The Chalon Heads (10 page)
Melville did look uneasy. ‘It would mean removing it from the exhibition in our foyer. So many people are coming especially to view it, and then there’s the insurance aspect, and the approval of the owners . . .’
‘I think we should do whatever’s possible, Mr Melville,’ Brock said.
‘Yes, yes, of course. I’m just waiting for a return call from the insurers, then I’ll make a call to Canada.’
‘We’re going to have to photograph it anyway, Mr Melville,’ Freedman said. ‘No way we can do this without taking the original to Lambeth for a couple of hours.’
‘Anyway,’ Waverley continued, ‘paper shouldn’t be a problem. It’s what’s called laid paper, which has a distinctive pattern to it, but I have some original samples that could be used, and thankfully the original has no watermark. Similarly the envelope. The ink, now, that’s another problem . . .’
He gave a brief dissertation on the issues raised by fugitive and non-fugitive inks, went on to the manufacture from potato starch of the gum required as adhesive for the stamp, and concluded with a few remarks about the artificial ageing of dyes and papers. Freedman was captivated.
‘All right,’ Brock said. ‘Let’s do it. If nothing else, it may give us some leeway if Sammy fails to get the cover at the auction. Tell us what you need, Bert, and I’ll sign the requisitions. What about you, Dr Waverley? Can you spare us some of your time?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for anything, Chief Inspector. Forgery is my field. I’m fascinated to see just what we can come up with.’
‘Thank you. You might keep an eye on Bert here, too. The idea of crossing to the other side seems to be exercising an unhealthy appeal.’
Freedman chuckled. ‘That’s where the money is, Brock. What do you say we make an extra couple, eh, Tim? One each.’ He rubbed his bald pate in gleeful anticipation.
‘T
here’s a season of Brazilian films showing at a little fleapit in Camden Town, called the Cinema Hollywood.’ Brock passed round a sheet with information on performance times at that and several other cinemas which featured foreign-language films.
‘They knew her at the Cinema Hollywood—quite a regular, apparently. But we can’t find anyone who remembers seeing her there during the past week. We’re checking all the cafés and shops between Canonbury and Camden Town. What else? Bookstores that sell books on cinema, stores that sell foreign videos, credit-card checks, hairdressers, clothes shops that sell La Perla underwear . . . Nothing so far. Well, Bren, what have you got?’
‘About as little as everyone else, by the sound of it. We’ve been watching both Marty and Barney Keller since Friday afternoon, and neither has given the slightest indication that they’re up to anything.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘Not a thing.’ Bren frowned unhappily. ‘More than that, Brock . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, to be honest, Marty Keller just doesn’t look like he’s got it in him any more.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I remember seeing him once. He played for the London Mets, in the days when people thought it a bit weird playing the American game. It was a novelty, and I went along one afternoon to see what it was all about. I remember him because he was such a showman. He scored a touchdown, and started jumping and whooping like he was doing a war dance or something. The crowd loved it.’ Bren sighed and ran a hand through the short crop of his hair. ‘This guy we’ve been following isn’t the same bloke. This one doesn’t look as if he could scare a kitten. He’s turned in on himself, doesn’t meet anybody’s eyes, only speaks when he’s spoken to. To me, he looks like a man who’s had the shit kicked out of him, and just wants to be left alone. That’s my impression.’
Brock considered this sombrely. ‘Could be just an act.’
‘Yes, I know. Does it bloody well, though. What I thought was that we could get one or two guys from the old days, who knew him well, to bump into him by accident, chat him up, tell us what they think.’
‘Could look a bit obvious.’
‘And at the same time we should find out how he was behaving inside. I mean, if he was throwing his weight around in there, then this is more likely to be an act.’
‘We have something on that. There’s a report from the prison psychiatrist at Durham. Keller went through a period of depression just over a year ago. He was on medication for four months, and his behaviour is described as “subdued” after that.’
Bren sat back. ‘Well, then, that’s it. I reckon they broke him. I reckon he’s all washed up.’
