Текст книги "Dead Man's Time"

Автор книги: Peter James

Соавторы: Peter James
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104

‘I thought in our last session you were going to talk more about the father of your son,’ Dr Eberstark said. ‘You told me you were having an affair with one of your husband’s work colleagues. Do you believe this man is the father?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sandy said.

‘And how do you feel about that? About not knowing?’

She was silent for some moments, then she shrugged. ‘It’s difficult. I’m not sure if I would prefer to know that Roy is Bruno’s father, or that he isn’t.’

‘And if he is, do you not think he has a right to know?’

‘I thought I was paying you to help me, not to interrogate me.’

The psychiatrist smiled. ‘You keep so much inside you, Sandy. Do you not know that expression, The truth will set you free?’

‘So how do you suppose I will find the truth? I can hardly ask Roy, or the man I had the affair with, to send me samples for DNA testing.’

‘In my experience, most women know,’ he said. ‘You are a very instinctive person. What do your instincts tell you?’

‘Can we change the subject?’

‘Why does it make you so uncomfortable to talk about it?’

‘Because . . .’ She shrugged again, and lapsed into silence.

After several minutes, Dr Eberstark asked, ‘Did you think any more about the house in Brighton that you are planning to buy?’

‘It’s in Hove, actually.’

‘Hove?’

‘I guess the equivalent here would be Schwabing.’

‘A smart area?’

‘There used to be a big snobbery between Brighton and Hove residents. Brighton was brash and racy; Hove was more sedate and genteel.’

‘Ah.’

There was another long silence.

Dr Eberstark, after checking his watch and seeing they only had a few minutes left, prompted her. ‘So, the house in Hove, did you make any decision?’

She said nothing, and stared at him with an expression he could not read.

*

As Sandy left the front door of Dr Eberstark’s building, and stepped onto the pavement of Widenmayerstrasse, she stopped, staring at the wide, grass bank of the Isar river across the busy street, collecting her thoughts. She had lied to the psychiatrist. She did know who the real father was.

As the traffic roared past in front of her, she wondered whether it was time, finally, to tell Roy about her son. Their son. She knew now, for sure, that he was the father. On her visit to the house, two months ago, when she had been taken round by the estate agent, she had sneaked an old toothbrush and a hairbrush from his bathroom into her handbag. From the DNA provided by them, a firm in Berlin had confirmed the paternity of her son, Bruno Roy Lohmann, beyond doubt. It had not been Cassian Pewe’s child. She’d had a fling with him, over several months, after meeting him when Roy had attended a crime course he was running, but it had fizzled out.

She was agonizing, too, over the house. She could afford to buy it, but was going back like that the right thing?

Then, suddenly, for the first time in a long time, she smiled, and thought to herself, I know where I am going now and what I want to do.

With a spring in her step she took two paces forward and hailed a cab.

105

The same man-mountain was still on night duty in the lobby, beside the bank of elevators in the Marriott Essex House Hotel, when the three British detectives arrived, shortly after 6.15 a.m. To Roy Grace’s relief, the two police officers who had been fast asleep when he had been here earlier were now wide awake and nervously eager to give him information. Not that they had anything of significance to report. Last night, at 7.30 p.m., Eamonn Pollock had had a meal delivered to his room. According to the room service waiter, he also had a male visitor. Sometime later, Pollock had pushed his tray out into the corridor. He’d been silent since then, and they presumed he was now still asleep.

Grace asked if he could speak to the waiter about Pollock’s visitor. The man-mountain made a call on his radio, and reported back that the waiter had gone off duty and would not be here again until midday.

Leaving the hotel security guard in situ, Grace took his colleagues and the American police officers down to the two basement exits, leaving Batchelor covering one and Jack Alexander the other. He sent one officer up to stand outside Pollock’s door and the other to remain down here. Grace went into the front lobby and up to the reception desk, keeping an eye on the main entrance, and asked to speak to the duty manager.

He was finding it really hard to focus on anything since the last phone call he had received earlier from Glenn Branson, telling him that Amis Smallbone had rented the house next door to Cleo’s. The little scumbag had been the other side of their party wall. With an electronic eavesdropping device. How had he been able to do that? Surely to God his Probation Officer . . .

But it wasn’t the Probation Officer’s fault. All he – or she – had to do was to check the address was suitable, and that their charge could afford it. They weren’t to know it was next door to where he was living.

