Dead Man's Time (40 page)

Then she looked at the baby monitor to make sure it was on. She turned the volume up high for some moments so she could hear Noah’s breathing. Reassured, she turned it down a little.

She ought to be studying for her Open University degree. Several philosophy textbooks lay piled up on her bedside table, but she had no appetite for any of them at the moment.

The wind was still howling outside and she could feel a draught on her face, through the window pane. Out in the distance she heard a siren wailing mournfully. She didn’t really know why,
but she felt on edge tonight. Nervous of the sounds of the wind. Nervous for her child. Nervous for their future. Something she had read a few days ago, that Sophocles wrote, suddenly rang true.
To the man who is afraid, everything rustles.

And yes, tonight, everything was rustling.

She shivered. Cold enough to swap over to the winter duvet. But it was still only early September. Humphrey, who normally slept in his basket down in the kitchen, was asleep on the floor at the
end of the bed, and she hadn’t the heart to push him out of the room. He suddenly began snoring, loud, deep snores, and for a moment she smiled. He sounded like Roy when he’d had too
much to drink.

She closed her eyes. God, she had such huge responsibilities. They told you that your life would change when you had a baby, but they didn’t tell you that it was quite such damned hard
work, nor that you would be permanently scared of something happening to your child. Her health visitor had reassured her, on her six-week check, that this was quite normal, and so had all her
friends who’d had babies whom she had spoken to. But equally, no one had ever been able to tell her the depth of love she would feel every time she looked at Noah, and every time she held him
in her arms.

But was he ever making her nipples sore!

Something scudded in the wind across the courtyard below. It sounded like a plastic bag blown loose. She thought about the case Roy was working on. The poor old woman who had been tortured in
her home by burglars. What kind of world had Noah been born into? The world was a violent place; it always had been and it seemed it always would be. At least, she thought, both she and Noah were
lucky in one respect. Roy always made her feel safe, and he’d always make sure Noah was safe, too.

She turned up the volume on the television slightly. Frasier was trying to get rid of his brother for the night because he had a hot date with his old school prom queen, who was now a
middle-aged vamp.

She smiled, feeling a little better.

Roy Grace ate the Maraschino cherry, drained the last of his second Manhattan, then stubbed out his second cigarette. The men at the bar, smoking their cigars, continued to be
absorbed in the ball game on the large television screen. Guy Batchelor and Jack Alexander were having an animated conversation about Brighton and Hove Albion’s prospects for the new football
season, while Grace sat, silently immersed in his thoughts, trying to study the estate agent’s particulars on their website on his iPhone.

He was missing Cleo and Noah, but it was now half past midnight in England – much too late to call again. And he was concerned about tomorrow. ACC Rigg had made a big leap of faith
sanctioning this trip, and they had to deliver. But the fact that Eamonn Pollock had put a false address on his immigration forms was a clear indicator that he was in this city for an illicit
purpose. Maybe he should go to the hotel where they knew he was staying, and join the guard. But he had to get some sleep, otherwise he would be useless tomorrow. The best thing he could do, he
thought, was get a bite to eat, have an early night and head over there first thing in the morning.

Guy Batchelor waved the waitress over and told her they wanted another round, but Roy Grace intervened. ‘Just the – um – check, please,’ he said, firmly. Then he turned
to his colleagues. ‘You might not thank me now, but you will thank me at six o’clock tomorrow morning.’

‘Six o’clock?’ Batchelor said, looking horrified.

‘That’s when we’re starting. Still want another drink?’

‘Maybe not.’

Amis Smallbone pushed open the heavy roof hatch. Instantly, he felt the savage wind, hurling rain as hard as grit against his face. Later today he’d be in Spain, in the
sunshine, out of all this shit weather. He lowered his goggles over his eyes and the night turned bottle green.

He climbed out, slowly and carefully, onto the narrow metal platform. All around him the wind screamed. He could see the ambient glow of Brighton’s street lighting, a vivid green haze.
Steadying himself, he once again rehearsed in his mind the short journey ahead to the Grace house. Fourteen paces along the three-foot-wide metal fire escape, with a single handrail to the right
for support. Then the dog-leg left, ducking to avoid the satellite dish. Eight more paces and he would be alongside the Grace house roof hatch.

