Grace sped through the footage, occasionally slowing it down to check out a face; but he did not see anyone he recognized. Finally he gave up and, relieved to get out of this rancid room, returned to the lobby, and took a seat that afforded him a clear view of anyone entering or leaving the hotel from this side.
Moments later, Tony Case rang him. He’d managed to book him on a flight out of Newark at 9 p.m., getting in to Heathrow around 9 a.m. the next day; it also gave him the whole day in New York, which he was glad of, despite his concerns to get back home to take care of Cleo and Noah.
The lobby was deserted apart from a woman cleaning, laboriously shifting a yellow slippery floor warning triangle around as she moved. After some minutes, an early-rising businessman strode hurriedly into the lobby, trundling a small overnight bag on wheels behind him, and went up to the reception desk. Grace only watched him to relieve the monotony; he looked nothing like the images he had of Eamonn Pollock from his criminal record. And this man was about twenty years younger.
Ten minutes later a young couple in tracksuits came into the lobby and borrowed the two bicycles by the porter’s desk, wheeling them out into the brightening morning.
By 8.30 a.m. he was starting to get concerned. Pollock had flown here from Europe, just a few days ago. With the five hours’ – six in Spain – time difference, he would almost certainly have woken early, as he had done himself. He had, much earlier, asked the hotel security to alert him to any action from Eamonn Pollock’s room, 1406 – in particular any request for room service or a taxi. The man was going to eat breakfast, or order tea or coffee at the very least, surely?
A few minutes later, Pat Lanigan entered the lobby dressed in a sports jacket and tie, with a warm smile, accompanied by Aaron Cobb, who had the face of a man with a tooth abscess.
‘So how’re we doing, my friend?’ Lanigan asked.
‘I’m worried that Pollock’s been too quiet.’
‘Maybe he popped a sleeping pill?’ Cobb ventured. ‘People do that to counter jet lag.’
‘I don’t care how strong a pill I’d taken. If I was about to make two million pounds – sorry, three million dollars – I don’t think I’d be sleeping in on a Monday morning,’ Grace retorted.
Pat Lanigan sauntered over to the front desk, and spoke to the woman behind it. Grace followed him, and saw him flash his NYPD badge. ‘Can you double-check for us that there’s been no activity from suite 1406 this morning? I’d appreciate your checking with room service, housekeeping, the concierge, anyone else who might take a call from one of your guests.’
‘Of course, sir. Give me a few moments.’ She picked up her phone.
A few minutes later she reported that there had been no requests from suite 1406, and a staff member she had sent up there had reported there was a DO NOT DISTURB sign hung on the door.
By 9.10, Roy Grace had a bad feeling. ‘I think we should have someone go in,’ he said to Lanigan. ‘We need to know he’s still there.’
The detective agreed and spoke to the front desk again, this time formally commandeering the hotel’s manager.
Five minutes later Grace, Lanigan and the manager, an elegant woman in her late-forties, rode the elevator up to the fourteenth floor, then walked along the maze of corridors. The DO NOT DISTURB sign hung on the handle, along with a black bag containing today’s New York Times.
The manager rapped hard on the door, waited several seconds, then rapped again. Then she rang the number on her phone. Through the door they could hear the warbling of an unanswered phone. Grace’s heart was sinking.
Finally, she opened it with her pass key, calling out a cautious, ‘Hello, Dr Alvarez? Hello? Good morning!’
Silence greeted them.
A silent room with two sofas, and a dining table on which sat a solitary empty champagne glass.
Grace and Lanigan followed her through into the bedroom. The bed was unmade, the television on, the sound muted, a white towelling dressing gown lay on the floor. Those were the only clues that the suite had ever been inhabited. Its occupant had gone, along with his luggage and toiletries, as the empty bathroom confirmed.
106
The rather tired black Lincoln Town Car the hotel had procured for Gavin Daly pulled up on Madison Avenue, close to a Panerai watch dealership, he noticed. The driver jumped out and opened the door for him, and pointed at the number on the door.
‘Excellent,’ Daly said, jamming the tip of his walking stick onto the sidewalk, then levering himself out of the limousine, into the hot sunshine. As he stood upright he was conscious of the heavy weight in his trouser pocket. He was tired and jet-lagged, and had slept badly, but was running on adrenalin. ‘You’ll wait for me here?’
‘Yes, sir. If I’m not here when you come out, just wait right here – I may have to go around the block if I get moved on.’
‘Of course.’
‘An hour, you think?’
‘An hour, give or take. Thank you.’ He stifled a yawn.
‘A pleasure, sir. I’ll be right here, sir!’
Gavin Daly had arrived early, as Julius Rosenblaum had advised. It was 9.45 a.m. and Eamonn Pollock’s appointment with the rogue dealer was for 10.30. He made his way to the doorway sandwiched between two smart shops, and studied the names on the bell panel. Then he pushed the bell for J. R. Nautical Antiquities, conscious of the camera lens above it.
Moments later he heard Rosenblaum’s voice. ‘Come on in, Gavin. Take the elevator to the third floor.’
‘I remember!’ he replied. And he did, very clearly, although it had been ten years, at least, since his last visit here.
It was a tiny, old-fashioned lift, with a sliding metal gate. He pressed the button and ascended to the third floor. A few moments later it jerked to a halt. He opened the door and stepped out into a narrow corridor; the door directly in front of him had a spyhole and bore the name, in gilded lettering, J. ROSENBLAUM NAUTICAL ANTIQUITIES.
Almost immediately it opened and one of his oldest and best customers stood there, beaming, tall and erect, with a military posture Daly had always admired.
Well into his eighties, with finely coiffed white hair and smelling of strong cologne, Julius Rosenblaum looked distinguished, if a little flash and raffish. He had a hooked, Semitic nose, hooded eyes, and a rich, full smile. He was dressed immaculately in a three-piece chalk-striped suit and a flamboyant tie, and wore an extremely ornate and showy Vacherin Constantin watch on his wrist.
‘So good to see you, Gavin!’ He looked him up and down. ‘You look terrific, wow! You haven’t changed, you know!’
‘Nor you!’
‘Come on in. We’ve time for a coffee, and we have a lot to catch up on.’
Daly entered, stepping onto plush eau de nil carpeting so deep his feet sank into it. Recessed showcases lined the hallway, displaying ship’s clocks, a nautical hourglass with a brass top embossed with the wording ROYAL NAVY, and a mounted ship’s bell. He followed Rosenblaum into a small room with an antique Georgian table that served as a reception desk. An elegant, elderly woman sat behind it, typing on a keyboard; a pile of antiques magazines lay beside her.
‘Marjorie, you remember Gavin Daly from England?’
‘Indeed I do!’ She smiled at him.
‘Would you bring us some coffee, please?’
Then they went into his office. It was furnished with a circular conference table and a large desk, with two leather-covered chairs for visitors on one side, and a large, black leather chair with buttoned cushioning behind it. The walls were lined with fine oil paintings, and the room had the aura of a museum. Daylight entered through a large, frosted glass window. It was quiet in here, well insulated from the traffic down in the street below.