Dead Man's Time

repaired, there would be a little mark of who repaired it, with the date and initials. I don’t
see any here. Additionally, a watch like this would have been commissioned, and almost certainly the owner would have had his initials engraved on it. Sometimes, of course, when the watch changes
hands, the initials would be etched out, but that always leaves a trace. I can’t see any trace.’
    ‘This is bullshit!’ Lucas Daly said with rising anger. ‘Maybe it was stolen way back then, by my grandfather, before any initials were engraved. How would I know?’
    Behind the two-way mirror Gavin Daly watched and listened, his brain fogged with fury. Lucas, his son, was sitting there with this fat, sanctimonious, lying shit.
    My uncle came by it illegally and wanted to return it to its rightful owner’s family.
    Oh yes?
    His uncle having murdered the rightful owner.
    And then Eamonn Pollock had murdered Aileen to get it back, and was now trying to sell it. But where the hell did Lucas fit in?
    ‘This may be a dumb question,’ Rosenblaum said, turning to Lucas. ‘With such a valuable piece, why did no one in your family get it repaired?’
    ‘I think they believed it might affect its authenticity,’ Eamonn Pollock replied.
    ‘No,’ Lucas said. ‘It’s very simple. My father – and my aunt – wanted the watch kept exactly as it was the day they got it back. It was the only link they had
with their father, so it had immense sentimental value. It would not have been the same if they’d had it repaired.’
    ‘And how do they feel about you selling this now?’ Rosenblaum asked, staring hard at Lucas.
    ‘Well, sadly, they are both dead now.’ He raised his hands in a gesture of sad despair. ‘The time has come, extremely reluctantly, for the family to sell it.’
    A door burst open behind them. All three turned round to see Gavin Daly, holding his walking stick in one hand, and a black revolver in the other. ‘I’m dead, am I, Lucas? I will be
dead one day, all in good time, you’ll be pleased to know.’
    He aimed the gun, with a shaky hand, at Eamonn Pollock. ‘But this bastard will be dead first.’

109
    Detective Lieutenant Aaron Cobb threaded the grimy, brown Crown Victoria through the heavy Fifth Avenue traffic, siren wailing, lights flashing, heading downtown. He cussed at
everything in his way, especially the bicycle rickshaws for which he seemed to reserve particular venom.
    Pat Lanigan rode up front beside him, while Roy Grace sat in the back, which smelled of feet and rancid kebab, trying to call Cleo, but both her home and mobile numbers went straight to
voicemail, indicating she was probably on both phones. He looked at his watch. It was 10.20 a.m.; 3.20 p.m. in Brighton.
    ‘Next on our list coming up, Roy,’ Lanigan announced.
    Cobb pulled the car up alongside the Flatiron, one of Grace’s favourite buildings in the city, and stayed behind the wheel as Lanigan and Grace jumped out and hurried over to the entrance
of a small shop. The name was displayed, above the window, in olde worlde script,
The Seconds Hand
. Beneath, in smaller lettering, was inscribed,
Fine watches bought and sold.
The
window contained a display of Rolex, Patek Philippe and Omega wristwatches, among the classic brands Grace recognized.
    The door was locked, and there was a discreet bell beside it. Lanigan pressed it, and moments later, the two detectives heard a sharp click from the latch. They entered a space that looked
considerably bigger than the exterior suggested, and which smelled pleasantly of old leather.
    Roy Grace had always liked watches, although most of the ones he fancied were way out of his price range. There were floor-to-ceiling display cabinets, divided into sections by brand, and more
free-standing, glass-topped cabinets around the floor. Without peering too closely, in the one nearest him he could see handwritten price tags that ended in long rows of noughts.
    A man in his late sixties rose from behind a desk at the far end of the showroom. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. May I help you?’ He spoke with a warm, cultured voice, in very slightly
broken English, and exuded courtly, old-world charm.
    Pat Lanigan held up his NYPD badge. ‘I’m looking for Mr Turkkan? Mr Attila Turkkan?’
    ‘You have found him!’
    ‘Detective Lanigan, I called you a little earlier; said we’d be over.’
    ‘This is a good moment, gentlemen – as you can see, we are quiet this morning.’ He was dressed