Dead Man's Time

him a solemn nod.
    He strode along 42nd Street in the darkness for some while, then broke into a jog, turned right and headed up towards Central Park. The traffic was light; just an occasional car or taxi drove
past. The sidewalks were deserted. He did not bother stopping at red lights, but just carried on crossing street after street, until he reached the Plaza, where he turned left.
    A few minutes later he reached the front entrance of the Marriott Essex House Hotel. He carried on past it, turned left on Seventh Avenue, then left again onto 56th Street and stopped when he
reached the rear entrance to the hotel. He tried the door, and to his slight surprise, it opened. He walked down a long corridor, lined with window displays of expensive-looking clothes and
jewellery, then reached a bank of elevators.
    An alert man-mountain stood guard, eyeing him with curiosity. Next to him, seated on chairs and both fast asleep, were two uniformed cops.
    Quietly, not wanting to wake them, Grace showed the guard his UK police warrant card. ‘These guys on watch for Eamonn Pollock, suite 1406?’
    ‘Yeah.’ He grinned. ‘Not much stamina, right?’
    Grace raised his iPhone, took a photograph of them, then emailed it to Pat Lanigan with a terse note.
    ‘How many entrances and exits do you have here?’ he asked the security guard.
    ‘Two this floor. Two down below. Then we have the fire escapes.’ He thought for a moment, then said, ‘Six of them.’
    Ten exits, Grace thought. Two cops covering them – both of whom were asleep. How great was that?
    ‘Can you show me them?’ he asked.
    ‘Sorry, boss, not allowed to leave this station.’
    ‘Mind if I help myself?’
    ‘Be my guest.’

102
    Back in his hotel room, shortly after 4 a.m., Roy Grace suddenly felt dog-tired. He undressed and climbed back into bed, and set his alarm for half an hour’s time. Almost
instantly he fell asleep, only to be woken, what seemed like seconds later, by his phone ringing.
    It was Glenn Branson. ‘Yo, old timer, you awake?’
    ‘I wasn’t but I am now. What’s happening?’ he said, checking the time. It was 4.20 a.m; 9.20 a.m. in Brighton, he calculated.
    ‘Quite a lot while you’ve been zizzing away.’
    ‘Tell me.’
    ‘Well, I can’t be sure, but it looks like someone might have been trying to break into your house last night.’
    ‘Which house?’
    ‘Cleo’s.’
    Grace sat bolt upright, fear surging through him. ‘What do you mean? What happened?’
    ‘I’m standing outside the house right now. We’ve got a dead body – looks like he fell from the roof. Got his face blackened; he’s all kitted out in black, with
night-vision goggles, and a whole set of house-breaking tools on him.’ Glenn deliberately omitted the barber’s razor, not wanting to worry his friend further.
    Grace felt sudden deep dread grip him. ‘Is Cleo okay? Have you checked on her and Noah?’
    ‘They’re fine.’
    ‘Fell from the roof? Do you have an ID on him?’
    ‘Not yet. He’s not carrying a wallet or any other ID.’
    ‘He’s definitely dead?’
    ‘Certified by the paramedic. The Coroner’s Officer’s just arrived.’
    ‘Why do you think he might have been trying to break in, Glenn?’
    ‘He’s six feet in front of her house. If he isn’t a burglar, then he’s come from a fancy-dress party dressed as one.’
    ‘I need to speak to Cleo,’ Grace said. ‘I’ll bell you back.’
    His finger shaking, he dialled Cleo’s house phone, but it was busy. He tried her mobile but that went straight to voicemail. He redialled the house number and finally she answered,
sounding terrible.
    ‘I was trying to call you,’ she said. ‘It must have been the noise I heard last night – when the television went all fuzzy – someone sliding down the roof. What was
he doing up there on our roof, Roy? What the hell was someone doing on our roof?’
    His phone was beeping.
Caller waiting
was flashing on his display. ‘Darling, hold one sec, okay? I’m just putting you on hold, in case this is urgent.’
    It was Glenn Branson. ‘Roy, the Coroner’s Officer, Philip Keay, says he recognizes the dead man from some years back. I’m not sure you’re going to like this much –
it’s Amis Smallbone.’
    Sitting on the edge of his bed, the news was almost surreal. It took a moment for it to sink in. ‘Amis Smallbone? Is he sure?’
    ‘Yes, absolutely certain.’
    ‘I’ll call you back in a minute.’ He switched to Cleo.