The lists contained brief descriptions of items of furniture, date of purchase, name of dealer or auction house and price paid. Appended to it were photocopies of all the receipts.
‘It’s a very comprehensive list,’ observed Nigel. ‘He obviously didn’t keep the receipts in the warehouse.’
‘Did you see the originals of the receipts?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Rollison. ‘He brought the originals, but wouldn’t let me keep them, which is reasonable enough. I had them copied here. They looked genuine to me.’
We finished our coffees and thanked Mr Rollison for his cooperation, recommending that he didn’t rush to pay out until he’d heard from us.
‘What do you suggest I tell the investigation department, Inspector?’ he asked.
‘The truth, Mr Rollison,’ I replied loftily. ‘It’s always the best policy.’
On the way to the fire station I asked Nigel if he knew anything about antiques.
‘No, not much,’ he said, with characteristic understatement, adding: ‘My mother has a couple of nice pieces.’
‘Really?’ I replied, stifling a smirk. ‘In that case, from now on you’re the station’s expert.’
We’d had the foresight to take our own wellington boots. Des Brown supplied us with yellow plastic safety helmets and took us in a station van to the warehouse. It was a narrow building, four storeys high, in a long terrace that had been purpose-built for another industry in another age. The ground floor windows and door were boarded up, and black streaks of soot reached upwards from them. First impressions were that it had been an inferno.
‘You were lucky to contain it to the one building,’ I observed.
‘Yeah,’ Des replied. ‘Fortunately the ones on either side are empty, so we were able to get into them and cool the walls. These places are well built structurally, but there’s a lot of timber inside. They’re a headache to us, but the whole area’s scheduled for redevelopment. The sooner the better.’
He’d taken a jemmy from the car boot and was levering off the boards from the door. When they were removed he went through and we followed. The first floor had vanished completely. Above that were just blackened ribs to indicate where the others had been. The roof was intact apart from one small patch where the sky was visible. The air was still hung with smoke, and when you looked up the light from the empty windows created a cathedral effect.
‘Where did it start, Des?’ I asked.
‘We don’t know. The story is that there was a small office over there, where you can see the stairs were. It was stuffed with cardboard boxes and other combustibles …’
‘Like cans of paraffin?’ I interrupted.
‘Possibly,’ he replied, with a smile, ‘but plastic bottles leave less evidence. Anyway, they think they may have gone home that evening and left the electric fire on. The cat was roaming around … et cetera, et cetera. It’s a good story; we can’t fault it.’
‘Did your forensic people find anything?’
‘’Fraid not. Too much water damage.’
I gazed at the floor with dismay. It was a tangle of charred joists, partly submerged in black slurry. I gestured towards Nigel with my hand. ‘Nigel’s our antiques expert,’ I explained. ‘OK, Nigel, tell us what we’re looking for.’
Nigel took a moment to gather his breath and his thoughts, then began: ‘Well, most antique furniture, and this was furniture, is held together by glue and well made joints. The non-combustible parts are the fittings, such as hinges, handles and escutcheons. These were usually made of brass, and should have survived the blaze. Other decorative features might be made from marble, glass or …’
‘Right,’ I interrupted, ‘let’s see what we can find.’ I kicked my feet in the mess, feeling for anything small and solid. It was a hopeless task and a difficult situation. We were trespassing on another force’s territory, which made it impossible for me to call in a search party, and we were looking for something that we didn’t really want to find. The temptation was to make a desultory search, find nothing and regard it as success.
Des saved the day. He was grinning broadly when he announced: ‘I’ve an idea; how does this sound? We’ve some job-experience kids with us this week, all said they want to be firemen. It’s a pain in the backside finding things for them to do – non-stop questions all day long. I could send them down here this afternoon, with a supervisor, and tell them to sift everything metallic out of that lot. Would that be a help?’
We accepted the offer like a banana republic dictator accepts a medal. In return we offered Des his lunch, but were pleased when he declined. We cleaned up in the fire station, and after a quick mug of tea and a laugh with Green Watch stormed back over the Tops to our own side of the lines.
