Dead Man's Time

since the last phone call he had received earlier from Glenn Branson, telling him that Amis Smallbone had rented the house next door to
Cleo’s. The little scumbag had been the other side of their party wall. With an electronic eavesdropping device. How had he been able to do that? Surely to God his Probation Officer . . .
    But it wasn’t the Probation Officer’s fault. All he – or she – had to do was to check the address was suitable, and that their charge could afford it. They weren’t
to know it was next door to where he was living.
    But . . . shit.
    The night manager, who had already been called and briefed by Pat Lanigan, appeared. ‘How can I assist?’
    Grace showed him his warrant card and asked if he could view the hotel’s CCTV cover of its entrances from 6 p.m. yesterday. He had already noted the cameras at the front and rear of the
hotel, giving both interior and exterior views.
    A few minutes later he was seated in a cramped, airless room behind the hotel’s admin office, in front of a bank of monitors, each numbered and showing different views of parts of the
hotel and of the street. Next to him sat a surly, hugely fat security guard, with expressionless eyes, who looked – and smelled – as if he had been up all night. The man was jiggling a
joystick, moving and zooming remote cameras; he reminded Grace of the time he had been at a homicide conference in Las Vegas and had walked through the casino on his way to breakfast, past rows of
fruit machines, with exhausted people sitting at them who looked like they had been working them all through the night.
    Grace sped through the footage, occasionally slowing it down to check out a face; but he did not see anyone he recognized. Finally he gave up and, relieved to get out of this rancid room,
returned to the lobby, and took a seat that afforded him a clear view of anyone entering or leaving the hotel from this side.
    Moments later, Tony Case rang him. He’d managed to book him on a flight out of Newark at 9 p.m., getting in to Heathrow around 9 a.m. the next day; it also gave him the whole day in New
York, which he was glad of, despite his concerns to get back home to take care of Cleo and Noah.
    The lobby was deserted apart from a woman cleaning, laboriously shifting a yellow slippery floor warning triangle around as she moved. After some minutes, an early-rising businessman strode
hurriedly into the lobby, trundling a small overnight bag on wheels behind him, and went up to the reception desk. Grace only watched him to relieve the monotony; he looked nothing like the images
he had of Eamonn Pollock from his criminal record. And this man was about twenty years younger.
    Ten minutes later a young couple in tracksuits came into the lobby and borrowed the two bicycles by the porter’s desk, wheeling them out into the brightening morning.
    By 8.30 a.m. he was starting to get concerned. Pollock had flown here from Europe, just a few days ago. With the five hours’ – six in Spain – time difference, he would almost
certainly have woken early, as he had done himself. He had, much earlier, asked the hotel security to alert him to any action from Eamonn Pollock’s room, 1406 – in particular any
request for room service or a taxi. The man was going to eat breakfast, or order tea or coffee at the very least, surely?
    A few minutes later, Pat Lanigan entered the lobby dressed in a sports jacket and tie, with a warm smile, accompanied by Aaron Cobb, who had the face of a man with a tooth abscess.
    ‘So how’re we doing, my friend?’ Lanigan asked.
    ‘I’m worried that Pollock’s been too quiet.’
    ‘Maybe he popped a sleeping pill?’ Cobb ventured. ‘People do that to counter jet lag.’
    ‘I don’t care how strong a pill I’d taken. If I was about to make two million pounds – sorry, three million dollars – I don’t think I’d be sleeping in
on a Monday morning,’ Grace retorted.
    Pat Lanigan sauntered over to the front desk, and spoke to the woman behind it. Grace followed him, and saw him flash his NYPD badge. ‘Can you double-check for us that there’s been
no activity from suite 1406 this morning? I’d appreciate your checking with room service, housekeeping, the concierge, anyone else who might take a call from one of your guests.’
    ‘Of course, sir. Give me a few moments.’ She picked up her phone.
    A few minutes later she reported that there had been no requests from suite 1406, and a staff member