But . . . shit.

The night manager, who had already been called and briefed by Pat Lanigan, appeared. ‘How can I assist?’

Grace showed him his warrant card and asked if he could view the hotel’s CCTV cover of its entrances from 6 p.m. yesterday. He had already noted the cameras at the front and rear of the hotel, giving both interior and exterior views.

A few minutes later he was seated in a cramped, airless room behind the hotel’s admin office, in front of a bank of monitors, each numbered and showing different views of parts of the hotel and of the street. Next to him sat a surly, hugely fat security guard, with expressionless eyes, who looked – and smelled – as if he had been up all night. The man was jiggling a joystick, moving and zooming remote cameras; he reminded Grace of the time he had been at a homicide conference in Las Vegas and had walked through the casino on his way to breakfast, past rows of fruit machines, with exhausted people sitting at them who looked like they had been working them all through the night.

Grace sped through the footage, occasionally slowing it down to check out a face; but he did not see anyone he recognized. Finally he gave up and, relieved to get out of this rancid room, returned to the lobby, and took a seat that afforded him a clear view of anyone entering or leaving the hotel from this side.

Moments later, Tony Case rang him. He’d managed to book him on a flight out of Newark at 9 p.m., getting in to Heathrow around 9 a.m. the next day; it also gave him the whole day in New York, which he was glad of, despite his concerns to get back home to take care of Cleo and Noah.

The lobby was deserted apart from a woman cleaning, laboriously shifting a yellow slippery floor warning triangle around as she moved. After some minutes, an early-rising businessman strode hurriedly into the lobby, trundling a small overnight bag on wheels behind him, and went up to the reception desk. Grace only watched him to relieve the monotony; he looked nothing like the images he had of Eamonn Pollock from his criminal record. And this man was about twenty years younger.

Ten minutes later a young couple in tracksuits came into the lobby and borrowed the two bicycles by the porter’s desk, wheeling them out into the brightening morning.

By 8.30 a.m. he was starting to get concerned. Pollock had flown here from Europe, just a few days ago. With the five hours’ – six in Spain – time difference, he would almost certainly have woken early, as he had done himself. He had, much earlier, asked the hotel security to alert him to any action from Eamonn Pollock’s room, 1406 – in particular any request for room service or a taxi. The man was going to eat breakfast, or order tea or coffee at the very least, surely?

A few minutes later, Pat Lanigan entered the lobby dressed in a sports jacket and tie, with a warm smile, accompanied by Aaron Cobb, who had the face of a man with a tooth abscess.

‘So how’re we doing, my friend?’ Lanigan asked.

‘I’m worried that Pollock’s been too quiet.’

‘Maybe he popped a sleeping pill?’ Cobb ventured. ‘People do that to counter jet lag.’

‘I don’t care how strong a pill I’d taken. If I was about to make two million pounds – sorry, three million dollars – I don’t think I’d be sleeping in on a Monday morning,’ Grace retorted.

Pat Lanigan sauntered over to the front desk, and spoke to the woman behind it. Grace followed him, and saw him flash his NYPD badge. ‘Can you double-check for us that there’s been no activity from suite 1406 this morning? I’d appreciate your checking with room service, housekeeping, the concierge, anyone else who might take a call from one of your guests.’

‘Of course, sir. Give me a few moments.’ She picked up her phone.

A few minutes later she reported that there had been no requests from suite 1406, and a staff member she had sent up there had reported there was a DO NOT DISTURB sign hung on the door.

By 9.10, Roy Grace had a bad feeling. ‘I think we should have someone go in,’ he said to Lanigan. ‘We need to know he’s still there.’

The detective agreed and spoke to the front desk again, this time formally commandeering the hotel’s manager.

Five minutes later Grace, Lanigan and the manager, an elegant woman in her late-forties, rode the elevator up to the fourteenth floor, then walked along the maze of corridors. The DO NOT DISTURB sign hung on the handle, along with a black bag containing today’s New York Times.

The manager rapped hard on the door, waited several seconds, then rapped again. Then she rang the number on her phone. Through the door they could hear the warbling of an unanswered phone. Grace’s heart was sinking.

Finally, she opened it with her pass key, calling out a cautious, ‘Hello, Dr Alvarez? Hello? Good morning!’

