Peter James - Dead Man’s Footsteps

Two small, frightened, eyes peered at him. ‘I’m ill,’ she said, in a weak voice. ‘I’m incontinent. I’m sorry.’

Sudden panic gripped him. ‘Does that mean you’re going to do the other thing too?’

She hesitated, then nodded apologetically.

‘Oh, that’s great,’ he said. ‘That’s just great.’

As Glenn Branson was walking back to his desk after the 6.30 p.m. briefing on Operation Dingo, his mobile phone rang. The caller ID showed an unfamiliar Brighton number.

‘DS Branson,’ he answered. Then immediately recognized the rather smart voice at the other end.

‘Oh, Detective Sergeant, apologies for calling you a bit late.’

‘No problem at all, Mr Hegarty. What can I do for you?’ Glenn continued walking.

‘Is this a good moment?’

‘Absolutely fine.’

‘Well, the damnedest thing just happened,’ Hugo Hegarty said. ‘You remember when you and your very charming colleague came back this afternoon, I gave you a list? A list and description of all the stamps I purchased for Lorraine Wilson back in 2002?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well – look – this could just be one of those strange coincidences, but I’ve been in this game for too long and I really don’t think it is.’

Glenn reached the doorway of Major Incident Room One, and stepped inside. ‘Uh huh.’

‘I’ve just had a phone call from a woman – sounded like a young woman, and rather nervous. She asked me if I would be able to sell a collection of high-value stamps that she has. I asked her to give me the details and what she described is exactly – and I mean exactly – what I purchased for Lorraine Wilson. Less just a few, which may have been sold off along the way.’

Still holding the phone to his ear, Branson went over to his work station and sat down, absorbing the significance of this. ‘Are you really sure it’s not just coincidence, sir?’ he asked.

‘Well, they are mostly rare plates of mint stamps, desirable for all collections, plus some individual stamps. I doubt I would be able to remember from five years ago whether the postage marks on these are the same. But to give you a bit of a steer, there are two Plate 77 Penny Reds – I believe the last sale price fetched one hundred and sixty thousand pounds. There were several Plate 10 and Plate 11 Penny Blacks – they’re worth between twelve and thirteen thousand pounds each – very easily tradable. Then quite a substantial quantity of Tuppenny Blues, plus a whole raft of other rarer stamps. It might be coincidence if she had just one or two of these, but the same items, the same quantities?’

‘It does sound a little strange, sir, yes.’

‘To be honest,’ Hegarty said, ‘if I hadn’t gone through the files today to compile the list for you, I doubt I would have remembered it was such an exact match.’

‘Sounds like that might have been a stroke of good fortune. I appreciate your telling us. Did you ask her where she obtained them?’

Hegarty dropped his voice, as if nervous of being overheard. ‘She said she’d inherited them from an aunt in Australia and that someone she’d met at a party in Melbourne told her I was one of the dealers she should talk to.’

‘You, rather than anyone in Australia, sir?’

‘She said she was told that she would get a better price in the UK or in the States. As she was moving back here to look after her elderly mother, she thought she would try me first. She’s coming over tomorrow morning at 10 o’clock to show me them. I thought I would ask her a few discreet questions then.’

Branson looked at his notes. ‘Do you have an interest in buying them?’

He could almost feel the twinkle in Hegarty’s eyes as the man replied.

‘Well, she said she was in a hurry to sell – and that’s usually the best time to buy. Not many dealers would have the kind of ready cash needed to buy this lot in one go – it would be more usual to break it up into auction lots. But I’d want to ensure they were all certificated. I’d hate to part with all that money and get a knock on my front door from you boys a few hours later. That’s why I rang you.’

Of course. This isn’t about Hugo Hegarty being a dutiful citizen. It’s about him protecting his own backside, Glenn Branson thought. Still, such was human nature, so he could hardly blame the man.

‘Roughly what value would you put on these, sir?’

‘As a buyer or a seller?’ Now he was sounding even more wily.

‘As both.’

‘Well, total catalogue value at today’s prices, we’re looking around four – four and a half million. So, as a seller, that’s what I would be aiming to achieve.’

‘Pounds?’

‘Oh yes, pounds.’

Branson was astonished. The original three and a quarter million pounds Lorraine Wilson had come into had gone up by around thirty per cent – and that was after a substantial number of them, probably, had been sold off.

‘And as a buyer, sir?’

Suddenly Hegarty sounded reticent. ‘The price I’d be willing to pay would depend on their provenance. I’d need more information.’

Branson’s brain was whirring. ‘She’s coming to you at 10 tomorrow morning? That’s definite?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Katherine Jennings.’

‘Did she give you an address or phone number?’

‘No, she didn’t.’

The DS wrote the name down, thanked him and hung up. Then he pulled his keyboard closer, tapped the keys to call up the serials log and entered the name Katherine Jennings.

Within a few seconds a match came up.

Roy Grace sat in the back of the unmarked grey Ford Crown Victoria. As they headed into the Lincoln Tunnel he wondered whether, if you were a seasoned enough traveller, you could identify any city in the world just from the sound of the traffic.

In London the constant petrol roar and diesel rattle of engines and the whine-swoosh of the new generation of Volvo buses dominated. New York was completely different, mostly the steady tramp-tramp-tramp of tyres on the ribbed or cracked and lumpy road surfaces, and the honking of horns.

A massive truck behind them was honking now.

Detective Investigator Dennis Baker, who was driving, raised a hand up to the interior mirror and flipped him the bird. ‘Go fuck yourself, asshole!’

Grace grinned. Dennis hadn’t changed.

‘I mean, for Chrissake, asshole, what you want me to do? Drive over the top of the dickhead in front or what? Jesus!’

Long used to his work buddy’s driving, Detective Investigator Pat Lynch, seated alongside him in the front passenger seat, turned without comment to face Roy. ‘It’s good to see you again, man. Long time. Wayyyyy too long!’

Roy felt that too. He’d liked these guys from the moment they first met. Back in November 2000 he had been sent to New York to question a gay American banker whose partner had been found strangled in a flat in Kemp Town. The banker was never charged, but died from a drugs overdose a couple of years later. Roy had worked with Dennis and Pat for some while on that case and they’d stayed in touch.

Pat wore jeans and a denim jacket over a beige shirt, with a white T-shirt beneath that. With his pockmarked face and lanky, boyish haircut, he had the rugged looks of a movie tough guy, but he had a surprisingly gentle and caring nature. He had started life as a stevedore in the docks and his tall, powerful physique had stood him in good stead for that work.

Dennis wore a heavy black anorak, embossed with the legend Cold Case Homicide Squad and the NYPD shield, over a blue shirt, and also had on jeans. Shorter than Pat, wirier and sharp-eyed, he was heavily into martial arts. Years ago he had achieved tenth dan in shotokan karate, the highest level, and was something of a legend in the NYPD for his street-fighting skills.