Mummy and Daddy Cleo had offered to help them. How sweet was that? Would they still help them out if their precious grandson no longer looked so sweet? If the little bastard had scars all over his face?
His bags were packed. By the time anyone came looking for him he would be long gone, down to sunny Spain with the remainder of his meagre stash, and intending to collect from that fat pig Eamonn Pollock what he was owed. Then he’d live it up for however long he had before the law caught up with him. Lawrence Powell owed him a favour; he’d help him out, get him sorted with a new identity. With luck he’d have a few years of freedom, and then he’d be so old he wouldn’t care any more. Old age was a prison, so it didn’t much matter whether you spent the rest of your time in it or out of it. And at least they took care of you inside.
And he would have one thing to sustain him through those years. The knowledge of what Detective Superintendent Roy Grace would be thinking every time he looked at his son’s hideously scarred face.
He delved into one of the cartons of stuff he had bought over the internet, and pulled out the black jumpsuit; from another, he removed the night-vision goggles and the hunting knife, its blade as sharp as a razor. Then he opened the tin of black boot polish and, using a rag, began to smear it carefully across his face, until all that could be seen was the white of his eyes.
And the hatred burning in them.
*
Out in the street below, Cassandra Jones, a website designer who lived directly opposite Cleo Morey’s house in the development, dismounted her Specialized hybrid bike, after returning from a Sunday night stand-up comedy event at Brighton’s Komedia Club, followed by a few glasses of wine afterwards with some friends.
She wheeled it up to the entrance, head bowed against the wind and driving rain, feeling a little bit tipsy. Then she tapped in the code, pushed open the gate and, unquestioning, thanked the stranger standing right behind her, who held it open while she wheeled her bike through.
The gate clanged shut on its springs, harshly striking the rear wheel of her bike.
‘Sorry,’ the tall man behind her said.
93
Eamonn Pollock, his obese body wrapped in a towelling dressing gown, lay back against the plump pillows on his huge, soft bed in his sumptuous hotel suite. He’d enjoyed a painful but invigoratingly glorious deep-tissue massage and was now sipping a glass of Bollinger, toasting himself, toasting his cleverness.
But not feeling quite as contented as he normally did.
He was not at all happy that he had lost his two lieutenants, as he liked to call them, Tony Macario and Ken Barnes. Not happy at all. Trustworthy employees were hard to come by, no matter how much he paid them, and he had paid them very handsomely indeed.
Still, he consoled himself, he had much to look forward to. He’d just said goodnight to the lovely Luiza, a twenty-four-year-old Brazilian pole dancer who he could scarcely wait to see again, in just a few days’ time. And to bury his face between her breasts! He was in his mid-sixties, but life was still full of delicious treats. How nice it was to be rich. But nicer still to be even richer tomorrow!
But right now he was looking forward to his supper. He had ordered himself a meal from the room service menu. Beluga caviar, followed by grilled lobster and then a naughty key-lime pie, something he always treated himself to in this city. And besides, Luiza had told him she loved his tummy.
And he loved what she could do with her tongue! The thought of it was making him randy.
Later he might phone for a lady from a particularly fine agency he knew. Or maybe he might just watch a film and go to sleep, ready for a very busy and profitable day ahead. Oh yes, very profitable indeed!
He picked up the Patek Philippe pocket watch from its nest of cotton wool on his beside table, and cradled it in his soft, pudgy hands. He stared at the metal casing, which, despite a couple of dents, still looked as new as it must have done back when it was made. Too bad about the damage: the bent crown and winding arbor, and cracked crystal that pressed against the tapered black moon hands, stopped at five minutes past four, as they had been for ninety years, and the tiny, motionless double-sunk seconds hand.
For some moments he studied the moon-phase indicator. Then he read the exquisitely written name on the dial. Patek Philippe, Geneve.
He was holding a piece of history.
And something, suddenly, made perfect sense to him. His uncle had not taken it from Brendan Daly moments before he, and the other three, had murdered him, and sent it to little Gavin out of guilt. He had sent it because of destiny! It was meant to be! He had sent it on a journey, ninety years into the future, into the hands of his nephew who had not yet been born.
Yes, destiny!
The doorbell pinged. ‘Coming!’ he called out, like an excited kid. ‘Coming! Coming, coming, coming!’
He swung his heavy frame off the bed, slipped his feet – which Luiza liked to kiss; especially his toes, despite the fact that one had been amputated because of his diabetes – into the white hotel slippers. Then he trotted through into the lounge area and across to the door. He checked the spyhole and was happy to see it was the same cheery little waiter who had brought him up the bottle of champagne earlier. He removed the safety chain and opened the door.
‘Good evening, Dr Alvarez, how are you?’
‘Very contented indeed, thank you!’ Dr Alvarez! Dr Alphonse Alvarez was one of the several aliases that he used. Dr Alvarez was his favourite. He liked it when the hotel staff called him Doctor. Classy. Hey, he was a classy guy!
He held the door, as the waiter stuck a wedge beneath it, then trundled in the food-laden metal trolley. ‘You like me to set this up for you, Dr Alvarez, on the table?’
‘I would indeed!’ Pollock left the waiter and moved through into the bedroom to fetch a tip from his wallet, his mood greatly improved now that his dinner was here, and humming to himself his favourite Dr Hook song. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me! I’ve got all this money, and I’m a pretty ugly guy!’
And he did indeed have it all. And tomorrow, he would have even more. Two million pounds, minimum! How nice! How very, very, very nice!
Hey ho!
In the next-door room he heard the clatter of crockery and cutlery as the waiter laid the table. He was salivating. What a feast! There were flashing red lights on the television. Police cars. Some big incident on the local news. A shooting in the Bronx. Didn’t bother him, hey ho.
He trotted back out into the lounge area, holding a twenty-dollar bill between his finger and thumb, like a laboratory specimen he was presenting for inspection. He liked to make sure waiters saw what a very generous man he was, in case they simply shoved the tip into their pockets without noticing it.
Then as he entered the lounge, he froze in his tracks.
The twenty-dollar note fluttered down onto the carpet.
The waiter held the room service bill, in a leather wallet, up for him to sign, with a pen in his other hand.
But Eamonn Pollock did not even notice him. He was staring at the man on the far side of the room, dressed in a thin leather jacket, jeans and black Chelsea boots, who was lounging back on the sofa, removing a cigarette from a pack.
His beady eyes shot to the waiter then back to the man. He scribbled his name, like an automaton, on the bill, noticed the waiter hesitating, but just wanted him out, now.
‘Have a good evening, Doctor,’ the waiter said, with a forced smile, and lingered.
‘Just fuck off, will you,’ Pollock said.
The startled waiter removed the wedge from the door and left, closing the door a little too hard behind him.