Dead Man's Time

hideously
scarred face.
    He delved into one of the cartons of stuff he had bought over the internet, and pulled out the black jumpsuit; from another, he removed the night-vision goggles and the hunting knife, its blade
as sharp as a razor. Then he opened the tin of black boot polish and, using a rag, began to smear it carefully across his face, until all that could be seen was the white of his eyes.
    And the hatred burning in them.
    *
    Out in the street below, Cassandra Jones, a website designer who lived directly opposite Cleo Morey’s house in the development, dismounted her Specialized hybrid bike,
after returning from a Sunday night stand-up comedy event at Brighton’s Komedia Club, followed by a few glasses of wine afterwards with some friends.
    She wheeled it up to the entrance, head bowed against the wind and driving rain, feeling a little bit tipsy. Then she tapped in the code, pushed open the gate and, unquestioning, thanked the
stranger standing right behind her, who held it open while she wheeled her bike through.
    The gate clanged shut on its springs, harshly striking the rear wheel of her bike.
    ‘Sorry,’ the tall man behind her said.

93
    Eamonn Pollock, his obese body wrapped in a towelling dressing gown, lay back against the plump pillows on his huge, soft bed in his sumptuous hotel suite. He’d enjoyed a
painful but invigoratingly glorious deep-tissue massage and was now sipping a glass of Bollinger, toasting himself, toasting his cleverness.
    But not feeling quite as contented as he normally did.
    He was not at all happy that he had lost his two
lieutenants
, as he liked to call them, Tony Macario and Ken Barnes. Not happy at all. Trustworthy employees were hard to come by, no
matter how much he paid them, and he had paid them very handsomely indeed.
    Still, he consoled himself, he had much to look forward to. He’d just said goodnight to the lovely Luiza, a twenty-four-year-old Brazilian pole dancer who he could scarcely wait to see
again, in just a few days’ time. And to bury his face between her breasts! He was in his mid-sixties, but life was still full of delicious treats. How nice it was to be rich. But nicer still
to be even richer tomorrow!
    But right now he was looking forward to his supper. He had ordered himself a meal from the room service menu. Beluga caviar, followed by grilled lobster and then a naughty key-lime pie,
something he always treated himself to in this city. And besides, Luiza had told him she loved his tummy.
    And he loved what she could do with her tongue! The thought of it was making him randy.
    Later he might phone for a lady from a particularly fine agency he knew. Or maybe he might just watch a film and go to sleep, ready for a very busy and profitable day ahead. Oh yes, very
profitable indeed!
    He picked up the Patek Philippe pocket watch from its nest of cotton wool on his beside table, and cradled it in his soft, pudgy hands. He stared at the metal casing, which, despite a couple of
dents, still looked as new as it must have done back when it was made. Too bad about the damage: the bent crown and winding arbor, and cracked crystal that pressed against the tapered black moon
hands, stopped at five minutes past four, as they had been for ninety years, and the tiny, motionless double-sunk seconds hand.
    For some moments he studied the moon-phase indicator. Then he read the exquisitely written name on the dial.
Patek Philippe,
Geneve
.
    He was holding a piece of history.
    And something, suddenly, made perfect sense to him. His uncle had not taken it from Brendan Daly moments before he, and the other three, had murdered him, and sent it to little Gavin out of
guilt. He had sent it because of destiny! It was meant to be! He had sent it on a journey, ninety years into the future, into the hands of his nephew who had not yet been born.
    Yes, destiny!
    The doorbell pinged. ‘Coming!’ he called out, like an excited kid. ‘Coming! Coming, coming, coming!’
    He swung his heavy frame off the bed, slipped his feet – which Luiza liked to kiss; especially his toes, despite the fact that one had been amputated because of his diabetes – into
the white hotel slippers. Then he trotted through into the lounge area and across to the door. He checked the spyhole and was happy to see it was the same cheery little waiter who had brought him
up the bottle of champagne earlier. He removed the safety chain and opened the door.
    ‘Good evening, Dr Alvarez, how