Then they passed a wall chart, on which was a family tree, headed COLOMBO CRIME FAMILY – PERSICO FACTION. Beneath were interconnected boxes headed BOSS, ACTING BOSS, CONSIGLIERE, CAPOREGIME, SOLDIERS OF INTEREST, ASSOCIATES OF INTEREST.

Grace stared at it intently for some moments, then followed his colleagues into Lanigan’s office.

It was laid out in a similar manner to his own, Grace noted. There was a round conference table, a small, cluttered desk laden with piles of documents, a mug full of pens, as well as his computer keyboard, screen, car keys, a photograph of his wife, and a trio of flags. On the wall above it was a photograph of the aircraft carrier on which Lanigan had served in the US Navy, and several group photographs of himself and fellow ratings, and a large, colourful banner proclaiming in bold lettering, DEFENDING FREEDOM.

Lanigan sat them down at the table, and offered them coffee. A few minutes later they were joined by the three detectives he had organized for them today, all, to Roy’s dismay, dressed sharply in business attire.

Detective Specialist Keith Johnson, a solidly built man in his late-forties, with a trim beard and moustache, and a no-nonsense air about him, wore a beige suit and a dark-brown tie. Detective Linda Blankson, who Grace put in her late-thirties, had Latino looks and a catwalk figure, with sleek brown hair framing a severe but not unattractive face. She was power-dressed in a black trouser suit and white blouse, and concentrating on typing out a text or email on her phone.

The least amicable of the three was Detective Lieutenant Aaron Cobb, in his mid-thirties, with close-cropped hair brushed forward that reminded Grace of the actor Ryan Gosling. He shook hands cursorily with each of the British detectives, then sat down at the table, chewing gum, with the resigned air of a man who was less than happy about being here on a Sunday morning.

Lanigan began the meeting by asking Roy Grace to detail the history of the circumstances that had brought him and his colleagues over here. When Grace had finished, Detective Lieutenant Cobb asked the first question, in a voice that was even more deeply Brooklyn than Lanigan’s.

‘We’re very happy to help you out but why do you guys need to be here?’ He stared pointedly at Grace, chewing his gum hard. ‘Like, you’ve given us the information. Feels to me you don’t trust us to do the job.’ He dug his finger into his right ear and began an excavation of its interior.

‘That’s not the case at all, Detective Lieutenant,’ Grace said. ‘We’re here to advise and assist you, and I think we may have information helpful to you.’ Although Lanigan was the eldest, he was unsure from the way US detectives did their rankings who was the most senior officer here.

‘I don’t see it.’ Cobb looked down at his notes. ‘Eamonn Pollock, Gavin Daly, Lucas Daly. We have their descriptions. We’ll find ’em.’

Grace caught Pat Lanigan’s eye and saw his apologetic look. ‘Pollock is the only one who is an actual suspect at this point, with respect, Detective Lieutenant,’ Grace said. ‘I believe Gavin Daly and his son Lucas are here with criminal intent. Their motives and their relationship are all very complex. In my view we should be here to help you to understand what is likely to happen. We need to tread carefully if we want to arrest them.’

‘Sir, out of interest, why do you think we could not do that by ourselves?’ asked Detective Specialist Keith Johnson. He spoke with a strong, clear Midwestern voice.

‘I’m not saying you couldn’t,’ Grace replied. ‘But in my opinion there is much more going on than simply the recovery of a stolen watch, and the arresting of the perpetrators. I have a hunch about what is going to happen.’

‘I’m intrigued!’ said Detective Linda Blankson, abruptly but pleasantly.

‘So where do we start?’ Keith Johnson asked.

‘By finding Eamonn Pollock, Gavin Daly and Lucas Daly,’ Grace replied. ‘Without them knowing.’

90

Sunday lunch. He could smell it cooking somewhere, in one of the neighbouring houses. That’s what most people would be having now, Amis Smallbone thought, bitterly. 1.30 on a Sunday. Families sitting down to a roast. He’d done that every Sunday of his childhood. Roast beef or pork or lamb or chicken. He’d maintained the tradition until he got married to Christine – Chrissie. What a bitch.

He drank some more whisky, feeling a little drunk, but not in a pleasant way. Building up Dutch courage too early in the day.

He and Chrissie, Tom and Megan. That was how it had been, once. She’d was a good cook, Chrissie. He’d give her that, but she was crap in bed. Always blaming him. Taunting him about his manhood. She hadn’t minded it when they’d first started shagging – told him she liked it; didn’t like men with big dicks because they hurt her. In their divorce she’d got custody of the kids, and buggered off to Australia with them. Melbourne. Maybe he shouldn’t have hit her all those times, but she’d deserved it. And screw it, what did it matter now?

What did it matter he hadn’t seen or heard from his kids for over twenty years? Good sodding luck to them.

After Chrissie, a long, long time after, he’d met Theresa. The true love of his life. What they had between them was something very special indeed. He’d proposed to her, telling her he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, start a new family with her, and she’d accepted. They were all set to be married. The church booked, everything sorted, the invitations printed. Finally, he was in a place where he was happy again.

Then Detective Roy Grace had come along. And screwed it all up for him. For them. On the morning of the wedding. 5 a.m. A dawn raid.

He’d pleaded with Roy Grace to just let the wedding go ahead and then do what he had to, but did the bastard listen?

No.

Grace had chosen the day of his arrest for maximum humiliation, Amis Smallbone was certain. He could have done it days earlier. Or later. But no, he had chosen his moment very deliberately. And he had not let him make a phone call. So there was Theresa, all excited that morning, having her hair done, getting into her dress, then driving to the Brighton Registry Office. Where Roy Grace let her wait for her groom who wasn’t going to turn up because he was in a sodding cell in Brighton nick with no phone. They eventually got married in jail, but that wasn’t the point.

Today had been a long time coming. A long time in the planning. The little shit Gareth Dupont had been arrested and charged, and would be grassing him up to get a reduced sentence for himself, for sure. So it was only a matter of time before he’d be back inside. If you committed a crime while you were out on licence, then your licence was automatically revoked; he’d be going back down for another ten years, minimum. But at least this time he would take Roy Grace down with him. The knowledge of Roy Grace’s grief would sustain him in the shitholes that faced him now and into old age.

Draining his glass, he stood up unsteadily and left the top-floor room with its view of the courtyard and the front door of the Grace house, and went out onto the landing. He picked up the hooked stick and flailed around with it until he managed to hook the hoop in the loft door. Then he pulled the door down, and hooked the bottom rung of the metal loft ladder, lowering it carefully, until its feet touched the landing carpet.

Then he climbed up it. At the top he reached out and found the light switch. Moments later the two weak bulbs lit up the roof space. Steeply angled wooden beams. Yellow insulating foam, sprinkled with rat and mouse droppings, between the rafters. The water tank. Spiders’ webs. An old, empty suitcase covered in dust. He hauled himself up onto his knees, breathing in the dry, dusty smells of wood and the insulating material. Then, supporting himself against the beams with his hands, he trod carefully on the rafters, making his way with some difficulty, because of all he had drunk, towards the roof hatch.