You know I am, Brock thought, glancing through the window at the car parked at the end of the street. ‘Yes.’
‘My lads will pick you up in, shall we say, one minute?’
He hung up, and Brock continued looking at the car, which showed a puff of white breath from its exhaust and began to move forward.
They took him, at what Brock considered quite unnecessary speed, not to Cobalt Square but to a run-down sixties office building half a mile away. The wood-grain laminate in the lift was chipped and scratched, the vinyl floors marked with black streaks, and the paint of the partition walls shabby with years of abuse from sticky tape, drawing-pins and fading sunlight.
‘Dear Lord, how did we put up with places like this for so long?’ McLarren sighed, offering Brock a worn metal chair at the table in the otherwise bare room. One wall was almost covered by a large, tattered map of London, the black congested pattern of its streets overprinted with another pattern, in red, of the boundaries of the eight police areas, and within those broad lines the finer pattern of the divisions, each with its two-letter code.
Brock sat down reluctantly. He was surprised— shocked—to see Kathy there, looking pale and tense, and he began to feel angry.
McLarren’s crew withdrew, all except Tony Hewitt, leaving just the four of them.
‘I can’t offer you anything, Brock,’ McLarren said. ‘We have absolutely no facilities, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t even know if the water in the toilets is turned on. But I thought this would be neutral and discreet, under the circumstances, and given the short notice—’
‘What’s this in aid of, Jock?’ Brock said bluntly.
‘Ah, well now . . .’ McLarren spread his hands and examined them thoughtfully. ‘We have a wee problem, Brock. And I would like to ask for your help.’
Brock assumed that this was his convoluted way of introducing a threat, one that presumably included Kathy in some way. ‘What problem is that?’
McLarren checked his watch. ‘Some fifty minutes ago, your friend Sammy Starling placed a triple-nine call on his mobile. He advised the police operator that he has DS Leon Desai as his prisoner. He further advised that he will cut off Desai’s head at dawn tomorrow, unless you and the forger Raphael present yourselves, handcuffed together, at a location which he will nominate some time tonight.’
‘Good grief,’ Brock whispered. ‘You said a wee problem.’
‘Aye.’ McLarren flexed his eyebrows and gave a grim smile. ‘Several problems, in point of fact. One of which, of course, is that we still haven’t the faintest idea who Raphael is or where we can find him. We’ve been hunting him for over two years now, and hardly seem likely to pin him down within the next eighteen hours for Mr Starling’s benefit.’
McLarren sketched in the events of the previous night.
‘Are you sure Sammy has got Leon?’ Brock asked.
‘We’re checking, but he’s not at his home. Kathy was the last person to see him, last night.’
‘Sir. It would have been about four thirty a.m.,’ Kathy said. ‘We both left together. We walked to the bottom end of Shepherd’s Row and then went in opposite directions to our cars. Leon said his was parked fifty yards to the east. That’s the last I saw of him.’
‘We’re searching for his car now,’ McLarren said. ‘And I’m getting the tape of Starling’s phone message brought here for us to listen to. They can’t say at the moment what area the call came from, but they’re working on it.’
Brock pondered. ‘Presumably, if he wants us to bring Raphael in, he doesn’t know his identity either.’
‘Possibly. Maybe he just can’t find him. Maybe he assumes that, with more time to work on Walter Pickering than he had, we may get more information out of him.’
‘Yes, well, we should,’ Brock said.
‘Unfortunately, that’s another of our wee problems, Brock. Pickering is in a coma, in intensive care. His condition is deteriorating, it seems, and it may be days or weeks before he can talk to us, if ever.’
‘Grief . . . What exactly did he tell Sammy, do we know?’
‘Tony’s the only one can tell us that,’ McLarren said cautiously. ‘Eh, Tony?’
Hewitt straightened in his seat. He looked exhausted, eyes unnaturally bright. ‘I can’t say exactly. He was in a bad way, dopey one minute, crying the next. Half the time I had to get information from him by suggesting something, and him agreeing or disagreeing. He would be lucid for a bit, and say a few things, then he’d fade away. Then the ambulance guys arrived and started touching him, and that got him all upset and he wouldn’t listen to me.’
