Dead Man's Time (22 page)

‘They coming back or should we follow?’ the Apologist asked.

‘They’d sodding well better come back. Wait here.’ Daly got up and sauntered after them.

The two crewmen did not walk far. After a couple of hundred yards they made a left into an alley lined with buzzing bars and restaurants, then a right, and entered O’Grady’s Irish
Pub. The word
GUINNESS
and its harp logo were etched onto the windows and the glass panes of the open doors. Daly waited, watching them make their way slowly through the
crowd towards the bar. Then as he saw their drinks being served, he returned to fetch the Apologist.

Ten minutes later the two of them were positioned with their drinks in the pub, a safe distance from Macario and Barnes, watching them attempting to chat up a small group of uninterested teenage
girls. Daly hoped to hell they wouldn’t pull, as that would complicate his newly formed plans.

An hour and a half later, to his relief, the girls left, despite the entreaties of the two men, who were clearly a little sloshed, to stay. Just after 11 p.m., Macario and Barnes staggered out
of the bar and up the alley. Daly and the Apologist followed them, and saw them stop at a takeaway pizza joint.

Then, carrying their large polystyrene boxes, they headed unsteadily back to the
Contented
and boarded the yacht, disappearing through the saloon doors.

It was approaching 11.30 p.m. The evening was warm, and the streets seemed to be getting even more crowded. Daly and his colleague entered a bar opposite. He ordered a Metaxa brandy, to steady
his nerves, and another Coke for the Apologist. Ten minutes later he said, ‘Okay, time to rock and roll.’

‘Sorry, I don’t dance very well,’ the Apologist said.

Daly grinned and slapped him on the back. ‘I’m talking about rocking the boat.’

‘Rocking the boat?’

‘It’s a joke.’

‘I don’t get it.’

Daly pointed at the
Contented.

The Apologist grinned. ‘Ah. Sorry.’

The quay was almost deserted, apart from one young couple eating each other’s faces, who weren’t going to be noticing anything else happening around them. Lucas
Daly, needing a cigarette to steady his nerves, put one in his mouth, then clicked his lighter to no avail; it was out of gas.

‘Shit.’

He walked over to the couple and, ignoring the fact they were snogging, said loudly, ‘Either of you speak English?’

They both turned. ‘We are English,’ the male said. ‘What do you want?’

‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a light?’

‘Bloody hell!’ He dug in his pocket, clicked a lighter and held the flame up to Daly’s cigarette.

‘Thanks, mate,’ he said, grabbing the lighter and walking away with it, drawing on the cigarette.

‘Don’t sodding mention it.’

When he had finished the cigarette the couple had disappeared. He handed the Apologist a pair of surgical gloves, and snapped on a pair himself. Then the Apologist followed him up the gangway of
Contented
, through the gate, which the two henchmen had left unlocked, and onto the wide deck of the yacht. It felt plush and smelled of teak, polish, varnish and leather. They could feel
the faint floating motion of the vessel.

Daly opened the patio doors and entered the huge rear saloon. All around the sides were white leather banquettes, and in the centre was a curved bar, with stools also covered in white leather.
On the wall behind were shelves stacked with an array of spirits. There was a distinct smell of pizza in here.

Behind the bar were shiny wooden steps, with a roped handrail. They could hear the sounds of a football commentary coming from a television somewhere down below them. Raising a hand to keep the
Apologist a distance behind him, Lucas Daly walked slowly down. In front of him, at the bottom, he saw a large dining room. Its centrepiece was a twelve-seater table, with white leather-covered
chairs arranged around it, and a huge television screen, showing a football match, at the far end of the room. Macario and Barnes, facing away from them, were eating their pizzas out of the opened
cartons, and swigging from cans of lager.

He beckoned the Apologist down, pointed at his own chest, then at Macario, then pointed at the Apologist and indicated Barnes.

The Apologist nodded.

Both men hurried forward, as silently as they could. Just as Macario was putting a slice of pizza in his mouth, Daly felled him with a single karate chop to the back of his neck. He fell
sideways off the chair, and onto the floor, where he lay still. The Apologist hauled Barnes up, out of his chair, onto his feet.

‘What the—?’ Barnes said, before the Apologist tightened his grip on his throat, turning the rest of his words into an incomprehensible gurgle. Then the Apologist stamped
really hard on his foot.

The shaven-headed man cried out in pain.

‘Sorry,’ the Apologist said.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Barnes croaked, his quavering voice betraying his fear.

