Peter Lovesey - Murder on the Short List

“Except that he was carrying the cheque?”

“Right. And various documents linking him to the family. The police called them. They panicked and said they knew nothing about Willy. He had to be an impostor and all the documents must be faked. After a night in the cells, he was charged with obtaining money by deception and brought before the magistrate at Bow Street. They put him on bail, pending further investigation. Only it never came to trial.”

“Why?”

“The secret service intervened to avert the scandal. If it had ever got to court it would have destroyed a prime minister’s reputation. They decided the best way to deal with it was for Willy to jump bail and go into hiding. No attempt was made to find him and the matter was dropped. The family cashed the cheque, Willy got his commission, and the good name of a great prime minister was saved from disgrace. That’s why you and I are locked in here and Willy Plumridge is sitting in the Nag’s Head enjoying his vodka and tonic. He did the decent thing and jumped for England.”

Mr Small was Mr Big, and that was no joke. It isn’t wise to make fun of an underworld king.

“This is in confidence, right?”

“Goes without saying, Mr Small,” Bernie said. Bernie wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he’d survived by being respectful of men of violence. He didn’t much care for blood and guts. Crime didn’t have to be messy. By nature he was a gatherer, rather than a hunter.

“I’ve got a job for you.”

“Thanks,” Bernie said, hoping it didn’t involve murder.

“You’ve still got that Transit Van, I hope.”

“Er, yes.” Maybe a bullion job, Bernie thought, looking steadily into Sly Small’s lizard eyes.

“I want you to collect something for me.”

“No problem, Mr Small.”

“You haven’t heard the rest. This is a sizeable item. I’d say it weighs as much as you or me and is about your height. What are you — six feet?”

“Just over six.” Oh, no, it’s a corpse, Bernie thought. He wants me to collect a stiff.

“It’s an instrument.”

Bernie’s mind switched to torture and his mouth went dry.

“A Horngacher.”

It sounded excruciating.

“A musical instrument.”

Now Bernie doubted if he was hearing right. What on earth would Sly Small — a man of brutal tastes — want with a musical instrument?

“You’re a man who likes music, aren’t you? I mean serious music. Beethoven and stuff.”

Bernie listened to Classic FM on the car radio sometimes. It was scary how much Sly Small knew. “I suppose.”

“This is in confidence,” Sly said for the second time. “I’m only telling you because of your high taste in music. I sent my boy Rocky to one of them posh schools thinking it would help him when he steps into my shoes. Cost me an arm and a leg and after ten years of it, he’s still pig ignorant. The only thing he can do is music. They sent him for an interview at the Royal College and he’s in.”

“Top result,” Bernie said.

“Are you being sarky?”

“No, Mr Small. No way.”

“If I thought you was being sarky I’d nail you to the wall.”

“And you’d be right to do it,” Bernie said.

Sly Small gave Bernie a long look. “I don’t want this to get around. Rocky is getting a Horngacher. From me.”

Bernie nodded.

“Don’t look as if you know what a Horngacher is, you thick berk. I didn’t know myself until a couple of days ago. It’s a harp, a bloody great harp. Have a good laugh. My son and heir plays the harp. That’s his instrument, okay?”

A harp . Bernie understood Sly Small’s problem now. The criminal world would fall about laughing if it learned that Sly’s son had turned into a harpist.

“He’s flesh and blood,” Sly said. “What can you do? If the boy had asked me for a Harley-Davidson I’d have given him one. He doesn’t want a Harley, he wants a Horngacher. There’s one called the Meisterharfe Horngacher. It’s the Harley-Davidson of harps he says, worth fifty grand, easy. Your job is to pick one up for me.”

“From a harp shop?” Bernie said.

“I didn’t say buy one. What do you think I am? I’ve made inquiries, and there are only two Meisterharfe Horngachers known to be in Britain. One is in the Museum of Music in Winchester, and that’s as secure as Fort Knox. But the other is out there being played. It’s coming in tomorrow.”

“Coming in where?”

“The Albert Hall, for some concert. It was being played last weekend in Prague, with the Royal Philharmonic. They use a big furniture van to drive the instruments across the continent. Should be arriving around mid-day. That’s when you pick up the harp.”

“It’s all arranged?” Bernie said, much relieved.

“Plonker,” Sly said. “What do you think you are — American Express? No one’s going to ask you for the paper work. You’re knocking it off, right?”

“It’s a hold-up?”

“Depends how you want to play it. If I was you I’d wear a brown coat and say I was staff. Shove it in the van — carefully, mind — and drive off fast. Make sure you’re not being followed and bring it here.”

He made it sound simple. Bernie wasn’t so confident. “If you don’t mind me mentioning this, Mr Small, is this harp easy to recognise?”

“You know what they look like,” Sly said. “Ever see a Marx brothers film?”

“No, what I’m saying is that when Rocky turns up at the Royal College with a harp that’s hot — a hot Horngacher — he’s likely to be in trouble, isn’t he?”

“It’s for home use, dickhead, for Rocky to enjoy in private. When he goes to college he can play one of theirs.”

“Right.”

It had to be faced. There was no persuading Sly Small that this was an ill-fated enterprise.

“It’ll be in a case,” Sly said. “But you handle it like it was a newborn baby, right? They’re easily damaged. The carving, the gold leaf gilding. Over two thousand parts go into a harp, Rocky told me. I don’t want a single one of them missing when you bring it here tomorrow night.”

The next morning found Bernie parked on a meter opposite the Albert Hall. He was wearing a brown coat over his t-shirt and jeans. In the rear of his Ford Transit were straps, ropes and foam rubber mats. The Horngacher would be well protected. And so would he, with a Smith and Wesson Combat Magnum under his arm. He didn’t plan to use the shooter. The sight ought to be enough.

He had got here early and found the only possible goods entrance. While he watched, a caterer’s van arrived with food supplies. A couple of men in brown coats came from inside the building and started unloading. Maybe the coats were a shade darker than Bernie’s, but he couldn’t see that anyone would make an issue of it. Half the battle was behaving as if you belonged.

The driver finished the delivery and drove away. Bernie switched on the radio. Classic FM would help get him in the mood. A bit of Chopin would do wonders for his nerves.

Just after mid-day, his heartbeat increased noticeably as a large brown furniture van came up the street. On the side was written Gentle and Good, Specialists in Musical Removals. At the same time, four Albert Hall porters in their brown coats appeared.

Bernie waited for the van to back up to the arched entrance and then got out and crossed the street and walked around the back to join the porters. They would assume he was a Gentle and Good man; and the Gentle and Good men would assume he was on the Albert Hall roster. That was the theory, anyway.

“What have you got for us?” one of the porters asked.

“Royal Phil,” Bernie said, trying to sound as if he’d been doing the job for years.