He sighed and rubbed his face. ‘I reckon he could have babbled anything at Starling at the end, and he’d have forgotten by the time I got to him. Just before they strapped the oxygen mask on him, I asked him who Raphael was, and he just stared up at me. I don’t even know if he knows himself.’
Brock scratched at his beard distractedly. ‘What’s Pickering’s background? Is he known to us?’
McLarren passed him a couple of sheets of paper. ‘Small-time crookery—receiving, handling, offences under the Companies Act, tax evasion.’
Brock studied the record. ‘Started out south of the river, like Sammy.’
Kathy said, ‘Last night, Tony, you said he called his attacker Sammy China. Isn’t that right?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘Interesting,’ Brock said. ‘That’s what they used to call Sammy way back. I haven’t heard him called that in years.’
‘Well, now, Brock,’ McLarren said, ‘that’s the story. I’m going to make sure this has the very highest priority, of course. By midday every available officer in the Met will be out on the streets looking for Leon’s car, and searching for Sammy’s hideaway. We’re questioning neighbours, tracking down Pickering’s relatives and associates. So, have you any thoughts yourself? Any inspiration?’
‘What about Pickering’s records, Jock?’ Brock said slowly. ‘Surely there must be something there? Money, large amounts of it, changed hands.’
‘Oh, aye, we’re on to that all right. But remember, Brock,’ he reached forward and tapped the paper in Brock’s hands, ‘tax evasion! This fellow had already had a taste of the Inland Revenue. If I know my man, he’ll have gone to some trouble to hide his money trail, see?’
‘Yes,’ Brock agreed gloomily. ‘Yes, you’re right.’
There was a pause that became heavier as McLarren gave no sign of breaking it.
Then Kathy said, ‘One thought, sir.’
‘Aye, aye.’ McLarren turned to her.
‘There could have been others involved, couldn’t there? In the fraud. Apart from Eva, Pickering and Raphael.’
McLarren frowned. ‘We have no indication of it, as far as I know.’
Kathy hesitated, then said, ‘Well, this is just a suggestion. I haven’t been able to check it. But yesterday Toby Fitzpatrick mentioned that when he bought his forged stamps, they came with a certificate of authentication. I spoke to him again last night and asked him if he still had it, but he said he’d given it to Eva with the stamps. But he remembered the name of the expert who’d authenticated them. It was the same one we’ve been dealing with. Dr Waverley, Cabot’s consultant.’
McLarren’s frown deepened, ‘Ye-es . . . And where does that take us, exactly?’
‘So we know that Waverley certified at least one lot of fakes as genuine.’
‘Aye, but we also know that Raphael’s methods are extremely sophisticated, only detectable under laboratory conditions.’
‘That’s what Waverley told us, sir, yes.’
‘He did freely admit to us that he’d been fooled by the ransom-note stamps,’ McLarren went on. ‘We can certainly call in other experts to confirm his opinion, but our lab people seemed convinced.’
Kathy glanced apprehensively at Brock. ‘There is something else about Dr Waverley.’
‘Really? Do go on.’
‘Well, I’ve kept thinking about the day o
f the auction at Cabot’s, and trying to work out how Brock could have been framed.’
She saw McLarren draw back a little in his chair, his eyes becoming guarded. She was almost sure he was going to challenge the word ‘framed’, but then he changed his mind and said, ‘Yes, go on.’
‘When we came to the end of the discussion about whether we should use the fake cover that the laboratory and Dr Waverley had made, he put it back into its envelope—’
‘And offered it to Brock,’ McLarren broke in. ‘Yes, everyone who was there has agreed on that, including DCI Brock himself.’ He deferred in Brock’s general direction.
‘But before he handed it to Brock,’ Kathy went on carefully, ‘he went to put it back into his briefcase, then changed his mind and handed it to Brock. I’m not sure, I wasn’t paying close attention—nobody really was—but he might have switched the envelope with another in his bag, with a similar padding but no cover inside.’
She’d said it now, and immediately knew how half-baked it sounded.
