The door was locked, and there was a discreet bell beside it. Lanigan pressed it, and moments later, the two detectives heard a sharp click from the latch. They entered a space that looked considerably bigger than the exterior suggested, and which smelled pleasantly of old leather.
Roy Grace had always liked watches, although most of the ones he fancied were way out of his price range. There were floor-to-ceiling display cabinets, divided into sections by brand, and more free-standing, glass-topped cabinets around the floor. Without peering too closely, in the one nearest him he could see handwritten price tags that ended in long rows of noughts.
A man in his late sixties rose from behind a desk at the far end of the showroom. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. May I help you?’ He spoke with a warm, cultured voice, in very slightly broken English, and exuded courtly, old-world charm.
Pat Lanigan held up his NYPD badge. ‘I’m looking for Mr Turkkan? Mr Attila Turkkan?’
‘You have found him!’
‘Detective Lanigan, I called you a little earlier; said we’d be over.’
‘This is a good moment, gentlemen – as you can see, we are quiet this morning.’ He was dressed for this warm day in a navy and white striped seersucker jacket, a white shirt and an elegant navy and white silk tie, and he carried himself well, with fine posture. His short, silver hair, elegantly cut, was receding at the front, and he had a thin, neatly trimmed moustache, giving him, Grace thought, rather the air of a ladies’ man. He reminded him of the actor Omar Sharif.
‘My associate here, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace, is from Sussex Police in England,’ Pat Lanigan said. ‘The NYPD are helping his team on a case involving a rare pocket watch of high value that’s been stolen.’
Attila Turkkan frowned, and Grace thought the man looked genuinely hurt. ‘Gentlemen, I have been in this business for forty-one years, and to my absolute certainty I have never handled a stolen watch.’
‘We’re here to ask you for help,’ Roy Grace said. ‘That’s all. Not to accuse you of anything.’ He blinked. There was a bright ceiling light with an angled beam striking his face, hurting his tired eyes, and he stepped a couple of feet to the right to get away from it.
The watch dealer looked a little relieved, but was still not comfortable. ‘Can I offer you gentlemen some Turkish coffee?’
‘I’m afraid we don’t have time,’ Lanigan said.
‘Before I buy any watch, I have to be one hundred per cent sure of its provenance. One hundred per cent, you understand?’ A phone started ringing on this desk, but he ignored it.
‘That’s how you build a reputation,’ Lanigan said. ‘Absolutely!’
‘Precisely. I am known the world over. I pay the best prices; I have the best watches – everyone trusts me. So, tell me about this pocket watch that you are concerned with?’
‘It’s a 1910 Patek Philippe.’
He nodded. ‘There is already an alert out on the wire about this watch, I think. No respectable dealer is going to touch it.’
‘That’s our problem, Mr Turkkan,’ Roy Grace said. ‘The man we believe has the watch is called Eamonn Pollock, although he uses a number of aliases.’ He pulled out a photograph and showed it to the dealer. ‘Do you recognize him?’
Turkkan studied it for some moments, while Grace watched his eyes. Then the dealer shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, no, I’ve never seen him before.’
He was telling the truth.
‘I presume there are people in this city who would be less scrupulous than yourself if offered a valuable timepiece?’ Grace continued.
Turkkan laughed. ‘Some indeed, oh yes, I have no doubt, but I do not know any of these people.’
‘Not even by reputation?’ Roy Grace asked.
‘It is not my world,’ he said. ‘Not – how do you phrase it in this modern jargon – not the space I inhabit?’ He grinned, and Grace saw a flash of gold among his teeth. ‘I can’t help you gentlemen. I am so sorry, please believe me.’ He looked at Pat. ‘If you give me your phone number, and this Mr Pollip walks in here, I’ll call you instantly and with pleasure.’
Lanigan produced a business card and handed it to him. ‘Any time, day or night.’
*
Back in the car, Roy Grace crossed out the circle on the map that had been drawn around The Seconds Hand. It was the third watch dealer they had crossed out in the past forty minutes, from a long list of dealers, some totally legit, others less so, that had been compiled by Peregrine Stuart-Simmonds in England, and by two officers from the Major Case Squad here in New York.
Guy Batchelor and Jack Alexander were in separate cars, with detectives Keith Johnson and Linda Blankson working their way through other dealers in the New York boroughs. Grace was about to call and check in with them, when his phone rang. It was Cleo.
‘Darling, Humphrey won’t wake up,’ she said, sounding scared.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s half past three in the afternoon here, and he’s been fast asleep in his basket all day. I’m really worried about him.’
Humphrey was always awake before either of them, pulling at the duvet if they’d left the bedroom door open. He would never sleep this long. One possibility was that the dog was sick. But he had always been a believer in applying Occam’s razor: that the most likely explanation was usually the correct one. Someone had tried to break into the house last night. Now the dog was fast asleep, hours after he would normally have woken up. It was likely the two were linked.
‘Is Humphrey breathing okay?’
‘He’s snoring.’
‘Darling, this might be very important. Is there any way you could take him to the vet?’
‘Sure, and leave Noah to mind the house?’
‘Yep, teach him to use the vacuum cleaner and washing machine! Look, I’m serious, Humphrey could have been drugged – but we’d need some tests done before the stuff leaves his system. If it’s difficult, I’ll see if I can get a police dog handler to take him.’
‘That would be helpful.’
‘Okay, leave it with me. I’ll get back to you.’
‘You’ll be home in the morning.’
‘Absolutely. My flight’s booked.’
‘I’m really scared.’
‘You needn’t be, darling. I’ve got the patrols stepped up around the house, and a scene guard on the gates. Has the FLO arrived?’
‘Yes, a lovely lady called Linda Buckley.’
‘Good, you’ll be fine now. How’s Noah?’ His phone was beeping.
‘Noah’s fine. He’s pooing for England.’
He grinned. His phone continued beeping. ‘I’ve got another call. Love you.’
‘Love you, too.’
He switched to the incoming call.
It was Glenn Branson at the mortuary, where he was attending Amis Smallbone’s post-mortem. ‘I’ve got some fast-time developments, Roy. Alec Davies, right? He’s bright; you’re right about him.’
DC Alec Davies was a young officer Grace had recruited to his team a few months back, a young, extremely keen detective who he felt certain had a great future. ‘Tell me all.’
‘He just happened to notice a serial about a firm of estate agents, Rand and Co., who were broken into on Saturday night. They’re the ones that handle Cleo’s next-door neighbour’s house. He checked with them and found that there was only one thing stolen – ready for this?’
‘Ready.’
‘The spare keys to the house – Chez Amis Smallbone.’
‘Any idea by whom, or for what reason?’
‘There’s more. SOCO found shoeprints at Rand and Co., and I’ve just had an analysis done by Haydn Kelly, comparing them to shoeprints found at Smallbone’s. They’re an exact match.’
Grace thought hard for some moments as he absorbed this. ‘So, if Haydn Kelly’s right, the implication is that someone helped themselves to a set of keys to Amis Smallbone’s house, and then let themselves in. On the same night that Smallbone fell from the roof?’