know that you know that they know that they have to be more careful.
‘What, all the way up to the 1960s?’ I asked.
Beale hesitated again as if thinking carefully about the dates.
‘No,’ he said. ‘The work went up North to Staffordshire to one of the potteries there.’
‘Can you remember the name?’
‘Why on Earth do you want to know?’ asked Beale.
‘The Arts and Antiques squad want to know,’ I said. ‘Something to do with stolen figurines on the internet.’
Stephanopoulos gave an involuntary snort but at least managed to suppress a laugh.
‘Oh,’ said Beale. ‘I see. I’m sure I can dig the information out for them – do they need it right away?’
I paused just to see his reaction but he was much smoother than his favourite-uncle-in-a-chunky-jumper persona suggested, and just looked blandly helpful.
‘No,’ I said. ‘After the New Year will be fine.’
Beale took a fortifying gulp of Baileys and explained that unbreakable pottery was all very well but Eugene Beale and the surviving members of his butty gang drew upon their phenomenal tunnelling experience to become engineering subcontractors in their own right. As the work became mechanised and the expendable masses were replaced by massive machines, each new generation of Beales was educated to meet the challenges of the new age.
‘I thought you were business and administration?’ I asked.
‘I am,’ he said. ‘It was my younger brother who was the engineering brains of our generation. Despite our name we do a great deal of civil engineering work, in fact that’s what saved us when the crash came. If it hadn’t been for our Crossrail contracts we would have gone under.’
‘Would it be possible to talk to your brother?’ I asked.
Beale looked away. ‘I’m afraid he was killed in a works accident,’ he said.
‘I am sorry,’ I said.
‘However technological it gets,’ said Beale, ‘tunnelling is still dangerous work.’
‘About the warehouse,’ said Stephanopoulos quickly, presumably to stop me from going off on another tangent. ‘That’s a prime piece of real estate you have there even in the current market. Why haven’t you developed it?’
‘As I was saying,’ said Beale. ‘We are a family firm and like many companies that grow organically, our management structures are not always entirely rational. We leased the warehouse to Nolan and Sons in the early sixties and while the terms of that lease are still running we can’t repossess it.’
‘That’s a very strange contract,’ said Stephanopoulos.
‘That’s probably because it was written on a beer mat and sealed with a handshake,’ said Beale. ‘That’s the way my father liked to do business.’
We stayed a bit longer to get contact details, so that a minion from the Murder Team could have a fun Christmas unpicking the corporate structure of Beale Property Services, just in case it became relevant later. I doubted it would be a priority – perhaps the minion would only have to give up New Year’s Eve.
We walked back to Stephanopoulos’ BMW, picking our way through slippery patches of decomposing snow.
‘I’m as fond of industrial archaeology as the next woman, Peter,’ said Stephanopoulos. ‘But what the hell was that all about?’
‘The murder weapon,’ I said.
‘At last,’ said Stephanopoulos. ‘Something I can relate to.’
‘James Gallagher was stabbed with a shard of a large flat dish,’ I said. ‘Whose chemical composition matches that of the fruit bowl which we have now traced back to a warehouse full of similar stuff.’
‘Identified as the property of the Unbreakable Empire Pottery Company,’ said Stephanopoulos. ‘With you so far – wait. Is this where it’s going to get odd?’
‘That depends on how much you want to know, boss.’ I opened the passenger door for her to get in.
‘What are my options?’ she asked as I climbed into the driver’s seat.
‘Meaningless euphemisms at one end and your full-on Unseen University at the other,’ I said. ‘The Unseen University is a bit like Hogwarts—’
Stephanopoulos cut me off. ‘I have read some Terry Pratchett,’ she said.
‘Really?’
‘Not really. But her indoors buys them in hardback and reads out bits to me over breakfast,’ she said.
‘So what do you read for fun?’ I asked.
‘I’m partial to the odd misery memoir,’ she said. ‘I find it comforting to know other people had worse childhoods than me.’
I kept my mouth shut – there’s some things you don’t ask senior officers.
‘I’ll settle for meaningful euphemisms,’ she said at last.
I backed out of the car park before explaining.
‘All of the pottery found so far has had the same signature which indicates that it is
‘What about the boxes of plates that Kevin Nolan arrived with?’
‘Pretty faded,’ I said. ‘I suspect that it’s been stored somewhere else prior to Kevin’s delivery.’
‘Stored where?’ asked Stephanopoulos. ‘And by who?’
‘Someone’s going to have to go underground to find out,’ I said.
Three guesses as to who that was going to be.
17
Bayswater
Rule of underground exploration number one is, according to Sergeant Kumar, minimise the number of people actually underground at any one time. That way if things go wrong there are fewer bodies for the rescuers to dig out. That meant that the party would consist of me, because of my
‘I do potholing in my free time,’ he said. ‘Yorkshire and Dartmoor mostly, but this year I spent a month in Meghalaya.’ Which was a state in north-eastern India and essentially virgin territory for cavers – very exciting and dangerous.
Since London Underground had only just got back to normal service after the snow, there was no way they were going to shut down the Circle Line while we explored. So we were going to wait until the official shut-down at one in the morning. Kumar suggested that I get some rest and reconvene later to get tooled up.
So, leaving Lesley to keep an eye on the house that wasn’t there, I went home to the Folly for a meal and a sleep. I got up at eight, had a hot bath and took Toby for a walk in Russell Square. It was cold and crisp and the sky was so clear that if it hadn’t been for London’s chronic light pollution I’m sure I would have seen stars. I’d agreed to meet Kumar back in Bayswater around ten, so as soon Toby had finished marking his territory I headed back in to get my gear. As I crossed the atrium Molly emerged suddenly from the shadows. I jumped. I always jump, and that seems to give Molly endless amusement.
‘Will you stop doing that?’ I said.
Molly gave me a bland look and held out a holdall bag. I recognised it as Lesley’s. I took it and promised faithfully to make sure she got it. I managed to resist the urge to go rummaging around inside it, my willpower being bolstered by the fact that you never knew when Molly might be watching you from the shadows.
To my surprise, Nightingale was waiting in the garage by the Jag.
