‘Mr Cunningham?’
‘Yes?’
Grace pulled out his warrant card holder and flipped it open, to show his card and the Sussex Police badge. It was the first time he had used it, and he felt a deep thrill. ‘Detective Constable Grace and Detective Sergeant Stoker, from Brighton CID, sir. We understand you’ve had a break-in?’
The old man, dressed in a plaid shirt with a cravat, chinos and monogrammed velvet slippers, looked distinctly on edge and a tad lost. His hair was a little long and unkempt, giving him the air of an absent-minded professor. He did not look to Roy Grace like a man who had ever held a staid office job — possibly a former antiques dealer or someone in the arts world, perhaps. Definitely some kind of wheeler-dealer.
‘Yes, that’s right. Bloody awful. Thank you for coming. I’m so sorry to have troubled you.’
‘No trouble at all, sir,’ Bill Stoker said. ‘That’s what we’re here for.’
‘It’s shaken us up, I can tell you. Please come in. My wife and I have tried to be careful not to touch anything, but the ruddy dog’s trampled all over — I suppose what you fellows call — the crime scene.’
‘We’ll have SOCO take some paw prints, so we can rule him out as a suspect, sir.’ Bill Stoker said, entering the rather grand panelled hallway. Several fine-looking oil paintings were hung along the walls, and it was furnished with tasteful antiques. He knelt to stroke the dog which had padded over towards him, tongue out. ‘Hello, fellow!’ He rubbed the dog’s chest gently. ‘What’s your name?’ He asked, looking at the collar tag. ‘Fluff. You’re Fluff, are you?’ Then he heard a female voice.
‘Who is it, darling?’
‘The Police. CID. Two detectives.’
‘Oh, thank God.’
Caroline Cunningham was an elegant woman in her late sixties, with neatly coiffed hair and a face that was still handsome despite her wrinkles. She must have been very beautiful in her youth, Roy Grace thought. She was wearing a white blouse, black slacks and sparkly trainers.
Her husband introduced them, getting their names and ranks the wrong way round. Roy Grace corrected him.
‘Would you gentlemen like some tea or coffee?’ she asked.
Grace did fancy a coffee but was unsure it would be professional to accept. ‘We’re fine,’ he said, ‘Thank you very much.’ Then he noticed the look of dismay on Bill Stoker’s face. Ignoring it, he ploughed on. ‘I understand two officers attended an emergency call made at 7.10 a.m. today from this address, Mr and Mrs Cunningham?’
‘Correct. We didn’t know if the blighters… were still in the house. We were bloody terrified — and the dog was no damned use at all!’
‘My husband has a shotgun, but of course it’s locked away in the safe in the garage,’ she said.
‘Probably just as well, madam,’ Bill Stoker said. ‘Once a firearm is involved, matters can turn very dangerous very quickly.’
‘I’d have given them both barrels and to hell with it,’ Crafty Cunningham said.
From the grimace on his face, Roy Grace had no doubt he meant it. ‘I think what would be most helpful is if you can you talk us through exactly what happened from the moment you discovered the break-in, then we’d like to go through what has been taken.’
‘I’m not sure we can remember exactly what’s been taken — but the majority of it, certainly,’ the old man replied.
‘Georgian silver mostly,’ Caroline Cunningham said. ‘They knew their stuff whoever did this. They didn’t seem to bother with much else.’
‘From what you are saying, you seem pretty certain it was more than one intruder?’ Grace said.
‘Damned right it was,’ Crafty said. ‘The buggers made themselves breakfast in the kitchen before they left! Two bowls of cereal, bread, butter and marmalade. Can you believe it?’
‘Maybe it would be a good idea if we could sit down and go through everything,’ Bill Stoker said. ‘Then we’ll take a look around afterwards. Is there a room that the… er… intruders didn’t enter, to your knowledge?’
‘The conservatory,’ Caroline Cunningham said.
‘Let’s go in there.’
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like tea or coffee?’ she asked.
This time Grace looked at his Sergeant for a lead.
‘I wouldn’t say no to a cuppa,’ Stoker said. ‘Thank you.’
‘A coffee for me, please,’ Grace said. ‘But I’m a bit worried, if they’ve been in your kitchen, about contaminating any possible evidence.’
The couple looked at each other guiltily. ‘Erm, I’m afraid we have already been in there, and made ourselves something to eat — not that either of us had much of an appetite. But we had a feeling it was going to be a long morning,’ Crafty replied.
Bill Stoker looked at his watch. ‘Someone from SOCO should be along shortly to dust for prints. They’ll need to take both of yours, to know which ones to eliminate, if that’s all right?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Caroline Cunningham said.
‘And the dog’s, also?’ Her husband said, with a smile.
‘Have you lost a lot?’ Grace asked them.
‘Quite a bit, in value,’ Crafty replied.
‘Much of it sentimental. Bits and pieces I’d inherited from my parents,’ Caroline said. ‘And wedding presents. Christening cups and napkin rings. To be honest, we’re pretty numb. A lot’s happened in the last hour — hour and a half…’ She looked at the wall, and frowned. ‘No! Bastards.’
Grace followed her gaze and saw a rectangular shadow on the wall.
‘That was a beautiful antique French wall clock.’
‘Belonged to my great-grandfather,’ Crafty Cunningham said ruefully. ‘Bloody hell, what else has gone?’
‘I’m afraid people often keep finding things missing for weeks after a burglary,’ Bill Stoker said. ‘Let’s go and sit down and take things slowly from the beginning.’
Tony Langiotti watched from his office window as the white Renault van came around the corner into the mews. His mews. He owned all eight of the lock-up garages, and the warehouse opposite. That meant no strangers with prying eyes could see who came and went. He put down his coffee, lit a cigarette, and with it dangling from his lips went outside to meet the two Welsh scumbags.
‘You’re fucking late. What kept you?’ he said to the van’s driver, Dai Lewellyn. The Welshman was in his early twenties, with a cratered, emaciated face and a hairstyle like his mother had just tipped a bowl of spaghetti on his head. ‘Stop to get your toenails varnished or something?’
‘We went to get breakfast, look you,’ Lewellyn said cheerily, in a sing-song voice.
‘We’ve been up since early, like, we were hungry, like,’ the other man, in the passenger seat said. His name was Rees Hughes. Both occupants of the van were dressed in postmen’s uniforms.
Langiotti hauled up the door of garage number 4, and signalled for them to drive in. Then he switched on the interior light and pulled the door back down behind them.
They were in a large space, eight lock-up garages wide, with all the internal walls knocked down. There were two other vans in there, a machine for manufacturing number plates, a number of old vending machines stacked against the far wall, and a line of trestle tables, which gave it the faint appearance of a village hall.
‘So what you tossers got for me?’ The cigarette dangled from Langiotti’s lips, with an inch of ash on the end.
‘I don’t like your tone,’ the fat one said in a mild rebuke, getting out of the van.
‘Yeah, well, I don’t like being kept waiting, see? So what you got for me?’ He walked around to the rear of the van, and saw the two large grey mail sacks lying there, each stamped GPO.