‘I’m
Mr Pissed Off
,’ Lucas Daly said. ‘And this is my friend,
Mr Even More Pissed Off
. And you are Ken Barnes?’

He said nothing.

‘Cat got your tongue?’

Again he said nothing.

‘Tell you what. My friend here has some tongs. Curling tongs. He could plug them in, heat them up, then pull your tongue right out of your mouth. Would you like that? Then you’d have
an excuse for not speaking, wouldn’t you?’

Barnes’s eyes filled with terror.

‘Hurt him a little again, Augustine. He’s not being very talkative.’

The Apologist stamped on the man’s foot again, this time even harder.

Barnes screamed in pain, tears shedding from his eyes.

‘So you’re able to scream. If you can scream, you can talk, yeah? So what’s your name?’

‘Ken Barnes.’ He could hardly speak for the pain.

‘I need some information from you. Like, did you have a nice time in Withdean Road, Brighton, last week? Was it fun torturing that old lady with the curling tongs?’

‘It wasn’t me,’ he yammered.

‘No?’

‘No. Wasn’t me. I was – I was . . .’ He fell silent.

Daly nodded at the Apologist. He stamped even harder, and this time Daly heard the crunch of breaking bones, accompanied by a howl of agony from Barnes.

‘Barcelona just scored,’ the Apologist said, nodding at the television screen.

‘He did that. It was him, the stupid bastard,’ Barnes gasped.

‘Your friend, Mr Macario?’ Daly asked.

‘Yes.’

Daly nodded, then looked down at the slumped, unconscious figure of Tony Macario. ‘The strong, silent type, is he?’

‘I was just hired to do the job. They needed someone to help hump the furniture, that’s all I was doing there.’

‘Hired by who? Your boss, Eamonn Pollock?’

Barnes said nothing.

Daly turned to the Apologist. ‘You’d better stamp on his foot again.’

‘Noooooo! Please! I’ll tell you what you want.’

‘That’s better,’ Daly said. ‘Because you’re going to tell us anyway, so the less pain for you, the less aggro for us. Now, I’ve a list of things I really want
to know. First, where is the Patek Philippe watch you stole from that house? Second, where is the rest of the stuff? Third, where is the safe on this boat, and how do we open it. And fourth, where
is your boss, Eamonn Pollock?’

‘I don’t know about any watch, that’s the truth. I don’t remember a watch.’

‘Remember getting the safe code from that old lady?’

He shook his head.

‘You know something, I don’t believe you,’ Daly said. ‘Why is that, do you think? Because you’re a crap liar?’

‘The gorilla’s broken my fucking foot.’

‘He’ll break the other one in a minute. That old lady was my auntie. That watch belonged to my grandfather. I can’t get my auntie back because she’s dead. But I’m
sure as hell going to get that watch back. And you know where it is.’

Barnes shook his head.

Daly cupped the man’s chin in his hand, forcing him to look straight at him. ‘Listen to me, Ken. If you don’t tell me where that watch is, my friend’s going to kill you.
Simple as that. I’ll give you ten seconds to think it over.’

Daly stood staring at his own watch for the ten seconds. Then he looked at the Apologist and rotated his wrist. Moments later, Barnes was hanging upside down, suspended by his right ankle.

‘That helping to clear your mind?’ Daly asked.

‘I’ve drunk too much,’ he slurred for the first time. ‘Please put me down. I – I—’

‘Maybe you need another drink, to help the old brain cells?’ Daly asked.

He shook his head. His eyes were like two frightened little birds.

‘Be back in a tick,’ Daly said, and climbed up the stairs.

‘Sorry to keep you hanging about,’ the Apologist said.

Moments later Lucas Daly reappeared with a bottle of Macallan Scotch in one hand, and a small plastic funnel in the other. ‘Put him on the deck,’ he instructed the Apologist.
‘Then open his gob.’

The henchman obliged. Barnes tried to wriggle free, but the Apologist knelt on his chest, pinioning him to the floor, and held his head with his hands, as firmly as a vice. Daly knelt, unscrewed
the cap of the bottle, pushed the funnel into his mouth, then began pouring in the whisky.

The man spluttered and choked.

‘Am I pouring too fast?’

Barnes tried to shake his head, but it was held in the Apologist’s iron grip. In less than five minutes, the bottle was empty.

Their captive’s eyes were rolling. Daly shot a glance at Macario, who was slowly starting to stir, then returned his attention to Barnes. ‘Where’s the watch? The Patek
Philippe? Where’s the safe? And where’s your boss, Eamonn Pollock?’

