The door opened, and Melville ushered in a man almost a foot shorter than himself, sturdily built, as formally dressed in dark pinstripe suit, and with a remarkably round, creamy face with Oriental features, jet-black hair swept back from his high forehead. The man was smiling so intently that his eyes were merely horizontal creases in his face.
‘Mr Brock!’ he cried. ‘How are you?’ exposing brilliant white teeth, and Kathy was surprised, having quickly adjusted to the idea that this might be a businessman from Hong Kong or Singapore, to hear a cockney accent mildly gentrified to the outer suburbs.
‘Good God,’ Brock said, sounding astonished and not at all enthusiastic. ‘Sammy Starling.’
Undeterred by the coolness in Brock’s voice, the man advanced on him, hand outstretched, beaming from ear to ear.
Melville hurriedly drew up another chair. ‘I was saying, Mr Starling, that it would be best if you explained the matter yourself.’
The man nodded energetically. ‘Yes, yes. But it’s good to see you again, Mr Brock! You don’t look a day older.’
‘Nor you, Sammy,’ Brock replied, his good humour evaporated. Kathy could see that Melville was aware of it and was embarrassed. ‘What’s this all about?’ Brock asked.
Starling’s face abruptly lost all expression. He hesitated for a moment, then spoke in a low voice, devoid of all the animation it had had before. ‘It’s my wife, Mr Brock. She’s missing.’
‘Well, now,’ Brock murmured, watching him carefully.
Starling cleared his throat. ‘She came up to town at the end of last week. I haven’t heard from her since.’
Kathy was trying to fix his age. His smooth face was deceptive, she decided. There was a hoarseness in the voice and creases in the neck and behind the ears that made him much older than he had first appeared. Fifty plus, she guessed. She noticed a pale scar crossing the back of his left hand, slicing across all four fingers above the knuckles. Defence wound, she thought automatically. Starling’s appearance, like his accent, had also undergone a process of gentrification, she decided, tailored suits and old scars.
Brock frowned as if trying to recall. ‘Mrs Starling . . . Brenda?’
‘Eva,’ Starling said, with quiet force, as if trying to jog his memory. ‘Brenda died in ’eighty-seven.’
He drew his wallet from his jacket pocket and took out a photograph, which he passed to Brock, who looked at it for a moment then passed it on to Kathy. It was night, the couple caught in camera flash, he beaming in white tuxedo, she in a short black cocktail dress, hem swinging with her step. No older than thirty, Kathy thought, trying not to appear surprised. More like twenty-five. Black hair swept back from a smiling, vivacious face, long slender neck. Dark, beautiful, Mediterranean looks. Simple but expensive jewellery and dress. You must be rich, Mr Starling, she thought.
‘Where was this taken?’ she asked.
‘Cannes, last year,’ Starling said, pleased at the question. ‘Film festival.’
‘Is she an actress?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘She’s my wife.’ He blinked at the look Kathy gave him. ‘I mean, no, she doesn’t work.’
‘And you’ve been married how long now?’ Brock asked.
‘Three years and seven months,’ he said. ‘On Saturday.’
‘I remember. They called her a princess in the gossip columns, didn’t they?’
Starling’s mouth gave a hint of a smile and he nodded.
‘You said that she came up to town, so you don’t live in London?’ Kathy asked.
‘Our home’s in Surrey,’ Starling said. ‘Near Farnham. And we’ve got a flat in town, in Canonbury. But she’s not there. I’ve looked everywhere.’
Brock eyed him closely, waiting for more. When none came he said, ‘Why this, Sammy?’ He gestured at the room. ‘What’s this all about?’
The other lowered his head and said, ‘She’s been kidnapped, Mr Brock.’
‘Kidnapped?’
Starling sighed. ‘I need your help.’
Melville, unable to contain himself further, said, ‘Mr Starling came to see me this morning, Chief Inspector, and under the circumstances I couldn’t just ignore—’
‘Why was that?’ Brock asked, keeping his eyes on Starling. ‘Why did he come here?’
‘Why, on account of the stamps,’ Melville said. ‘Why don’t you show him, Mr Starling?’
