every item from the desk and examine it in infuriating detail. “Old Bryant’s theory is that Cavendish panicked and went over to burgle Delaney’s apartment, attacking him in a frenzy when he got home.”
“You’re supposed to be giving me a hand,” said Banbury, annoyed.
“You’re only bagging and tagging; that doesn’t take two of us. I’m thinking this through. Isn’t that what you blokes are supposed to do? Have you finished with this chair?” Renfield dropped into it and swivelled himself around. “So, Cavendish lays out everything in the apartment carefully, searching for the document. He knows exactly what it looks like; he’s seen hundreds of them. He hears the front door open and realises he’s trapped. There’s an argument and maybe Delaney takes a swing at him.”
“The carpet scuffs would bear that out,” Banbury agreed. “Cavendish must have been carrying a knife – he didn’t pick up anything in the flat. And he must have stabbed Delaney through his clothes; there were no arterial sprays.”
Renfield swivelled back and forth. “He drags the body down the stairs of the empty house to the front door. The street is empty, so he shoves Delaney in the trunk of his own car.”
“There’s no evidence of that. I’ve been over the car.”
“Maybe you missed something.” Renfield jumped to his feet. “Wait. There were no blood creases on the body so he used Delaney’s own vehicle, a van. You don’t need me here to hold your hand. I’m going to do another door- to-door.” He pocketed Cavendish’s security ID. “
“Why there?” asked Banbury, dropping a stapler into a plastic pouch.
“Because Bryant keeps mentioning it. He’s got an idea about the place, and I want to know what it is.”
¦
“Is this case complicated or am I getting old?” asked Arthur Bryant wearily.
“Well, you’re getting old whether it’s complicated or not.” Longbright smiled sweetly, touching her hair.
“Is there something going on that I should know about? You look eerily radiant today. And you only wear that tortoiseshell barrette when you’re really happy. You’ve had a disconcerting smile on your face ever since you returned from Brighton.”
Longbright refused to be drawn. She thrust out her imposing bosom and delivered her news. “I came in to tell you that Richard Standover is here to see you.”
“Ah,” said Bryant, “the collector. Show him in.”
Standover was almost as wide as his height, and wouldn’t have stood over many people at all. He had made up for the loss of a neck with an exorbitant goatee, and stared angrily at the detective through shrunken eyes. “This is absurd,” he said testily, “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
“No, but we do. I’m Arthur Bryant. Do find something to sit on. Your rival, Adrian Jesson, turned up in two separate pieces while you were away sunning yourself with his sister in Majorca.”
“So this lady already told me.” He indicated Longbright.
“Not heartbroken, then?”
“Of course not. I barely knew Jesson.”
“Not what we’ve heard, old chum. Your mutual acquaintance at the Rocketship bookshop seems to think you were having a feud with him. He said you’d been rivals for many years.”
“Our business relationship was common knowledge. The collecting world is a small one, and highly competitive. We all know each other, and we all love to gossip. Collecting is a disease, Mr Bryant. Start collecting something professionally, whether it’s china frogs or British beer mats from the 1930s, and you’ll soon find out who else is doing the same thing.”
“You don’t help each other, then? Say, if you’re collecting a set and need a particular item, you don’t trade.”
“God, no. The idea is to push up the value of your own collection, not someone else’s.”
“And briefly, what’s in your collection?”
“It’s taken me a lifetime to build up. I can hardly be expected to quantify it in a few minutes. People collect anything of limited availability that’s likely to increase in value. Tastes change all the time. You wouldn’t believe what fetches money these days. There are a lot of amateurs in the business, too many TV shows explaining how to do it.”
“All right, what’s your speciality?”
“If I had to pick one thing? Music, mainly. Original artwork and photography. Western pop memorabilia is highly prized in countries like Japan. The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, The Doors. Anyone who has died tragically – Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison.”
“What were you fighting with Adrian Jesson about?”
“Oh, lobby cards. You know, the hand-inked cinema stills that used to decorate the exteriors of old movie houses. They were always produced in sets of six and came in sealed packets, which makes them highly attractive acquisitions. When the Rank film studio closed down, the new buyers sold off everything in the vaults. I had a set of stills Jesson was desperate to purchase, one of the old Ealing comedies, extremely desirable. He was missing one, and I wouldn’t sell him mine.”
“So the argument wasn’t about his sister.”
“Marie and I have been together for years now,” said Standover. “Jesson’s had time to get used to the idea.”
“But he wasn’t happy about it.”
“Not particularly. He was very competitive in every part of his life. That’s why he annoyed people so much.”
“And he annoyed you.”
“I wouldn’t say that; I just know what collectors are like.”
“Mr Standover, I understand you were out of the country when Adrian Jesson died, but at the moment I’m not concerned with him. Have you ever seen either of these two people?” Bryant showed him the photographs of Cavendish and Delaney.
“No,” said Standover, clearly puzzled. “At least, they’re not in my business.”
Bryant switched tack. “Know anything about St Pancras Old Church?”
“I’ve never heard of it. I’m surprised to hear there are any churches at all in an area as godless as St Pancras.” The answer felt glib and prepared. Bryant made a mental note.
“Tell me, are there collectors who specialise in murder memorabilia?”
“Of course. Jack the Ripper, Crippen, Christie, the American killers like Gacy and Gein. There are a few sick individuals out there collecting more recent stuff, but a lot of it is black market. You can find Internet links for that kind of thing. Professionals would shun such material. Is that all? Can I get out of here now?”
¦
Bryant’s early optimism waned through the day. He had sensed they were close to a breakthrough, but the solution remained tantalisingly out of reach. The PCU worked on in isolation, without equipment or data, doggedly backing up each step with the requisite paperwork, writing out reports by hand. At the end of the afternoon everyone was tired and bad-tempered. Renfield went out without telling anyone where he was going, and failed to report back in. A little after six o’clock May realised they could go no further. Obviously the killer had moved Delaney’s body in a vehicle, but no-one had seen it parked outside his flat, or outside the shop on the Caledonian Road. Vans were rendered invisible by their ubiquity. Kershaw had found no new evidence on the corpses. No new witnesses had come forward. Their leads were all played out.
“We’ll give it another couple of hours and then adjourn until the morning,” May said. “There’s no point in staying late tonight. I want everyone in by eight a.m. tomorrow for a briefing session.” He rubbed his eyes wearily. “Arthur, when we finish I’ll run you back to Alma’s.”
“If my home is still there,” said Bryant gloomily. “We’re being kicked out.”
“Then perhaps I’ll buy
“Not me, chief,” said Liberty DuCaine. “I said I’d run Janice home later.”
“You didn’t come back to the unit after Brighton,” said Bryant. “What did
“Oo
