‘Did he ever mention watches to you?’
‘Watches?’
‘Well, one in particular – a Patek Philippe?’
She shook her head and dragged on the cigarette again. ‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’ Grace watched her face carefully.
‘I’m sure. A Patek Philippe watch? They’re rather special, aren’t they? How does their advertising slogan go? Something like, You never actually own a Patek Philippe watch. You just look after it for the next generation.’
Grace smiled. ‘He never mentioned a Patek Philippe watch to you?’
She shook her head very definitely. ‘No.’ Then she held up her left wrist. ‘I would have taken note. I love watches.’
‘That’s a very elegant one. I don’t know much about them, I’m afraid.’
‘It’s a Cartier,’ she said. ‘A Cartier Tank watch.’
‘I’ve heard of Cartier,’ he said. ‘Very nice.’
‘Thank you.’
He had been thinking, for some time, about getting Cleo a present. Something to make her smile, to lift her spirits with the hard time she was having with Noah. Maybe a nice watch? A Cartier Tank watch? ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what kind of money would a watch like that cost?’
She hesitated. He watched her eyes. ‘Around three thousand pounds, I think.’
She was lying and he wondered why. Probably a gift from her husband, he concluded, and she had guessed the value.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to make you late. Thank you.’
He climbed out of the Mercedes and walked back to his car. Guy Batchelor was looking at him quizzically.
Grace shook his head. ‘Sounds like they met at a salsa class.’
‘Innocent?’
‘Innocent, or else she’s a world-class liar.’
‘What are your instincts?’
‘She was targeted by Dupont. No question.’
76
His mobile phone rang. All that came up on the display was INTERNATIONAL.
He answered. ‘Yeah?’
‘Listen carefully – don’t worry, I’m on a secure phone. You should get one too.’
‘I have. I’m on it’
‘It’s the same number I’ve had for weeks.’
‘You’re the only person who has it.’
‘I want you to change it for the next time we speak.’
‘Next time we speak I won’t need it. We’ll be in the same room and I’ll have my hands around your fat neck.’
‘Temper, temper! Listen to me very carefully, we have a big problem. Gareth Dupont’s been charged. He’s been out on licence and now he’s on remand in Lewes Prison.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
‘Do you understand what it means for him if he’s convicted? The rest of his life in prison? I’m worried what the little shit might do to save his skin. He’ll shop Smallbone. Smallbone’s the weak link.’
‘Where the fuck are you?’
‘That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you silence Smallbone. Permanently. Get my drift?’
‘I want my part of the deal.’
‘You’ll get it when I hear Smallbone’s dead.’
‘You expect me to trust you? After the way you’ve behaved?’
‘I have low expectations; that’s a life lesson you should learn, if you want to be content. Toodle-pip!’
There was a click, then silence.
He stared at his phone in fury. But, he realized, the fat bastard was right about one thing. Amis Smallbone.
77
Gavin Daly awoke with a start, confused about where he was. He heard a drilling sound. For a moment he thought it was men digging a hole. But it was a bell. The phone, he realized. He was in his study, and must have fallen asleep in his armchair. His cigar lay in the glass ashtray, with a ring of ash on the end, next to his glass of whiskey, with the ice long melted. His head ached; he’d drunk too much this evening.
He took a moment more to fully orient himself, then picked up the receiver. ‘Gavin Daly,’ he said.
‘Hey Gavin, it’s Julius Rosenblaum here. Apologies for calling so late – hope I didn’t wake you?’ the treacly voice of the New York watch dealer asked. ‘But I thought you’d want to hear this right away.’
Daly looked at his watch. It was 11.30 p.m. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Well, no, not really – I’m – I’m still in my office.’ He was still feeling a little disoriented, not fully awake, but perking up fast. This was the call he had been waiting for, he realized.
‘The guy I told you about, Mr No Name, who called me on Tuesday about the Patek Philippe, came in this afternoon.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve got the pictures of him and the watch, which I’ve pulled off our CCTV, and just emailed you. Thought I’d give you a heads-up. Do you want to check your mail and see if it is your watch?’
‘Yes – yes, Julius. Can you give me a few minutes?’
‘Take your time.’
‘You’re still in your office?’
‘I’ll be here for another ten minutes, then I have to go to a dinner. I’ll give you my cell and you can call on that if you miss me.’
‘Thank you. So – what did you think of the watch?’
‘He only brought in photographs, but the timepiece looks authentic enough. Quite a bit of damage – the crown and winding arbor are bent, the crystal is cracked and there’s a dent in the rear casing.’
‘That sounds like it,’ Gavin Daly said.
‘I asked him about the provenance. Said it has been in his family since the early 1920s.’
‘Did he now?’
‘Handed down from his grandfather.’
‘That’s a touching story,’ Daly said. ‘Remind me of his name?’
‘Robert Kenton. Does that mean anything to you?’
Daly thought hard for some moments. ‘No.’
‘I asked him how much interest he’d had in the watch, and he was cagey about who he had talked to, but said he was expecting offers next week – subject to the watch being what the photographs show – and he would take the best offer by close of business on Wednesday. I told him I was extremely interested, buttered him up a little, and he’s going to be bringing it in to me on Monday morning, at 11 a.m. If you could get over here, I could bring you into the room, then you’ll be able to see the piece for yourself. If it is yours, I just have to press one button, all the doors will lock, and the police will be on their way.’
‘I’m very grateful.’
‘Check the photographs and call me back.’
Daly eased himself, stiffly, out of the chair, went to over to his desk, sat down and logged on and opened the zipped file. Moments later he was looking at a sequence of low-grade CCTV images. First of a man entering through a door. He was in his mid-sixties, overweight, with short, curly grey hair, and dressed in a blue blazer with silver buttons, open-neck white shirt and paisley cravat. The next image showed a closer and clearer image of the man’s face. The third showed the front of the Patek Philippe watch.
He was certain that it was his watch, with the bent crown and winding and the busted crystal. But to be sure he had another hard rummage around for any photographs of it. He opened all the drawers of his desk, rummaged around through all the other old papers in there but still could not find one. He cast his mind back to when he had last seen one.
He was, he knew, getting a little forgetful. A couple of times recently he had lost important documents, or misfiled them inside others. It would turn up; no matter. He looked back at the screen, at the image of the watch, and began to tremble with anger. The bastard. The fat bastard.