Their captive’s eyes were rolling. Daly shot a glance at Macario, who was slowly starting to stir, then returned his attention to Barnes. ‘Where’s the watch? The Patek Philippe? Where’s the safe? And where’s your boss, Eamonn Pollock?’
‘Safe’s in the master bedroom.’ Barnes’s eyes rolled again. Then, moments before he passed out, he murmured something barely decipherable.
*
Fifteen minutes later, as Tony Macario opened his eyes, fully conscious again now, the first thing he saw was his colleague, Ken Barnes, suspended upside down by his ankles, unconscious, being swung, head first and extremely hard, into a stanchion studded with rivets.
Then he realized, through a haze of alcohol and blinding headache, that he was bound hand and foot and could not move.
Barnes was dumped, unceremoniously on the floor. Blood leaked from a gash in his head.
‘Your mate’s not very chatty,’ Daly said. ‘Maybe you can help us? We’ve had a look at the safe but it’s empty.’ He was silent for a moment, sniffing. ‘What’s that pong? I’ve got a very strong sense of smell. Have you shat yourself?’
Macario shook his head.
‘That’s all right, then. You will in a minute.’ He pulled out his cigarette lighter and flicked it on and off. ‘Like hot things, do you?’
‘Hot things?’
‘Yeah. Burning people.’
‘I never burnt no one.’
Daly eyeballed the man. ‘Want to tell us about Withdean Road, Brighton? A little old lady you burned? Who put you up to it? Eamonn Pollock, right?’
Macario stared back impassively for some moments. Then he said, ‘Withdean Road? I never heard of that street.’
‘That’s not what your mate said. He said it was your idea to torture the old lady for her safe code and the pin codes for her credit cards. Was he lying? Fitting you up to save his skin?’
‘He what? That fucking shitbag . . .’
‘Now, that’s much more like it!’
‘My idea? I had to fucking pull him off her.’
‘Tell us more.’ He nodded at the Apologist. ‘My friend hates to hurt people, really he does. He much prefers not to. My dad and I don’t care a toss about all the antiques and paintings. But we want that watch back. It’s sentimental, right? Know the meaning of that word?’
Macario nodded.
‘Your friend says he doesn’t know where Mr Pollock is. How about you?’
‘He doesn’t tell us anything. I don’t know. Really, I don’t know.’
‘Is that right? What do you think this boat’s worth? Ten million quid? Twenty? Fifty? One hundred? You two jokers are guarding it while he’s away, and you don’t have an address for him? A contact number?’ He tapped his chest. ‘Do I look stupid or something? Do I look like I just rode into town in the back of a truck?’
‘No.’
Leaving the Apologist with him, Lucas Daly went back up to the bar and returned with a litre bottle of Grey Goose vodka, and proceeded, with the funnel, to pour half of it down Macario’s throat.
A couple of minutes later, under Daly’s coaxing, Macario slurred out that he might have gone to New York, but he didn’t know where, he swore.
‘Now tell me what you did with all the rest of the stuff?’ Daly said. ‘What happened to all of my auntie’s precious antiques and paintings? Eight million quid’s worth. What did you do – vanish it into thin air?’ He flicked the lighter and brought the flame close up to Macario’s eyes. ‘Don’t think I won’t,’ he said. ‘I’ll burn your face off with pleasure.’
‘Delivered to warehouse . . . barn . . . sort of place.’ His voice was slurring.
‘What warehouse? Down at the docks? Shoreham or Newhaven Harbour?’
He shook his head. ‘Industrial estate. Lewes. Back of Lewes. By the tunnel.’
‘Where was it going after the warehouse?’
‘Overseas.’
Then he passed out.
Daly untied his bindings. Then with the help of the Apologist, he untied Barnes. They left both men unconscious on the saloon floor, climbed back up the stairs and went out, through the patio doors onto the stern deck. Then they walked ashore across the gangway, and strode a short distance along the quay towards the shadowy, dark-skinned figure who was waiting for them, smoking a cigarette.
‘Mr bin Laden?’ Daly asked.
The Moroccan grinned.
50
Humphrey was snoring. The dog was lying on its back on the sofa beside Roy Grace, paws sticking up in the air like a mutant dead ant. Grace patted its belly. ‘Hey, fellow, quiet! Can’t hear the television!’
Humphrey ignored him.
Daniel Day-Lewis was looking murderous on the screen in the video of the Gangs of New York that Glenn Branson had lent him. Piled up on the coffee table were four of the volumes on the early gang history of New York he’d bought from City Books. The fifth, Young Capone, lay open on his lap. The baby monitor was turned up loud enough for him to hear the sound of Noah’s breathing. His son had been sleeping soundly since his last feed at 9 p.m.
Grace patted Humphrey’s belly harder. ‘Shh, boy! I can’t turn the TV up, don’t want to wake your mistress, or Noah. Okay?’
Humphrey farted silently. Moments later the horrific stink reached Grace’s nostrils. ‘Hey! That’s not playing fair!’ He gave Humphrey a playful slap, which the dog ignored. He held his nose until the stink passed. He gave him another tap. ‘No farting, okay? Two can play at that game!’
A hand suddenly squeezed his shoulder. He looked up and saw Cleo, her hair up, in a pale-blue nightdress. ‘What are you watching?’
‘It’s for work. You okay? Do you want anything?’
‘Yes, I do. I want to lose my bloody baby fat and my varicose veins. I want to stop feeling so damned tired all the time and bad-tempered from loss of sleep,’ she moaned. ‘I’m sorry, but they don’t tell you how rubbish you are going to feel in any of the books – at least not the ones I read.’ She kissed his forehead.
He took her hands and squeezed them tenderly. ‘If I had a magic wand, I’d wave the damned thing!’
‘Shit, Roy, why didn’t anyone tell me what having a baby’s really like?’
‘Maybe because no one would have one if they really knew.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, that’s true!’ Then, changing the subject, she said, ‘Where do you keep your handcuffs?’
‘Handcuffs?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘I have some in my go-bag – but I don’t really have any reason to use them in what I do.’
She gave him a strange smile that he could not read. ‘So you do have some?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought maybe – you know – perhaps I could try them out on you – sometime when I’m feeling less sore.’
He grinned. ‘That book you’re reading?’
‘I’m into the second one,’ she said. She grinned again.
‘Not sure about my handcuffs,’ he said. ‘They’ve been on some pretty scuzzy people. Maybe we could try silk ties?’
‘I think we should try a few things. But I’d hate to distract you from your work. Lock up all the bad guys first. Then you can start on me.’ She kissed him on his forehead again. ‘Not tonight, though. I’m still really sore, and I’m too tired.’
He watched as she headed back up the stairs. ‘Love you,’ he said.
‘Even fat like this?’
‘More to love.’
‘You’re a good bullshitter.’ She pointed across the room. ‘See, your goldfish agrees!’
High up on one of the fitted black bookshelves on the far side of the room, Marlon had his nose pressed up against the side of his bowl, endlessly opening and shutting his mouth. Grace was relieved he had survived the transition to his new home. He’d developed a strong affection for the fish over the years following Sandy’s disappearance. He would be sad, he knew, the day Marlon died.
He’d brought the fish here as Glenn was now moving back to his home to take care of his children. And with the exchange of contracts on his own house sale imminent, he’d needed to start clearing everything out, putting it into storage until Cleo and he decided what they would need once they had found a new house.