An auction house in Leeds had supplied one of the expensive pieces on the claim. I sent Nigel on a preliminary recce to see them. If the search of the ashes showed that there had been some valuable stuff in the building then we were barking up the wrong tallboy. But if our instincts were right, we had no time to waste.
I wrote a brief report and spent the afternoon shifting paperwork. Much of it was the usual comical stuff: vernacular accounts of the exploits of our clients, complete with expletives. Some of it wasn’t funny at all, just part of the endless procession of the sad, the mad and, occasionally, the bad that passes through our hands. Sparky came in, looking weary. He’d been interviewing witnesses at an unsuccessful bank robbery.
‘Any luck, Dave?’ I ventured.
‘Fantastic,’ he declared. ‘He was black, or maybe white; between five feet four and six feet, and possibly walks with a limp. He’s wearing a very distinctive coat: one side of it is leather and the other is an anorak.’
‘That narrows it down. Tell me, do you know what an escutcheon is?’
‘No, Charlie, but I’d have it looked at if I were you.’
Nigel arrived just before five. ‘I saw Mr Somerby himself,’ he told me. ‘He’s a lot younger than I expected; must be the son. He was amazingly helpful and open. He remembered the escritoire – it’s a writing desk – because they’d had it in for a quite a while. They were trying to sell it for an old lady. It was a beautiful item but her reserve was too high. They’d put it through auction a couple of times before without it moving.’
‘Did he say what the reserve was?’ I asked. ‘Yes, seven and a half thousand. When Wheatley started bidding Mr Somerby recognised him. Apparently he’d been going round the sales for over a year, buying the best items, often at top prices. Mr Somerby said that when he started bidding for the escritoire he couldn’t believe his luck. The last genuine bid was at three grand, then Wheatley joined in. Somerby took him up to the reserve, then knocked it down to him. I was staggered when he admitted that.’
‘So Mr Somerby did the auctioneering himself?’
‘Yes. Sorry, boss, didn’t I say?’
‘Never mind. Anything else?’
‘Well, yes.’ He hesitated, then went on: ‘Because he’d been so frank with me I showed him the list. He remembered several of the pieces; said they were all fine items. But they didn’t … coalesce was the word he used.’
‘Coalesce? What did he mean by that?’
‘He meant that there was no rhyme or reason behind his buying, no pattern to it. Wheatley wasn’t going to make a quick profit, because he paid top prices; he wasn’t furnishing a house, because who needs four commodes; he wasn’t forming a collection, because they were all from different periods … and so forth.’
‘I get the message. Mr Somerby sounds useful to know. Hope you pointed out that we’re only acting on suspicions, so far.’
‘Never fear, boss. Then he showed me some of the things in their next sale. Told me the reserves on one or two that caught my eye. I might make a small investment with him after next payday.’
‘Sounds like he’s a good salesman. Fireman Des hasn’t rung. I’ll call him in the morning. C’mon, let’s have an early night for a change.’ I had a fee
ling that it might be our last for a while.
Des’s call dragged me out of the morning briefing, before I’d had a chance to say my piece. ‘You’ve a good job,’ he declared. ‘Rang you last night but you’d already gone.’
‘Home for a snatched bite, Des. We don’t have the luxury of three-shift cover like you. How did the kids go on?’
‘Great!’ I could hear him chuckling at the memory. ‘We gave them oilskins, and they came back looking like black slugs. Had to hose them down in the yard.’
I smiled at the picture. ‘What did they find?’ I asked. ‘Any escutcheons?’
‘Not a one. I’ve two buckets here, filled with all sorts of bits and pieces, but nothing that looks antique.’
‘Can you tell what they are?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Hundreds of nails, out of the floorboards; quite a lot of hinges – the type used on modem kitchen units; a few handles made from aluminium or monkey metal; steel drawer sliders, that sort of stuff.’
‘All MFI rather than Chippendale.’
‘Exactly. What do you want me to do with it?’
‘Any chance of a brief report, saying what you’ve just told me?’ I ventured, pushing my luck.
