He pushed against it, and moments later, light and fresh air flooded in. He squeezed through the rectangular space and stepped out onto the narrow metal fire escape. It gave him a view across the rooftops down towards the pier and the English Channel. But more importantly to him, it gave him direct access to the Grace house.

What made him less happy was there was just one low, flimsy-looking handrail on one side. This group of seven town houses had been a conversion from a U-shaped warehouse building, and they shared a continuous pitched roof, with a fire escape running the full length of it. The gridded metal of the escape, clearly constructed as an afterthought, zig-zagged across the rooftops between the chimney stacks. To reach the Grace house, he had to navigate a difficult left turn, ducking under a thoughtlessly installed satellite television dish that obstructed his route.

He succeeded and then reached the identical loft hatch to his own. Conscious that he was standing up here, in broad daylight, he looked around carefully, checking who might be able to see him. None of the immediate neighbours, but there were some tall buildings, mostly office blocks, that overlooked them, if anyone happened to be staring out of the window. That was unlikely during a Sunday lunchtime, but not worth taking the risk.

When he did this for real, it would be dark; some ambient glow from the street lighting, but not much. He had to rehearse his steps now, count and memorize the number of steps to each turn, particularly the awkward left by the satellite dish. The important thing would be not to hurry.

Roy Grace would still be in New York. Cleo and the little bastard would be home alone. And he would have all the time in the world!

Amis Smallbone was unaware of one pair of eyes that were watching him, up here on the rooftop. Watching him with the intention of killing him.

91

Keith Barent Johnson, Roy Grace read, as the detective showed his NYPD badge to the front-desk receptionist at the Plaza on Central Park South.

The young Asian woman spent some moments checking her computer records, then shook her head. ‘Eamonn Pollock? How do you spell it?’

Johnson spelled it out. ‘E a m o n n P o l l o c k.’

She checked again. ‘No, we don’t have him registered here, sir.’

Grace then showed her a photograph of Pollock. ‘This is about twenty years ago, but does he look familiar?’

‘No, I’m sorry. No, he does not; not to me, anyways. Can I make a copy and I’ll show it to my co-workers?’

‘Sure, thank you,’ Grace said, handing her the photograph. Then the two detectives repeated the process for Gavin Daly and for Lucas Daly, with equal lack of success.

Roy Grace looked at his watch: 11.15 a.m. He and Johnson had been working through hotels for the past hour and a half, as had Guy Batchelor and Jack Alexander with the other two New York detectives. There was always the possibility that Pollock and the Dalys were staying with friends rather than in a hotel, which would make their current task impossible. But they had to just keep plodding on.

They walked on up Central Park South, past horse-drawn carriages, endless rickshaws and guys standing in their way with bicycle rental placards, and entered the Marriott Essex House Hotel.

Grace and Keith Johnson waited in line at the front desk. They watched a sweaty young couple return bikes to the porter’s desk, then a porter wheel a trolley laden with bags into a room behind it.

‘Mr Pollock?’ the pleasant receptionist said, after studying Keith Johnson’s NYPD card. She tapped into her computer terminal. Then, after a few moments, shook her head.

Roy Grace leaned forward and showed her the old photograph he had of the man. She studied it, then shook her head again. Then she turned to her tall, thin colleague and showed him the photograph.

He frowned. ‘Yes, I know this man. He is staying here.’

‘Eamonn Pollock?’ Roy Grace quizzed. ‘Is that his name?’

He tapped his keyboard, frowning, then looked back at Grace. ‘Dr Alvarez? Dr Alphonse Alvarez?’

‘What address did he give you when he registered?’

He looked down at his screen again. ‘University College of Los Angeles, Brentwood, California.’

Grace tapped Eamonn Pollock’s photograph. ‘But you’re sure that’s him?’

‘Oh yes, I’m sure.’

92

How great was this? Perfect or what? Amis Smallbone stared through the net curtains at the darkness beyond the window, and the falling rain. The wind was picking up; he could hear it howling. Which meant it would be hard for anyone to hear him. Not many people would be out on an evening like this, and certainly not hanging around staring up at the rooftops of buildings. But even if they were, they would not see anything.

Not by the time he had finished his preparations.

It was 10 p.m. Mummy and Daddy Cleo had dropped their precious daughter and their super-precious little bastard grandson home five hours ago. Cleo had made them tea, and they’d then discussed the houses they’d seen in the country. There was one they’d all agreed they liked, close to the village of Henfield. But it was more than the Graces had planned on paying.

Mummy and Daddy Cleo had offered to help them. How sweet was that? Would they still help them out if their precious grandson no longer looked so sweet? If the little bastard had scars all over his face?

His bags were packed. By the time anyone came looking for him he would be long gone, down to sunny Spain with the remainder of his meagre stash, and intending to collect from that fat pig Eamonn Pollock what he was owed. Then he’d live it up for however long he had before the law caught up with him. Lawrence Powell owed him a favour; he’d help him out, get him sorted with a new identity. With luck he’d have a few years of freedom, and then he’d be so old he wouldn’t care any more. Old age was a prison, so it didn’t much matter whether you spent the rest of your time in it or out of it. And at least they took care of you inside.

And he would have one thing to sustain him through those years. The knowledge of what Detective Superintendent Roy Grace would be thinking every time he looked at his son’s hideously scarred face.

He delved into one of the cartons of stuff he had bought over the internet, and pulled out the black jumpsuit; from another, he removed the night-vision goggles and the hunting knife, its blade as sharp as a razor. Then he opened the tin of black boot polish and, using a rag, began to smear it carefully across his face, until all that could be seen was the white of his eyes.

And the hatred burning in them.

*

Out in the street below, Cassandra Jones, a website designer who lived directly opposite Cleo Morey’s house in the development, dismounted her Specialized hybrid bike, after returning from a Sunday night stand-up comedy event at Brighton’s Komedia Club, followed by a few glasses of wine afterwards with some friends.

She wheeled it up to the entrance, head bowed against the wind and driving rain, feeling a little bit tipsy. Then she tapped in the code, pushed open the gate and, unquestioning, thanked the stranger standing right behind her, who held it open while she wheeled her bike through.

The gate clanged shut on its springs, harshly striking the rear wheel of her bike.

‘Sorry,’ the tall man behind her said.

93

Eamonn Pollock, his obese body wrapped in a towelling dressing gown, lay back against the plump pillows on his huge, soft bed in his sumptuous hotel suite. He’d enjoyed a painful but invigoratingly glorious deep-tissue massage and was now sipping a glass of Bollinger, toasting himself, toasting his cleverness.