Every morning, as Betty filled that first glass for him, he raised it in a silent toast to Henry Allingham, before lighting his cigar.
In front of him lay the front page of the Daily News from February 1922, in its protective plastic. He thanked Betty, drank some wine, and waited until he heard the door shut behind him. Then he continued his search through the ancient, battered Rolodex index cards, until he found the name and telephone number he was looking for. A genealogist called Martin Diplock, whose service, years back, he had used regularly to check the background history of high-end antiques.
He dialled it, and as he half-expected, heard a number discontinued tone. But just in case the man was still alive, he googled his name. To his surprise he found a simple website giving an email address and what looked like an overseas phone number. He dialled and it rang. Three times. Four. Five.
Then he heard a click, followed by Diplock’s very distinguished, cultured voice.
‘You’re still alive?’ Daly said.
There was a moment’s pause. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Gavin Daly!’
‘Well, well, well! It sounds like you’re still alive too!’
‘Just.’
‘It must be twenty years.’
‘All of that.’
‘So, to what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘I need some family history checked out. Are you still working?’
‘I live in Tenerife – retired here over fifteen years ago. But I keep my hand in – thanks to the Internet, it’s easy to keep up with old acquaintances and developments. Why?’
‘This is probably a long shot, I don’t know. I guess I’m long enough in the tooth to have learned not to dismiss coincidence.’
‘You know what Einstein said about coincidence?’
‘Something about God’s calling cards?’
‘Kind of. He said it was God’s way of remaining anonymous.’
Daly smiled and drank some more wine. ‘It’s good to speak to you, Martin. How’s Jane?’
‘She’s well. She’s in rude health. Sunshine is good for people.’
‘It’s bad for antiques.’
‘So, what information do you have for me?’
‘There’s a man named Eamonn Pollock,’ Daly said. ‘His current main residence is on a yacht based in Marbella called Contented. As I said, it’s a long shot. But I’m happy to pay whatever you charge these days to find out if he is related, in any way, to a man in New York back in the 1920s called Mick Pollock. I think he would have been Irish, and a member of the White Hand Gang.’
‘Do you have any more details than that, Gavin?’
‘Back then, Mick had only one leg – I gather he got gangrene in it after being shot in a gang fight. He had the nickname of Pegleg.’
‘Pegleg Pollock. Anything else?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. Could you try to prepare as detailed a family tree as you can?’
‘I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t promise anything.’
‘Give me an address to wire some money to.’
‘There’s no charge. Tell you the truth, I’m bored. Be good to have a challenge. Is there any urgency?’
‘Everything’s urgent at our age, Martin.’
56
Like most police officers he knew, Roy Grace always felt uncomfortable entering a prison. In part it was the knowledge that prisoners had a pathological hatred of the police, and in part it was the loss of control. As a police officer you were normally in control of any environment you found yourself in. But from the moment the first of the prison’s doors was locked behind you, you were in the hands of the Prison Governor and his or her officers.
Convicted policemen, given custodial sentences, were treated by other prisoners on a par with paedophiles.
Sussex had two prisons: Ford, an open, Category D prison, filled mostly with relatively minor and low-risk offenders, as well as some lifers approaching the end of their custodial terms, gradually getting accustomed to the world they were soon to re-enter. The other, Lewes, a Category B, was a grim, forbidding place. Roy Grace had passed it many times, as a child with his parents, and back then it had always both fascinated and scared him.
Built like a fortress, it had high, flint walls and tiny barred windows. When as a small boy his dad once told him that the bad people were locked up in there, Roy Grace used to imagine bad people as monsters who would rip people’s heads off, if given the chance. Now, with his years of experience in the force behind him, he knew a little different. But he was only too aware that if anything were to kick off when a police officer was inside a prison, for any reason, he – or she – would be damned lucky to get out unharmed.
Which was why, to Roy Grace’s relief, having checked in at the registration office where he had to leave his private and police phones in a locker, he was greeted by Alan Setterington, the duty Governor, who told him he had an interview room reserved for him in the main office section.
Setterington, a lean, fit-looking man with a fine physique from being a weekend racing cyclist, was dressed in a smart suit and a bright tie with his white Prison Service shirt. As with every prison Grace had ever been inside, all the doors were unlocked then locked again behind them as they made their way further through into the gloomy, windowless interior with its cold stone floors, drab walls decorated with the occasional Health and Safety poster, fire buckets and large, strong doors.
Alan Setterington made him a coffee, then went off to fetch the informant who was prepared to talk to Grace. For favours, of course.
Donny Loncrane came into the room in his green prison work tunic. Aged fifty-five, he looked as most long-term prisoners did: a decade older than his years, from the lifestyle and badly cut drugs. Roy Grace was shocked at his appearance. Last time he had encountered the serial car thief – and police informant – had been a good ten years ago. Setterington tactfully left them to it, closing the door behind him.
Loncrane, tall, with bad posture, his short, grey hair brushed forward over his forehead, gave him a sheepish grin, shook Grace’s hand with his own damp one, as if he had just washed it in deference, and sat down opposite him. ‘Hello, sir,’ he said. He exuded a sharp, earthy smell of clothes that were in need of a wash.
Grace shook his head. ‘What are you doing still inside? You told me you were going straight last time I saw you.’
Loncrane shrugged. ‘Yeah, well, I was. Problem is, you see, I love motors.’
‘You always did.’
‘The thing is, they’re harder to nick these days. The high-end jobs, right? The Audis, Beemers, Mercs, Ferraris, Bentleys? I used to be able to hotwire one in thirty seconds. You know how long it takes now?’
‘How long?’
‘Well, with all their security systems it takes about four hours. So the only way is either to get one on the road, taser the driver, pull him or her out – or else break into the owner’s house and nick the keys.’
‘Last time we talked you told me you were doing a degree in fitness and nutrition. That you had plans to start a gym when you came out, Donny.’
Loncrane shrugged again. ‘Yeah, that was the plan.’
‘So what went wrong?’
‘It’s not so easy out there. Not so many people want to help an old con like me. You need references, bank loans, stuff like that. I don’t exactly have the world’s best CV.’ He grinned wistfully.
Grace smiled back. Donny Loncrane wasn’t a fool. But he’d never had a chance in life. His father had been busted for drugs when his mother was pregnant with him – her fourth child. She’d been on drugs too. He’d always been obsessed with fast cars and had his first conviction, for joyriding, at fourteen. At seventeen he was making good money, and having fun, stealing exotic cars to order for an organized crime gang in London. ‘You know, it’s never too late, Donny.’