Starling reached again into the inside pocket of his suit and brought out two envelopes. Checking the date of the postmarks, he handed one to Brock, who took it from him and carefully drew out a single folded sheet of paper. He read it, then spread it out on the table. A handwritten message had been printed in the centre of the page:
WHERE IS SHE, SAMMY?
IT’LL COST YOU PLENTY
TO FIND OUT.
Above these words was pasted a small faded scarlet rectangle, a tiny picture of a woman’s head, surrounded by a decorative frame. It was only when she looked closely at it that Kathy saw that the frame contained lettering, ‘Van Diemen’s Land’, and ‘Postage, One Penny’.
‘A stamp?’ she asked.
Melville nodded.
‘It looks old. There’s no perforations around the edge.’
‘1855,’ he said. ‘It’s a Chalon Head.’
‘A what?’
‘It’s the name of a type of stamp.’
‘Is it rare?’
‘Quite rare. The catalogue gives this one a value of about one thousand pounds.’
Kathy blinked in astonishment at the grubby little scrap of paper.
‘That’s an odd way to demand a ransom, isn’t it?’ Brock said, looking at Starling. ‘I thought the general idea was for the kidnapper to get money from the victim, rather than the other way round.’
Starling leaned forward and pointed at the stamp. ‘They’ve glued it to the page with some kind of adhesive, like epoxy or something.’ He gazed at Brock with an expression of incomprehension. ‘The stamp’s worthless now. They’ve destroyed it. Isn’t that right, Mr Melville?’
‘That’s correct.’
Starling shook his head in disgust, and it struck Kathy that he seemed more upset about this than about the reference to his wife in the message.
Brock examined the envelope. ‘Postmark central London, EC1. Address written in hand-printed capitals. Like the note.’
Kathy looked more closely at the tiny portrait. It was of a young woman, presumably the young Queen Victoria, head and naked shoulders, wearing a crown, earrings, a necklace, hair swept back and up. As she examined it, she felt an odd sense of foreboding. She asked Starling if she could have another look at the photograph of his wife, which he had returned to his wallet. He caught her expression and gave it to her without a word. She laid it alongside the stamp. ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ she said to him.
Melville said, ‘Sorry?’ and she passed them both to him. He too stared in astonishment. ‘Good heavens! It is very like her. I had no idea. I’ve never met Mrs Starling.’
While Brock also made the comparison, Kathy watched Starling. He showed no surprise at her observation, and appeared almost disappointed, as if he had been well aware of this but had been intending to keep it to himself.
‘Do you think it significant?’ Melville asked, but no one offered a reply. ‘I merely assumed that the Chalon Head referred to Mr Starling’s area of interest. He has made quite a specialisation out of Chalons, haven’t you, Mr Starling?’
Starling nodded. His face was exceedingly difficult to read, its creamy circle creased by his features in what might have been an expression of discreet pleasure, or embarrassment, or pain.
‘There were two envelopes? What about the other one?’
Brock said.
‘That one came in the post yesterday, this one this morning.’ Starling handed over the second envelope, posted a day later from the same central London postal district. The format of the message was the same. It read,
DO EXACTLY WHAT YOU’RE TOLD, SAMMY,
&n
bsp; IF YOU WANT HER BACK IN ONE PIECE.
There was another, similar stamp pasted above the lines of lettering, this one green, with the value twopence. But this time the stamp was sliced diagonally in two, through the neck of the young queen.
Brock stared at it impassively for a while, then said heavily, without lifting his head, ‘You didn’t really think that I could conduct some kind of private investigation for you, did you, Sammy?’
Starling tilted his impassive face. ‘I’m in your hands, Mr Brock. You know how things stand.’
‘Yes.’ Brock took a deep breath, as if about to take up a great burden, reluctantly. ‘And is there anything else I should know, Sammy?’
Starling lowered his eyes. ‘Three months ago . . . they released Keller.’
‘Did they, now? I didn’t hear that. Well, then, you’d better come back with us and give us a full statement.’