McLarren was regarding her with astonishment. ‘He’d planned the whole thing?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why, lassie?’ McLarren sounded incredulous. ‘Why steal a fake—his own fake? If he was working with the kidnappers, they were going to get the real stamp anyway.’
‘I—I don’t know. I think he might have been working with Sammy.’
‘With Sammy?’ McLarren’s astonishment grew visibly. ‘Whom he was also defrauding by authenticating his forged stamps?’
Kathy swallowed and remained silent. She briefly caught Tony Hewitt’s look, bloodshot from lack of sleep, and contemptuous.
McLarren cleared his throat as if wanting rid of some embarrassing internal obstruction. Kathy knew that she had breached an undeclared convention of their meeting, by bringing up the matter about which Brock was being investigated. McLarren, as party to that investigation, did not want it confused with his present wee problem, and had not brought Brock there to hear theories of his innocence.
‘I think,’ McLarren declared firmly, ‘that we’ll stick to the suspects we have, until we have something a little more concrete.’
At that moment there was a knock at the door, and a man brought a message in for Hewitt, who ripped open the envelope and quickly read the contents. ‘Starling’s call came from south of the river,’ he said. ‘They doubt if they’ll be able to pin it down closer than that.’
McLarren considered this. ‘Would he have done that on purpose, Brock? Cross the river before making the call, to put us off the track?’
‘I doubt it. I think he’ll stay close to his prisoner.’
‘And yet he’s a canny wee bastard. What do you say, Tony?’ ‘Two thirds south, one third north.’ ‘Aye, that makes sense. It’ll be clearer when we find Desai’s car. Well, Brock, I’ll not detain you further. If you have any more ideas, do please get in touch.’
He turned to Kathy, and it seemed to her that his manner towards her had changed. He seemed distant and slightly melancholy, as if saddened by the failure of a promising pupil. ‘Why don’t you run DCI Brock home now, Kathy, and then report to Cobalt Square for your assignment in the search?’
‘Sir.’
McLarren turned his back on her with deliberation, and bent to consult with Hewitt, who didn’t give either her or Brock a second glance.
As the lift doors closed behind them, Kathy let out a deep breath and said, ‘Well, I blew that.’
‘It was a good try, Kathy,’ Brock murmured. ‘Thanks, I appreciate it.’
‘Don’t you believe it possible either? About Waverley switching envelopes?’
‘Actually, I do. But McLarren’s objections are sound.’
Kathy said nothing more until they found the car in the car park behind the building. When she got behind the wheel she said, ‘Why don’t we pay him a visit?’
‘Who?’
‘Waverley. Test him, see how he reacts.’
‘Your senior officer wouldn’t approve.’
‘We don’t know that for a fact. It’s just a matter of clearing up a loose end, that’s all. Why don’t you ring the manager at Cabot’s and find out how we can reach Waverley?’
Brock smiled and took the phone she offered him.
James Melville was most helpful. ‘Tim Waverley? Yes, I can tell you exactly where he is, as a matter of fact. He’s upstairs in our stock-room at this moment. This is one of his days with us, going over some of the material for our next auction. Shall I warn him to expect you?’
They found Dr Waverley precisely where James Melville had directed them, deep in conversation with another member of Cabot’s staff, who left as they approached. It was a high-ceilinged, cool room, lined with tall wooden cabinets of drawers, and a circular window high on one side throwing a disc of bright sunlight on to the floor. Waverley was dressed as he had been on each previous occasion, in cream summer suit, pale-blue shirt and navy blue bow-tie, and welcomed them with interest.
‘Dreadful news of Mr Starling’s wife, Chief Inspector. Has there been any progress?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Brock nodded grimly. ‘There has indeed.’
‘It was only a small point we wanted to check with you, Dr Waverley,’ Kathy said, ‘but we thought we’d better do it in person, to avoid any alarm.’
‘Alarm?’
‘Have you by any chance heard from Mr Starling in the past twenty-four hours?’
‘Starling? No, I haven’t.’
‘Ah, good, that is a relief.’
‘I’m not sure I follow. I wouldn’t expect to hear from him. Is something wrong?’
‘But you did know him quite well, didn’t you? Before all this happened, I mean. You did checks for him, didn’t you, to authenticate stamps he wanted to buy?’
