The man on the sofa lit his cigarette.
‘This is a no-smoking room,’ Pollock said. ‘And what the hell are you doing here?’
‘You know why I’m here, you fat jerk. I want to know why your gorillas killed my aunt. And you did a runner with the watch . . . Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?’
‘Killing your aunt was not part of the plan. That was never meant to happen. And there’s a five-hunded-dollar fine for smoking in this room,’ Pollock said. ‘Put that out or I’m going to call Security.’
‘Yeah, why don’t you? Ask for those two cops who are standing in the lobby by the elevators.’
Pollock’s face blanched. ‘What cops?’
94
Roy Grace was nervous. He did not like being out of control, and that was how he felt right now. Although he had a lot of faith in Pat Lanigan, and two of his team, Keith Johnson and Linda Blankson, seemed very helpful and competent, Detective Lieutenant Aaron Cobb had continued to give the impression, at their late-afternoon review meeting, that he considered the presence of the Brits here unnecessary. Cobb was a loose cannon, and in his own manor Grace could deal with someone like him; but here, as a guest in another country, all he could do was to try to win him over – and that was not happening. Further, it was clear that in the pecking order, Aaron Cobb was the senior of the NYPD detectives.
Surveillance had been placed on Eamonn Pollock’s hotel, but when Grace questioned Cobb about having only two officers covering the building, he was curtly told that was all the manpower he had available.
By 6 p.m. there had still been no trace of Gavin or Lucas Daly. Door-to-door enquiries on all New York hotels were continuing into the night but, as Aaron Cobb suggested, the old man in particular was probably tired and needed time out to be fresh for the morning.
Guy Batchelor announced to Roy Grace that what he needed, more than time out, was a cigarette and a stiff drink – and that he knew a place in New York where he could get both.
The three Sussex policemen walked the fourteen blocks from their hotel to the Carnegie Club on 56th Street. On the way Grace called Cleo. It was late in Brighton, and she was sounding sleepy, but pleased to hear from him. Noah was fine, she reported, and he’d been good all day and was now asleep. But, and she was really excited to tell him this, she had seen a house that she loved – and her parents had really liked it too. It was slightly above their price range, but her parents had offered to help them, if they wanted to buy it. The estate agents were going to email the particulars to her in the morning, and she’d send them on to him. It was a cottage, with an acre of land, and surrounded by farmland. ‘And,’ she added in her excitement, ‘there was a hen run!’
Grace, for reasons he could not explain, had always had a desire to own chickens. He had been born and brought up a townie, in Brighton, but there was something that appealed to him about going out in the morning and collecting his own eggs for breakfast. But, more seriously, from the tone of her voice, he knew Cleo had found the house she wanted to live in, and that really excited him.
‘Can’t wait to see it!’ he replied.
‘You’ll love it, I promise!’
‘Is there anyone else interested?’
‘The agents said there is a young couple going back for a second viewing on Tuesday. When do you think you might be back?’
‘I don’t know, darling. Later this week, I hope.’
‘Please try!’
‘I’m missing you both like crazy! Give Noah a kiss and tell him his daddy is missing him.’
‘I will!’
He ended the call, then looked at his watch again. He had been expecting to hear from Peregrine Stuart-Simmonds, to find out which dealers were expecting Eamonn Pollock in the morning, but it was too late now. It wasn’t good news that the man hadn’t called.
Five minutes later, as they entered the front door of the club, into the rich aroma of cigar smoke, Roy Grace felt instant nostalgia. This was how bars used to smell, and he loved it. There was a long bar, with two men seated on stools, drinks in front of them, smoking large cigars, watching a ball game on a gigantic television screen. All around the room, which had the air of a gentleman’s club, were leather sofas and chairs, some occupied by people smoking cigars or cigarettes, some vacant.
A cheery, attractive waitress, who gave Jack Alexander a particularly flirty smile, showed them to a corner table, then fetched them the drinks menu. Grace glanced at it, and decided on a Manhattan, a drink he had got smashed on one night with Pat Lanigan, last time he was here. He was starting to feeling a little frayed from jet lag, so what the hell? It would either slay him or fire him up.
Then Grace’s phone rang. It was the antiques expert. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace, I hope this is not a bad time?’ Peregrine Stuart-Simmonds said. ‘Apologies for calling so late, but I’ve been waiting for information for you. It seems as if Eamonn Pollock is messing everyone around in New York.’
‘In what way?’ Grace asked.
‘He has not confirmed any of his appointments. Which means I can’t tell you where he might be going. There’s always a possibility he’s already disposed of the watch to a private buyer.’
‘Great,’ Grace said grimly. As soon as he ended the call he rang Pat Lanigan.
‘We know he’s in his hotel room right now,’ Lanigan said. ‘We could go in and bust him right there.’
‘But if he doesn’t have the watch there, we’ve got nothing on him. We can’t be sure he has it with him – I don’t think I’d entrust something of that value to a hotel safe – I think I’d put it in a bank safety deposit box.’
‘Good point,’ the detective said. ‘What do you want us to do, Roy?’
‘We’ll have to follow him in the morning – I’d be grateful if you could give us everything you can to ensure we don’t lose him.’
‘I’ll speak to Aaron Cobb right away.’
That did not fill Roy Grace with confidence. His drink arrived and he bummed a cigarette off Guy Batchelor, feeling badly in need of one suddenly. It was the first he had smoked in several weeks, and it tasted every damned bit as good as ever.
95
Noah was crying. Amis Smallbone, listening on his headphones, looked at his watch: 11.30 p.m. The little bastard had settled into a routine. It would cry, then its mummy would come with her soothing voice, and there would be twenty minutes of breastfeeding sounds. Followed by three hours of quiet, broken only by the occasional gurgle.
Mummy sounded tired; exhausted. Within minutes of finishing and putting him back in his cot, she would go back to bed and fall asleep.
And he would be ready.
Rain was lashing down and the wind was still rising. It was like an autumn-equinox gale out there, not a late summer’s night, and that could not have suited his purposes better.
His clothes and equipment were laid out. His night-vision goggles were okay, but didn’t give him as much clarity as he had hoped, so he was taking a small torch, in order to see to carry out his handiwork; but that was the only time he intended to switch it on.
He studied the floor plans of the Grace house one more time. Apart from one closet in a different place, the interior was a mirror image of this house he was in now. He had googled several websites to try to see how blind people coped in unfamiliar territory, and he had practised moving around in here, in darkness, every night for the past week. He had done one final practice this evening.
The unknown factors would be pieces of furniture that he might bump into, something left on the floor he might tread on, and the dog, but the goggles should pick those up.
And the dog should not be a problem.
Mummy’d let the dog out onto the little terrace, where it shat and pissed every night. And tonight it had greedily gobbled up the shin of beef, stuffed with enough powdered barbiturate to knock out a horse, which he had dropped from the fire escape in front of its nose. He had done the same last night, too, as a test, but without the barbiturates. The dog had loved it, wolfed it all down, and then looked up at him wanting more.