Dead Man's Time

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archive in the world, and his sister’s extensive library of books on that period, and, of course, the internet, looking for new images. Those faces were ingrained in his mind.
    And seeing Eamonn Pollock now was like looking at a ghost.
    The shapes of the two men were completely different. Mick –
Pegleg
– Pollock was thin and tall; Eamonn, his great-nephew, was pudgy and below average height. But both men
had the same wavy hair, and the same arrogant leer. He was imagining Eamonn Pollock thinner, with his cheeks flattened out and the flesh gone below his chin.
    Or Pegleg fatter.
    Eamonn Pollock was like a Photofit composite.
    He could not take his eyes off him. He sat shaking, his nerves on edge, something tugging at the base of his neck, a roaring in his ears, thinking how much he would like to wipe that smug leer
from the man’s face. Then another figure followed Pollock in.
    For a moment Gavin Daly was convinced his eyes were deceiving him. Or that he was hallucinating from tiredness. He stared in total disbelief at the tall, muscular figure in a suede bomber jacket
and jeans who sauntered in after Pollock, looking around the room in his familiar, arrogant, bully-boy manner.
    ‘Julius, this is my associate,’ Eamonn Pollock said, with clear distaste in his voice. ‘Lucas Daly.’
    Moments later, Gavin Daly felt the tell-tale fire burning in his chest followed by the tightening sensation. He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out the vial, shook a tiny nitroglycerin tablet into
his palm and popped it beneath his tongue. Breathing heavily, shaking with rage and suddenly clammy, he turned the volume up a bit.
    ‘Good to meet you, Mr Daly,’ Rosenblaum said with a frown, and indicated for them to sit at the conference table. ‘Can I offer you gentlemen coffee – or maybe
tea?’
    ‘A coffee would be very pleasant,’ Eamonn Pollock said. Lucas nodded. Rosenblaum went over to his desk, raised his phone and spoke to his secretary, then returned to the conference
table. ‘So, Mr Pollock, I presume you have brought the watch?’
    ‘I have indeed!’ Pollock pushed himself upright, onto his feet, with some effort. Then he unbuckled his belt, which had a small black leather pouch hooped through it, unzipped the
pouch, removed a large wad of cotton wool from it and laid it on the table. Slowly and laboriously, but beaming with greedy anticipation, he unpicked the cotton wool, lifted free the Patek Philippe
watch and placed it in front of them.
    Julius Rosenblaum went over to his desk drawer, removed a magnifying eyepiece and wedged it into his right eye socket. Then he sat down, picked up the watch and began to examine it. ‘Nice
piece, but shame about the condition. Three million you want for this, right?’
    ‘That’s the minimum I – we – would accept.’ Pollock shot a glance at Lucas Daly, who nodded in agreement.
    The New Yorker’s secretary brought in their coffees, set them down, then left. Rosenblaum continued to study the watch in silence. He turned it over, then using a thin-bladed tool he
opened the back, and carefully examined the interior. ‘It’s undoubtedly very beautiful, very rare. I’ve not seen many watches like this in all my life. But I have some issues.
What are you able to tell me about its provenance, Mr Pollock?’
    ‘It belonged to my grandfather,’ Lucas Daly interjected. ‘It was handed to my father in 1922.’
    ‘By my uncle, who came by it illegally and wanted to return it to its rightful owner’s family,’ Pollock added.
    Gavin Daly watched, listening, his fury growing as his angina pains subsided.
    ‘You see, there are a few anomalies,’ Rosenblaum said calmly. ‘I checked with Patek Philippe, who keep records of every watch they ever made. The production date serial number,
049, 351 – oops – apologies – I’m a little dyslexic; I read numbers backwards oftentimes! The serial, 153,940, would indicate a date of 1911 or later. It should be between
149,100 to 150,000 for a manufacturing date of 1910. Do you have an explanation for this?’
    ‘I do, yes,’ Lucas Daly said. ‘I understand it was common practice for top apprentices to make themselves a duplicate at the same time as they worked on a particular timepiece,
secretly of course. I suspect that’s what my father’s watch is. That is the reason the serial number is slightly out.’
    ‘I see,’ Rosenblaum said. ‘But on a watch of this period, every time it was