‘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.