She showed him the stock in the warehouses. It was no modest enterprise. Donald estimated the area under cover to be at least an acre. Most of the space was taken up with grain, potatoes, onions and other agricultural basics brought in from the sovereign lands. A small bay was reserved for industrial goods like castings and ingots of copper.
“This is our top-selling stock,” she said, showing him the last bay, which amounted to about a third of the total area. “Bartram reckons we make seven in ten ounces of profit from these Value System lines.”
She explained the Value System was owned by the flamboyant businessman with the flying boat.
“He should be here this afternoon—you’ll like him, he’s a really interesting and intelligent guy. He can stand here on a clear night and name every star and constipation—oops! You’ll have to excuse me, I meant consolation. He can even point out things we can’t see but he knows are there from his education.
“His big lines are leather goods. There’s ‘The Captain’s Best’, that’s working boots, aprons, weatherproof overalls, gloves and that kind of thing. Then here we have his ‘Style Captain’ line. That’s the kind of thing a gent like you might want: leather raincoats and jackets, ladies’ and gents’ shoes, leather trousers and helmets for riding motorbikes. And finally here we have his line in bottled meats, ‘The Captain’s Table’.”
“These are really excellent boots,” Donald said, turning one over to see “The Captain’s Best” logo stamped on the sole. Now he understood where Sarah-Kelly had got her distinctive boots from. “Look at how smooth and supple the leather is.”
“Go ahead and have a pair. What size are you? About 10? Try these.”
She had a good eye. The boots fitted in soothing relief to the rough old hiking boots Donald had bought at an Oxford flea market back in his student days. His feet luxuriated within the folds of soft leather.
“How much do they cost?”
“Forget it, Donald, we wear them ourselves.”
“Absolutely beautiful leather. Excellent stitching too.”
“Why not take a nice pair of gloves for your wife?”
“She’s got pairs enough as it is.”
Rosa must have caught a certain tone in his voice as she did not press the point.
“Seemingly it took generations—going back even before the Glorious Resolution—to create a special breed of pig with just the right hide. Our customers love all this Value System stuff.”
In taking in the rank upon rank of crates stacked almost to the rafters with The Captain’s Best, Style Captain and The Captain’s Table, Donald’s critical eye started to question. This Value System must be a major operation employing hundreds or even thousands of people.
“In which of the industrial asylums is this Value System found?” he asked.
“Oh, I can’t tell you that, it’s a trade secret.” After a pause, Rosa added: “It isn’t anywhere near London. Jakub knew something about it, only he never let on—Jakub was Bartram and Sarah-Kelly’s dad. He died about five years ago.” Donald sensed she had more to say. When she held her silence, he tried to coach her.
“Sarah-Kelly told me about Jakub—my own father died of cancer recently, that’s why she mentioned it.”
“I’m so sorry... Well, let’s get back out to the sunshine.”
It was his impression that talk of the Value System had stirred in Rosa’s mind thoughts she normally kept buried. She was distracted as they stood on the quay, at a loss for what to do next.
“You say this flying gentleman of the Value System will be here this afternoon?”
“I suppose so.”
Donald pulled his watch from an inside pocket—evidently Rolex wristwatches worth 145 ounces were not worn by off-duty servants—and was dismayed to see it was half past eleven. The hours had flowed easily during the tour, damn it. Getting up to Brent Cross and then back to meet this Value System character was going to be a tight squeeze. Donald suspected the Value System was an ultramarine operation. If not, its owner must be intimate with the ultramarines, due to their monopoly over the transport system. The owner might help to trace Lawrence.
Rosa spoke, interrupting his thoughts.
“Brent Cross is right that way. But they couldn’t have hit it. They wouldn’t dare.”
She was staring at the far smoke, still creeping aloft and arcing over to disperse for miles downwind. This was the smoke caused by the gunfire from Ladbroke fort. Donald froze as the implication sank in: for the fires to have lasted so long, the shells must have hit something large. Suppose the glories had shelled the National Party conference?
Rosa hugged herself. “I wish Bartram were here.”
“I’m going up to Brent Cross to get Sarah-Kelly.”
Rosa was genuinely startled by this idea.
“Are you sure you know what you’re getting in to? It’s four miles to Brent Cross and none of it’s friendly.”
Donald just shrugged.
“I’ve got artillery.”
“I’ll send Bill and Dave with you—you’ll need more than artillery, believe me.”
Donald did not want company. However, events now passed from his control. There came a raucous yell from the basin. He shaded his eyes and saw three barges poling in towards the wharf. At the bows of the lead barge was a sturdy man with long-arms and wide-hips, rather like a badger standing up.
“Bartram!” called Rosa.
“There you are… and who’s that? Caught you, have I?”
Rosa laughed and gave Donald a pat.
“This is—”
“Get Bill, Dave and Cyrus, we’re going up to Brent Cross.”
“What for?”
“The dogs shelled it this morning. We saw it from the inn at Park Royal. The shells went straight into the asylum.”
“Oh Christ,” said Rosa.
Chapter
10
The turnpike was a civilized place. Donald could not understand Rosa’s concerns. It was a wide way of well-beaten, smooth gravel between high brick walls that formed the frontiers of petty domains. The impression was of a drained canal. The only glitch was an overweight
