Leighton Lloyd raised a cautioning hand. ‘My client has no further comment.’
73
Lucas Daly was having a shit day, and he didn’t know yet, but it was about to get a whole lot worse.
He stood outside his shop, in light drizzle, smoking a cigarette, then went back inside, repeatedly dialling a number that went to voicemail. Up until a few days ago he’d been able to leave messages, but now when it answered, it no longer gave him that option. He rang again.
‘Mailbox full; please try again later.’
‘Bastard,’ he said. ‘You bastard.’
There had been no customers all day, no phone enquiries, not even anyone trying to sell them something. 3.30 p.m. His lunchtime beers had worn off and it was too soon to start drinking again. He was feeling in a murderous mood.
Call me. Call me, call me, call me, you bastard. If I have to come and find you, I’ll wring your fucking neck.
He went out again, got a couple of coffees for himself and his assistant from a cafe a short distance away, then returned to the shop. He sat at his desk, his email inbox full of spam and online statements, bills he could not afford to pay. He watched the endless stream of people, mostly tourists, wandering along the Brighton Lanes through the window. Come in and buy something, you morons! No one was coming in to buy anything. Not that he cared too much about that right now. Unless a miracle happened and some lunatic came in and bought the entire stock. That was the kind of money he needed to sort out his current mess.
Seated in his wheelchair, Dennis Cooper was engrossed in a book of sudoku puzzles, and that was fine by Daly; he wasn’t in any mood for conversation. In any case, he didn’t understand most of the shit Cooper talked about, which was philosophy, spouting quotes by people with strange names he’d never heard of.
Augustine Krasniki, whose main use in this shop was humping around heavy items that he’d bought or sold, was upstairs in his flat, no doubt watching some video replay of a football game.
Daly checked horse race after horse race on his phone. In four races today, so far all he’d got was one lousy place. He didn’t do place bets; they didn’t pay out the kind of winnings he was after. High payout trebles were the only thing that would do it for him.
Or that phone call he was expecting.
Then he stiffened as a figure appeared outside, walking with the aid of a stick. ‘What the fuck’s he doing here?’ he said.
Cooper glanced up. ‘Gosh, a royal visit!’
Moments later his father entered, and the old man was in an equally foul mood.
‘Hi, Dad.’
Gavin Daly’s eyes darted around the shop, without acknowledging the greeting. ‘You’ve heard they’ve arrested someone? Gareth Dupont. Know anything about him?’
Lucas shook his head.
‘I had a call from Detective Superintendent Grace. Dupont’s been charged with Aileen’s murder, as well as robbery. That means he’ll be remanded in custody, I’m told, in Lewes Prison.’
‘That’s good news.’
Gavin Daly’s face was thunder. ‘What’s good about that? I want the watch back. We need to find someone in the prison who can talk to him. Dupont has to know where it is.’
‘I thought you were sure it’s in New York.’
‘I thought so too, but I haven’t heard back – which is not a good sign.’
‘Maybe your reward will prompt someone in the prison to talk to him.’
‘Maybe.’ Gavin Daly’s eyes roamed around the displays in the room. Then he suddenly stomped over towards the pair of Chinese vases that Lucas had failed to sell earlier. ‘What the hell are these doing here?’ he demanded.
‘Nice, aren’t they?’ Lucas said. ‘Got a terrific deal on them – bought them for a hundred quid; they’re worth a couple of grand, at least.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, Dad! Nineteenth century, Cantonese.’
‘I know that. I know exactly what they are.’
Lucas tapped the side of his head, grinning proudly. ‘See, some of your knowledge has rubbed off on me.’
‘Really?’ Gavin Daly picked up one of the vases and examined it closely. ‘Knowledge, you say?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Who did you buy them from?’
‘A bloke I’d never seen before. Walked in off the street and asked me to make an offer. He didn’t know what he had!’
‘Nor did you. You’d sell them for two grand?’
‘Be a nice profit!’
‘They’re Ming dynasty. Got a few chips, which will reduce their value, but auction them at Sotheby’s or Christie’s and we’d be looking at north of a hundred grand.’
‘No shit.’ Suddenly Lucas was really excited, seeing a solution to all his problems. ‘Bloody hell!’
There was a crash, followed by several tinkling sounds, as fragments of centuries-old china slithered across the floor.
Lucas Daly’s jaw dropped open in numb disbelief. ‘You dropped it. Oh shit, Dad, you dropped it!’
‘Clumsy me!’ his father said, picking up the second one. Moments later that slipped from his fingers, too, and shattered on the floor. ‘Whoops!’
For a moment, Lucas Daly wondered if his father was drunk; or worse, in the early stages of dementia, or some disease of the nervous system. There was no shock, or even mild surprise in his father’s face. Only anger.
‘How fucking stupid are you, Lucas?’
‘Stupid? Me? Look what you’ve gone and bloody done – are you mad?’
‘Mad, no. Angry, yes. And disappointed. I’m disappointed in my son’s stupidity. Those vases belonged to your aunt. Whoever took them didn’t realize their value and chopped them out to some low-grade fence. And then you bought them.’ He shook his head.
‘I can’t believe what you just did!’
‘You paid a hundred quid for them, what’s your problem?’
‘They’re worth a hundred thousand pounds – and you just dropped them?’
‘Know what they say about family businesses, Lucas? The three-generation rule?’
‘What do they say?’ he replied gloomily, his hope of getting out of his mess lying in pieces on the floor.
‘The first generation builds it up. The second generation screws it up. The third generation puts it down the toilet. You’ve managed to skip a generation. Congratulations.’
His father stomped out of the shop. As he left, two men in business suits entered. For an instant, Lucas looked at them hopefully; then he started bricking it as he recognized them.
One was six feet, with a shaven head and a face like beaten metal; he looked like he hadn’t taken the coat hanger out of his jacket before putting it on. The other, slightly shorter, was dressed even more sharply than his colleague; he had hooded eyes, circled with black rings, and short, fair, gelled hair brushed forward, and was smoking a cigar.
Lucas said urgently to Dennis Cooper, ‘Get Krasniki down here, quick!’
‘Mr Daly, very nice to see you,’ the shorter one said. He took a deliberately slow drag on his cigar.
‘I’m sorry, no smoking,’ Daly said. ‘Business premises – it’s against the law.’
The shorter one looked down at Dennis Cooper. Then he took another deliberate puff, blowing out the smoke before he spoke. ‘Does the cripple mind?’
Lucas Daly tempered his anger. He wasn’t in a position to call the shots here.
‘Aggression moves in only one direction. It creates more aggression,’ Cooper answered drily.
‘Is that right, Quasimodo? Maybe we could apply the same comment to money. That only moves in one direction, too. Into your boss’s pocket, but never back to us. Understand what I’m saying?’
‘My name’s not Quasimodo.’
‘Then I wasn’t talking to you, sunshine, was I?’ He turned his attention to Lucas Daly. ‘Nice wife you got. Pretty girl.’ He dug his hand into his inside pocket and pulled out an old-fashioned razor. He flicked it and the blade opened. ‘I don’t think Sarah Courteney would be doing any more broadcasts with her face slashed to ribbons, do you?’