Silence greeted them.

A silent room with two sofas, and a dining table on which sat a solitary empty champagne glass.

Grace and Lanigan followed her through into the bedroom. The bed was unmade, the television on, the sound muted, a white towelling dressing gown lay on the floor. Those were the only clues that the suite had ever been inhabited. Its occupant had gone, along with his luggage and toiletries, as the empty bathroom confirmed.

106

The rather tired black Lincoln Town Car the hotel had procured for Gavin Daly pulled up on Madison Avenue, close to a Panerai watch dealership, he noticed. The driver jumped out and opened the door for him, and pointed at the number on the door.

‘Excellent,’ Daly said, jamming the tip of his walking stick onto the sidewalk, then levering himself out of the limousine, into the hot sunshine. As he stood upright he was conscious of the heavy weight in his trouser pocket. He was tired and jet-lagged, and had slept badly, but was running on adrenalin. ‘You’ll wait for me here?’

‘Yes, sir. If I’m not here when you come out, just wait right here – I may have to go around the block if I get moved on.’

‘Of course.’

‘An hour, you think?’

‘An hour, give or take. Thank you.’ He stifled a yawn.

‘A pleasure, sir. I’ll be right here, sir!’

Gavin Daly had arrived early, as Julius Rosenblaum had advised. It was 9.45 a.m. and Eamonn Pollock’s appointment with the rogue dealer was for 10.30. He made his way to the doorway sandwiched between two smart shops, and studied the names on the bell panel. Then he pushed the bell for J. R. Nautical Antiquities, conscious of the camera lens above it.

Moments later he heard Rosenblaum’s voice. ‘Come on in, Gavin. Take the elevator to the third floor.’

‘I remember!’ he replied. And he did, very clearly, although it had been ten years, at least, since his last visit here.

It was a tiny, old-fashioned lift, with a sliding metal gate. He pressed the button and ascended to the third floor. A few moments later it jerked to a halt. He opened the door and stepped out into a narrow corridor; the door directly in front of him had a spyhole and bore the name, in gilded lettering, J. ROSENBLAUM NAUTICAL ANTIQUITIES.

Almost immediately it opened and one of his oldest and best customers stood there, beaming, tall and erect, with a military posture Daly had always admired.

Well into his eighties, with finely coiffed white hair and smelling of strong cologne, Julius Rosenblaum looked distinguished, if a little flash and raffish. He had a hooked, Semitic nose, hooded eyes, and a rich, full smile. He was dressed immaculately in a three-piece chalk-striped suit and a flamboyant tie, and wore an extremely ornate and showy Vacherin Constantin watch on his wrist.

‘So good to see you, Gavin!’ He looked him up and down. ‘You look terrific, wow! You haven’t changed, you know!’

‘Nor you!’

‘Come on in. We’ve time for a coffee, and we have a lot to catch up on.’

Daly entered, stepping onto plush eau de nil carpeting so deep his feet sank into it. Recessed showcases lined the hallway, displaying ship’s clocks, a nautical hourglass with a brass top embossed with the wording ROYAL NAVY, and a mounted ship’s bell. He followed Rosenblaum into a small room with an antique Georgian table that served as a reception desk. An elegant, elderly woman sat behind it, typing on a keyboard; a pile of antiques magazines lay beside her.

‘Marjorie, you remember Gavin Daly from England?’

‘Indeed I do!’ She smiled at him.

‘Would you bring us some coffee, please?’

Then they went into his office. It was furnished with a circular conference table and a large desk, with two leather-covered chairs for visitors on one side, and a large, black leather chair with buttoned cushioning behind it. The walls were lined with fine oil paintings, and the room had the aura of a museum. Daylight entered through a large, frosted glass window. It was quiet in here, well insulated from the traffic down in the street below.

Rosenblaum ushered him to one chair in front of the desk, then sat in the other, shot his cuffs, leaned back and folded his arms. ‘So?’

‘I really appreciate you informing me about this, Julius.’

On the desk sat a large, silver cigar box, several photographs in silver frames, a huge glass ashtray and a computer terminal. ‘What the hell does money matter at our age, Gavin? You know? I need to offload a three-million-bucks stolen watch like I need a hole in my head. I just want a quiet life now – do a few little deals, keep my hand in, and keep me out of the house; otherwise I’d sit at home going nuts with boredom.’

