to die.
With a grunt, Mason heaved up the wing. Feat dribbled from the underside of the metal in dark, wet gobbets. Reluctantly, the others moved closer, prepared to humour him for a minute or two longer as he play-acted over a dead sheep.
The bones lay in a hollow where the wing section had protected them from the weather and the attention of scavengers. They appeared to be almost intact the skull still attached to a fragile neck, the thin bones of the limbs still jointed in the proper places, and tatters of skin still hanging from the ribcagc and the lower legs. But the cadets could see that the body was too small to be a sheep. And it wasn’t curly grey wool they could see clinging to the decomposed skin of the skull but something man-made and far more shocking. It was something that cried out to them from the dark peat.
With a jerk, Mason let go of the wing. There was a thud and a scatter of wet snow across their boots as it slammed back into place, plunging the tiny skeleton again into darkness. The cadets gasped in horror, shuffled backwards, and shook their heads to clear the image. Then they stared up at Josh Mason, as if he alone were responsible for putting the picture in their minds.
But they had all looked at the bones under the wing. And they had all seen the white knitted jacket and the ridiculous pink bonnet. They had seen quite enough to know that the flaps of the bonnet were designed to cover the tiny ears of a human baby.
[56
IS
1 oday there seemed to Ben Cooper to he even more hooks in Lawrence Daicy’s shop, if that were possible. Could they have been secretly breeding overnight? Or was it only a different arrangement that made the stacks look dangerously unstable?
‘It seems to me these books are just taking up space/ said Cooper when Lawrence emerged from the back of the shop. ‘You said yourself you don’t have enough room to get newstock in/
‘That’s not the point at all/ Lawrence sighed and wiped his forehead with a sleeve. He sat down on a wobblv pile of ageing
. J o o
volumes. Near the top were 0/tejvanonj in (Ae fie/J
‘So what A the point, then?’ said Cooper.
‘The point is that the old books arc the ones my customers expect to see in the shop. They come for the character of the place, don’t you see? The ambience. They like to touch the books and soak up the feel and the spirit of them. Do you think that customer the other day would have come in here at all if 1 were selling Harry Potters instead of this stuff?’
‘No, but . .
‘It’s all about targeting. Finding your niche. You’ve got to identify the needs of your own unique marketplace and cater for its specific requirements/
‘You’ve been reading magazine articles/ said Cooper.
‘Yes, there was a feature in last week’s issue of The ^ooA;e//cr about the survival of independents/ said lawrcncc. ‘Basically, it said I had to identify my niche market or die. Unfortunately, it seems the people who constitute my niche market don t actually want to buy books. They just want to browse among dusty old tomes, with handwritten prices that say
157
“three shillings and sixpence”. It’s part of the visitor experience
.’
Cooper picked up one of the booklets published by the Edendale Historical Society. It was called ‘Folk Customs of the Eden Valley’. ‘Marketing strategies, eh? We get those sort of articles in the Police Gazette, too,’ he said.
‘Oh? Ant) what arc customers in your niche market looking for, pray?’
‘Pretty much the same, 1 suppose - image and no substance.’ Lawrence laughed. ‘Do you want a coffee? That’s something else I provide free, along with the ambience.
‘Yes, as long as it comes with a bit of information on the side.’
The bookseller rolled his eyes. ‘Well, fancy that a policeman wanting information. You’re sure a chocolate digestive wouldn’t do instead?’
‘No.’
‘I could stretch to a jammy dodger, if you smile at me nicely, young man.’
‘White with no sugar, thanks,’ said Cooper.
Lawrence passed him a roll of adhesive labels and a ballpoint pen. ‘Make yourself useful then, while 1 put the kettle on.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You can price up some of these books.’
‘Wait a minute, Lawrence … I don’t know the first thing about the price of antiquarian books.’
‘For heaven’s sake, put what you like. It’s bound to be more accurate than three shillings and sixpence, isn’t it?’
Lawrence trotted through into the back of the shop in a sudden waft of body spray. Cooper caught a glimpse of a tiny kitchen area. He looked at the labels and the nearest pile of books. He shrugged. Then he began to stick labels on the covers of the books, adding handwritten prices. He varied the amount between if and 15, according to the size and thickness of the volume. Cooper had a vague idea that the age and rarity of the book ought to count towards the price, too, but it was too complicated for him. He hoped that some poverty-stricken
1S8
book-lover might benefit one day by discovering a terrific bargain
