save a woman’s life.

‘Where are we going next?’ said Fry. ‘Shall I guess?’

Lawrence Dalcy was alone in the bookshop as usual. He looked over his glasses in outrage at Cooper and Fry when he Anally answered their banging.

‘Had any customers today, Lawrence?’ said Cooper.

‘I’m doing my best. A customer here, a customer there, you know. I expect to reach double figures by the end of the year. What do you want?’

‘There are lots of other things in life apart from hooks,’ said Frv. ‘Can we come in?’

v

‘You can find everything you want to know in books. Life, death, love, the specifications for a 1968 Ford Capri ignition system.’

‘And aircraft wrecks?’ said Cooper.

‘Sorrv?’

365

‘You sell hooks on aircraft wrecks.’

‘You know I do you bought a couple yourself.’

‘I’ve heard there’s quite a demand for that sort of thing. And not only hooks. Other items. Souvenirs. Collectibles.’

Lawrence nodded. ‘I believe you’re right.’

‘Fetch a good price, do they? There’s more profit in aircraft souvenirs than in books that never move oft the shelf, I guess. A bit of diversification?’

Lawrence fidgeted with a set of keys, watching Cooper’s eyes.

‘Will you show us the upstairs room, Lawrence?’ said Cooper.

The bookseller took of! his glasses and fiddled inside his

c*

waistcoat for his tiny screwdriver. His eyes looked weary without the glasses. There were blue patches underneath them, and the tired creases that come with age.

‘It’s not illegal, you know.’

‘Then there’s nothing to worry about, is there?’ said Fry. ‘Lead the way.’

Lawrence Dalcy led the way to the foot of the bare wooden stairs, past the sign that said ‘Sfo^On/y’. The stairs were narrow and unlit, and the boards creaked alarmingly underfoot. Their footsteps echoed in the stairwell, and once they had turned a corner halfway up, they lost the benefit of the light from the shop. They could see their way only by a naked bulb somewhere high above them, and its reflection in a series of tiny stone-mullioned windows set into the back wall. The light picked out thick strands of blackened cobwebs clinging to the ceilings and the highest corners. The banister rail felt slightly sticky under Cooper’s fingers, but he was afraid to let go of it, in case the stairs disappeared in front of him and he lost his footing.

He could see that the building had once been a town house for some wealthy family, a tall, rambling place that the bookshop occupied only half of. The stairs they were climbing were so narrow that they must once have been designed only for the use of servants, who were expected to be thin and undernourished. Probably they were expected to be

366

able to sec in the dark, too, and survive the winter without any heating.

Along the skirting boards and on the window ledges, Cooper saw more black mouse droppings. He wondered if Lawrence would be interested in having a cat.

Lawrence stopped in front of them and jingled his keys. Cooper could make out a dusty corridor ahead. Unsurprisingly, it was piled high with books stacked against the walls. There were two or three doors further down, but they were inaccessible because of the number of books in front of them. To the right, though, there was one clear doorway near the head of the stairs, tucked under a sloping section of roof. They must be close to the eaves of the building.

Fry stood behind him, just below one of the mullioned windows. Cooper turned to exchange a look. He saw her lace was lit by a strange mottled pattern from the light reflected off the dust on the window.

‘No wonder people like Rddie Kemp are never out of work,’ she said.

All the doors were narrow and low, as if they had been made (or the use of midgets. The paint on them was old and peeling, but must once have been dark green, and they had brown bakelite handles that had got chipped over the years. There was no carpet on the floor of the passage, and probably never had been. The floorboards had been painted black, and that was the limit of decoration. Cooper shivered. The passage was cold, as cold as George Malkin’s farmhouse, but with a different feel to the coldness. Malkin’s house had dripped with the chill of emptiness, but this place felt full of phantoms. He could imagine a crowd of pale, thin ghosts in ragged clothes who walked continuously backwards and forwards, day and night, bearing bowls of hot water and candles for their masters.

‘Useful-looking attic,’ said Fry. ‘Have you ever thought of converting it into student bedsits?’

A gleam came into Lawrence’s eye for a moment at the prospect of income from student rents. Hut he looked at the stacks of books, and his face fell.

‘I don’t think it’s practical.’

367

‘Let’s have a look at this room/ said Cooper. ‘It’s what we came for, after all.’

The upstairs room at Eden Valley Books was full of aviation memorabilia, much of it of Second World War vintage. One of the most eye-catching items was an RAF pilot’s Irving jacket, which fitted Ben Cooper fine when he tried it on. There had been a few repairs to the leather, but the y.ips and the belt still worked, and the lining was very warm. He could have kept it on and worn it all day.

‘Two hundred pounds/ said Lawrence. ‘It’s still got the MoD label and everything.’

‘I’ll not bother.’

A cockpit clock was dated 1940. The label said it was in working condition, though it currently showed the time as four twenty-eight. It was priced at 17S. A leather Hying helmet with attached oxygen mask seemed to be one of the prime exhibits at ^450. Cooper could sec that Lawrence put more thought into the prices for his collectibles than he did into pricing his books.

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