by Rebecca Tope
‘Chris phoned last night and said that Nick man’s going to be there today. The one they all think must have had a grudge against Jonathan. But now Chris says he’s really a decent chap and wouldn’t stay cross for long. It’ll be interesting to see what he’s like.’
‘That’s good. Who else, I wonder? I mean – how many other possible killers are going to show up? There’s a good chance some will, given that the murder has to have something to do with the antique business. Or house clearances, at least. Did I tell you my dad says he’d have loved to do that for a living, instead of teaching? He’s a secret collector, you know, but my mum won’t let him accumulate much clutter. He’s got a whole drawer full of tiepins and another one with cufflinks. We’ve no idea where he gets them from.’
As far as Simmy had been able to discover, David Harkness was a shadowy figure in the family home. She had never spoken to him, although he had been in the living room once when she visited, his legs up on a pouffe and football on the television. In his late fifties, he was increasingly exhausted by the demands of his job at the local comprehensive, according to Bonnie. She had hinted that she thought he might also be depressed. Her fondness for him was tinged with diffidence; there had never been a father figure in her own life, and she was unsure how best to approach him.
They were through Ambleside and heading towards Rydal. The sun was already high in the sky, and the gardens they passed were riotous with colour. Simmy made a vague sound in response to Ben’s disclosures about his father, but no more than that.
‘Okay,’ Ben went on. ‘So, what’s the plan exactly?’
‘Don’t ask me. I’m just the driver. This is your project, not mine.’
‘It’s not a project. It’s an investigation. But you’ve been before. You know your way around already. It’s all going to be new to me.’
‘There’s a woman called Josephine who does all the computer stuff. Chris thinks you should talk to her mostly.’
‘That’s because he thinks I’m going to be there to find out how the system works for buying and selling. Doesn’t he?’
‘I don’t know what he thinks. He probably assumes you’re hoping to get some ideas about the murder. He’s not daft, you know.’
‘I never said he was. And I do want to understand the whole process because it’s likely to be relevant. Didn’t we say all this already?’
‘You asked me what the plan was.’
‘Okay. I meant, where are we going to sit? Are we both going to bid for things? Is Chris going to have any time off to talk to us, or does he just keep on going all day? Is he the only auctioneer? Do you know any of the regular bidders by name? Who’s friends with who? All that sort of thing.’
Simmy felt weak. She had given very little thought to the precise details of the day. ‘I’ve been twice,’ she said. ‘The first time was with my father, just after the Bowness murder. And I went up again after work one Saturday and just sat at the back, watching Chris in action. I have no idea who any of the people are, except for Hannah. She’s Chris’s sister, and goes quite a lot, I think. I have got one answer for you, though – he does keep going all day. It’s about seven hours without a break.’
‘Impressive. And frustrating. No chance of talking to him.’
‘We told you that.’
They arrived just before eight. Being so early added considerably to the sense of adventure for both of them. A woman was pulling open the big gate to let cars through. Simmy and Ben were third in the queue. A big notice on the gatepost said, SALE TODAY 10 A.M. VIEWING FROM 8 A.M.
‘Nice to be prompt,’ said Ben, which Simmy took as a patronising piece of praise for her timekeeping and speedy driving.
They queued again at the reception desk, where two women were greeting people as they arrived. Doors were opening and closing on all sides as people went in and out of mysterious smaller rooms. ‘One of those is Chris’s office,’ whispered Simmy. There was no sign of the man himself. Ben was given a form to complete before being allocated a bidder’s number. Simmy gave her name and was told she was already in the system, but would be given a new number, since it was over a month since she last put in a bid. ‘Makes sense,’ said Ben. ‘Otherwise they’d get into five figures in no time.’
Simmy was still trying to work out that piece of mathematical logic when they went through into the saleroom.
Everything was as before in the overall layout, but the nature of the objects for sale had changed dramatically. There was a huge sofa at the front, and two smaller ones in the middle of the room. Arranged all around them were chairs of every kind. Deep sagging armchairs, mahogany dining chairs, cane-seated bedroom chairs and a very worm-eaten ornately carved thing that was more like a throne than a chair. It had a worn leather seat. ‘Once used by Anne Boleyn, I should think,’ said Ben. For a moment, Simmy believed him.
