“We’d like to know, too,” said Susan. “Me particularly, since I don’t fancy any more attempted kidnappings.”
“And you don’t know anything you can tell me?” continued Reg. He put on what he obviously thought was a kind, pleading face, but his cauliflower ears and broken nose made him look like a slightly demented pug.
“I don’t know anything about gangs in London or anywhere else,” said Susan. She looked away from Holly, not wanting to meet his eyes. She’d caught something there, a momentary flash. For a second he’d looked at her the way a particularly cruel cat might look at an injured bird.
“What about you and yours?” Reg asked Merlin, his expression once again all police officer, bland and impersonal. “Anything you can tell me?”
“No,” said Merlin, very shortly.
“You must have something!” protested Holly. “Look, I’ve been in this job eighteen years, everything peaceable as you like. Sure, there’s crime, the gangs do what they do, but orderly like and to each other, or if it’s not, it’s to do with lowlifes anyway. Hardly a murder or even a beating involving honest members of the public. Nothing to make the papers or the TV. I retire in six months. My record was perfect and then today everything gets flushed down the crapper. You must know something. Miss Arkshaw, you’re Thringley’s adopted daughter or something, aren’t you? Come on, I need help.”
“I am not Frank Thringley’s daughter, adopted or otherwise!” said Susan. “He was an old friend of my mum.”
“Oh, I must have got that wrong,” said Holly. “Who’s your dad, then? I’ve only got your mum’s name. She lives down near Bath, doesn’t she? Lovely town, beautiful countryside.”
Susan wondered if he meant that as a threat of some kind. There was nothing in his tone of voice, and the words were innocent enough. But she felt it was somehow. In any case, she’d had enough of Chief Superintendent Holly.
“I can’t help you,” said Susan firmly. “I’m really tired and I’m going to have a bath and go to bed.”
“All right, all right,” said Reg, throwing up his hands. “Throw an old copper on the rubbish heap. But if you’re really worried about more kidnapping attempts, you’d best help me out. I can help you. In fact, how about I lend Mira Greene a couple of officers to keep an extra eye on this place? I’m not saying anything against Unit M, but if a bunch of your real London thugs come all tooled up to have a go . . . well, I don’t like your chances.”
“We’ve got it managed, thank you, sir,” said Greene. “And it would be strictly against direct orders from the commissioner for any of your junior officers to be aware of the booksellers and matters concerning the Old World.”
“I reckon it’s the criminals of this world you should be worried about, Miss Arkshaw,” said Reg to Susan, ignoring Greene. “But you dig your own grave. If you change your mind, here’s my card.”
Neither Susan nor Merlin reached out to take it, so he dropped it on the coffee table and stalked out. Greene turned on her heel and followed him, and they heard the two police officers talking on the way to the front door.
“I didn’t know you were retiring, sir. Costa del Sol?”
“Fuck off, Greene. Have your laugh. You know I’d stay if I could; they’re forcing me out. And it’ll be the Costa del Cumbria most likely, on my pension. And I don’t appreciate you suggesting I’m bent. Costa del Sol indeed!”
“Good luck, sir.”
The slamming door cut off most of Holly’s strident “Get f—!”
Greene came back into the room a few seconds later.
“Sorry about that. Holly’s a zombie, hardly going through the motions. The reason the gangs have been so quiet for so long is because he lets them get away with so much! He’s a lazy sod who’s always away on courses or sick leave or whatever. And I reckon he is bent as well; no one could be as ineffectual as he is accidentally. The only surprise is it’s taken so long to give him the boot. Now tell me what the hell is going on.”
“It’s bookseller business,” said Merlin.
“And where that crosses over with police matters, it’s my business, too,” said Greene. “I wish there was someone else to talk to with your lot other than Thurston. Or Merrihew, who’s never in either shop, and when I call her in the country it takes half an hour to get her to the phone and costs a fortune. I had to call Thurston three times today and kept getting told he was too busy to answer my questions.”
“He is very busy,” said Merlin. “Unpacking the personal library of Sir Anthony Blunt. Former sir, I guess, since they took away his knighthood.”
“The traitor? Are the Soviets connected—”
“No, of course not,” snapped Merlin. “Sorry. Thurston . . . irritates me as well. There’s no connection. It’s simply that Blunt had an amazing library, full of first editions and collectibles. They’re all going gaga over it at the New Bookshop and Thurston can’t spare a brain cell for anything else. I wish he’d retire.”
“Uh, will he ever?” asked Greene. “I only have very limited records and what I’ve been able to find out myself, on the job, but Thurston and Merrihew seem to have been running the St. Jacques operations since 1887.”
Susan started in surprise. “Eighteen eighty-seven?”
“Yeah, that’s about right,” said Merlin wearily. “For Thurston. Merrihew’s been in charge of the left-handed for even longer. Since 1815, a few months after Waterloo. Some of us live a long time. If we don’t get killed, that is. Look, it really is
