Dead Man's Time

into the distance at New York.
    His father was there, somewhere. In a place he did not want to be. The place where the bad men had taken him. The numbers were important, he knew that for sure. They
had
to be.
    But what did they mean?
    As his aunt tugged his arm even more sharply, he tucked the paper carefully back into his inside pocket, and, staring towards the grey horizon, he made a promise.
    One day, Pop, I’m going to come back and find you. I’m going to rescue you from wherever you are.
    Above him there were three sharp blasts from the ship’s horn. As if signalling agreement.

20
    2012
    Ricky Moore was fifty-three, with a balding dome, and long, lank grey hair that covered his ears and the top of his collar. He was dressed in a shiny open-neck white
shirt, with half its buttons undone to show off his gold medallion, a cheap beige jacket, and his fingers were adorned with chunky rings. With his booze-veined face and sallow complexion, he looked
more like an ageing, drug-addled rocker than an antiques dealer; but he knew how to charm his way into any old lady’s house, no matter how canny she might be.
    It hadn’t been hard to find him. He drank here three nights a week.
    The Cock Inn at Wivelsfield was a proper pub, in Moore’s view. It had bar billiards, a dartboard and shove ha’penny, was decorated with beer mats from all over the world, and had a
friendly landlord and staff, especially a barmaid whom he lusted after. It didn’t have a stupid, manufactured name, or the ghastly muzak or the pinging electronic gaming machines that
blighted so many establishments these days. And it served a good pint.
    But none of those were the real reasons he drank here. Situated in the countryside, fourteen miles north of Brighton where he lived, it wasn’t convenient, particularly with the
drink-driving laws these days – every time he came here it was a risk. But that had to be balanced against the benefits, as with any business.
    As one of the few remaining antiques knocker-boys, he made a comfortable enough living, ripping off the low-hanging fruit – picking up bargains in gullible people’s homes. He had
charm and good patter, and despite his rough appearance, people took a liking to him. Especially old ladies, for some reason he didn’t understand – and certainly did not question.
He’d carved himself a niche market, a nice little earner. Stuff he could con little old ladies out of. But every now and then, when he entered a home, he would hit a treasure trove.
    Like the house in Withdean Road a few weeks ago. That little old lady knew fine well what she had and she wasn’t parting with any of it, at least not to him. She’d sent him packing
with a flea in his ear.
    Now, he had read in today’s
Argus
that she was dead. Stupid old bat. She should have sold him the items he had wanted. Then he might have left it at that, instead of phoning his
contacts.
    Although maybe he would have phoned them anyway.
    The five grand in folding, his advance on his commission, was burning a hole in his pocket.
    Tax free, too.
    The first benefit of this pub was that no one from Brighton drank here. He’d made a fair number of enemies over the years, tucking people up, and sooner or later in Brighton pubs,
he’d run into someone bigger than him who hadn’t forgotten. The second and far more important one was the rich pickings to be had from this place.
    It was the way he had operated for years. Find a pub in a nice, wealthy pocket of the countryside. Get known and liked and trusted. Sit up at the bar, buy the occasional round, nip outside now
and then for a smoke. Keep your ears open. Sooner or later you’d hear about nice big isolated properties. And sooner or later the locals would invite you to value some of the stuff in their
homes, or their mum’s homes, or whatever. You’d secretly take photographs, make the calls, email the pictures, then after a few months, move on.
    He raised a pint of Harvey’s to himself. He was doing all right, yeah. Life was sweet. A bit quiet in here for a Friday night, he thought. The barmaid he fancied was off sick tonight. But
everything was all right. Very sweet.
    Yeah.
    Out of slight boredom he studied a framed photograph on the wall showing the members of a football team. Written at the bottom in large letters was
WIVELSFIELD WANDERERS.
    Suddenly he felt a vibration in his trouser pocket. He pulled out his iPhone and checked the display; it was a withheld number.