On three sides there were shelves and tables stacked with objects large and small, as well as more hanging on the walls. Clocks, old books, suitcases, records, statuettes, stuffed animals in glass cases, pictures, musical instruments, old radios, old sewing machines, bags of embroidered linens, rolled-up rugs and carpets, chess sets – and a whole section of china and porcelain. On the fourth side was the auctioneer’s rostrum flanked by two lower tables for computers. ‘They have online bidding, don’t they?’ said Ben.
‘I guess so,’ said Simmy uncertainly, trying to remember what Chris had told her.
Also, near the fourth wall, in front of the auctioneer and his assistants, stood a row of glass cabinets containing the more valuable or easily damaged items. Jewellery, coins, stamps, tiny oriental carvings, pill boxes, delicate porcelain figures. Ben flipped through his catalogue and found Lot 432. ‘Hey, listen to this. “Snake Charmer by Rosenthal, Germany. Guide price £1800 to £2000.” It’s rather nice, don’t you think? I could get that for Bonnie.’
‘Did you say two thousand pounds?’ Again, for a moment she believed him when he said he might buy it. The piece was indeed compelling. A girl in flimsy garments was bending over, one finger extended, pointing down at a cobra just in front of her. Her other finger was against her lips in a hushing gesture. The elegant suppleness of her body had an erotic charge. Simmy gazed at it longingly.
‘It’s worth it, look. It’s fantastic. You couldn’t lend me a couple of grand, could you?’
‘In your dreams.’ But how great would it be to own the thing. Already she was glimpsing the intense appeal of the whole auction experience. The urgent desire for such a lovely object as this, the fierce contest against other bidders, the temptation to buy it at any cost – and the associated wheeling and dealing that must surely accompany such irresistible drives. ‘Let’s see if we can find Chris,’ she said. ‘Remember what we came for.’
They selected two upright chairs with padded seats and reserved them by putting their number cards on the seats, as they saw others had done. There were eight or ten potential bidders sitting with their catalogues, intently studying the contents. Conversation was muted; it was a large space with a high ceiling, so little could be overheard. ‘I wonder if Nick’s here yet,’ muttered Simmy.
Ben was paying no attention to her, eagerly scanning his catalogue. ‘Who?’ he said, belatedly aware that she had spoken.
She reminded him as they went back to the reception desk, which had an office behind it, both sides of the window now full of people. Potential buyers were arriving in large numbers, thronging the waiting area. All the seats in the office were occupied by busy staff members. Outside, the car park appeared to be full.
‘There he is,’ Ben said, tapping Simmy on the back. ‘Look.’
She turned and met Christopher’s eyes, over the shoulder of one of the reception women. He waved and smiled, and she felt warmed by the welcome. He disappeared for a moment, and then a door opened and two seconds later he was giving her a hug. ‘You got here, then,’ he said, with a little laugh. ‘Hello, Ben. How’s it going?’
‘Fine. This is all very
interesting.’ He turned in a half-circle, looking all round at the people, the posters and the busy office. ‘This is typical, is it?’
Christopher made a rueful face. ‘Good question. Actually, this is a lot busier than usual. We’re not sure why.’
‘Notoriety? They’ve heard about the Grasmere murder, and made the connection with the auction. Do you think?’
A man close by gave Ben a look. ‘Murder?’ he said, with a frown. ‘Did somebody get murdered?’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Ben. He ducked his head in self-reproach. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered to Christopher, who was looking decidedly displeased.
‘Probably not that,’ said Simmy. ‘Maybe it’s because you were in the paper about that stumpwork. It makes you seem glamorous.’
‘I’ve got no objection to that,’ Christopher conceded. ‘But look – we can’t stand here. We’d better go into my office. I’ve got an hour and a half before it all kicks off. I don’t usually get here until after nine.’ He was working his way through the crowd towards the door he’d come in through. ‘It’s just along here.’