Kathy walked from Trafalgar Square the length of the Strand, enjoying the sun on the northern pavement. The street was quiet compared to a weekday, and she spotted the huddle of people on the other side from some way away. As she got closer, she again noticed that the crowd drawn to Cabot’s auction rooms was uniformly male. Whiskery old men in corduroy and tweed struggled past eager schoolboys dragging at their fathers’ hands. Tourists in jeans tried to see what the fuss was all about while men in suits slipped past and made for the lifts. Apart from the occasional tourist, the only females visible were a couple of women selling catalogues at the desk in the foyer, and what looked like a journalist, with notebook and ballpoint, talking to one of them as she served the impatient horde thrusting money at her. Kathy worked her way inside and made for the stairs.
There was a bigger crowd on the first floor, milling around the display of lots to be auctioned that afternoon. Kathy noted the closed-circuit cameras, the uniformed security hovering in the background, and the number of staff answering queries at the counters. She positioned herself near the door in the line of one of the cameras, and examined the catalogue she had brought with her. At over two hundred pages it was a substantial document. Almost two thousand lots were to be sold over the three days, and the catalogue cover was titled ‘Major International Stamp Auction’ above the illustration of lot fifteen. On the rear cover another illustration showed lot six, a roughly cut circle of paper with the words ‘Hamilton Bermuda 1849’ printed with crude lettering, which Kathy thought might as well have been done with a child’s toy printing set. Checking inside, she discovered that this scrap, described as a ‘Perot’, was expected to fetch £80,000.
‘Ms Kolla?’ A man’s voice murmured in her ear.
‘That’s me.’
‘Follow me, please.’ The young man, trimly suited, insinuated himself through the crush coming through the door and led her out to the stairs and up to the second floor. He looked briefly over her shoulder as if to see if they were being observed, tapped on the door and led her in.
The room had the crowded, expectant atmosphere of a crime operations room. She nodded to Leon Desai, standing against the opposite wall with Dr Waverley, who was clutching a battered old briefcase to his chest. Brock was sitting at the far end, beneath the windows, talking earnestly with James Melville and another man in a pinstripe suit. Sammy Starling was sitting at the central table flanked by two heavily built men. He appeared dazed, his eyes unseeing, and he seemed to have grown smaller, probably due to the size of the two beefy men on each side of him. From time to time one or other of them would speak softly to him; he seemed barely to hear, and they repeated their comments until he gave a little nod or frown in acknowledgement. They seemed quite relaxed. It looked to Kathy as if at least one of them was armed.
In a moment the trim young man returned with two more people, a man and a woman, and Brock, seeing that everyone was now present, indicated that they should all sit. Despite the crowd in the room and the heat outside, the air-conditioning was fiercely efficient and the men all kept their jackets on, giving the gathering an air of formality, like a funeral party, Kathy thought. She found herself sitting next to Melville, who placed a small pile of books in front of her.
‘You said yesterday you wanted to do some reading up on stamps, so I took you at your word.’
‘Thanks.’ She smiled, checking the titles.
‘Don’t mention it. Always looking for converts. I should start with the Watson.’
Brock cleared his throat and began with introductions. The man to whom he and Melville had been talking was the senior auctioneer for the afternoon’s business, Christopher Conway. The man and woman who had come in last were also from Cabot’s, he in charge of security, and she to act as liaison between the police and the company staff. The two men sitting with Starling were police officers, hostage and kidnap specialists from SO10 Crime Operations Group, ominously named Gallows and Heath.
‘I must emphasise at the outset,’ Brock went on, ‘how essential it is that everything proceeds as normal this afternoon. The very last thing we want is to alert Mrs Starling’s kidnappers to the possibility that anyone in this building, apart from Mr Starling, knows that something is amiss.’
Starling gave a jerky, emphatic nod that betrayed the state of tension.in his body.
‘We must assume that they, the kidnappers, will be present at the auction this afternoon, and are probably already here in the building. We are monitoring the closed-circuit cameras from the room next door, and we have other people outside the building, but we will not be making any attempt to detain anyone here.’ Brock turned gravely to the auctioneer, ‘Even if we have an armed hold-up here this afternoon, Mr Conway, we will have to let your people call for assistance in the normal way, just as if we weren’t here. Our first concern is Mrs Starling’s safety.’
