Dead Man's Time

spread a little sunshine for him?’
    ‘You could start by bringing his dead sister back to life.’
    The sun felt as if, momentarily, it had slipped behind a cloud. But the sky was an unbroken deep blue. ‘She died?’
    ‘Your goons killed her.’
    He turned the music right down. ‘Well, that was not my instruction to them.’
    ‘What are you going to do about it?’
    ‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do about it. I’m going to have a very nice lunch, then I’m going to play a round of golf at my favourite golf course, and then I
have a plane to catch. What about you?’
    ‘When do I get my share?’ the caller said sullenly.
    ‘Good boy, now we’re talking the same language! In time, you will get it, after I’ve concluded all the sales.’
    ‘You said you’d pay me based on your valuation.’
    ‘Did I really?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘That’s not my style at all. I’m afraid you’ll just have to be patient, dear boy.’
    ‘You bastard, that’s not our deal!’
    A youth in bright red trousers was taking a photograph of the car. Eamonn Pollock beamed obligingly. ‘So nice to hear from you!’ he said, and ended the call. He selected the Dr Hook
track again. He was looking forward to his lunch. A grilled lobster today and a glass – or two – of Chablis. Nothing like a good meal before a nice round of golf.
    Life was so good!
    He checked the time on his gold Vacheron Constantin Patrimony watch, which really did cost more pound notes than a horse had hairs – or would have done had he acquired it honestly and paid
the market price of two hundred thousand pounds.
    But
honest
was not a word in his vocabulary, any more than
conscience
was. He patted his large pot belly. Yes, he was definitely in a lobster mood today.
    And very contented. And about to be very much richer than just a week ago.
    He turned the volume of the song up again, and sang happily along to the words, beaming at the world around him. ‘
Please don’t misunderstand me! I’ve got all this money,
and I’m a pretty ugly guy!
’

34
    In the sparsely furnished basement consulting room in Schwabing, close to Munich’s Isar river, the woman, with her brown hair cropped short with a boyish fringe, lay
prostrate on the psychiatrist’s couch. She was in her thirties, with a slender figure, dressed appropriately for the sweltering Munich summer day in cut-off jeans, a white tank-top and
Havaiana flip-flops.
    ‘So?’ Dr Eberstark said, at the end of one of Sandy’s habitual lengthy silences. ‘Is there anything you would like to say?’
    Sandy shrugged.
    ‘More non-verbal communications with me? Maybe you would find talking easier?’
    ‘I don’t understand it,’ she said.
    ‘You don’t understand what, exactly?’
    ‘Why I hate him so much.’
    ‘You left him, yes?’ It was old ground, but the psychiatrist repeated it, as he did periodically.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘When you were pregnant with his child?’
    She said nothing.
    ‘And you never told him you were pregnant?’
    ‘We’d been trying for a child for several years.’
    ‘So why did you not tell him?’
    ‘Because . . .’ She drifted into a long silence, and then she said, ‘Because if I had . . .’ then she lapsed back into silence.
    ‘Because if you had?’ he prompted, sensing they were getting somewhere.
    ‘I would have had to stay.’
    ‘Would that have been so bad?’
    She nodded.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘You should marry a cop, then you’d understand.’
    ‘What is so bad about marrying a cop?’
    She was silent for some moments, then she said, ‘I always came second. Job first, me second – when he had time.’
    ‘Don’t you think having a child might have changed that?’
    ‘Actually, no I don’t.’ Then she hesitated. ‘There’s another thing about the baby.’ She fell silent and her face reddened.
    The psychiatrist looked at his watch. ‘Okay, we’ll have to leave it there. I’ll see you again on Monday? You can tell me that
other thing
then. Okay?’
    ‘Montag,’ she said.

35
    A nurse led the way along the maze of corridors at the Royal Sussex County Hospital, which smelled strongly of floor polish, to the High Dependency Unit where Ricky Moore was
being treated. Instantly the air was fresher and smelled better. She led Bella Moy through the ward towards the bed at the far end. Its occupant was awake, staring blankly ahead, dressed in
pale-blue hospital pyjamas, with a sheet partially covering him. An old-fashioned television on a