Dead Man's Time

Street. On the way Grace called Cleo. It was late in Brighton, and she was sounding sleepy,
but pleased to hear from him. Noah was fine, she reported, and he’d been good all day and was now asleep. But, and she was really excited to tell him this, she had seen a house that she loved
– and her parents had really liked it too. It was slightly above their price range, but her parents had offered to help them, if they wanted to buy it. The estate agents were going to email
the particulars to her in the morning, and she’d send them on to him. It was a cottage, with an acre of land, and surrounded by farmland. ‘And,’ she added in her excitement,
‘there was a hen run!’
    Grace, for reasons he could not explain, had always had a desire to own chickens. He had been born and brought up a townie, in Brighton, but there was something that appealed to him about going
out in the morning and collecting his own eggs for breakfast. But, more seriously, from the tone of her voice, he knew Cleo had found the house she wanted to live in, and that really excited
him.
    ‘Can’t wait to see it!’ he replied.
    ‘You’ll love it, I promise!’
    ‘Is there anyone else interested?’
    ‘The agents said there is a young couple going back for a second viewing on Tuesday. When do you think you might be back?’
    ‘I don’t know, darling. Later this week, I hope.’
    ‘Please try!’
    ‘I’m missing you both like crazy! Give Noah a kiss and tell him his daddy is missing him.’
    ‘I will!’
    He ended the call, then looked at his watch again. He had been expecting to hear from Peregrine Stuart-Simmonds, to find out which dealers were expecting Eamonn Pollock in the morning, but it
was too late now. It wasn’t good news that the man hadn’t called.
    Five minutes later, as they entered the front door of the club, into the rich aroma of cigar smoke, Roy Grace felt instant nostalgia. This was how bars used to smell, and he loved it. There was
a long bar, with two men seated on stools, drinks in front of them, smoking large cigars, watching a ball game on a gigantic television screen. All around the room, which had the air of a
gentleman’s club, were leather sofas and chairs, some occupied by people smoking cigars or cigarettes, some vacant.
    A cheery, attractive waitress, who gave Jack Alexander a particularly flirty smile, showed them to a corner table, then fetched them the drinks menu. Grace glanced at it, and decided on a
Manhattan, a drink he had got smashed on one night with Pat Lanigan, last time he was here. He was starting to feeling a little frayed from jet lag, so what the hell? It would either slay him or
fire him up.
    Then Grace’s phone rang. It was the antiques expert. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace, I hope this is not a bad time?’ Peregrine Stuart-Simmonds said. ‘Apologies for
calling so late, but I’ve been waiting for information for you. It seems as if Eamonn Pollock is messing everyone around in New York.’
    ‘In what way?’ Grace asked.
    ‘He has not confirmed any of his appointments. Which means I can’t tell you where he might be going. There’s always a possibility he’s already disposed of the watch to a
private buyer.’
    ‘Great,’ Grace said grimly. As soon as he ended the call he rang Pat Lanigan.
    ‘We know he’s in his hotel room right now,’ Lanigan said. ‘We could go in and bust him right there.’
    ‘But if he doesn’t have the watch there, we’ve got nothing on him. We can’t be sure he has it with him – I don’t think I’d entrust something of that
value to a hotel safe – I think I’d put it in a bank safety deposit box.’
    ‘Good point,’ the detective said. ‘What do you want us to do, Roy?’
    ‘We’ll have to follow him in the morning – I’d be grateful if you could give us everything you can to ensure we don’t lose him.’
    ‘I’ll speak to Aaron Cobb right away.’
    That did not fill Roy Grace with confidence. His drink arrived and he bummed a cigarette off Guy Batchelor, feeling badly in need of one suddenly. It was the first he had smoked in several
weeks, and it tasted every damned bit as good as ever.

95
    Noah was crying. Amis Smallbone, listening on his headphones, looked at his watch: 11.30 p.m. The little bastard had settled into a routine. It would cry, then its mummy would
come with her soothing voice, and there would be twenty minutes of breastfeeding sounds. Followed by three hours of quiet, broken only by