‘Safe’s in the master bedroom.’ Barnes’s eyes rolled again. Then, moments before he passed out, he murmured something barely decipherable.

*

Fifteen minutes later, as Tony Macario opened his eyes, fully conscious again now, the first thing he saw was his colleague, Ken Barnes, suspended upside down by his ankles,
unconscious, being swung, head first and extremely hard, into a stanchion studded with rivets.

Then he realized, through a haze of alcohol and blinding headache, that he was bound hand and foot and could not move.

Barnes was dumped, unceremoniously on the floor. Blood leaked from a gash in his head.

‘Your mate’s not very chatty,’ Daly said. ‘Maybe you can help us? We’ve had a look at the safe but it’s empty.’ He was silent for a moment, sniffing.
‘What’s that pong? I’ve got a very strong sense of smell. Have you shat yourself?’

Macario shook his head.

‘That’s all right, then. You will in a minute.’ He pulled out his cigarette lighter and flicked it on and off. ‘Like hot things, do you?’

‘Hot things?’

‘Yeah. Burning people.’

‘I never burnt no one.’

Daly eyeballed the man. ‘Want to tell us about Withdean Road, Brighton? A little old lady you burned? Who put you up to it? Eamonn Pollock, right?’

Macario stared back impassively for some moments. Then he said, ‘Withdean Road? I never heard of that street.’

‘That’s not what your mate said. He said it was your idea to torture the old lady for her safe code and the pin codes for her credit cards. Was he lying? Fitting you up to save his
skin?’

‘He what? That fucking shitbag . . .’

‘Now, that’s much more like it!’

‘My idea? I had to fucking pull him off her.’

‘Tell us more.’ He nodded at the Apologist. ‘My friend hates to hurt people, really he does. He much prefers not to. My dad and I don’t care a toss about all the antiques
and paintings. But we want that watch back. It’s sentimental, right? Know the meaning of that word?’

Macario nodded.

‘Your friend says he doesn’t know where Mr Pollock is. How about you?’

‘He doesn’t tell us anything. I don’t know. Really, I don’t know.’

‘Is that right? What do you think this boat’s worth? Ten million quid? Twenty? Fifty? One hundred? You two jokers are guarding it while he’s away, and you don’t have an
address for him? A contact number?’ He tapped his chest. ‘Do I look stupid or something? Do I look like I just rode into town in the back of a truck?’

‘No.’

Leaving the Apologist with him, Lucas Daly went back up to the bar and returned with a litre bottle of Grey Goose vodka, and proceeded, with the funnel, to pour half of it down Macario’s
throat.

A couple of minutes later, under Daly’s coaxing, Macario slurred out that he might have gone to New York, but he didn’t know where, he swore.

‘Now tell me what you did with all the rest of the stuff?’ Daly said. ‘What happened to all of my auntie’s precious antiques and paintings? Eight million quid’s
worth. What did you do – vanish it into thin air?’ He flicked the lighter and brought the flame close up to Macario’s eyes. ‘Don’t think I won’t,’ he said.
‘I’ll burn your face off with pleasure.’

‘Delivered to warehouse . . . barn . . . sort of place.’ His voice was slurring.

‘What warehouse? Down at the docks? Shoreham or Newhaven Harbour?’

He shook his head. ‘Industrial estate. Lewes. Back of Lewes. By the tunnel.’

‘Where was it going after the warehouse?’

‘Overseas.’

Then he passed out.

Daly untied his bindings. Then with the help of the Apologist, he untied Barnes. They left both men unconscious on the saloon floor, climbed back up the stairs and went out, through the patio
doors onto the stern deck. Then they walked ashore across the gangway, and strode a short distance along the quay towards the shadowy, dark-skinned figure who was waiting for them, smoking a
cigarette.

‘Mr bin Laden?’ Daly asked.

The Moroccan grinned.

Humphrey was snoring. The dog was lying on its back on the sofa beside Roy Grace, paws sticking up in the air like a mutant dead ant. Grace patted its belly. ‘Hey,
fellow, quiet! Can’t hear the television!’

Humphrey ignored him.

Daniel Day-Lewis was looking murderous on the screen in the video of the
Gangs of New York
that Glenn Branson had lent him. Piled up on the coffee table were four of the volumes on the
early gang history of New York he’d bought from City Books. The fifth,
Young Capone
, lay open on his lap. The baby monitor was turned up loud enough for him to hear the sound of
Noah’s breathing. His son had been sleeping soundly since his last feed at 9 p.m.