I said I probably did. ‘It was common knowledge then that you owned a Penny Black.’
‘Yes, and you’d be surprised how many people thought it was worth a fortune.’
‘So, since I failed to steal yours to deliver to the kidnappers. . for a couple of hundred I could just go and buy one somewhere? In a stamp shop?’
‘Well, it might not be that easy. It might take a while to get hold of a copy, especially a decent one, but then I don’t suppose you’d care whether it was a fair one or not.’
‘Certainly not. I think the kidnapper has proved that he knows even less than I do about stamps. But I would need it quickly. You did mention earlier that you owned more than one copy?’
‘I did. Oh, I see. .’
‘Yes. I’m wondering if you would sell me one of them.’
He looked at me for a moment as though the request I had just made was the most insulting thing he’d ever heard, then he suddenly widened his eyes, shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t see why not. How do you propose to pay for it?’
‘Would you accept a cheque?’
For some reason he seemed to find this quite amusing. At last he cracked open the gun. He had only loaded one cartridge, which I decided to interpret as a sign of supreme confidence. He stood it on the blotter and leant the gun carefully against the wall before opening a desk drawer and producing a leather-bound book. From its protective pages he pulled a small clear plastic wallet that contained one of the little unprepossessing stamps. He slid it across. This one didn’t look quite rectangular.
‘It looks wonky,’ I complained.
He snorted contemptuously. ‘You’re not really in a position to be picky about these things. Yes, it’s wonky, as you say. They weren’t perforated then, so the postmaster would cut the stamp out of the sheet for you and wouldn’t always be very accurate about it. It affects the value now, of course, but then nobody much cared, I should think. A carelessly cut Penny Black is the cheapest, and that’s what you’re getting.’
I dug out my crumpled cheque book from where it had disappeared into the lining of my jacket, straightened it out and asked to borrow a pen. He shook his head, sighed, opened the drawer again and selected a gold ballpoint pen for me. It looked expensive and felt satisfyingly heavy in my hand. It was about to feel even heavier.
I made the cheque out to Rufus Connabear. ‘How much do I owe you?’ I asked far too lightly.
‘Now, let’s see. The stamp’s not worth all that much, let’s say six hundred? No, make it seven hundred.’
‘But I thought you said an indifferent copy might be had for a couple of hundred?’ I protested.
‘That depends where you buy it,’ he said pointedly. ‘And not if you’re in a hurry. And you’re in a hurry, Mr Honeysett, wouldn’t you agree?’
I admitted it. He slowly and deliberately rubbed his stubbly chin. ‘Okay, then there’s the break-in. How did you get in here?’
‘Through the kitchen. I broke a couple of little panes in the half-glazed door,’ I admitted.
‘Well, they’ll have to be replaced, I’ll have to call someone out and you know what they’re like when they have to come all the way out to the sticks. Another hundred at least. And then there’s the question of disturbing my sleep. Have you any idea how difficult sleep is to come by when you get to my age? A good night’s sleep ought to be worth at least a couple of hundred. I tell you what, let’s make it a nice round figure, a thousand pounds. Yes, I think I could live with that.’
I took a deep breath, opened my mouth, then thought better of it and made out the cheque. When I handed it over he first read it attentively, then dropped it carelessly into the drawer as though it was just any old bit of paper. ‘If it bounces, you’ll get another chance to admire the James Purdy. Now. .’ He checked the paper-thin gold watch on his wrist. ‘You’ve got what you came for, I’ve got what you owe me and it’s now half past four in the morning. I wish you and the poor boy all the luck in the world but I also wish you’d go home now, Mr Honeysett.’
Which I did. With the Penny Black hidden deep in the lining of my jacket I trudged through the night back to the Norton. The rain had lessened but it was still so black out there that having nothing but a tiny LED light to fight off the darkness seemed a little foolhardy. The cloud might not have been but my mood was definitely lifting. I had achieved what I set out to do, even if the manner in which I’d done it was quite unexpected. Connabear was a very cool customer. As he let me out of the house — through the front like a normal person — he’d asked me to let him know about the outcome and I’d promised to do so, even though I had the irksome feeling that, whatever the outcome, he’d probably see it on the front page of his daily paper first.
The Norton was not a happy bike when I got to it. I really should have found better cover for it. I had to pump the kick-starter at least twenty times before the engine decided to catch and it backfired every couple of minutes all the way home.
There really was no point in going to bed at this hour. Annis grumbled from deep inside the bed somewhere when I came out of the shower and woke up just long enough to ask ‘Did you get it, hon?’ and promptly fall asleep again.
With sunrise still an hour away I assembled a celebratory breakfast — French croissant, Irish butter, Scottish smoked salmon and Ethiopian coffee — that appeared to have more air miles than your average prime minister. We ought to do something about this, go completely local, I thought with a guilty sigh, though finding someone who grew coffee in Somerset might present a bit of a problem. But then later that day I would be presented with a challenge that would make growing your own coffee look like child’s play.
Chapter Fifteen
Waiting.
Waiting, smoking, making tea and waiting. The four of us around the kitchen table, the Penny Black, Louis’s passport to freedom, lying in the centre. Smoking, waiting, coughing, clock-watching.
Waiting, they say, is the worst part of it, but I wasn’t so sure. Could no news really be good news? Would there ever again be good news for Jill?
Tim, who had simply out-raced his shadowers in the TT to get here, dabbing a moistened finger at tiny breadcrumbs on the table and absentmindedly transferring them to his lips; Annis turning the empty coffee mug in front of her between thumb and middle finger, round and round; the nameless cat digging his claws into my sweater every time I moved slightly to make myself comfortable on the hard wooden chair; me, tapping a cheap biro against a notepad where I would write down the next set of instructions. Waiting.
The phone trilled. Tim’s finger arrested halfway to his mouth, Annis gripped the mug. I reached for the phone and the cat held on tight.
‘Honeysett.’
‘Did you get it?’
‘I did, but it wasn’t easy.’ I was thinking of the cheque in Connabear’s desk.
‘Stop whingeing. Okay, sit on it, and make sure it doesn’t get nicked. I’ve got another little task for you.’
‘What do you mean, another task? The deal was that I steal the Penny Black and you let Louis go. Stick to our bargain, I fulfilled my side of it, now y-’
‘Shut up, Honeysett! I told you before, I make the rules and you do as you’re told. Now listen carefully. Your next job. Your last job. I really don’t think you’ll need to write this down, I’m sure you’ll remember this. You will nick the little Rodin sculpture from the Victoria Gallery.’
I stood up and my chair skittered noisily across the tiles. The cat jumped off my lap and galloped away. ‘Is this a bloody wind-up? You can’t be serious.’ Worried faces looked up at me. I bit my lip.