Dead Man's Time

that’s very generous – incredibly so. But with respect, sir, that is a lot of money.’ Campbell frowned, as if looking at the two men in a different light now.
‘Are you able to give me some kind of assurance there is nothing illegal going on here?’
    ‘Dear boy, I can categorically assure you there’s nothing illegal whatsoever – if there was, I’d be giving you ten times this amount. Happy now?’
    Campbell nodded doubtfully.
    Lucas, standing with a sullen expression, leaned against the windshield support.
    ‘So do you have a specific location, Mr Daly?’
    ‘Manhattan Bridge.’
    ‘Manhattan Bridge? Okay.’
    ‘I’ll give you more details when we get there.’
    ‘You’re the boss.’ Campbell twisted the key in the ignition, firing up the engines. As they burbled, Tommy Lovell untied the mooring ropes.
    For some moments they drifted, free, then with a clunk and a sharp change in pitch of the engines, they began moving forward, the water rustling beneath them. Gavin Daly smelled the tang of salt
and petrol fumes in the air.
    Inside he was jangling.

116
    The Crown Victoria raced along Madison Avenue, weaving through the traffic, siren wailing, then slowed as the traffic ahead was heavy and moving at a crawl. Through the
windscreen, Roy Grace saw a mass of strobing red lights ahead.
    A cruiser was angled across two lanes, and another, a hundred yards further along, was similarly parked. Two further police cruisers were stopped in the middle of the street, and a large,
box-shaped ambulance, its doors shut, was parked against the kerb. Not a good sign that the ambulance was still there, Grace thought. From his experience it meant they were working on the casualty
in situ; something paramedic crews normally did only when a patient was in a critical condition.
    They pulled up alongside the ambulance and he saw yellow and black POLICE LINE – DO NOT CROSS tape blocking off the sidewalk either side of a row of shops. Standing
outside the tape were several NYPD cops. To one side, two men in suits, detectives, Grace presumed, were talking to an elderly, flamboyantly dressed and rather distinguished-looking man, who seemed
in shock.
    Lanigan, Cobb and Grace climbed out of the car, the two New York detectives flashing their badges at a police Captain who came over to them.
    The Captain jerked a finger at the ambulance. ‘Not looking good,’ he said. ‘Femoral artery’s been shot through. The man’s lost a lot of blood; they’re trying
to give him a transfusion before moving him to hospital.’
    ‘Who’s that guy?’ Pat Lanigan asked, pointing at the old man.
    ‘Owner of the premises where the shooting happened.’
    ‘We need to talk to him urgently.’
    ‘Go right ahead.’
    ‘Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen,’ Lanigan said, nodding at the two detectives, who he clearly knew, before addressing the old man. ‘Detective Lanigan and Detective Lieutenant
Cobb, and this is Detective Superintendent Roy Grace from Sussex, England. We believe the perpetrator might be an English gentleman, Gavin Daly.’
    The man’s eyebrows were twitching, and he was shaking. ‘That’s right. He’s normally a – a very – how you say it – calm, nice guy. He went crazy in my
office.’
    ‘And you are, sir?’
    ‘Julius Rosenblaum.’
    ‘Can you give us any idea where Mr Daly might be now?’
    Despite his shaking, Rosenblaum’s voice was calm. ‘My guess would be Manhattan Bridge.’
    ‘Manhattan Bridge?’ Lanigan repeated.
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘On the bridge?’
    Rosenblaum shook his head. ‘No, sir, on the water, somewhere underneath it, or close by. His son’s gone with him.’
    ‘What’s his reason for going to the Manhattan Bridge?’
    ‘He’s looking for his father.’

117
    As they left the marina, Stuart Campbell opened up the throttle. There was a slight chop on the Hudson, and as the boat came up onto the plane, it hit the waves with a jarring
thump-thump-thump. Gavin Daly steadied himself by gripping the seat either side of him with his hands. To his left was a rack of oxygen tanks, a lifebuoy and a small fire extinguisher secured by
two brackets. A sturdy winch handle lay amid a coil of rope close to his feet.
    Ahead of them, the pale-green Statue of Liberty rose high into the sky. Beneath, wound all the way around the grey slab of the concrete base, was a long line of tourists waiting their turn to
take its elevator to the top.
    The further towards the open sea the boat