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The caretaker shrugged. ‘I think maybe he no wants to admit there’s a mechanical problem. Maybe he protect himself or his company?’
Troutt nodded, not rising to this. He would form his own judgement after visiting the motor room with the engineer.
‘So you don’t know what she does for a living?’
The caretaker shook his head.
‘Is she married? Any kids?’
‘She on her own.’
‘Do you have any idea about her movements?’
‘I’m at the other end of the block, I don’t see the tenants in this wing unless they have a problem. She in trouble with the police?’
‘No, nothing like that.’ He gave the man a reassuring smile. ‘I should introduce myself – PC Troutt. I’m one of your new neighbourhood officers.’ He fished out a card.
The caretaker took it and looked at it dubiously, as if it was from a double-glazing salesman. ‘I hope you come down here on Friday and Saturday nights, late. Last Friday night we have little bastards set light to a dustbin,’ he grumbled.
‘Yes, well, that’s exactly the sort of thing this new initiative is all about,’ the young PC said earnestly.
‘I believe when I see it.’
85
‘Yo, old-timer, taken off yet?’
Grace, standing in his socks at Gatwick Airport’s South Terminal, watched his shoes appear on the conveyor belt on the far side of the sca
‘So, you had a bad night, did you?’
Grace gri
Ignoring the barb, the DS retorted, ‘And the dog didn’t throw up on you again?’
Grace, who was wearing a suit because he wanted to look businesslike when he arrived in New York, struggled to lace up his right shoe while keeping the phone wedged to his ear. He gave up trying to do it standing up and sat down. ‘No, it just did a dump on the floor instead.’
‘You all right, man? Your voice sounds muffled.’
‘I’m fine, I’m trying to put my fucking shoes back on. Are you phoning about anything important or is this just a social chat?’
‘What do you know about stamps?’ Branson asked.
‘First or second class?’
‘Very fu
‘I can tell you a bit about British Colonials,’ Grace said. ‘My dad collected them – first-day covers. Used to get them for me when I was a boy. They’re worthless. My mum asked me to take his whole collection to a dealer after he died – they wouldn’t give me two beans for them. If you’re thinking of a hobby, you could try collecting butterflies – or what about trainspotting?’
‘Yeah, yeah! Finished?’
Grace grunted.
‘Listen, me and Bella have just been with the Klingers, right? That cash, all those transactions Lorraine Wilson made – that three million plus quid, yeah? I think she may have been buying stamps.’
‘You do?’
Grace suddenly stopped tying his shoe and concentrated. He was thinking back to the conversation he’d had with Terry Biglow on Tuesday.
She was… in a terrible state after Ro
‘Yeah. Stephen Klinger said to me that it was a small world, the high-end stamp trade. Like, everyone knew everyone.’
‘Did he give you a list of local dealers?’
‘Some names, yeah.’
‘Listen, Gle
‘Uh huh.’
‘Tell them this is a murder inquiry, so if they withhold any information they could end up being charged as accessories after the fact. Ram that down their throats.’
‘Yes, boss man. Have a nice flight. Give my love to the Big Apple. Enjoy.’
‘I’ll send you a postcard.’
‘Don’t forget to put a stamp on it.’
86
Bella radioed one of the researchers in the Operation Dingo incident room and asked her to compile a complete list of all stamp dealers in the Brighton and Hove area. Then, with Gle
Just down from the station, Hawkes looked like one of those places that have been there for ever. It had the kind of window display that never changed but was just added to from time to time. It was full of boxed coin sets, medals, first-day covers in plastic envelopes and old postcards.
They hurried inside, out of the hardening drizzle, and saw two women in their thirties who could be sisters, both fair-haired and good-looking, not the image Branson had in his mind of a stamp dealer at all. He’d imagined stamps to be a rather nerdy male domain.
The women were deep in conversation and didn’t acknowledge the detectives, as if used to time-wasting browsers. Gle
The women stopped talking suddenly and turned to look at them. Branson pulled out his warrant card.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Branson of Sussex CID and this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Moy. We’d like to have a word with the proprietor. Would that be one of you?’
‘Yes,’ said the older-looking one, pleasantly, but slightly reserved. ‘I’m Jacqueline Hawkes. What is this about?’
‘Do the names Ro
She looked surprised and shot a glance at the other woman. ‘Ro
‘Yes,’ Bella said, not wanting to give anything away.
‘Was he a big trader? At a high level?’ Branson asked. ‘You know, very rare stamps?’
She shook her head. ‘Not here. We don’t deal much at the top end – we don’t have that kind of stock. We’re just high street retail, really.’
‘What kind of values do you go up to?’
‘Small stuff, mostly. Stamps with a value of a few hundred pounds are about the highest we get involved with. Unless someone comes in with an obvious bargain, then we might go up a bit.’
‘Did Lorraine Wilson ever come in here?’ he said.
Jacqueline thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes, she did – I can’t remember when exactly. Not that long after he died, I think it must have been. She had some stamps of her husband’s she wanted to sell. We bought them – not a huge amount – a few hundred pounds’ worth, from memory.’
‘Did she ever talk to you about dealing in a much larger amount? Spending serious money?’
‘What kind of serious money?’
‘Hundreds of thousands.’
She shook her head. ‘Never.’
‘If someone came to see you wanting to buy, say, several hundred thousand pounds’ worth of stamps, what would you do?’
‘I’d direct them to an auction house in London or to a specialist dealer, and hope he’d be decent enough to give me a bit of com-ission!’