‘Keep listening. Same time every week, apparently. Regular as clockwork.’
‘It’s only got eighty-two thousand miles on the clock,’ continued the lady, ‘and runs really well. MOT and tax paid till year’s end, too.’
‘It sounds perfect,’ replied Styx. ‘I’ll be willing to pay cash. Will you hold it for me? I’ll be about an hour. You’re in Clapham, yes?’
The woman agreed, and she read over an address that Styx didn’t bother writing down. He reaffirmed his interest and then hung up, only to call a different number about another car in Hounslow. I took off the headphones and pulled out the headset jack so we could hear Styx’s nasal rasp over the loudspeakers.
‘How long does he do this for?’
‘From SO-14 records, until he gets bored. Six hours, sometimes eight. He’s not the only one either. Anyone who has ever sold a car gets someone like Styx on the phone at least once. Here, these are for you.’
He handed me a box of ammunition with expanding slugs developed for maximum internal damage.
‘What is he? A buffalo?’
But Tamworth wasn’t amused.
‘We’re up against something quite different here, Thursday. Pray to the GSD you never have to use them, but if you do, don’t hesitate. Our man doesn’t give second chances.’
I took the clip out of my automatic and reloaded it and the spare I carried with me, leaving a standard slug on top in case of an SO-1 spot check. Over in the flat, Styx had dialled another number in Ruislip.
‘Hello?’ replied the unfortunate car owner on the other end of the line.
‘Yes, I saw your advert for a Ford Granada in today’s Trader,’ continued Styx. ‘Is it still for sale?’
Styx got the address out of the car owner, promised to be around in ten minutes, put the phone down and then rubbed his hands with glee, laughing childishly. He put a line through the advert and then went on to the next.
‘Doesn’t even have a licence,’ said Tamworth from the other side of the room. ‘He spends the rest of his time stealing Biros, causing electrical goods to fail after the guarantee has expired and scratching records in record shops.’
‘A bit childish, isn’t it?’
‘I’d say,’ replied Tamworth. ‘He’s possessed of a certain amount of wickedness, but nothing like his brother.’
‘So what’s the connection between Styx and the Chuzzlewit manuscript?’
‘We suspect that he may have it. According to SO-14’s surveillance records he brought in a package the evening of the break-in at Gad’s Hill. I’m the first to admit that this is a long shot but it’s the best evidence of his whereabouts these past three years. It’s about time he broke cover.’
‘Has he demanded a ransom for the manuscript?’ I asked.
‘No, but it’s early days. It might not be as simple as we think. Our man has an estimated IQ of 180, so simple extortion might be too easy for him.’
Snood came in and sat down slightly shakily at the binoculars, put on the headphones and plugged in the jack. Tamworth picked up his keys and handed me a book.
‘I have to meet up with my opposite number at SO-4. I’ll be about an hour. If anything happens, just page me. My number is on Redial One. Have a read of this if you get bored.’
I looked at the small book he had given me. It was Charlotte Bronte’s JaneEyre bound in thick red leather. ‘Who told you?’ I asked sharply.
‘Who told me what?’ replied Tamworth, genuinely surprised.
‘It’s just… I’ve read this book a lot. When I was younger. I know it very well.’
‘And you like the ending?’
I thought for a moment. The rather flawed climax of the book was a cause of considerable bitterness within Bronte circles. It was generally agreed that if Jane had returned to Thornfield Hall and married Rochester, the book might have been a lot better than it was.
‘No one likes the ending, Tamworth. But there’s more than enough in it regardless of that.’
‘Then a reread will be especially instructive, won’t it?’ There was a knock at the door. Tamworth answered it and a man who was all shoulders and no neck entered.
‘Just in time!’ said Tamworth, looking at his watch. ‘Thursday Next, this is Buckett. He’s temporary until I get a replacement.’ He smiled and was gone.
Buckett and I shook hands. He smiled wanly as though this sort of job was not something he relished. He told me that he was pleased to meet me, then went to speak to Snood about the results of a horse race.
I tapped my fingertips on the copy ofJane Eyre that Tamworth had given me and placed it in my breast pocket. I rounded up the coffee cups and took them next door to the cracked enamel sink. Buckett appeared at the doorway.
‘Tamworth said you were a LiteraTec.’
‘Tamworth was correct.’
‘I wanted to be a LiteraTec.’
‘You did?’ I replied, seeing if there was anything in the fridge that wasn’t a year past its sell-by date.
‘Yeah. But they said you had to read a book or two.’
‘It helps.’
There was a knock at the door and Buckett instinctively reached for his handgun. He was more on edge than I had thought.
‘Easy, Buckett. I’ll get it.’
He joined me at the door and released the safety from his pistol. I looked at him and he nodded back in reply.
‘Who’s there?’ I said without opening the door.
‘Hello!’ replied a voice. ‘My name’s Edmund Capillary. Have you ever stopped to wonder whether it was really William Shakespeare who penned all those wonderful plays?’
We both breathed a sigh of relief and Buckett put the safety back on his automatic, muttering under his breath: ‘Bloody Baconians!’
‘Steady,’ I replied, ‘it’s not illegal.’
‘More’s the pity.’
‘Shh.’
I opened the door on the security chain and found a small man in a lumpy corduroy suit. He was holding a dog-eared ID for me to see and politely raised his hat with a nervous smile. The Baconians were quite mad but for the most part harmless. Their purpose in life was to prove that Francis Bacon and not Will Shakespeare had penned the greatest plays in the English language. Bacon, they believed, had not been given the recognition that he rightfully deserved and they campaigned tirelessly to redress this supposed injustice.
‘Hello!’ said the Baconian brightly. ‘Can I take a moment of your time?’
I answered slowly: ‘If you expect me to believe that a lawyer wrote A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I must be dafter than I look.’
The Baconian was not to be put off. He obviously liked fighting a poor argument; in real life he was most likely a personal accident barrister.
‘Not as daft as supposing that a Warwickshire schoolboy with almost no education could write works that were not for an age but for all time.’
‘There is no evidence that he was without formal education,’ I returned evenly, suddenly enjoying myself. Buckett wanted me to get rid of him but I ignored his gesticulations.
‘Agreed,’ continued the Baconian, ‘but I would argue that the Shakespeare in Stratford was not the same man as the Shakespeare in London.’
It was an interesting approach. I paused and Edmund Capillary took the opportunity to pounce. He launched into his well-rehearsed patter almost automatically: ‘The Shakespeare in Stratford was a wealthy grain trader and buying houses when the Shakespeare in London was being pursued by tax collectors for petty sums. The collectors traced him to Sussex on one occasion in 1600; yet why not take action against him in Stratford?’
‘Search me.’
He was on a roll now.
‘No one is recorded in Stratford as having any idea of his literary success. He was never known to have bought a book, written a letter or indeed done anything apart from being a purveyor of bagged commodities, grain and malt and so forth.’