Daly nodded in agreement. ‘Still got a yacht?’ Rosenblaum, who had served in the US Navy during the Korean War, had always been a keen sailor. Once, many years ago, on a fine summer day, Rosenblaum had taken him on a memorable 360 degrees circumnavigation of Manhattan Island.

‘Yeah, but I keep her out in St Barts. Too damned chilly, the waters around here for me these days.’

Rosenblaum opened the lid of the cigar box and pushed it towards him. ‘Help yourself.’

‘It’s a little early, thanks.’

‘Okay, later. We’ll have a glass or two and a smoke. Come to my club this evening, if you’re free.’

‘I’d like that.’

Rosenblaum shrugged, then grinned, almost sheepishly. ‘Had my prostate removed. Can’t screw any more, so what’s left but a fine cigar and fine wine?’

‘I’m right with you – same problem.’

‘I look on it as a pleasure, Gavin. I used to have these goddamn urges; it felt like I lived much of my life chained to a wild monkey that had some kind of will of its own and just wanted to screw all the time, and wasn’t happy when it didn’t. Now – hey, you know, I don’t miss it. You?’

‘I still look, though.’ Daly grinned.

Julius Rosenblaum broke into a grin. ‘The day I stop looking, I want them to take me out into a field and shoot me. But you didn’t come all this way to talk about useless dicks.’ He looked at his slim, vintage watch. ‘Half an hour until he shows – if he shows.’

‘What are your thoughts?’

Rosenblaum pointed up at the wall, and Daly saw the camera, angled down towards the conference table; then he pointed at a door on the far side of the room, with a large gilded mirror on the wall beside it. ‘That’s my CCTV viewing room through there. That camera is set to give a close-up of whatever is put on the table. I’ve used it many times to take photographs of items I’ve been offered, and to check whether they are on any register. And I use that two-way mirror to observe folk in here. You know, you’d be surprised by what you learn from leaving people who are trying to sell you something alone in a room together.’ He rolled his lips. ‘I figured you might like to observe from in there. If you recognize the watch as yours, you can either hit a button to alert me, or you can step right in. Within ten seconds, either way, Eamonn Pollock’s going to find himself locked in. He’s not getting out, no which way.’ The hoods above his eyes raised, theatrically. ‘That okay with you?’

‘Just one thing, Julius. What’s in this for you?’

The New Yorker raised both hands in the air. ‘An old friend like you, Gavin?’ He grinned. ‘I figure you’re not going to leave me empty-handed.’

‘Even though you said money does not matter at our age?’

‘It doesn’t.’ He rubbed his finger and thumb together, and gave Daly a sly smile. ‘Hey, what’s a few million bucks between friends?’

107

Eamonn Pollock was feeling like shit. He sat in the back of the most cramped yellow cab in New York, being thrown around by the city’s worst driver – a young Ethiopian who was having a screaming match with someone on his phone the entire way. The maniac drove flat out, accelerating harshly, then leaving his braking to the very last minute, stopping equally violently.

To make matters worse, the creep sitting beside him, sticking to him like a leech, was not cutting him any slack. They’d even bloody slept together. If sleep was the right word. Since doing a late bunk from the hotel via the service lift and the kitchen deliveries entrance, Eamonn Pollock had spent the night, trying to sleep, in a narrow armchair in the creep’s crappy, cheap hotel room in mid-town Manhattan, whilst the leech had snored his sodding head off.

He noticed a Panerai watch dealership as the taxi pulled mercifully to a halt. He might treat himself to one after he had closed the deal on the Patek Philippe, he thought; a nice little prezzie to celebrate. Then he would trot along to Tiffany and buy Luiza a little bauble.

Distracted by his thoughts, he tugged his wallet from his jacket pocket, gave the driver a twenty-dollar bill and told him to keep the change, then opened the door.

Putting his call on hold, the driver said, tersely, tapping the meter, that the bill was twenty-three bucks.

Pollock dug deeper into his wallet. It didn’t matter. All being well, in a short while he would be very much richer. He hadn’t yet figured out how he was going to deal with the leech. But he was confident he would find a way. Hey, he’d spent the past thirty years shafting losers. He wasn’t about to change his ways now.

They climbed out of the cab. ‘It would be best if you waited down here,’ Pollock said. ‘We’ll get a better price if I handle this alone.’ He waddled towards the door.

