Текст книги "Dead Man's Time"

Автор книги: Peter James

Соавторы: Peter James
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

*

Back in the car, Grace said, ‘I didn’t see a single golfing trophy in there.’

‘So maybe he’s a crap golfer. Where are we going with this, boss? Sorry if I’m being dumb.’

‘I don’t think he plays golf at all. Golfers always have trophies, even if just a wooden spoon.’

Batchelor pulled over, got out of the car, shook a Silk Cut cigarette out of a pack, and offered the pack to Grace. ‘Want one?’

‘No, not right now, but go ahead.’

‘Have you given up?’

‘I gave up a long time ago, but I still have the occasional one with a drink in the evening.’ He shrugged. ‘I enjoy them, so sod it!’

‘Why’s Daly’s shop manager and his wife saying he’s on a golfing holiday, Roy?’

Grace was silent as the DS leaned against the outside of the car, lit his cigarette, and blew a perfect smoke ring.

‘I’ve always wondered how to do those,’ he said.

The DS grinned and blew two more in rapid succession. For an instant, as they closed together, they looked like handcuffs.

‘I’m impressed!’ Grace said.

‘My party trick.’

‘Then you wave a magic wand and turn them into steel?’

‘Depends whose party I’m at.’ He grinned back. ‘So we’re safe to assume that whatever Lucas Daly’s doing in Marbella, golf isn’t a feature?’

‘Once again we’re on the same page. Or maybe I should say the same fairway.’

‘Or bunker?’

48

At 7 p.m. Lucas Daly and the Apologist watched Tony Macario and Ken Barnes lock the gate at the top of the Contented’s gangway, and strut ashore.

They were rough-looking men; neither of them was tall, but they both had a wiry meanness about them. Macario, with short dark hair, sported several days’ growth of stubble, and even from this distance Daly could see a long scar beneath his right eye. Both men wore jeans, and white T-shirts with the yacht’s name stencilled across the front. They headed off along the quay, Macario in flip-flops, and shaven-headed, tattooed Barnes in trainers.

‘They coming back or should we follow?’ the Apologist asked.

‘They’d sodding well better come back. Wait here.’ Daly got up and sauntered after them.

The two crewmen did not walk far. After a couple of hundred yards they made a left into an alley lined with buzzing bars and restaurants, then a right, and entered O’Grady’s Irish Pub. The word GUINNESS and its harp logo were etched onto the windows and the glass panes of the open doors. Daly waited, watching them make their way slowly through the crowd towards the bar. Then as he saw their drinks being served, he returned to fetch the Apologist.

Ten minutes later the two of them were positioned with their drinks in the pub, a safe distance from Macario and Barnes, watching them attempting to chat up a small group of uninterested teenage girls. Daly hoped to hell they wouldn’t pull, as that would complicate his newly formed plans.

An hour and a half later, to his relief, the girls left, despite the entreaties of the two men, who were clearly a little sloshed, to stay. Just after 11 p.m., Macario and Barnes staggered out of the bar and up the alley. Daly and the Apologist followed them, and saw them stop at a takeaway pizza 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? So what’s your name?’

‘Ken Barnes.’ He could hardly speak for the pain.

‘I need some information from you. Like, did you have a nice time in Withdean Road, Brighton, last week? Was it fun torturing that old lady with the curling tongs?’

‘It wasn’t me,’ he yammered.

‘No?’

‘No. Wasn’t me. I was – I was . . .’ He fell silent.

Daly nodded at the Apologist. He stamped even harder, and this time Daly heard the crunch of breaking bones, accompanied by a howl of agony from Barnes.

‘Barcelona just scored,’ the Apologist said, nodding at the television screen.

‘He did that. It was him, the stupid bastard,’ Barnes gasped.

‘Your friend, Mr Macario?’ Daly asked.

‘Yes.’

Daly nodded, then looked down at the slumped, unconscious figure of Tony Macario. ‘The strong, silent type, is he?’

‘I was just hired to do the job. They needed someone to help hump the furniture, that’s all I was doing there.’

‘Hired by who? Your boss, Eamonn Pollock?’

Barnes said nothing.

Daly turned to the Apologist. ‘You’d better stamp on his foot again.’

‘Noooooo! Please! I’ll tell you what you want.’

‘That’s better,’ Daly said. ‘Because you’re going to tell us anyway, so the less pain for you, the less aggro for us. Now, I’ve a list of things I really want to know. First, where is the Patek Philippe watch you stole from that house? Second, where is the rest of the stuff? Third, where is the safe on this boat, and how do we open it. And fourth, where is your boss, Eamonn Pollock?’

‘I don’t know about any watch, that’s the truth. I don’t remember a watch.’

‘Remember getting the safe code from that old lady?’

He shook his head.

‘You know something, I don’t believe you,’ Daly said. ‘Why is that, do you think? Because you’re a crap liar?’

‘The gorilla’s broken my fucking foot.’

‘He’ll break the other one in a minute. That old lady was my auntie. That watch belonged to my grandfather. I can’t get my auntie back because she’s dead. But I’m sure as hell going to get that watch back. And you know where it is.’

Barnes shook his head.

Daly cupped the man’s chin in his hand, forcing him to look straight at him. ‘Listen to me, Ken. If you don’t tell me where that watch is, my friend’s going to kill you. Simple as that. I’ll give you ten seconds to think it over.’

Daly stood staring at his own watch for the ten seconds. Then he looked at the Apologist and rotated his wrist. Moments later, Barnes was hanging upside down, suspended by his right ankle.

‘That helping to clear your mind?’ Daly asked.

‘I’ve drunk too much,’ he slurred for the first time. ‘Please put me down. I – I—’

‘Maybe you need another drink, to help the old brain cells?’ Daly asked.

