Dead Man's Time

paid for a watch was $11.3 million, at auction some years ago, and that was for a unique Patek Philippe – it was known as the Patek Philippe Henry Graves
Supercomplication.’
    ‘So, the one that was stolen from your sister’s safe – would there be many identical ones?’
    ‘To be honest with you, it was always a mystery how my father obtained the watch in the first place. He was a humble dockworker – all right, he was in a gang, but the gang basically
existed to protect the rights of Irish people on the Manhattan and Brooklyn waterfronts. Even back then the watch would have had a very high value. But you have to remember parts of New York were
pretty lawless in those days. I like to think he might have won it in a poker game, or been given it in lieu of a debt, but I know from the history he was a hard man – you had to be to
survive then. It’s possible he got it some other way.’
    The two men smiled at each other, the innuendo hanging, unresolved, in the air.
    ‘Now, as to your question about other identical ones. Some years back when I realized the watch was so valuable, I tried to find its provenance. I contacted Patek Philippe in Geneva and
gave them the serial number, but they said that it did not tally with their records; the number was wrong.’
    Grace frowned. ‘Is that implying the watch is a fake?’
    ‘That’s what I thought at first. But then I found out something that was common practice back in those days. You see, at that time, all their watches were bespoke, commissioned by
buyers. Many months of work would go into a single pocket watch. Well, apparently, top apprentices would make themselves a duplicate at the same time, secretly of course. I suspect that’s
what my father’s watch is. I believe in the rag-trade, where workers make themselves duplicate garments from left-over cloth, it is called
cabbage
.’
    ‘Some cabbage!’ Grace said, and smiled. ‘And it doesn’t detract from its value?’
    ‘Far from it,’ Gavin Daly said. ‘It’s an important piece. Part of watchmaking history.’
    ‘You never took photographs?’
    ‘Oh, I did, I have them somewhere. But maybe they got misfiled or thrown out. I’ve searched high and low and so far nothing. And, of course, the photo Aileen had has gone.’
    Changing the subject abruptly, Grace asked, ‘So how did your son get on with his golfing weekend in Marbella?’
    ‘To be honest, I wouldn’t know. Lucas and I are not that close.’
    He nodded, then sat in silence for some moments. ‘Do you know an Anthony Macario or a Kenneth Barnes?’
    ‘No, I don’t.’ He answered too quickly, as if he had expected to be asked. And that, together with his eye movements, gave Grace a strong indication he was lying. Daly
compounded this by scratching his nose, a further tell-tale sign.
    ‘They were found floating in the water at Puerto Banus yesterday morning, with a capsized dinghy near them. It normally takes two to three days for a body to rise to the surface after
being put into the sea in warm water. Your son went to Marbella on Friday. I always like to look at coincidences.’
    Grace paused as the housekeeper came in with a tray on which was a bottle of wine opened, a single glass, a china cup and saucer, a small coffee pot and a milk jug. While she was setting down
their drinks, he took the opportunity to look around the room, seeing what he could learn about the old man from his lair.
    He looked at the crammed bookcases, the busts, some on shelves, some on plinths, and at the beautiful gardens beyond the window. Then at the fine inlaid mahogany clock with a Roman numeral dial
on the old man’s desk.
    The housekeeper departed, and Grace took a grateful sip of his coffee.
    Daly was glaring at him, his mood perceptibly different now, bordering on openly hostile. ‘Just what are you insinuating, Detective Superintendent?’
    ‘Nice coffee, thank you.’ He set the fine bone china cup down in its saucer. Then he pointed at the clock. ‘That’s very beautiful.’
    Daly looked at it, then looked at Grace, with a strange expression. He looked decidedly uncomfortable suddenly, Roy Grace thought.
    ‘It’s an Ingraham. Handmade in 1856. A very fine example. I’m shipping it to a client in New York.’
    ‘So you still keep your hand in?’
    ‘Oh, indeed. Keeping active, that’s my secret. Keep doing what you love. You’re a young man, but you’ll understand me, one day.’ Gavin Daly caressed the clock,
becoming