Dead Man's Time (19 page)

He pulled into a layby, and hastily gave his bookie the details of another card, which he kept for emergencies and which was not yet maxed out. Then they drove on in silence, which was usual.
The Apologist didn’t have a lot of conversation, unless the subject was football, about which he could talk for hours. He knew everything there was to know about every football team in the
whole of Britain, their strip, their key players’ names, their goal count for the season. Lucas avoided talking football with him; it was like pressing the switch on a machine that had no
off
button.

And besides, he had other stuff on his mind. A lot of stuff. Bad stuff.

Total shit.

One particular loan shark, who had recently bailed him out of his latest problem, was turning nasty. He’d been stiffed on a major deal. And his cantankerous father was refusing to help
him. His best hope was for the old bastard to die soon. Alternatively a change in his run of bad luck with the horses and at the gaming tables. Hopefully this bet would be the start of it.

Driving past Marbella and Puerto Banus and on for a few more miles, they headed along the main drag into the neighbouring town of Estepona. To their left was the pyramid shape of the Crown
Plaza. To their right, a large Lexus dealership and a closed-down car wash. The arrow on the satnav was pointing right, but Lucas Daly knew where he was.

They drove up past a short promenade of shops and bars into a residential area of small, white houses and apartment blocks. Ahead on their left was a row of shops, at the end of which was a bar
with an outside terrace and the name
LARRY’S LOUNGE
printed in red capital letters on a scalloped awning. Two shady-looking men in their thirties, in dark glasses,
accompanied by a bored, tarty-looking younger woman, were seated at an outside table. One man was smoking a huge cigar.

Daly pulled into a parking space a short distance past the bar. They climbed out into the searing heat, and headed towards the bar. Daly, a lightweight bomber jacket slung over his shoulder, was
dressed in white T-shirt, jeans and brown suede Gucci loafers, and walking with his customary swagger; the Apologist, a foot taller than him, wore a T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms and trainers.

Inside the bar was a cool blast of air. Half a dozen men lounged in front of a TV screen, mounted high on the wall, showing a replay of some football game. Three of them, heavily tattooed, wore
singlets and cut-off jeans, like a uniform. All of them were holding beer cans, and shouting at the screen. A few years ago, Lucas would have known the faces in here, but these were strangers to
him.

The Apologist stopped and stared at the screen for some moments. ‘Manchester United and Sunderland. Not a good game.’

Two of the men glared up at them suspiciously. They walked on.

The interior was a cross between an ersatz English pub and a bodega, with an L-shaped oak bar, wooden stools, beer pumps, oak barrels on the wall lined with bottles, and shelves stacked with
spirit bottles. Tiffany lamps hung from chains all the way around, and British football club pennants decked the walls, along with framed signed photographs of past Manchester United, Newcastle,
Arsenal and Chelsea teams.

Behind the counter stood a tall, wiry man, with short thinning hair, dressed in a grey button-down shirt, opened to the navel. A tall glass of lager stood in front of him. He looked at Lucas
Daly. ‘Seen you before, haven’t I?’

‘Yeah, you might have done. Used to own a place in Banus. Drank here a few times – until that fellow got shot.’

‘You and half of the Costa del Sol. Screwed my business totally,’ he said, in an East London accent. ‘That was five years ago, but people got long memories. No one comes here
no more – apart from a few regulars.’ He pointed at the slobs watching the footy. ‘I have to work as a window cleaner some days, to make ends meet. Thing is, you
see—’

Lucas Daly interrupted him. ‘I’m looking for Lawrence Powell.’

‘Yeah? You’ve found him.’ He gave him a stony stare.

‘I’m a mate of Amis Smallbone. He told me to tell you that you’re a tosser.’

Lawrence Powell grinned. Then, looking uneasily, first at the Apologist then back at Daly, he said, ‘Thought he was still inside.’

‘He’s out.’

‘He’s a fucking idiot, that one.’ He shook his head, then tapped the side of it. ‘Nutter. So what can I get you, gentlemen?’

‘A San Miguel and a Diet Coke.’ Daly glanced at the Apologist for approval, and got it. The man never drank alcohol. ‘Do you have any food?’

‘Crisps.’

‘That all?’

‘Plain or cheese and onion?’

‘One of each.’

The drinks arrived, with the crisps. Daly dug into them hungrily, while the Apologist drained his Coke. The barman stood, silently and patiently, behind the bar. ‘So, Amis is all
right?’ he asked.

