Dead Man's Time

Ruth had been a health fanatic – all salads and fish and just the occasional glass of wine at celebrations;
yoga every day; tennis; cycling. But she hadn’t made old bones. At least he had outlived the bitch Sinead. And he would go to his grave knowing she wasn’t around to dance on it.
Although bloody Lucas would be.
    And he did not like that thought.
    He fiddled with the air-conditioning control, wrestled his way into a bathrobe, turned his attention to the huge parcel with the FedEx label and the customs stamp, addressed in his own
handwriting to a New York antique watch and clock dealer. It had been brought to him at the hotel last night by its recipient, Jordan Rochester, another very old friend in this city. Rochester had
kindly booked the room in his own name, and used his credit card. Gavin Daly did not want anyone finding him in New York. And particularly not Detective Superintendent Grace, or any of his New York
Police Department associates. Not until he had finished his business here.
    As a precaution, he hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign outside the door and engaged the security lock. Then he put the teabags into the pot, and while he waited for them to
steep, he removed his tools from his suitcase, and began to open the package.
    Ten minutes later, he took a sip of his tea, then gently lifted the Ingraham chiming mantel clock from its nest of shredded paper, which lay inside the polystyrene outer casing he had fashioned
for it a fortnight ago.
    Carefully he removed the round, brass gong from inside the clock’s casing. Then even more carefully still, he opened up the two halves of the gong.
    And smiled for the first time since his plane had landed.

89
    The yellow cab was crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. It was a fine, cloudless morning; Roy Grace, squashed in the cramped rear alongside Jack Alexander and Guy Batchelor, stared
out at the sparkling water of the East River. He was all too mindful that it had been less than a mile from here where the horrors of the 9/11 World Trade Center attack had taken place – and
that Pat Lanigan had lost a cousin in it.
    A short time later the driver, who spoke only mumbling English, pulled over. Grace recognized, from his last visit here, the Brooklyn police HQ office building, housing the Mafia-busting team to
which Lanigan was currently assigned. To their left, across the street, was a square slab of a building with a yellow sign on which was written BARCLAY SCHOOL SUPPLIES , and
in front of it was an open elevator-system car park that looked like a giant Meccano construction.
    They clambered out, paid the driver, then entered the modern skyscraper, and gave their names to the security guard. A couple of minutes later, holding their visitor passes, they waited as the
lift stopped on the tenth floor.
    Pat Lanigan, wearing a yellow polo shirt, cream chinos and trainers, greeted them cheerily; Grace was relieved, from past experiences with Lanigan, that he’d chosen to dress casually
today, as had his two colleagues.
    The detective led them through a door with an NYPD shield and combination lock, and along a labyrinth of carpeted corridors, through an open-plan office full of empty cubicles with high-sided
partitions. Each little space had a clean waste bin with a neat bin bag and clinically tidy desk. They passed a Stars and Stripes flag with the wording FLAG OF HONOR pinned
to a wall, followed by a black and white map of Brooklyn, gridded and numbered, and all the other boroughs of New York beyond it.
    Then they passed a wall chart, on which was a family tree, headed COLOMBO CRIME FAMILY – PERSICO FACTION . Beneath were interconnected boxes headed BOSS, ACTING BOSS, CONSIGLIERE, CAPOREGIME, SOLDIERS OF INTEREST, ASSOCIATES OF INTEREST .
    Grace stared at it intently for some moments, then followed his colleagues into Lanigan’s office.
    It was laid out in a similar manner to his own, Grace noted. There was a round conference table, a small, cluttered desk laden with piles of documents, a mug full of pens, as well as his
computer keyboard, screen, car keys, a photograph of his wife, and a trio of flags. On the wall above it was a photograph of the aircraft carrier on which Lanigan had served in the US Navy, and
several group photographs of himself and fellow ratings, and a large, colourful banner proclaiming in bold lettering, DEFENDING FREEDOM.
    Lanigan sat them down at the table, and offered them coffee. A few minutes later they were joined by the