‘No problem,’ he replied.
‘Great,’ I declared. ‘In that case, if you don’t hear otherwise from me in a day or two, you can chuck ’em in the skip.’
I thanked him for his help and promised to let him know the outcome. So far, over the months, I’d promised several people that I’d keep them informed. It was a tool I used to good effect: they gave me information, I satisfied their natural curiosity. It was a fair exchange. When the time came I’d run through the list and pay my debts. One of the unmentioned penalties suffered by the law-breaker is that he loses his right to privacy. His misdemeanours become public currency. Tough turds.
‘So what we need to know,’ I told Nigel, when I found him, ‘is where are the antiques now?’
‘Abroad,’ he said.
I’d decided that was the best bet myself. ‘Expand,’ I ordered.
‘Some of the pieces are quite well known, at least locally. The further away they are off-loaded, the safer it is.’
‘Australia?’
‘Maybe not that far. America’s a better market. If he sells them over there at a small profit, and gets paid out by the insurers, he won’t have done too bad, will he?’
‘Then we’d better frustrate his efforts, hadn’t we?’ I pulled the Yellow Pages directory out of my drawer and slid it across to Nigel. ‘There are fifty-two entries under Shipping Agents in there, I’ve just counted them. One for every week of the year, except you haven’t got that long. Give them all a ring and see who’s done business with Brian Wheatley Developments lately.’
Nigel’s face fell. ‘It’ll take all week, boss,’ he stated.
‘Nonsense. Just pray that they’re all computerised. You could always give your friend the auctioneer … I’ve forgotten his name …’
‘Mr Somerby.’
‘That’s right, Somerby. Why not give him a ring, see if he thinks we’re on the right lines. He might have a suggestion about who has experience in transporting antiques. What was it you were thinking of buying from him?’
‘A couple of paperweights, by a French maker called Baccarat. It’s my parents’ thirtieth anniversary soon; I thought they’d make a decent present.’
‘Mmm, they sound nice. Give him a ring, see what he says. All in the third person, of course: no names. Then offer him twenty percent less than he’s asking for the paperweights.’
‘Right, boss. Can I use your office?’
‘Sure. Tell you what, I’ll take Jeff Caton off what he’s doing and let him help you. Fill him in with the details. I’ll be upstairs, somewhere.’
Young Caton was on a futile mission knocking on doors at the Sylvan Fields housing estate, asking deaf and blind people if they’d seen or heard anything. He was glad to come in from the rain. I caught up with Gilbert and told him what we were doing.
As soon as I was able to off-load most of the other pressing cases, by a combination of delegation or simply placing them back at the bottom of the heap, I went out to do some investigating of my own. One of the auction houses on the list of suppliers had been burgled about ten years previously, and I’d handled the enquiry. I decided to renew my acquaintance with them.
The old gentleman who ran the place, Mr Oliphant, was still there, looking appropriately older and frailer than before.
‘They’ll have to shoot me to get rid of me,’ he said, after I’d reintroduced myself. ‘I don’t do any auctioneering now, but I like to be surrounded by all these beautiful objects. The trouble with being in the business is that you don’t make anything your own. Everything has a price, everything is for sale. My house is filled with bric-a-brac, but the good stuff goes under the hammer, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s business, Mr Oliphant,’ I replied. ‘Sentimentality is a luxury neither of us can afford.’
‘Quite, quite. Now, how can I help you?’
I produced the list that Wheatley had supplied, and read from it: ‘Do you remember selling this item? It’s an early Victorian mahogany drum table, inlaid with marquetry in a geometric design.’ I told him the price paid and the date of the sale.
‘Oh, yes,’ he replied immediately, ‘I remember it well. It was a superb piece of workmanship. It was perfect, except that someone had started writing a letter on it and pressed too hard, leaving an imprint. All the dealers said this ruined it, and fifteen thousand was way over the top, but I disagreed. I thought it added to the charm of the piece, but not many share my sensibilities. Anyway, this chap Wheatley obviously agreed with me, so he bought it.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve a catalogue with a photograph or a fuller description, have you?’