‘Occasionally, yes. Look, I explained all this to the superintendent, McLarren. Hasn’t he seen my report on the extent of the forgeries in the Starling collection yet?’
‘Ah,’ Brock said. ‘We’re working on different aspects of the case, Dr Waverley. He hasn’t kept me up to date on that side of things.’
‘Hasn’t he?’ Waverley looked doubtfully at Kathy, as at a slack student in a tutorial class.
‘Could you give us a summary?’ she asked.
‘Oh, it’s bad, I’m afraid. Very extensive range of forgeries, especially in the high-value categories. If it weren’t so serious, financially, I mean, for Cabot’s and Mr Starling, one would feel, well, elated perhaps—privileged certainly.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘This is one of the great forgery cases, that’s all. Raphael is clearly up there with the greats—Spiro, Sperati and de Thuin.’
‘Raphael, did you say?’ Brock queried.
‘Yes. Didn’t the superintendent tell you that, either?’
Brock smiled. ‘Oh, he told me, Dr Waverley. I just wondered how you came to know the name.’
‘Because he told me too. How else?’
‘Mr Starling never mentioned that name to you?’
‘No, no, he didn’t.’
‘No one else? You’d never heard it before Superintendent McLarren told you?’
‘Absolutely not. Why?’
‘I’m just relieved, Dr Waverley, that’s all.’
‘You said that before. What is there to be relieved about, for God’s sake?’
Brock looked at Kathy, as if not sure how much to say, then rubbed the side of his beard ruminatively and said, lowering his voice so that Waverley had to lean forward to hear, ‘Well, we don’t want to cause unnecessary alarm, sir, but the fact is that Mr Starling has . . .’ He paused and looked again at Kathy, who looked grave, thinking that he was overplaying it a little.
‘Has what?’ Waverley demanded.
‘Has gone missing. No, well, more than that, gone off the rails a bit.’
‘A bit?’
‘Last night he attacked a stamp dealer in Shoreditch.’
They both saw Waverley’s face freeze instantaneo
usly at the mention of the place.
‘You’re joking.’
‘I’m afraid not. It was a very deliberate assault, sir. He cut off the fingers of his victim’s right hand, one by one.’
Waverley’s eyes goggled dramatically behind his glasses. ‘No! For God’s sake, why?’
‘In order to make the man talk. He wanted information from him. Walter Pickering—know him do you, sir?’
‘I—I don’t think so. Dear God, cut off his fingers? That’s . . . barbaric!’
‘Indeed, but effective, up to a point. The point being that at which the victim passes out or dies of shock.’
‘Pickering’s dead?’
‘No, but very poorly. In intensive care. He may not make it, and we haven’t been able to determine how much he told Starling. That’s the point, you see, Dr Waverley. We are concerned that Starling may have picked up information, wrongly, perhaps, about other people whom he may think cheated him.’
‘Cheated?’
‘The forged stamps were part of a systematic fraud to cheat Mr Starling. He is presently engaged in taking his own revenge on those concerned, and we are anxious to protect them. But we’re hampered by lack of information. The person who might have helped us, Walter Pickering, is unable to communicate now, or probably for a number of days, by which time it may be too late for those whom Sammy Starling takes it into his head to punish.’
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘Quite. Are you sure you don’t know Walter Pickering, Dr Waverley?’
‘Pickering . . . Pickering . . .’ Waverley gazed rather wildly up at the ocular window for inspiration. ‘Hell . . . I’m not sure . . . Why? Do you have some reason to think . . . ?’
‘We think it likely that Raphael’s product came to Starling by way of Pickering. You may have authenticated some of that material. You may therefore have come across Pickering, or be on his records.’
‘His records?’ Waverley swallowed hard. ‘Yes, of course, he would have kept records, I suppose.’
‘Very extensive records. But again, we have a difficulty, because Starling got to them before we did.’
‘Did he? Good God.’
‘Yes. His bloodstained footprints preceded us through Pickering’s house, Dr Waverley. It was a fairly unsettling experience, following them. You can imagine . . . in every room, in every cupboard, in every filing cabinet.’
The Chalon Heads Page 30
