‘I sensed something. Couldn’t put my finger on it.’
Stoker touched the tip of his nose. ‘Copper’s nose. You’ll develop it more as you get experience, old son. Follow your instincts and you won’t often go wrong. He’s been known to us for years, but no one’s ever pinned anything on him.’
‘Known for what?’
‘Handling.’
‘Stamps?’
The DS shook his head. ‘High-end antiques. But anytime we ever tried to nick him, he could always produce receipts. He’s crafty, that one. I’ve talked to a few people who reckon he’s got away with everything but murder over the years. A lot of coppers would like to see him behind bars.’ He shrugged. ‘But doesn’t look like it’s going to happen, does it? And now he’s a sodding victim.’
‘Reckon that’s genuine?’
He nodded. ‘Could see how upset the missus is. They’ve had the tables turned, all right. Mind you, you sodding deserve it if you leave a hundred grand’s worth of stamps under a bleeding mat, right?’
Grace nodded thoughtfully, replaying the scene over in his mind. ‘The timing bothers me, sir — why do it at 5 a.m.? Why not earlier in the night?’
‘Police patrols get suspicious of vehicles out late at night. If the Cunninghams are correct and the villains broke in at 5 a.m., did their burgling, then made themselves some breakfast, it meant they were probably there a good hour or so. They’d have left around 6 a.m. perhaps, when people are starting to surface and be up and about. More vehicles on the road. Less suspicion. Nah, it’s an open-and-shut job. Let’s see if SOCO pick up any dabs.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘They’ll be there in the next half hour. We need to brief our press officer in the meantime. I’ll let you do it — be good practice.’
Shortly after 12.30 p.m., Tony Langiotti left his office, pulled his door shut behind him, a fresh cigarette dangling from his lips, and sauntered out into the bright sunshine. He was in a sunny mood, looking forward to a nice pint or two and a bite to eat in the pub with a couple of mates.
He’d already made a deal this morning to offload the Georgian silver haul from last night, for a very tasty price indeed! The clock wasn’t proving quite so easy and he wished the tossers hadn’t bothered nicking it — the value was peanuts compared to the rest of the items. But he knew someone who would take it off his hands when he returned from a holiday in Spain later in the week.
He climbed into his large Jaguar, started the engine, and drove up to the Old Shoreham Road. A short distance on he halted at a red traffic light. As he waited for it to change, he glanced idly towards the parade of shops on his left; suddenly, the banner headline of The Argus newspaper, outside a newsagent’s, caught his eye.
Instantly, his mood darkened. Violently. It was too coincidental to be a different house.
‘What?’ he said aloud. ‘What?’ he repeated. ‘What the f—?’
Ignoring that the lights had changed to green, and the hooting from behind, he sat and stared in disbelief for several moments. Then he jumped out, gave two fingers to the driver of the car behind, ran into the newsagent’s and grabbed a copy of the paper. He paid for it, then stood rooted to the spot reading it, ignoring the hooting outside from the obstruction his car was causing.
Thieves broke into a Dyke Road Avenue mansion early this morning and made off with a haul that included Georgian silver, valued at over £50,000, and a prized stamp collection, worth an estimated £100,000.
The house’s owner, retired Brighton businessman Dennis Cunningham, said to The Argus earlier this morning, ‘They clearly knew exactly what they were looking for. They only targeted our finest Georgian silver — and my stamps. And the cheek of them!’ he added, indignantly. ‘They helped themselves to breakfast while my wife and I were asleep upstairs!’
Detective Constable Roy Grace, in charge of the investigation, said, ‘We are pursuing a number of lines of enquiry, and will make every effort to apprehend those responsible and recover the valuables, many of which are of great sentimental value to their rightful owners.
‘If any member of the public saw anything suspicious in the Dyke Road Avenue area between the hours of 4 a.m. and 7 a.m., please call Detective Constable Roy Grace at Brighton CID on the following number…’
Langiotti stormed out of the newsagent, jumped into his car, lit another cigarette to calm himself down, then accelerated away, his lunchtime plans out of the window, anger coursing through his veins.
‘Bastards,’ he said. ‘You jammy little Welsh bastards. Think you’re going to get away with cheating me out of a hundred grand? Well, boyos, you’ve got another thing coming.’
In the CID office at John Street police station, Roy Grace was hunched over his desk, an untouched sandwich beside him and a forgotten mug of coffee gone cold. He was concentrating hard, determined to impress Detective Sergeant Stoker with his work on this case. And he knew he was going to impress one person today — his beloved Sandy. The noon edition of The Argus lay beside him; it was the first time he had ever seen his name in print, and he was chuffed to bits. He could not wait to show it to her this evening.
In his notebook he wrote:
Look for similar modus operandi.
House-to-house enquiries.
Newsagents.
Stop all vehicles in Dyke Road Avenue during that time period tomorrow and ask if they saw anything.
Check all antique shops and stalls in Brighton regularly over coming weeks.
Check local and national stamp dealers for items they have been offered.
He was interrupted in mid-flow by his phone ringing. ‘DC Grace,’ he answered. ‘Brighton CID.’
‘I’m phoning about the Dyke Road Avenue robbery this morning,’ the male voice at the other end said, in a coarse Brighton accent.
Eagerly, Grace picked up his pen. ‘May I have your name and phone number, sir?’
‘You may not. But I’ve got inside information, see. There’s going to be another burglary tonight. 111 Tongdean Avenue, a house called The Gallops.’
Grace knew his home town well. This was considered by some to be an even smarter street than Dyke Road Avenue. ‘How do you know that, sir?’
‘Just trust me, I know. They’ll be going in around 5 a.m., and coming out soon after 6 a.m., disguised as postmen. Couple of Welshmen, from Cardiff.’
Any moment there was going to be a catch; Grace pressed on his questions, whilst waiting for it. Probably a demand for money.
‘Can you give me their names, sir?’
‘Dai Lewellyn and Rees Hughes.’
He wrote the names on the pad. ‘May I ask why you are giving me this information?’
‘Tell ’em they shouldn’t have been so greedy with the stamps.’
There was a click. The man had hung up.
Grace thought for some moments, feeling a buzz of excitement. If… if… if this tip-off was real, then he had a real chance to shine! Even better if he could catch the perps red-handed. But it could of course have been a crank call. He phoned the operator and asked for a trace on it, then he looked up the number of Cardiff’s main police station, called it, and asked to speak to the CID there. The duty detective was out at lunch, but Grace was told he would call back on his return.
A short while later the operator called to tell him the call had been made, as he had suspected, from a phone booth. She gave him the address of the booth, in a busy street near the Brighton & Hove Albion football stadium. Grace thanked her and immediately contacted the SOCO officer who had just finished at the Cunninghams’ house, asking him to get straight over to the phone box and take some prints from that — although Grace doubted whether whoever had made the call would have been dumb enough to have left any prints anywhere in the booth.