Dead Man's Time

three detectives he had organized for them today, all, to Roy’s dismay, dressed
sharply in business attire.
    Detective Specialist Keith Johnson, a solidly built man in his late-forties, with a trim beard and moustache, and a no-nonsense air about him, wore a beige suit and a dark-brown tie. Detective
Linda Blankson, who Grace put in her late-thirties, had Latino looks and a catwalk figure, with sleek brown hair framing a severe but not unattractive face. She was power-dressed in a black trouser
suit and white blouse, and concentrating on typing out a text or email on her phone.
    The least amicable of the three was Detective Lieutenant Aaron Cobb, in his mid-thirties, with close-cropped hair brushed forward that reminded Grace of the actor Ryan Gosling. He shook hands
cursorily with each of the British detectives, then sat down at the table, chewing gum, with the resigned air of a man who was less than happy about being here on a Sunday morning.
    Lanigan began the meeting by asking Roy Grace to detail the history of the circumstances that had brought him and his colleagues over here. When Grace had finished, Detective Lieutenant Cobb
asked the first question, in a voice that was even more deeply Brooklyn than Lanigan’s.
    ‘We’re very happy to help you out but why do you guys need to be here?’ He stared pointedly at Grace, chewing his gum hard. ‘Like, you’ve given us the information.
Feels to me you don’t trust us to do the job.’ He dug his finger into his right ear and began an excavation of its interior.
    ‘That’s not the case at all, Detective Lieutenant,’ Grace said. ‘We’re here to advise and assist you, and I think we may have information helpful to you.’
Although Lanigan was the eldest, he was unsure from the way US detectives did their rankings who was the most senior officer here.
    ‘I don’t see it.’ Cobb looked down at his notes. ‘Eamonn Pollock, Gavin Daly, Lucas Daly. We have their descriptions. We’ll find ’em.’
    Grace caught Pat Lanigan’s eye and saw his apologetic look. ‘Pollock is the only one who is an actual suspect at this point, with respect, Detective Lieutenant,’ Grace said.
‘I believe Gavin Daly and his son Lucas are here with criminal intent. Their motives and their relationship are all very complex. In my view we should be here to help you to understand what
is likely to happen. We need to tread carefully if we want to arrest them.’
    ‘Sir, out of interest, why do you think we could not do that by ourselves?’ asked Detective Specialist Keith Johnson. He spoke with a strong, clear Midwestern voice.
    ‘I’m not saying you couldn’t,’ Grace replied. ‘But in my opinion there is much more going on than simply the recovery of a stolen watch, and the arresting of the
perpetrators. I have a hunch about what is going to happen.’
    ‘I’m intrigued!’ said Detective Linda Blankson, abruptly but pleasantly.
    ‘So where do we start?’ Keith Johnson asked.
    ‘By finding Eamonn Pollock, Gavin Daly and Lucas Daly,’ Grace replied. ‘Without them knowing.’

90
    Sunday lunch. He could smell it cooking somewhere, in one of the neighbouring houses. That’s what most people would be having now, Amis Smallbone thought, bitterly. 1.30
on a Sunday. Families sitting down to a roast. He’d done that every Sunday of his childhood. Roast beef or pork or lamb or chicken. He’d maintained the tradition until he got married to
Christine – Chrissie. What a bitch.
    He drank some more whisky, feeling a little drunk, but not in a pleasant way. Building up Dutch courage too early in the day.
    He and Chrissie, Tom and Megan. That was how it had been, once. She’d was a good cook, Chrissie. He’d give her that, but she was crap in bed. Always blaming him. Taunting him about
his manhood. She hadn’t minded it when they’d first started shagging – told him she liked it; didn’t like men with big dicks because they hurt her. In their divorce
she’d got custody of the kids, and buggered off to Australia with them. Melbourne. Maybe he shouldn’t have hit her all those times, but she’d deserved it. And screw it, what did
it matter now?
    What did it matter he hadn’t seen or heard from his kids for over twenty years? Good sodding luck to them.
    After Chrissie, a long, long time after, he’d met Theresa. The true love of his life. What they had between them was something very special indeed. He’d proposed to her, telling her
he wanted