Dead Man's Time

joint.
    Then, carrying their large polystyrene boxes, they headed unsteadily back to the
Contented
and boarded the yacht, disappearing through the saloon doors.
    It was approaching 11.30 p.m. The evening was warm, and the streets seemed to be getting even more crowded. Daly and his colleague entered a bar opposite. He ordered a Metaxa brandy, to steady
his nerves, and another Coke for the Apologist. Ten minutes later he said, ‘Okay, time to rock and roll.’
    ‘Sorry, I don’t dance very well,’ the Apologist said.
    Daly grinned and slapped him on the back. ‘I’m talking about rocking the boat.’
    ‘Rocking the boat?’
    ‘It’s a joke.’
    ‘I don’t get it.’
    Daly pointed at the
Contented.
    The Apologist grinned. ‘Ah. Sorry.’

49
    The quay was almost deserted, apart from one young couple eating each other’s faces, who weren’t going to be noticing anything else happening around them. Lucas
Daly, needing a cigarette to steady his nerves, put one in his mouth, then clicked his lighter to no avail; it was out of gas.
    ‘Shit.’
    He walked over to the couple and, ignoring the fact they were snogging, said loudly, ‘Either of you speak English?’
    They both turned. ‘We are English,’ the male said. ‘What do you want?’
    ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a light?’
    ‘Bloody hell!’ He dug in his pocket, clicked a lighter and held the flame up to Daly’s cigarette.
    ‘Thanks, mate,’ he said, grabbing the lighter and walking away with it, drawing on the cigarette.
    ‘Don’t sodding mention it.’
    When he had finished the cigarette the couple had disappeared. He handed the Apologist a pair of surgical gloves, and snapped on a pair himself. Then the Apologist followed him up the gangway of
Contented
, through the gate, which the two henchmen had left unlocked, and onto the wide deck of the yacht. It felt plush and smelled of teak, polish, varnish and leather. They could feel
the faint floating motion of the vessel.
    Daly opened the patio doors and entered the huge rear saloon. All around the sides were white leather banquettes, and in the centre was a curved bar, with stools also covered in white leather.
On the wall behind were shelves stacked with an array of spirits. There was a distinct smell of pizza in here.
    Behind the bar were shiny wooden steps, with a roped handrail. They could hear the sounds of a football commentary coming from a television somewhere down below them. Raising a hand to keep the
Apologist a distance behind him, Lucas Daly walked slowly down. In front of him, at the bottom, he saw a large dining room. Its centrepiece was a twelve-seater table, with white leather-covered
chairs arranged around it, and a huge television screen, showing a football match, at the far end of the room. Macario and Barnes, facing away from them, were eating their pizzas out of the opened
cartons, and swigging from cans of lager.
    He beckoned the Apologist down, pointed at his own chest, then at Macario, then pointed at the Apologist and indicated Barnes.
    The Apologist nodded.
    Both men hurried forward, as silently as they could. Just as Macario was putting a slice of pizza in his mouth, Daly felled him with a single karate chop to the back of his neck. He fell
sideways off the chair, and onto the floor, where he lay still. The Apologist hauled Barnes up, out of his chair, onto his feet.
    ‘What the—?’ Barnes said, before the Apologist tightened his grip on his throat, turning the rest of his words into an incomprehensible gurgle. Then the Apologist stamped
really hard on his foot.
    The shaven-headed man cried out in pain.
    ‘Sorry,’ the Apologist said.
    ‘Who the hell are you?’ Barnes croaked, his quavering voice betraying his fear.
    ‘I’m
Mr Pissed Off
,’ Lucas Daly said. ‘And this is my friend,
Mr Even More Pissed Off
. And you are Ken Barnes?’
    He said nothing.
    ‘Cat got your tongue?’
    Again he said nothing.
    ‘Tell you what. My friend here has some tongs. Curling tongs. He could plug them in, heat them up, then pull your tongue right out of your mouth. Would you like that? Then you’d have
an excuse for not speaking, wouldn’t you?’
    Barnes’s eyes filled with terror.
    ‘Hurt him a little again, Augustine. He’s not being very talkative.’
    The Apologist stamped on the man’s foot again, this time even harder.
    Barnes screamed in pain, tears shedding from his eyes.
    ‘So you’re able to scream. If you can scream, you can talk, yeah?