‘He was needing a good dentist, last time we saw him.’ Daly smirked at the Apologist, who nodded pensively, but distractedly, as if his mind was on some forgotten sadness.

‘I’m looking for some people living out here,’ Daly said. ‘I’m told you know them. Eamonn Pollock, Tony Macario and Ken Barnes?’

‘You’ve got nice friends,’ Powell replied.

‘I only do quality.’ Lucas Daly glanced at a barstool, two away from where he was sitting. He could see the bullet hole in the top of the seat, where a previous occupant had been
shot through the groin in an argument over a woman. He’d been in here when it had happened, and still winced, five years on, at the screams of pain from the .38’s recipient.

‘They shouldn’t be hard to find,’ Larry Powell said. ‘Eamonn Pollock’s halfway up his own asshole. You just need a powerful torch. Tony Macario and Ken Barnes are
all the way up it. They’re so far up it they could clean his teeth through his throat. They’re easyJet gangsters, them two.’

‘Meaning?’ Daly asked.

Powell shot a glance at the group in front of the television, to make sure none of them was listening, then leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘They do jobs for Pollock. He keeps his nose
clean and his belly filled with the proceeds of their labour. Nice work. He fixes jobs for them in England, pops them on an easyJet flight. Twenty-four hours they’re back here. He makes sure
never to use anyone with a British criminal record. No dabs, no DNA.’ He shrugged, and sipped his lager.

‘And if someone I knew wanted any of them whacked?’ Daly asked.

Lawrence Powell shrugged again. ‘Not a problem. Give a Moroccan a Bin Laden.’

Daly swigged down some of his beer, straight from the bottle, frowning.

‘What? Did you say,
Give a Moroccan a Bin Laden
?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you talk in English?’

Lawrence Powell led them outside onto the terrace, and pointed out across the Mediterranean, at two hazy shapes on the horizon. ‘That lump of rock is Gibraltar. The other’s North
Africa. Morocco,’ he said. ‘Their police have a useless fingerprint database and an even more useless national DNA database. A Moroccan can come over here, do a hit and be back in his
own country before the police have even reached the crime scene. He’ll be harder to find than a specific grain of sand in the desert.’

‘And a
Bin Laden
?’ Lucas Daly asked.

‘A five-hundred-Euro note. They say they’re as elusive as Bin Laden was.’ Powell grinned. ‘Morocco’s a short ferry ride away from Ceuta.’ He jerked a finger
to his left, west. ‘A Moroccan can live a couple of years on that kind of dough. Life’s cheap there.’

‘And you have access to these Moroccans?’ Daly asked.

‘I have access to everything.’ Lawrence Powell rubbed his index finger and thumb together.

Behind them, in the bar, there was a loud cheer as someone scored.

Back inside, Daly put a hundred Euro note on the counter, followed by four more.

Powell slipped them behind the bar. ‘So what’s in it for me?’ He looked at them expectantly.

‘How long does it take you to deliver?’

‘Same day service. Just bell me.’ He pushed a business card across the counter.

Daly slipped it in his wallet, then pulled another hundred Euro note out and placed it on the counter. Powell looked at it like it was a dog turd. Daly added a second. ‘Pollock, Macario
and Barnes. Where do I find them?’

Powell raised three fingers, indicating he wanted another banknote.

Lucas Daly nodded at the Apologist. The Albanian grabbed him by the throat and lifted him in the air. Powell, choking, shook his head vigorously, making yammering sounds. No one behind them
looked round; they were engrossed in the football.

The Apologist let Powell’s feet touch the floor, but kept hold of his throat. ‘My boss is not a hole-in-the-wall cash dispenser. He asked you a question. He’d like an answer.
Sorry to hurt you.’

‘
Contented
,’ Lawrence Powell croaked. ‘At Puerto Banus.’

‘It’s okay, let him go,’ Lucas Daly said. ‘
Contented
at Puerto Banus?’ he said to Lawrence Powell. ‘That the name of a house or apartment
block?’

Powell, rubbing his throat, and gulping down air, croaked, ‘It’s a boat. A sodding great yacht, okay?’

‘You’d better be right,’ Lucas Daly said. ‘I’d hate to have to come back and disturb you again.’ He turned to the Apologist. ‘We don’t like
disturbing people, do we?’

‘I’m sorry,’ the Apologist said to Lawrence Powell. ‘For the inconvenience.’