And then, if all went well, he would be in their loft.

In their house.

In their baby’s face. Right in it. Making it smile for the rest of its life!

A strong gust buffeted him and he waited for it to pass, gripping the handrail, so much looking forward to what lay ahead. A dream come true. A dream that had been more than twelve long years in
gestation. Now he was just paces away from his quarry. From ruining Roy Grace’s life. Just as the bastard had ruined his. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. A baby with a rapist’s
grin. For the whole of its life!

He took a few steps forward, gripping the handrail and looking around him. Looking down at the deserted courtyard. Looking over the rooftops at night-time Brighton. Well past midnight now, most
people asleep in bed.

The metal beneath him was vibrating, as if someone else was walking on it too. He turned his head, but it was hard to see behind him. He continued walking.

Thirteen paces. Twelve. Eleven. Ten. Nine
, he counted. His vision through these goggles was less good than he’d thought when he had tried them out. He could see straight ahead,
but had virtually no peripheral vision. He glanced round once more, but still his view was restricted. Then he focused dead ahead, continuing to count the paces, to be absolutely sure.

Eight. Seven. Six.

A hand gripped his shoulder, as hard as a steel pincer.

For an instant his brain froze. He turned, saw a hulk of a figure with a balaclava over its face. He squirmed in panic, somehow tore himself free and threw himself forward, feeling the metal
gridding vibrating beneath his feet.

Almost instantly, something smashed into the side of his face, like a southpaw’s punch.

The fucking satellite dish. He reeled, dazed. His left foot suddenly found only air. He windmilled his arms, the wind pushing him sideways. He tried, desperately, to find the grid again with his
left foot, crying out in terror. Then he fell, head first. Struck something hard and wet and slippery. He clawed at the roof slates with his gloved hands. He saw the courtyard looming towards him;
he was sliding; slithering. Down a steep slope, face forward. The cobbles were getting bigger.

Bigger.

Racing towards him.

He jammed his hands even harder against the wet roof slates, screaming, trying to get a purchase.

Bigger still.

Then he was falling through air.

Cleo frowned. The screen had suddenly gone fuzzy, just as Frasier was about to enter the school reunion with the beautiful former prom queen on his arm. She grabbed the remote
and stabbed at a different channel number.

Just then she heard a slithering, scraping noise right above her head. It sounded like a horse tobogganing down her roof. A slate, she thought, blown free by the wind. Then she heard a thud,
like a sack of potatoes dropped from a height. For a moment she was tempted to get out of bed and see what it was. But she was cold, and it would be even colder out of bed. And really, it was
probably just a roof slate; she would check it out in the morning.

Above the howl of the maelstrom she heard a faint noise, a whisper carried by the wind; maybe it was just her imagination. It sounded like someone had just said,
‘
Sorry
.’

Cassandra Jones hated Monday mornings. And today was a particularly bad one. She had a piercing hangover from the wine she had drunk last night, and she had an important early
morning meeting in London with a new client. Why the hell had she had that fourth glass? What, she wondered, was that strange logic alcohol instilled in your brain that insisted you would feel
better the next day if you had yet another glass of wine, instead of politely declining, or having a glass of water instead?

She showered, dressed, drank a glass of Emergen-C vitamin booster and forced down a bowl of porridge, then opened her front door and wheeled out her bicycle for the short ride to the station. At
least the storm that had raged all night had died, and it was a fine late summer – or early autumnal, depending on your perspective – day.

She closed her front door behind her, then noticed the huddled, contorted figure lying on the cobblestones a short distance in front of her. For an instant she felt a flash of indignant anger.
What the hell was one of Brighton’s drunk street people doing in here, in this private courtyard?

Then, as she wheeled her bike nearer, she saw the dark stain that lay around the figure’s head. The crimson colour of blood.