‘You came early specially for us,’ said Ben, trotting along behind the others. ‘That’s nice.’
Christopher shrugged and gave Simmy a smile. They had arrived at another door, which opened into a small room with a computer and telephone. Nobody sat down. ‘Have you had a look in the saleroom?’ Christopher asked.
Simmy nodded. ‘We both want that snake charmer.’
‘The Rosenthal? Gorgeous, isn’t it. I could live with it myself.’
‘You’re not allowed to buy it, are you?’ Ben asked. ‘Isn’t that forbidden?’
‘Why would it be? My money’s as good as anyone’s.’
‘Yes, but – how would that work? You can’t bid while you’re doing the auctioneer thing, can you?’
‘It varies. I can make it look as if it’s an online bid or get someone else to bid for me. It’s all quite kosher.’
Ben looked unconvinced. ‘It’s not exactly upfront, though, is it?’
Christopher sighed and shook his head. ‘Nothing’s exactly upfront in this business. People don’t want it known what they’re buying or selling. Mostly it’s just a game, like it’s always been. Sometimes they’re embarrassed if they’ve paid too little – or too much.’
Ben waggled his head in ambivalent judgement on this uncertain morality. ‘Well, that’s not the main business in hand, is it?’ he said, squaring his shoulders. ‘We want to try and spot anything that could explain why a man got murdered.’
Simmy had a thought. ‘Will the police be here, doing the same thing?’ she wondered.
Christopher went pale. ‘Nobody’s said anything to me.’
‘They wouldn’t, would they?’ said Ben. ‘They’d send a plain clothes sergeant to watch the goings-on.’
‘I wish you hadn’t said that. Now I’m going to be searching the bidders for an undercover cop. It’ll distract me. You have no idea of the level of concentration it takes to do a good job.’
‘I look forward to finding out,’ said Ben, with a formal little nod. ‘Simmy tells me you’re remarkably good at it.’
‘He works the room,’ said Simmy proudly. ‘I never knew what that meant before. It’s a pleasure to watch him.’
‘I should go,’ said Christopher suddenly. ‘Josephine’s going to want me. There’s always something at the last minute.’
‘Show us which one she is,’ said Simmy. ‘Ben’s going to want to talk to her, if he gets a chance.’
They all trooped back to the reception area, which was less busy than before. Christopher pointed out a woman sitting at a computer at the back of the open office behind the reception windows. She was around fifty, with a careless haircut and shapeless figure. ‘She’s our guiding angel,’ said Christopher, quite loudly. ‘We’d be lost without her. Hey, Jo! I’m talking about you.’ He leant over the counter in her direction.
The woman turned, met his eyes and smiled adoringly. Uh-oh, thought Simmy.
‘This is Simmy. You’ve heard me mention her. And Ben. He’s here on a sort of research project. He’s off to university in the autumn, doing forensic something-or-other.’
Josephine shook her head slightly, as if trying to connect antiques to forensics, and failing. ‘Hello,’ she said. She gave Simmy a long look that was very far from friendly. The reason for it was painfully obvious, and quite disconcerting, even if it was an almost comical cliché. The frumpy middle-aged employee nursing a passion for her charismatic boss. There must be a thousand instances of it in Cumbria alone. But, like the powerful emotions of teenaged girls, it was not safe to ignore the yearnings of older women. Trouble of many sorts could arise from it, in both cases.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Simmy told the woman, with the most pleasant smile she could muster.
‘Go and find somewhere to sit,’ Christopher advised them. ‘I know we don’t start for another hour, nearly, but the seats fill up quickly. You can watch everything better if you sit near the back. That way, it’s more obvious who’s bidding.’
‘We’ve already bagged places,’ said Ben. ‘We want to try and spot Nick – the man who Jonathan reported to the tax people.’
Christopher rolled his eyes and glanced around for anyone overhearing them. ‘You mean, the man with the solid alibi?’
‘Right,’ Ben nodded. ‘But it might not be conclusive. Maybe he has a son or brother or wife who was angry on his behalf.’