‘Why, of course. Why didn’t I think of that?’ He rose unsteadily to his feet and made his way over to a bookcase. ‘What did you say the date of the sale was?’ he asked.
I told him, and in a few moments he produced the appropriate catalogue and found the page for me. I was studying it in a noncommittal way, wondering how else I would have used fifteen grand, when Mr Oliphant enquired: ‘Is there a problem with it, Inspector? Has it been stolen?’
‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘it’s been stolen.’ Technically, I suppose it had. ‘This writing,’ I continued, ‘was it possible to read what it said?’
‘Yes, but it wasn’t anything enlightening or salacious, I’m afraid. It just said Dear … I think it was William. That was impressed into the marquetry, then it ran on to the mahogany and became too faint to read. I like to think it was written by a young lady, too distraught to realise what she was doing.’
‘You’re a romantic, Mr Oliphant. Tell me one other thing. Which shipping companies would you recommend to export a collection of antiques?’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Nigel and Jeff beat me to it. When I arrived back they were beaming like they’d been invited to be guest speakers at a nymphomaniacs’ convention. Nigel gave me a thumbs-up.
‘You were right, boss,’ he told me. ‘From now on, I’m going to listen to everything you say.’
‘Go on,’ I prompted.
‘Well, I offered him twenty percent less than the reserve, and we settled for fifteen, all thanks to you.’
‘Great. Did you say they were Baccarats?’
‘That’s right. Why?’
‘They’ve got them in Pricefighter, at four quid for a box of six. They look very nice. Anything else?’
‘Er, yes, one other thing. A shipping agent called Big Ocean Transport picked up six crates of furniture from Brian Wheatley Developments five weeks ago. They were sent down to Southampton and packed into a container. From there they set sail last week on a boat called Alpha Carrymaster, bound for the Big Apple.’
‘You mean New York?’
‘Yes, boss. We now know all about cargo manifests, customs papers and carnets. Apparently th
e agents handle everything.’
Cocky sod. I drummed my fingers on the desk and gathered my thoughts. Big Ocean were on the list Mr Oliphant had suggested.
‘When do they arrive in New York?’ I asked.
‘Saturday morning, all being well.’
I drummed and thunk some more. ‘Where’s the Alpha whatsitsname registered?’
Nigel’s smile slipped. Got him. ‘Never asked, boss. Does it matter?’
‘Yes, it could be important. Have you got a passport?’
‘A passport?’
‘Yes, a passport. A thin book with your photo inside. Red now, but the proper ones were dark blue.’
‘Yes, boss. Why?’
‘What about you, Jeff?’
‘You bet!’ he replied with enthusiasm.
Jeff Caton was every bit as competent as Nigel, but under his shadow in the personality stakes. In many ways he was more reliable, but lacked Nigel’s occasional flair. They were a good combination.
‘Someone ought to go identify the loot,’ I explained, ‘but first, we need to know what we are looking for.’ I produced the photo of the Victorian table that Mr Oliphant had given me.
‘This is item six on Wheatley’s list. We can further pin it down by some writing that’s been imprinted either here or here, near the middle of a short side. We need more information like that, relating to three or four other pieces. See what you can find. Go together, but don’t mess about: we’ve no time to waste. Meanwhile I’ll see if I can raise permission for you to go over to the States.’
They were out of the office and down the stairs quicker than a Big Freddie’s Steakburger gives you indigestion.
Superintendent Wood wasn’t in, so I bypassed him. As the cost of two fares to America wouldn’t come out of his budget, it seemed reasonable to assume he wouldn’t mind. I needed permission to go ahead from an Assistant Chief Constable, so I rang Trevor Partridge.
Not long ago he’d been after my scalp, but Hilditch’s suicide had put a more favourable complexion on our relationship. Now he was feeling aggrieved because he didn’t land a promotion in the ensuing shuffle, but that was hardly my fault. He asked me how I was, listened to what I said, appreciated the hurry and gave me the OK. Thanks, Trev.
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