R. C. MOORE
Roy Grace glanced briefly at it.
Dear Sir or Madam
In the many years that I have been visiting this area, I have never ceased to take satisfaction from the pleasure people gain from realizing money from some unwanted, often forgotten item.
Then he looked at his colleague. ‘Shit, I thought knocker-boys were a thing of the past. That everyone now sees Antiques Roadshow and Cash in the Attic and all those other shows and they don’t get suckered in any more by these creeps.’ He remembered, with anger, his grandmother getting conned out of almost all her few family heirlooms by knocker-boys when he was in his teens.
‘Obviously not completely, boss. I guess wherever there’s a pond, you’ll find something crawling around in the mud at the bottom.’
Grace smiled grimly. ‘We’ll need to question R. C. Moore asap.’ Then he glanced down at the carpet. ‘Strange – such a beautiful home, filled with, presumably, lovely things, and yet she had this tatty hall carpet!’
Branson gave him a sad look. ‘You’re so ignorant!’
‘Thanks. But actually I think I know beauty when I see it.’
‘Oh yeah? Do you have any idea of the value of this rug?’
‘I’d probably give a fiver for it in a car boot sale.’
‘You’d be getting a bargain if you did. It looks Persian to me, probably worth several thousand quid. Ari’s dad traded in them, taught me all about them. When they make these rugs they put flaws in them, deliberately.’
‘Why?’
Glenn Branson smiled. ‘Because in the eyes of those carpet makers, only God is perfect.’
Grace smiled. ‘I’ll remember that.’ He pulled his phone from his pocket and took a couple of close-up photographs of the leaflet. As he was checking to make sure they weren’t blurred, he heard Glenn Branson answering his own phone. After a brief exchange of words, Branson ended the call then looked at Grace with his large and, recently, world-weary eyes.
‘That was our officer at the hospital, boss.’
‘And?’
‘Looks like we are now upgraded to a murder enquiry.’
19
New York, 1922
The boy’s aunt was urging him to come in out of the cold, but he refused. He clung for dear life to the stern rail of the RMS Mauretania, salty wind tearing at his hair, a lump in his throat, tears streaming down his cheeks, oblivious to the numbing cold. His eyes were fixed on the steadily disappearing Statue of Liberty as they passed through the Verrazano Narrows.
It was tiny now, just a distant speck. It was being swallowed by the mist and cloud, which were relentlessly closing in on it in the falling darkness. He kept his eyes on the statue until it was gone completely, and then he felt even sadder. As if the cord between him and his pa had now been severed, totally and finally.
The deck thrummed beneath his feet. There was a strong smell of paint and varnish, mingled every few moments with a snatch of smoke from the funnels. His aunt was saying his name again, and tugging at his coat sleeve. But he ignored her, and stared down at the foaming wake, a hundred feet below. Every second, the distance between the stern of the Mauretania and New York increased. Every second, he was further away from finding his father. The mystery of his disappearance swallowed up by clouds much darker than the ones now cloaking the Statue of Liberty.
From inside his pocket, he took out the crumpled piece of newspaper that he had been given a few hours earlier on the pier. The wind ripped at it, making it crackle, and he held on tightly, terrified of losing it. He looked at the newsprint photograph of his father, then at the clumsily written names and numbers. 9 5 3 7 0 4 0 4 2 4 0 4. Then back into the distance at New York.
His father was there, somewhere. In a place he did not want to be. The place where the bad men had taken him. The numbers were important, he knew that for sure. They had to be.
But what did they mean?
As his aunt tugged his arm even more sharply, he tucked the paper carefully back into his inside pocket, and, staring towards the grey horizon, he made a promise.
One day, Pop, I’m going to come back and find you. I’m going to rescue you from wherever you are.
Above him there were three sharp blasts from the ship’s horn. As if signalling agreement.
20
2012
Ricky Moore was fifty-three, with a balding dome, and long, lank grey hair that covered his ears and the top of his collar. He was dressed in a shiny open-neck white shirt, with half its buttons undone to show off his gold medallion, a cheap beige jacket, and his fingers were adorned with chunky rings. With his booze-veined face and sallow complexion, he looked more like an ageing, drug-addled rocker than an antiques dealer; but he knew how to charm his way into any old lady’s house, no matter how canny she might be.
It hadn’t been hard to find him. He drank here three nights a week.
The Cock Inn at Wivelsfield was a proper pub, in Moore’s view. It had bar billiards, a dartboard and shove ha’penny, was decorated with beer mats from all over the world, and had a friendly landlord and staff, especially a barmaid whom he lusted after. It didn’t have a stupid, manufactured name, or the ghastly muzak or the pinging electronic gaming machines that blighted so many establishments these days. And it served a good pint.
But none of those were the real reasons he drank here. Situated in the countryside, fourteen miles north of Brighton where he lived, it wasn’t convenient, particularly with the drink-driving laws these days – every time he came here it was a risk. But that had to be balanced against the benefits, as with any business.
As one of the few remaining antiques knocker-boys, he made a comfortable enough living, ripping off the low-hanging fruit – picking up bargains in gullible people’s homes. He had charm and good patter, and despite his rough appearance, people took a liking to him. Especially old ladies, for some reason he didn’t understand – and certainly did not question. He’d carved himself a niche market, a nice little earner. Stuff he could con little old ladies out of. But every now and then, when he entered a home, he would hit a treasure trove.
Like the house in Withdean Road a few weeks ago. That little old lady knew fine well what she had and she wasn’t parting with any of it, at least not to him. She’d sent him packing with a flea in his ear.
Now, he had read in today’s Argus that she was dead. Stupid old bat. She should have sold him the items he had wanted. Then he might have left it at that, instead of phoning his contacts.
Although maybe he would have phoned them anyway.
The five grand in folding, his advance on his commission, was burning a hole in his pocket.
Tax free, too.
The first benefit of this pub was that no one from Brighton drank here. He’d made a fair number of enemies over the years, tucking people up, and sooner or later in Brighton pubs, he’d run into someone bigger than him who hadn’t forgotten. The second and far more important one was the rich pickings to be had from this place.
It was the way he had operated for years. Find a pub in a nice, wealthy pocket of the countryside. Get known and liked and trusted. Sit up at the bar, buy the occasional round, nip outside now and then for a smoke. Keep your ears open. Sooner or later you’d hear about nice big isolated properties. And sooner or later the locals would invite you to value some of the stuff in their homes, or their mum’s homes, or whatever. You’d secretly take photographs, make the calls, email the pictures, then after a few months, move on.