‘Stop it,’ Simmy hissed at him. ‘Come and sit down and behave yourself.’ She grinned disarmingly at her fiancé and pushed the boy ahead of her.
Ben was soon distracted by the appearance of a picture show on a monitor mounted on the wall above the podium. The lots were being shown, one by one, with ten seconds accorded to each. Ben was matching them to the description in his catalogue, with intense interest.
Simmy’s gaze was also on the monitor. ‘Gosh – that looks nice,’ she breathed, as a cloisonné vase was shown. It was red and orange and yellow, big and shiny, with a dragon design. ‘Must be Chinese, I suppose.’
‘Japanese.’ Ben tapped his catalogue. ‘Guide price only a hundred quid. Must be more modern than it looks.’
His careless remark about friends or relations of the ill-used Nick had given her pause. Had the police formed the same idea? Could you be so murderously angry on behalf of someone else – whose grievance was scarcely serious enough to justify murder in the first place? Her thoughts returned yet again to the Grasmere house and its significance as the scene of the crime. Along with those thoughts came the inevitable acknowledgement that her Christopher had also gone to that same house, for reasons she still wasn’t sure she fully understood. It had to appear suspicious to the police; so much so that it was almost surprising that Chris wasn’t in custody or at best out on bail. Instead of being so delicate and sympathetic on this subject, DI Moxon should surely have been explaining just why there was such a level of doubt as to her fiancé’s guilt.
Perhaps it had been the accidental bystander who had persuaded them. The man who called 999, because Christopher had been so shocked as to be incapable of doing it himself. ‘I told you, didn’t I, about the man in the street?’ she asked Ben now.
‘Who?’
‘Pay attention,’ she snapped. ‘You’re leaving me to do all the work here.’
‘Sorry. I’m not really. I’m just trying to get the hang of all this.’ He gave an all-embracing gesture to indicate the saleroom. ‘You never know what’s relevant. What are you trying to tell me?’
‘The man outside the house, when Christopher found Jonathan. He called the police. They’ll have interviewed him.’
Ben’s attention was finally captured. He turned sideways on his chair to look at her. ‘Did he hang around, then, until they showed up?’
‘Yes, but they didn’t seem very interested in him, according to Chris, when they realised he hadn’t seen anything useful.’
‘They can’t have kno
wn that until they’d questioned him properly. And if he was just passing by, he won’t have been able to say much to exonerate Chris.’
There had been one row of empty seats behind them when they sat down. Now people were filling them, too. Simmy had been aware of somebody immediately behind her for the past few minutes and had unconsciously been trying to speak more quietly. But Ben had a loud voice, which got louder when he was excited. Before she could say more, a man pushed his head between them. ‘That was me,’ he said. ‘If you’re talking about last Monday afternoon in Grasmere.’
They both twisted round to look at him. ‘Pardon?’ said Simmy.
‘The name’s Pruitt. I’m the chap who called the police for Mr Henderson. I gather you know quite a lot about what happened.’
Neither Simmy nor Ben could think of anything to say. They looked at each other, then back at the man. We were too loud, Simmy reproached herself, trying to remember exactly what they’d said. ‘We know Mr Henderson,’ she said.
‘I haven’t seen you here before.’
‘You come regularly, do you?’ Ben was regaining his composure and clearly thinking fast. ‘In that case, Christopher must know you. He’s sure to recognise all his usual buyers.’
‘I’ve only been a couple of times since he took over. I used to come to every sale when it was Oliver.’
‘But you knew who he was, on Monday.’
‘I did, yes.’
Ben’s eyes were flickering from side to side. Simmy recognised the signs and tried to guess what he was thinking. Something not quite right, something concealed and now needlessly revealed. What did it mean? She looked at the man, the angle between them stiff and awkward. ‘Why don’t you come and sit here, so we can talk properly?’ she said, patting the empty chair beside her. It was small and hard.
‘I won’t, thank you. I prefer the back row, where I can see everything that’s going on. And I’m keeping this seat for someone. She’s just gone for some coffee.’