Mountainpeak Publishing, where Gareth Dupont worked, was on the third floor of a shiny modern building, on an industrial estate close to Newhaven Port, the commercial harbour a
few miles to the east of Brighton. Its affable proprietor, Alan Prior, had made Roy Grace and Guy Batchelor comfortable in a conference room, organized tea, coffee and biscuits, and then left to
fetch Gareth Dupont.

Earlier, Grace had spoken to Glenn, telling him to take whatever time off he needed; he had to deal with the Coroner’s office in order to get Ari’s body released, and register her
death, then start making the funeral arrangements. Glenn had sounded very down, unsurprisingly, and Guy Batchelor was in a subdued mood, as everyone on the team had been at this morning’s
briefing.

There was a chill from the air-conditioning and a strong new-office smell in the room, from the carpet, paint and furniture, which was overpowered, the moment Gareth Dupont entered, by the
cloyingly aromatic cologne he was wearing. He greeted the two detectives cheerily, oozing self-confidence, his demeanour more than a tad cocky, Grace thought. He looked flash, every inch a
salesman: white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, neatly creased black trousers, shiny black shoes, and sporting two vulgar rings and a showy watch.

Grace carefully studied the man seated opposite them throughout the interview. Dupont was in his early thirties, with Hispanic good looks, short gelled black hair, tattooed arms, with the
muscular physique of someone who worked out regularly. There was a scab on the knuckle of his right pinky finger. Grace did a quick mental calculation. The robbery was ten days ago; about the right
length of time for a scab to still be present after a nasty gash.

Dupont poured some coffee, helped himself to a biscuit, then dunked it carefully in his coffee. Grace wondered if he’d been dunked in cologne. Then he waited until the man had eaten it, so
he had his full concentration.

‘We appreciate time is important to you, so we won’t detain you longer than necessary, Mr Dupont,’ Grace said. ‘Can you tell me your date of birth?’ He watched
Dupont’s eyes closely.

‘Twenty-fifth of July, 1979.’

‘So you’re thirty-three?’

‘Yeah. Not good, eh? Fast turning into an old git.’

‘I think you have a way to go before that,’ Guy Batchelor said.

‘What is your home address?’ Grace asked, watching him carefully all the time.

Dupont gave him the address of an apartment block in Brighton Marina.

Grace wrote it down. Then he stared at the man’s wrist. ‘Nice watch.’

‘Thank you!’ He held it up for them to see. ‘Vintage Bulgari. My ex gave it to me a couple of years ago.’

‘Really?’ Grace said. ‘Bit of a coincidence, but it looks just like one that was stolen from a home in Withdean Road, in Brighton, last week.’

He felt Batchelor shooting him a glance. For an instant, it felt to Roy Grace that the temperature in the room had dropped even further.

‘Is that so?’ Gareth Dupont said dismissively. ‘Tell me, gentlemen, how can I help you?’ He glanced down at his watch anxiously. ‘We’re on targets here, you
see.’

‘Don’t worry, Mr Prior kindly said we could take as long as we need,’ the Detective Sergeant said.

Dupont glanced at his watch again, looking increasingly uncomfortable. ‘Well, he would, you see, because he doesn’t pay us any wages. We’re all on commission only, so time is a
bit important, like.’

‘We’ll be quick,’ Grace said. ‘I’d like you to cast your mind back to the afternoon and evening of ten days ago, Tuesday, August the 21st. Could you talk us through
that?’

Despite the low temperature in the room, both detectives noticed the tiny beads of perspiration popping on the salesman’s brow. He touched his nose.

‘Umm, let me think. Umm.’ He pulled out his phone. ‘Just check the diary. Ah – yeah – well, I was working. Yeah.’

‘Where were you working?’ Grace asked him.

‘At my last company. Ransom Richman.’

‘In the office?’

Both detectives noticed the brief hesitation. ‘No, I was at home. Do a lot of my work from home. Early evening’s a good time to catch the householder in – and before
they’ve settled down for the evening.’

‘At 7 p.m. you made a phone call from your mobile to this number,’ Batchelor said, and handed him a slip of paper.

Dupont looked at it. ‘A Brighton number, yeah, could have – well, that code covers a big area I’d been working.’

‘Would you remember anything about this particular number?’ Roy Grace asked.

The salesman shot a glance at both of them, hesitating, before shaking his head. ‘No, sorry, I make dozens and dozens of cold calls every day and night. I remember the names, of course, of
anyone who becomes a prospect.’