She stopped in horror at the totally bizarre sight. A small man, dressed in black, with streaks of black mingled with congealed blood on his face. A black bathing cap lay a short distance from
him, and a strange-looking pair of goggles were around his chin. Was he some kind of a Peeping Tom?

She dropped her bike, her eyes darting around the houses. Where had he come from? Had anyone else seen him? Then she took several steps closer, trying to remember a First Aid training course she
had done a few years ago. But when she got a clearer view of his face, she saw the top of his forehead was split open, like a coconut, and a brown-grey mass had leaked from it, along with the
blood. His eyes stared ahead, sightless, like eyes on a fishmonger’s slab.

Shaking, she swung her backpack off her shoulders, pulled her mobile phone out of it and stabbed out 999.

Roy Grace had set his alarm for 5 a.m., but he need not have bothered. He woke at 3 a.m., feeling totally alert. It was 8 a.m. in the UK, where he would have been up for two
hours at this point, and probably completed a run of at least three miles.

Cleo was probably awake, and he was tempted to call her. But in case she was sleeping after a feed, he decided to leave it a while. And, he knew, he needed to try to sleep some more, and get
rested before what was likely to be a long and hard day ahead.

He swapped his pillows around and lay back. But after a few minutes, he turned onto his right side. Then his left. Then onto his back again. He was fretting about Eamonn Pollock giving them the
slip. He was convinced the man was the key, and that at some point he would have the watch in his possession. And then they would have him.

Detective Aaron Cobb worried him increasingly, and he did not want to leave things to him. He wanted to get to Pollock’s hotel himself and find all the possible exit routes – because
he was damned sure that Pollock had already established them. With so much at stake, it was highly unlikely the man would be taking any risks.

There was no going back to sleep; he was totally awake, his brain racing. Grace slipped out of bed, showered then shaved. Then he scanned his thirty or so new emails, but there was nothing of
any significance. A couple related to the autumn fixtures of the Police Rugby Club, which he ran, and another to a refresher course on Cognitive Suspect Interviewing at Slaugham Manor, the police
training and conference centre in Sussex.

He pulled on a T-shirt, tracksuit and trainers, zipped his hotel room card into a pocket, then took the elevator down, emerging into the deserted lobby. A solitary figure stood behind the
reception desk, and a tall black security guard, wearing a coiled earpiece, gave him a solemn nod.

He strode along 42nd Street in the darkness for some while, then broke into a jog, turned right and headed up towards Central Park. The traffic was light; just an occasional car or taxi drove
past. The sidewalks were deserted. He did not bother stopping at red lights, but just carried on crossing street after street, until he reached the Plaza, where he turned left.

A few minutes later he reached the front entrance of the Marriott Essex House Hotel. He carried on past it, turned left on Seventh Avenue, then left again onto 56th Street and stopped when he
reached the rear entrance to the hotel. He tried the door, and to his slight surprise, it opened. He walked down a long corridor, lined with window displays of expensive-looking clothes and
jewellery, then reached a bank of elevators.

An alert man-mountain stood guard, eyeing him with curiosity. Next to him, seated on chairs and both fast asleep, were two uniformed cops.

Quietly, not wanting to wake them, Grace showed the guard his UK police warrant card. ‘These guys on watch for Eamonn Pollock, suite 1406?’

‘Yeah.’ He grinned. ‘Not much stamina, right?’

Grace raised his iPhone, took a photograph of them, then emailed it to Pat Lanigan with a terse note.

‘How many entrances and exits do you have here?’ he asked the security guard.

‘Two this floor. Two down below. Then we have the fire escapes.’ He thought for a moment, then said, ‘Six of them.’

Ten exits, Grace thought. Two cops covering them – both of whom were asleep. How great was that?

‘Can you show me them?’ he asked.

‘Sorry, boss, not allowed to leave this station.’

‘Mind if I help myself?’

‘Be my guest.’

Back in his hotel room, shortly after 4 a.m., Roy Grace suddenly felt dog-tired. He undressed and climbed back into bed, and set his alarm for half an hour’s time. Almost
instantly he fell asleep, only to be woken, what seemed like seconds later, by his phone ringing.