Melville said, ‘Chief Inspector, you will have our full cooperation. Cabot’s are horrified that criminals should have chosen this way to extort money from one of our most valued clients. If it helped, we would be willing to postpone or cancel the sale of lot fifteen, but under the circumstances I believe you feel we should continue . . .’
‘That’s right. I understand you’ve had no success with the sellers, Mr Melville?’
Melville shook has head. ‘I put Mr Starling’s final offer to them a short time ago. They turned it down, I’m afraid. As I anticipated, they’re not interested in a private sale before the auction. They scent a seller’s market this afternoon.’
‘And you feel they’re right?’
Melville turned to the auctioneer at his side. Conway nodded. ‘Demand has been hardening these past six months, especially for these very special high-value pieces.’ He had a rich, polished voice that demanded attention. ‘Lot six, the Bermuda Perot issue, which you can see on the back of the catalogue, should give us the first real indication of how things will go today. Apart from its general rarity and quality, lot fifteen also has a particular significance for Canadian collectors. We have six overseas bidders who have made arrangements for telephone bidding, three of them from Canada, and we know them all to be serious collectors.’
‘How will the auction work, Mr Conway?’
The auctioneer described how the afternoon would run. At midday the public viewing of the pieces to be sold would close, and the hall would be set out with furniture and facilities for the auction. Tables would be set up for Cabot’s staff taking telephone bids from other parts of the country and from overseas. Other staff would represent postal bids, which had been streaming in over the previous weeks, by mail and fax. All buyers attending the auction in person would be given a numbered card, which they would raise to indicate a bid to the auctioneer.
‘You and your colleagues will be able to watch the proceedings on the closed-circuit television sets in the next room, Chief Inspector. You could make your bids anonymously by phone from up here as well, Mr Starling, if you wished.’
‘No,’ Starling said, voice hoarse. ‘I want to be seen. I want them to know that I get it.’
Kathy saw Conway’s mouth begin to form the response, ‘But what if you don’t?’ Then he changed his mind. ‘Very well. In that case I suggest we place you at a seat on the centre aisle, perhaps towards the front, so that you can be seen and so that you can leave as soon as lot fifteen is sold. I take it you want to do that?’
‘Yes.’ Brock agreed. ‘I’d like Mr Starling to come back up here to wait for the phone call.’
‘One of our staff will stay with him throughout. I anticipate that we’ll get to lot fifteen by two forty-five.’
‘Will you have the names and addresses of everyone who attends the auction?’
‘Yes. Everyone provides details as they register, and postal and telephone buyers provide bank or credit-card information in advance.’
‘We’d like to have those names and addresses as they become available.’
Melville and Conway conferred, then Melville confirmed his agreement to this.
‘Well, now,’ Brock sat back, ‘I think that’s all we need at the moment. We have one or two things to go over with Mr Starling, and I’d appreciate it if you could stay with us for a while longer, Mr Melville.’
The other Cabot’s people filed out of the room, and Brock turned to Desai. ‘Leon, how did things go at the lab?’
‘Very well, I think. Bert Freedman sends his apologies—he didn’t get any sleep last night, and went home for a couple of hours. Dr Waverley has more stamina. He worked all through the night with the lab boys, and he’d be best to describe the result.’
‘Fine. We very much appreciate your help, Dr Waverley. Please tell us.’
Waverley looked pale, his eyes bright and rimmed in pink. He stood the briefcase on his knee, opened the flap and groped inside. After a moment he found a pair of white cotton gloves, which he put on before reaching back into the briefcase again, this time lifting out a plain white envelope. Setting the briefcase aside, he drew a piece of cardboard packing out of the envelope, unfolded it and slid the contents out on to the table. There was a murmur of appreciation as everyone saw the envelope with copperplate handwriting and the black stamp.
Melville said, ‘The Canada Cover!’
‘As close as we could get in the time available,’ Waverley said.
Melville took a small magnifier from his pocket and went over to the envelope, peering closely at it, nodding as his eye moved from one part to another. Finally he straightened. ‘Astonishing. Really very good. Have a look, Mr Starling.’