‘In your dreams,’ the leech replied, lighting a cigarette.

He took two long, deep puffs while Pollock rang the bell. Moments later there was a sharp buzz and a click. Pollock pushed the door open, and the leech followed him in, still holding his cigarette.

‘You can’t smoke inside here,’ Pollock said.

‘You can’t smoke inside most places,’ he retorted, exhaling and tapping ash on the floor.

The lift slowly clanked down towards them and they entered. With Eamonn Pollock’s portly shape, there was only just room for the two of them to squeeze in. ‘You’re not bloody smoking in here!’

‘Why are you so fat, Pollock?’

‘Because every time I screw your wife she gives me a biscuit.’

‘Haha, that’s an old one. Tell me, really, why are you so fat?’

Pollock stared him in the face, and shook his head. ‘Now, now, don’t get personal; we’ve business to do. Let’s not rock any boats, eh?’

The leech took another long drag on the cigarette, then crushed the butt out on the floor as the lift jerked and clattered on upwards.

108

The moment his secretary buzzed to say that Eamonn Pollock was on his way up, Julius Rosenblaum ushered Gavin Daly through the door at the rear of his office into the monitoring room, then dashed back and fetched his cup of coffee for him.

Daly found himself in what was little more than a wide broom closet, furnished with a single, busted swivel chair behind the two-way mirror. The cushioned seat was uncomfortable and felt wobbly, Daly thought, easing himself onto it and propping his stick against the narrow shelf in front of him. He found it hard to believe that he could not be seen on this side of the mirror – his view from the semi-darkness here into Rosenblaum’s office was crystal clear.

He sipped his coffee and glanced down to familiarize himself with the volume knob on the complicated-looking control panel in front of him, which Rosenblaum had hurriedly pointed out. Further along was a TV monitor, switched off, mounted on wall brackets, and winking lights on a recording unit. The rest of the space in here was taken up with a row of ancient metal filing cabinets, all of them with boxes and concertina folders of documents stacked on top.

The air was dry and dusty and there was a fusty smell of old paperwork. In contrast to Rosenblaum’s office, which had been near freezing from the air-con, this room was hot and airless. He stifled a sneeze, then saw the main office door open, and the secretary appeared for a moment. He watched Julius Rosenblaum rise from his chair, then Eamonn Pollock entered, dressed in a crumpled beige suit, a gaudy yellow shirt and vulgar brown loafers. The sight of the man made Daly’s blood run cold.

For all his adult life, Gavin Daly had studied, with hatred, the faces of those men who had murdered his mother and taken his father away into the night. He’d trawled every major newspaper archive in the world, and his sister’s extensive library of books on that period, and, of course, the internet, looking for new images. Those faces were ingrained in his mind.

And seeing Eamonn Pollock now was like looking at a ghost.

The shapes of the two men were completely different. Mick – Pegleg – Pollock was thin and tall; Eamonn, his great-nephew, was pudgy and below average height. But both men had the same wavy hair, and the same arrogant leer. He was imagining Eamonn Pollock thinner, with his cheeks flattened out and the flesh gone below his chin.

Or Pegleg fatter.

Eamonn Pollock was like a Photofit composite.

He could not take his eyes off him. He sat shaking, his nerves on edge, something tugging at the base of his neck, a roaring in his ears, thinking how much he would like to wipe that smug leer from the man’s face. Then another figure followed Pollock in.

For a moment Gavin Daly was convinced his eyes were deceiving him. Or that he was hallucinating from tiredness. He stared in total disbelief at the tall, muscular figure in a suede bomber jacket and jeans who sauntered in after Pollock, looking around the room in his familiar, arrogant, bully-boy manner.

‘Julius, this is my associate,’ Eamonn Pollock said, with clear distaste in his voice. ‘Lucas Daly.’

Moments later, Gavin Daly felt the tell-tale fire burning in his chest followed by the tightening sensation. He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out the vial, shook a tiny nitroglycerin tablet into his palm and popped it beneath his tongue. Breathing heavily, shaking with rage and suddenly clammy, he turned the volume up a bit.

‘Good to meet you, Mr Daly,’ Rosenblaum said with a frown, and indicated for them to sit at the conference table. ‘Can I offer you gentlemen coffee – or maybe tea?’

