two detectives cheerily, oozing self-confidence, his demeanour more than a tad cocky, Grace thought. He looked flash, every inch a salesman: white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, neatly creased black trousers, shiny black shoes, and sporting two vulgar rings and a showy watch.
Grace carefully studied the man seated opposite them throughout the interview. Dupont was in his early thirties, with Hispanic good looks, short gelled black hair, tattooed arms, with the muscular physique of someone who worked out regularly. There was a scab on the knuckle of his right pinky finger. Grace did a quick mental calculation. The robbery was ten days ago; about the right length of time for a scab to still be present after a nasty gash.
Dupont poured some coffee, helped himself to a biscuit, then dunked it carefully in his coffee. Grace wondered if he’d been dunked in cologne. Then he waited until the man had eaten it, so he had his full concentration.
‘We appreciate time is important to you, so we won’t detain you longer than necessary, Mr Dupont,’ Grace said. ‘Can you tell me your date of birth?’ He watched Dupont’s eyes closely.
‘Twenty-fifth of July, 1979.’
‘So you’re thirty-three?’
‘Yeah. Not good, eh? Fast turning into an old git.’
‘I think you have a way to go before that,’ Guy Batchelor said.
‘What is your home address?’ Grace asked, watching him carefully all the time.
Dupont gave him the address of an apartment block in Brighton Marina.
Grace wrote it down. Then he stared at the man’s wrist. ‘Nice watch.’
‘Thank you!’ He held it up for them to see. ‘Vintage Bulgari. My ex gave it to me a couple of years ago.’
‘Really?’ Grace said. ‘Bit of a coincidence, but it looks just like one that was stolen from a home in Withdean Road, in Brighton, last week.’
He felt Batchelor shooting him a glance. For an instant, it felt to Roy Grace that the temperature in the room had dropped even further.
‘Is that so?’ Gareth Dupont said dismissively. ‘Tell me, gentlemen, how can I help you?’ He glanced down at his watch anxiously. ‘We’re on targets here, you see.’
‘Don’t worry, Mr Prior kindly said we could take as long as we need,’ the Detective Sergeant said.
Dupont glanced at his watch again, looking increasingly uncomfortable. ‘Well, he would, you see, because he doesn’t pay us any wages. We’re all on commission only, so time is a bit important, like.’
‘We’ll be quick,’ Grace said. ‘I’d like you to cast your mind back to the afternoon and evening of ten days ago, Tuesday, August the 21st. Could you talk us through that?’
Despite the low temperature in the room, both detectives noticed the tiny beads of perspiration popping on the salesman’s brow. He touched his nose.
‘Umm, let me think. Umm.’ He pulled out his phone. ‘Just check the diary. Ah – yeah – well, I was working. Yeah.’
‘Where were you working?’ Grace asked him.