Dead Man's Time

move.
    Barnes was dumped, unceremoniously on the floor. Blood leaked from a gash in his head.
    ‘Your mate’s not very chatty,’ Daly said. ‘Maybe you can help us? We’ve had a look at the safe but it’s empty.’ He was silent for a moment, sniffing.
‘What’s that pong? I’ve got a very strong sense of smell. Have you shat yourself?’
    Macario shook his head.
    ‘That’s all right, then. You will in a minute.’ He pulled out his cigarette lighter and flicked it on and off. ‘Like hot things, do you?’
    ‘Hot things?’
    ‘Yeah. Burning people.’
    ‘I never burnt no one.’
    Daly eyeballed the man. ‘Want to tell us about Withdean Road, Brighton? A little old lady you burned? Who put you up to it? Eamonn Pollock, right?’
    Macario stared back impassively for some moments. Then he said, ‘Withdean Road? I never heard of that street.’
    ‘That’s not what your mate said. He said it was your idea to torture the old lady for her safe code and the pin codes for her credit cards. Was he lying? Fitting you up to save his
skin?’
    ‘He what? That fucking shitbag . . .’
    ‘Now, that’s much more like it!’
    ‘My idea? I had to fucking pull him off her.’
    ‘Tell us more.’ He nodded at the Apologist. ‘My friend hates to hurt people, really he does. He much prefers not to. My dad and I don’t care a toss about all the antiques
and paintings. But we want that watch back. It’s sentimental, right? Know the meaning of that word?’
    Macario nodded.
    ‘Your friend says he doesn’t know where Mr Pollock is. How about you?’
    ‘He doesn’t tell us anything. I don’t know. Really, I don’t know.’
    ‘Is that right? What do you think this boat’s worth? Ten million quid? Twenty? Fifty? One hundred? You two jokers are guarding it while he’s away, and you don’t have an
address for him? A contact number?’ He tapped his chest. ‘Do I look stupid or something? Do I look like I just rode into town in the back of a truck?’
    ‘No.’
    Leaving the Apologist with him, Lucas Daly went back up to the bar and returned with a litre bottle of Grey Goose vodka, and proceeded, with the funnel, to pour half of it down Macario’s
throat.
    A couple of minutes later, under Daly’s coaxing, Macario slurred out that he might have gone to New York, but he didn’t know where, he swore.
    ‘Now tell me what you did with all the rest of the stuff?’ Daly said. ‘What happened to all of my auntie’s precious antiques and paintings? Eight million quid’s
worth. What did you do – vanish it into thin air?’ He flicked the lighter and brought the flame close up to Macario’s eyes. ‘Don’t think I won’t,’ he said.
‘I’ll burn your face off with pleasure.’
    ‘Delivered to warehouse . . . barn . . . sort of place.’ His voice was slurring.
    ‘What warehouse? Down at the docks? Shoreham or Newhaven Harbour?’
    He shook his head. ‘Industrial estate. Lewes. Back of Lewes. By the tunnel.’
    ‘Where was it going after the warehouse?’
    ‘Overseas.’
    Then he passed out.
    Daly untied his bindings. Then with the help of the Apologist, he untied Barnes. They left both men unconscious on the saloon floor, climbed back up the stairs and went out, through the patio
doors onto the stern deck. Then they walked ashore across the gangway, and strode a short distance along the quay towards the shadowy, dark-skinned figure who was waiting for them, smoking a
cigarette.
    ‘Mr bin Laden?’ Daly asked.
    The Moroccan grinned.

50
    Humphrey was snoring. The dog was lying on its back on the sofa beside Roy Grace, paws sticking up in the air like a mutant dead ant. Grace patted its belly. ‘Hey,
fellow, quiet! Can’t hear the television!’
    Humphrey ignored him.
    Daniel Day-Lewis was looking murderous on the screen in the video of the
Gangs of New York
that Glenn Branson had lent him. Piled up on the coffee table were four of the volumes on the
early gang history of New York he’d bought from City Books. The fifth,
Young Capone
, lay open on his lap. The baby monitor was turned up loud enough for him to hear the sound of
Noah’s breathing. His son had been sleeping soundly since his last feed at 9 p.m.
    Grace patted Humphrey’s belly harder. ‘Shh, boy! I can’t turn the TV up, don’t want to wake your mistress, or Noah. Okay?’
    Humphrey farted silently. Moments later the horrific stink reached Grace’s nostrils. ‘Hey! That’s not playing fair!’ He gave Humphrey a