Dead Man's Time

fourth, or maybe
fifth, or perhaps their sixth circuit of the carousel. He held his phone in front of him, waiting equally forlornly for a text back. He was missing Cleo and Noah already, badly.
    Then the carousel stopped.
    ‘Shit!’ he said.
    ‘Happened to Lena and me last year,’ Guy Batchelor said. ‘We went on holiday to Turkey. Didn’t get my suitcase for three days.’
    ‘Thanks, Guy,’ he said. ‘That’s cheered me up no end.’ It was 5 p.m. New York time, 10 p.m. in England. The three of them had sat side by side on the flight,
discussing strategy for some time, before relaxing after their meal. Guy Batchelor and Jack Alexander had put on their headsets and watched a movie, but Grace had been too wired to watch a film or
sleep. Instead he had been feeling bad about leaving Cleo, which was distracting him from focusing on the task ahead. Now he felt ragged.
    Wearily he trudged over to the British Airways baggage office, joined a short queue, then presented his baggage stub. The man behind the desk tapped the details into his computer then gave him
the news he really did not want to hear. ‘Sorry, it’s not showing up.’
    ‘Terrific.’
    His phone pinged with an incoming text. Great! Now get the next flight home. Noah and I are missing you. X
    No sodding suitcase , he texted back.
    Ha! Poetic justice! XX
    He grinned and texted, Call you when I get to hotel. Love you. XXXXXX
    Moments later he got a reply. Love you too, but I don’t know why. XXXXXXXX
    ‘The best thing would be, sir, if you phoned us around 8 p.m. after the next UK flight has come in.’
    ‘Actually,’ Roy Grace said, ‘the best thing would be if you phoned me and told me you had my sodding suitcase.’
    *
    Roy Grace’s mood, already lifted by Cleo’s text, improved further as the trio entered the arrivals hall and he saw the smiling figure of Detective Pat Lanigan.
    Lanigan was a tall, imposing character in his mid-fifties, with broad shoulders and a powerful physique. He had a ruggedly good-looking, pockmarked face, a greying brush-cut, and was wearing a
checked sports jacket over a polo shirt, jeans and workman’s boots. He was the kind of cop few people would choose to pick a fight with. He greeted Grace with a bear hug, then looking at his
attaché case quizzed him on why he was travelling so light.
    ‘Don’t ask!’ Grace responded, introducing him to his colleagues.
    ‘I’ll go sort them out, don’t you worry!’ he said in his nasally Brooklyn accent. Pulling out his police badge, Lanigan strode in through the exit doors and was gone ten
minutes. He emerged with a triumphant smile. ‘It’ll be at your hotel by ten o’clock.’
    ‘You’re a star!’ Grace was instantly feeling more confident about his mission.
    ‘Not a problem. I just explained to the baggage guy, the Chief of Police of England doesn’t want to have his bag lost. Sorted.’ He pinched Roy Grace’s face.
    ‘How’s Francene?’ Grace asked.
    ‘Francene’s great! If we get time, she’d love to see you. So, you’re a daddy now! Hey, you, congratulations!’
    Roy Grace had always sworn he would never be one of those fathers who carried pictures of their babies in their wallets, but he dug his hand into his jacket pocket, and proudly drew out a
photograph of Noah and showed it to the New Yorker.
    ‘He’s a good-looking fella! Going to be a tough guy, like his dad, I’d say. Can see a lot of you in him!’
    Guy Batchelor and Jack Alexander looked at the photograph, too, and Roy Grace felt a sudden, intense moment of pride. His child, his and Cleo’s! Their son! He was a part of him, that tiny
little pudgy-faced character they were all looking at.
    *
    Pat Lanigan’s private car, a Honda sports utility, was parked right outside, with an ON NYPD BUSINESS card displayed in the windscreen.
    Five minutes later they were on the freeway heading towards Manhattan. ‘Figured you guys would like an early night. We’ll start in earnest tomorrow, 9 a.m. at my office. Anything you
need, you tell me. I’ve got the antiques experts from the Major Case Squad working the streets. They have sources in New York City from auction houses and confidential informants. I’ve
also got a detective coming along who’s not assigned to this squad, but has connections in this field. Keith Johnson, you’ll like him.’
    Addressing the two detectives in the back, he asked, ‘Either of you been to New York?’
    ‘Yes, several times,’ Guy