He shook his head. His eyes were like two frightened little birds.

‘Be back in a tick,’ Daly said, and climbed up the stairs.

‘Sorry to keep you hanging about,’ the Apologist said.

Moments later Lucas Daly reappeared with a bottle of Macallan Scotch in one hand, and a small plastic funnel in the other. ‘Put him on the deck,’ he instructed the Apologist. ‘Then open his gob.’

The henchman obliged. Barnes tried to wriggle free, but the Apologist knelt on his chest, pinioning him to the floor, and held his head with his hands, as firmly as a vice. Daly knelt, unscrewed the cap of the bottle, pushed the funnel into his mouth, then began pouring in the whisky.

The man spluttered and choked.

‘Am I pouring too fast?’

Barnes tried to shake his head, but it was held in the Apologist’s iron grip. In less than five minutes, the bottle was empty.

Their captive’s eyes were rolling. Daly shot a glance at Macario, who was slowly starting to stir, then returned his attention to Barnes. ‘Where’s the watch? The Patek Philippe? Where’s the safe? And where’s your boss, Eamonn Pollock?’

‘Safe’s in the master bedroom.’ Barnes’s eyes rolled again. Then, moments before he passed out, he murmured something barely decipherable.

*

Fifteen minutes later, as Tony Macario opened his eyes, fully conscious again now, the first thing he saw was his colleague, Ken Barnes, suspended upside down by his ankles, unconscious, being swung, head first and extremely hard, into a stanchion studded with rivets.

Then he realized, through a haze of alcohol and blinding headache, that he was bound hand and foot and could not 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 playful slap, which the dog ignored. He held his nose until the stink passed. He gave him another tap. ‘No farting, okay? Two can play at that game!’

A hand suddenly squeezed his shoulder. He looked up and saw Cleo, her hair up, in a pale-blue nightdress. ‘What are you watching?’

‘It’s for work. You okay? Do you want anything?’

‘Yes, I do. I want to lose my bloody baby fat and my varicose veins. I want to stop feeling so damned tired all the time and bad-tempered from loss of sleep,’ she moaned. ‘I’m sorry, but they don’t tell you how rubbish you are going to feel in any of the books – at least not the ones I read.’ She kissed his forehead.

He took her hands and squeezed them tenderly. ‘If I had a magic wand, I’d wave the damned thing!’

‘Shit, Roy, why didn’t anyone tell me what having a baby’s really like?’

‘Maybe because no one would have one if they really knew.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, that’s true!’ Then, changing the subject, she said, ‘Where do you keep your handcuffs?’

‘Handcuffs?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘I have some in my go-bag – but I don’t really have any reason to use them in what I do.’

She gave him a strange smile that he could not read. ‘So you do have some?’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought maybe – you know – perhaps I could try them out on you – sometime when I’m feeling less sore.’

He grinned. ‘That book you’re reading?’

‘I’m into the second one,’ she said. She grinned again.

‘Not sure about my handcuffs,’ he said. ‘They’ve been on some pretty scuzzy people. Maybe we could try silk ties?’

‘I think we should try a few things. But I’d hate to distract you from your work. Lock up all the bad guys first. Then you can start on me.’ She kissed him on his forehead again. ‘Not tonight, though. I’m still really sore, and I’m too tired.’

He watched as she headed back up the stairs. ‘Love you,’ he said.

‘Even fat like this?’

‘More to love.’

‘You’re a good bullshitter.’ She pointed across the room. ‘See, your goldfish agrees!’

High up on one of the fitted black bookshelves on the far side of the room, Marlon had his nose pressed up against the side of his bowl, endlessly opening and shutting his mouth. Grace was relieved he had survived the transition to his new home. He’d developed a strong affection for the fish over the years following Sandy’s disappearance. He would be sad, he knew, the day Marlon died.

He’d brought the fish here as Glenn was now moving back to his home to take care of his children. And with the exchange of contracts on his own house sale imminent, he’d needed to start clearing everything out, putting it into storage until Cleo and he decided what they would need once they had found a new house.

He focused on the film, shocked by the brutality of the Dead Rabbits Gang. If this movie was even remotely accurate, life in several boroughs of New York from the 1850s up until the time of the Depression was hellish. Hell’s Kitchen was an apt name.

Gavin Daly was a tough old bird, for sure. He wondered if he could be that energetic and sharp at ninety-five – if he ever made it that far, which was unlikely. Historically, life expectancy for retired police officers was among the lowest of any profession. His father had been a textbook example. Dead within three years of retiring.

He looked at the baby monitor. Listened to the sound of Noah’s breathing. And wondered if he would live long enough to be a grandfather.

Daly was going strong at ninety-five. From all accounts Aileen McWhirter had been on course to live well past a hundred, until she had been savagely cut down. That made him feel very sad. Civilization, he knew, was a fragile veneer. You only had to read or watch or listen to the news every morning to witness the hell in which so many people on this planet existed. He never forgot how lucky he was to have been born in England, and to have grown up in a country which was relatively peaceful. But there were threats here all the time. Terrorist threats from within the UK and outside. And threat from villains.

He was in a rare position, he knew, to be able to do something for the citizens of Brighton and Hove, and of Sussex, which he loved so much. Aileen McWhirter should have died peacefully in her sleep, from old age, a few years from now. After all she and her brother had endured in their early childhood, as he had learned from him over a cigar in her garden, she deserved at least that. Instead she had died from terrible injuries in hospital.

He had never felt more determined in his life to find the perpetrators of a crime and lock them up. Hopefully for ever. If he got lucky and didn’t end up with a woolly-minded liberal of a judge.

He looked back across at Marlon. And momentarily was distracted by the thought of packing up the house, and all those past years of his life. Then he focused back on the film and what he could learn from it that might, in any way, help him with this case.