‘Ah . . .’ Starling looked distinctly anxious now. ‘I don’t think I should do that, Mr Brock. They may be watching me. That’s why I thought we should meet here. And, you know. I could never come to Scotland Yard . . .’
Brock handed him a card. ‘Go to this address. Don’t worry, no one will know you there.’
He made to get to his feet, but Melville broke in, ‘Chief Inspector, the reason why I felt this matter to be so urgent . . .’
Yes, Mr Melville?’
‘I believe it likely that there will be three messages, and three only.’
‘Why is that?’
‘These Van Diemen’s Land stamps, there are just three in that set—the penny red, the twopenny green, and the fourpence blue.’
Brock nodded. ‘Yesterday, today, and tomorrow.’
‘Quite.’
2
Queen Anne’s Gate
They made their way separately to Queen Anne’s Gate, Brock and Kathy by taxi, Starling by bus to St James’s Park and then on foot by a circuitous route until he had satisfied himself that he wasn’t being followed.
As their taxi made its way slowly through the hot afternoon streets, Brock became increasingly preoccupied and sombre. Eventually he rubbed fiercely at the beard on the side of his jaw and said, ‘Well, well, and I thought that was going to be a pleasant digression from the usual run of things.’
‘You’ve had dealings with Mr Starling before,’ Kathy prompted.
‘Very much so,’ Brock said heavily. ‘Must be eight or nine years ago, the last time I saw him. And I did very much hope it would be the last time, too. Who would have expected Sammy Starling to show his face again, after so long?’
‘A villain?’
‘He has been. He has a flair for business. Made quite a bit of money for himself.’ He stared grimly out of the cab window at the tourists snapping the sentries outside the Horse Guards, broiling inside their breastplates and helmets.
‘And who is Keller?’
Brock seemed about to answer her, then changed his mind. ‘No, you don’t want to know, Kathy. None of us needs this. This is not a case for us. The first thing is to get it properly assigned. When Sammy arrives at Queen Anne’s Gate, we’ll hand him over, wash our hands, and get on with our lives.’
He took the photograph of Starling and his wife at Cannes from his pocket. ‘Who the hell does he think he is? Aristotle Onassis?’ He turned back to the window, brooding.
The offices used by Brock’s section of Department SO1, Serious Crime Branch, occupied a row of terraces on the south side of Queen Anne’s Gate, several blocks away from the main building of New Scotland Yard, and one of a number of annexes that had overspilled into the surrounding district. For Brock and his team, the independence and relative isolation of the old building from the modern slab office block of the Yard were an asset, illustrated now by the anonymity with which Starling was able to come to them.
The building also had another characteristic, which appealed to its occupants, though not to the asset managers of the Central Property Branch. Originally a row of separate eighteenth-century townhouses, it had long ago been converted to offices, with openings formed through the original party walls to link the staircases and corridors of the former houses into a maze of interconnected passageways serving an eccentric mixture of rooms, whose odd sizes bore no relationship to the standard space allocations for headquarters’ staff.
They entered through one of the identical black front doors facing the street, and made their way to the office of Brock’s secretary, Dot. She took one look at Brock through her large tortoiseshell glasses and said, ‘Problem?’
‘Sammy Starling,’ he said. ‘Remember him?’ He seemed as if still not quite able to credit it.
‘Oh, no. He hasn’t surfaced again, has he?’
‘I’m very much afraid so. He’ll be arriving here shortly. See if you can get hold of Commander Sharpe for me, will you? Urgent matter.’
Dot picked up the phone, and a minute later transferred the call through to Brock in his office. While he talked behind his closed door, Kathy said, ‘Starling seems to have left a big impression, Dot. What did he do? He seemed rather innocuous to look at.’
‘I never met him in the flesh, but I remember his picture in the papers. Chinese, yes?’
Kathy nodded.
‘Yes, a sort of baby face, looked so innocent. Yet he caused so much trouble.’
‘How?’
‘He gave evidence against three corrupt officers in the Fraud Squad . . .’ Dot frowned, thinking. ‘But it was more complicated than that. I know it caused Brock a lot of grief. What’s he up to now?’
‘His wife’s been kidnapped, and he wants Brock to take the case on. Brock doesn’t want to touch it.’
