But not feeling quite as contented as he normally did.

He was not at all happy that he had lost his two lieutenants, as he liked to call them, Tony Macario and Ken Barnes. Not happy at all. Trustworthy employees were hard to come by, no matter how much he paid them, and he had paid them very handsomely indeed.

Still, he consoled himself, he had much to look forward to. He’d just said goodnight to the lovely Luiza, a twenty-four-year-old Brazilian pole dancer who he could scarcely wait to see again, in just a few days’ time. And to bury his face between her breasts! He was in his mid-sixties, but life was still full of delicious treats. How nice it was to be rich. But nicer still to be even richer tomorrow!

But right now he was looking forward to his supper. He had ordered himself a meal from the room service menu. Beluga caviar, followed by grilled lobster and then a naughty key-lime pie, something he always treated himself to in this city. And besides, Luiza had told him she loved his tummy.

And he loved what she could do with her tongue! The thought of it was making him randy.

Later he might phone for a lady from a particularly fine agency he knew. Or maybe he might just watch a film and go to sleep, ready for a very busy and profitable day ahead. Oh yes, very profitable indeed!

He picked up the Patek Philippe pocket watch from its nest of cotton wool on his beside table, and cradled it in his soft, pudgy hands. He stared at the metal casing, which, despite a couple of dents, still looked as new as it must have done back when it was made. Too bad about the damage: the bent crown and winding arbor, and cracked crystal that pressed against the tapered black moon hands, stopped at five minutes past four, as they had been for ninety years, and the tiny, motionless double-sunk seconds hand.

For some moments he studied the moon-phase indicator. Then he read the exquisitely written name on the dial. Patek Philippe, Geneve.

He was holding a piece of history.

And something, suddenly, made perfect sense to him. His uncle had not taken it from Brendan Daly moments before he, and the other three, had murdered him, and sent it to little Gavin out of guilt. He had sent it because of destiny! It was meant to be! He had sent it on a journey, ninety years into the future, into the hands of his nephew who had not yet been born.

Yes, destiny!

The doorbell pinged. ‘Coming!’ he called out, like an excited kid. ‘Coming! Coming, coming, coming!’

He swung his heavy frame off the bed, slipped his feet – which Luiza liked to kiss; especially his toes, despite the fact that one had been amputated because of his diabetes – into the white hotel slippers. Then he trotted through into the lounge area and across to the door. He checked the spyhole and was happy to see it was the same cheery little waiter who had brought him up the bottle of champagne earlier. He removed the safety chain and opened the door.

‘Good evening, Dr Alvarez, how are you?’

‘Very contented indeed, thank you!’ Dr Alvarez! Dr Alphonse Alvarez was one of the several aliases that he used. Dr Alvarez was his favourite. He liked it when the hotel staff called him Doctor. Classy. Hey, he was a classy guy!

He held the door, as the waiter stuck a wedge beneath it, then trundled in the food-laden metal trolley. ‘You like me to set this up for you, Dr Alvarez, on the table?’

‘I would indeed!’ Pollock left the waiter and moved through into the bedroom to fetch a tip from his wallet, his mood greatly improved now that his dinner was here, and humming to himself his favourite Dr Hook song. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me! I’ve got all this money, and I’m a pretty ugly guy!’

And he did indeed have it all. And tomorrow, he would have even more. Two million pounds, minimum! How nice! How very, very, very nice!

Hey ho!

In the next-door room he heard the clatter of crockery and cutlery as the waiter laid the table. He was salivating. What a feast! There were flashing red lights on the television. Police cars. Some big incident on the local news. A shooting in the Bronx. Didn’t bother him, hey ho.

He trotted back out into the lounge area, holding a twenty-dollar bill between his finger and thumb, like a laboratory specimen he was presenting for inspection. He liked to make sure waiters saw what a very generous man he was, in case they simply shoved the tip into their pockets without noticing it.

Then as he entered the lounge, he froze in his tracks.

The twenty-dollar note fluttered down onto the carpet.

The waiter held the room service bill, in a leather wallet, up for him to sign, with a pen in his other hand.

But Eamonn Pollock did not even notice him. He was staring at the man on the far side of the room, dressed in a thin leather jacket, jeans and black Chelsea boots, who was lounging back on the sofa, removing a cigarette from a pack.

His beady eyes shot to the waiter then back to the man. He scribbled his name, like an automaton, on the bill, noticed the waiter hesitating, but just wanted him out, now.

‘Have a good evening, Doctor,’ the waiter said, with a forced smile, and lingered.

‘Just fuck off, will you,’ Pollock said.

The startled waiter removed the wedge from the door and left, closing the door a little too hard behind him.

The man on the sofa lit his cigarette.

‘This is a no-smoking room,’ Pollock said. ‘And what the hell are you doing here?’

‘You know why I’m here, you fat jerk. I want to know why your gorillas killed my aunt. And you did a runner with the watch . . . Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?’

‘Killing your aunt was not part of the plan. That was never meant to happen. And there’s a five-hunded-dollar fine for smoking in this room,’ Pollock said. ‘Put that out or I’m going to call Security.’

‘Yeah, why don’t you? Ask for those two cops who are standing in the lobby by the elevators.’

Pollock’s face blanched. ‘What cops?’

94

Roy Grace was nervous. He did not like being out of control, and that was how he felt right now. Although he had a lot of faith in Pat Lanigan, and two of his team, Keith Johnson and Linda Blankson, seemed very helpful and competent, Detective Lieutenant Aaron Cobb had continued to give the impression, at their late-afternoon review meeting, that he considered the presence of the Brits here unnecessary. Cobb was a loose cannon, and in his own manor Grace could deal with someone like him; but here, as a guest in another country, all he could do was to try to win him over – and that was not happening. Further, it was clear that in the pecking order, Aaron Cobb was the senior of the NYPD detectives.

Surveillance had been placed on Eamonn Pollock’s hotel, but when Grace questioned Cobb about having only two officers covering the building, he was curtly told that was all the manpower he had available.

By 6 p.m. there had still been no trace of Gavin or Lucas Daly. Door-to-door enquiries on all New York hotels were continuing into the night but, as Aaron Cobb suggested, the old man in particular was probably tired and needed time out to be fresh for the morning.

Guy Batchelor announced to Roy Grace that what he needed, more than time out, was a cigarette and a stiff drink – and that he knew a place in New York where he could get both.

The three Sussex policemen walked the fourteen blocks from their hotel to the Carnegie Club on 56th Street. On the way Grace called Cleo. It was late in Brighton, and she was sounding sleepy, but pleased to hear from him. Noah was fine, she reported, and he’d been good all day and was now asleep. But, and she was really excited to tell him this, she had seen a house that she loved – and her parents had really liked it too. It was slightly above their price range, but her parents had offered to help them, if they wanted to buy it. The estate agents were going to email the particulars to her in the morning, and she’d send them on to him. It was a cottage, with an acre of land, and surrounded by farmland. ‘And,’ she added in her excitement, ‘there was a hen run!’