‘It’s all perfectly legitimate/ said Lawrence.
‘That depends on the origin of the items, doesn’t it? Where do they come from?’ asked Fry.
‘People bring them to me.’
‘Do they provide any evidence of their origin? What you might call a provenance?’
‘Hardly ever. But these people are collectors, or other dealers. The things they bring have been changing hands for years.’
‘If you have reason to believe that any of them are stolen or dishonestly obtained ‘
‘I don’t.’
Fry nodded. ‘In that case, you’re right. It’s legitimate.’
‘Do you get any medals?’ asked Cooper.
‘Sometimes.’
‘I was thinking of one particular medal. A Canadian Distinguished Flying Cross.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever had one of those here.’
‘Have you ever been offered one?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware. I get job lots sometimes. I don’t
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always sort them out. There might be a boxful of medals around here now somewhere.’
‘Are you saying that someone could have browsed through your stock and found a medal like that? A Canadian DFC?’
Lawrence shrugged. ‘It’s possible.’
oo I
Cooper reached the table at the far end of the room. ‘And what’s this?’
He had picked up a bag. It was a leather bag with flaps, like a large satchel or saddlebag. The label said: On^inaJ R/4F
‘And where did this come from, Lawrence? How much have you been paying George Malkin for his collection?’
‘I’m in business,’ said Lawrence. ‘I pay Malkin what I pay other people.’
There was a tiny window at the back of the room, so high that Cooper could only just see out of it. He rubbed some dirt from the pane, and found he was looking down from the back of the shop into a small yard illuminated by a security light. The backs of tall buildings were clustered all around it. There must be access to the yard somehow, because there was a pair of wooden gates facing him, set into a stone wall protected by bits of broken glass cemented to the coping stones.
‘What’s in the yard?’ asked Cooper.
Slowly, Lawrence selected another key and opened the door. It let a burst of bright light into the room and a cold wind. Cooper could see the top of an iron fire escape, which led down the outer wall of the building. Down there, it was like a junkyard. All sorts of objects lay around. There appeared to be engines, propellers, wheels, and a section of cockpit, but many of the items were unidentifiable. A lot of them were covered in a layer of snow that had frozen on their horizontal surfaces, giving them an enigmatic appearance, like objects in a puzzle, seen from an unfamiliar angle. The snow on the ground was covered in the clawed footprints of birds, which seemed to have wandered aimlessly backwards and forwards, frequently crossing their own path, perhaps looking for food. The aircraft cockpit was one of the larger objects. In the snow on its upper surface, there were bigger, neater footprints
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prowling among the bird tracks. So there was a cat around, after all.
‘I can see the stock,’ said Cooper. ‘But where do the customers come from? How do you advertise?
‘Through the website mostly/ said I<awrence.
‘A website. Of course. Everybody has a website these days.’
‘Most of the business isn’t done here, you see this is small-scale stuff. What the website does is put people in touch with each other, all over the world. We just have to maintain the site.’
‘Do you have no control over who uses it?’
‘We don’t check on anybody’s 6ona ^Je.s. Even if they have an entire aircraft to sell, we don’t ask any questions.’
‘Who’s “we”?’ said Cooper.
Lawrence fiddled with the keys. He pulled the door shut, as if ashamed of the view. ‘There’s a terrible draught with the door open,’ he said.
‘Who else is involved?’ said Cooper.
“I have a bit of help sometimes,’ said Lawrence. ‘A few people who are interested in the aviation archaeology business.’
‘We’ll need names.’
‘I can’t do that. Confidentiality
‘Rubbish.’
‘Who else has access to the yard, apart from you?’ said Cooper.