‘I’ll bet.’ She looked down at the indicator light on her phone, bit her lip and crossed her fingers.
The light kept shining for another ten minutes. When it finally went off, Kathy and Dot waited for Brock to open his door. Instead the phone rang. ‘Is Bren in the building, Dot?’ Brock asked.
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Get him and Kathy in here as quick as you can, will you?’
Kathy waited for DS Bren Gurney, a soft-spoken West Countryman, to appear and they went into Brock’s office together. He waved them to seats around a small table.
‘Sammy Starling,’ he began, face dark. ‘Remember his case, Bren?’
‘That was to do with the Fraud Squad, wasn’t it? Long time ago.’
‘Ten years. Sammy’s business dealings were being looked into by SO6. Just when it seemed that a case was coming together, Sammy turned the tables by providing evidence of corruption against three senior officers of the Fraud Squad, including the officer investigating him. This effectively undermined the evidence against Starling, and also led to the arrest of the three officers. Of the three, one committed suicide during their trial and one died in prison. The third, former DI Marty Keller, was released from prison three months ago.
‘Kathy and I had an unexpected meeting with Sammy earlier this afternoon. He claims that his young wife, Eva Starling, has been kidnapped. He also says that he’s afraid to come to the police in the normal way, because of bad feeling over his earlier case.’
Bren looked doubtful. ‘Oh, yes?’
‘Yes. I’ve just had a conversation with Commander Sharpe, requesting that he allocate the case to someone else. He disagreed.’
‘Were you involved with the earlier case?’ Kathy asked.
Brock nodded. ‘I was the officer who investigated Starling’s allegations against the three SO6 men. I was the one who arrested Keller, and the other two. Sharpe feels that gives me some priority in the present affair. I think . . .’ Brock looked away at the window ‘. . . I think he wants us to quarantine Sammy. Keep him to ourselves. I said I thought that was a mistake. Anyway, that’s how it stands. Sammy should be here in a minute. Just don’t underestimate him, eh? He has this air of benign innocence, like a child. People have been misled by it. He’s tough and he’s bright.’
The phone went. Brock lis
tened briefly and replied, ‘Bren will pick him up.’ He turned to them. ‘He’s here.’
‘I’ll send for the files.’ Kathy said.
‘Yes, do that. Mind you, there’ll be nothing on Sammy for years now.’ A sudden thought struck him. ‘Look, if you want to get to know about Sammy Starling, you should speak to someone who’s made a lifetime study of him. Criminal Intelligence did quite a bit of work at one time. Peter White, former DCI. You might speak to him.’
‘Former DCI?’
‘Yes. Retired a few years ago.’
‘Oh. Won’t he be a bit out of touch? Perhaps I’d be better to give SO11 a call.’
‘It might be best for us to keep this to ourselves at present, Kathy, as far as possible. Sammy’s nervousness about contacting us isn’t entirely paranoia, especially if this has something to do with Keller. Actually, you’d be doing me a favour talking to old Peter. I’d like to know how he is. Haven’t seen him for ages.’
There was something about the way Brock said this that made Kathy pause. ‘Wouldn’t you rather see him yourself?’ she said, probing gently.
Brock turned to gather a file from his desk. ‘Maybe another time. We had a slight falling out. Nothing serious.’
Bren introduced himself to Starling at the front desk. As he towered over the visitor, taking his cautious handshake, his impression was of a small, unobtrusive man anxious to avoid trouble, but that meant nothing: Bren had known plenty of diminutive, obliging people who caused untold grief, his wife’s mother chief among them. ‘They’re waiting for you upstairs, Mr Starling. I’ll lead the way. It’s a bit confusing.’
Starling followed his guide as he disappeared along a corridor, up a flight of stairs, around a corner, down a few steps, up a few more, and round another corner, bringing him eventually to a panelled door. He tapped and opened it, indicating for Starling to enter. Brock, Kathy and Dot were seated at a long conference table. At the far end of the room a tall sash window gave a view into a tiny walled courtyard, in which a few ferns struggled for life.
The Chalon Heads Page 2