‘A coffee would be very pleasant,’ Eamonn Pollock said. Lucas nodded. Rosenblaum went over to his desk, raised his phone and spoke to his secretary, then returned to the conference table. ‘So, Mr Pollock, I presume you have brought the watch?’

‘I have indeed!’ Pollock pushed himself upright, onto his feet, with some effort. Then he unbuckled his belt, which had a small black leather pouch hooped through it, unzipped the pouch, removed a large wad of cotton wool from it and laid it on the table. Slowly and laboriously, but beaming with greedy anticipation, he unpicked the cotton wool, lifted free the Patek Philippe watch and placed it in front of them.

Julius Rosenblaum went over to his desk drawer, removed a magnifying eyepiece and wedged it into his right eye socket. Then he sat down, picked up the watch and began to examine it. ‘Nice piece, but shame about the condition. Three million you want for this, right?’

‘That’s the minimum I – we – would accept.’ Pollock shot a glance at Lucas Daly, who nodded in agreement.

The New Yorker’s secretary brought in their coffees, set them down, then left. Rosenblaum continued to study the watch in silence. He turned it over, then using a thin-bladed tool he opened the back, and carefully examined the interior. ‘It’s undoubtedly very beautiful, very rare. I’ve not seen many watches like this in all my life. But I have some issues. What are you able to tell me about its provenance, Mr Pollock?’

‘It belonged to my grandfather,’ Lucas Daly interjected. ‘It was handed to my father in 1922.’

‘By my uncle, who came by it illegally and wanted to return it to its rightful owner’s family,’ Pollock added.

Gavin Daly watched, listening, his fury growing as his angina pains subsided.

‘You see, there are a few anomalies,’ Rosenblaum said calmly. ‘I checked with Patek Philippe, who keep records of every watch they ever made. The production date serial number, 049, 351 – oops – apologies – I’m a little dyslexic; I read numbers backwards oftentimes! The serial, 153,940, would indicate a date of 1911 or later. It should be between 149,100 to 150,000 for a manufacturing date of 1910. Do you have an explanation for this?’

‘I do, yes,’ Lucas Daly said. ‘I understand it was common practice for top apprentices to make themselves a duplicate at the same time as they worked on a particular timepiece, secretly of course. I suspect that’s what my father’s watch is. That is the reason the serial number is slightly out.’

‘I see,’ Rosenblaum said. ‘But on a watch of this period, every time it was repaired, there would be a little mark of who repaired it, with the date and initials. I don’t see any here. Additionally, a watch like this would have been commissioned, and almost certainly the owner would have had his initials engraved on it. Sometimes, of course, when the watch changes hands, the initials would be etched out, but that always leaves a trace. I can’t see any trace.’

‘This is bullshit!’ Lucas Daly said with rising anger. ‘Maybe it was stolen way back then, by my grandfather, before any initials were engraved. How would I know?’

Behind the two-way mirror Gavin Daly watched and listened, his brain fogged with fury. Lucas, his son, was sitting there with this fat, sanctimonious, lying shit.

My uncle came by it illegally and wanted to return it to its rightful owner’s family.

Oh yes?

His uncle having murdered the rightful owner.

And then Eamonn Pollock had murdered Aileen to get it back, and was now trying to sell it. But where the hell did Lucas fit in?

‘This may be a dumb question,’ Rosenblaum said, turning to Lucas. ‘With such a valuable piece, why did no one in your family get it repaired?’

‘I think they believed it might affect its authenticity,’ Eamonn Pollock replied.

‘No,’ Lucas said. ‘It’s very simple. My father – and my aunt – wanted the watch kept exactly as it was the day they got it back. It was the only link they had with their father, so it had immense sentimental value. It would not have been the same if they’d had it repaired.’

‘And how do they feel about you selling this now?’ Rosenblaum asked, staring hard at Lucas.

‘Well, sadly, they are both dead now.’ He raised his hands in a gesture of sad despair. ‘The time has come, extremely reluctantly, for the family to sell it.’

A door burst open behind them. All three turned round to see Gavin Daly, holding his walking stick in one hand, and a black revolver in the other. ‘I’m dead, am I, Lucas? I will be dead one day, all in good time, you’ll be pleased to know.’

He aimed the gun, with a shaky hand, at Eamonn Pollock. ‘But this bastard will be dead first.’