Rainstone Fall (18 page)

‘Oh yeah? No wonder you have to resort to robbing people if you think that’s a nice painting. It’s a horrible mess, my wife had no talent for art whatsoever. I’m keeping it for my daughter’s sake who is similarly afflicted, though I always make sure I’m sitting with my back to it. Right, move around to the window, but slowly, and keep your hands up. You scum, you thought I was just a doddery old codger. You thought you could turn the place over and probably just clout me one if I woke up . . .’

‘No, of course not,’ I protested.

‘I thought you were a nice young man yesterday. Really did. Nicely spoken, too. And to think I even let you in the house. You make one false move and I’ll happily shoot you.’

‘You can’t mean that,’ I suggested, lowering my hands.

He tightened his grip on the weapon. ‘Oh yeah? You just try it.’

‘Make an awful mess,’ I suggested.

‘
I look forward to it
,’ he said and looked like he meant it.

‘The last guy who shot a burglar with a shotgun, you know, that farmer, he spent years in prison.’

‘Ah, but he shot him from behind, I’ll shoot you from the front,’ he said conversationally. ‘Actually he’s out now. And anyway, didn’t they change the law on defending your property? I think we’re allowed to shoot you now.’

My arms were already tired from manoeuvring the heavily framed daub about and keeping them in the air was surprisingly hard work. How to get out of this one? As usual, I’d have to talk myself out of it. The really disconcerting thing was that he seemed so much more awake than me, but then I’d heard it said that old people needed less sleep. I felt suddenly exhausted and thought I could easily nod off with my hands in the air.

He moved behind the desk and sat in the chair, then propelled himself forward with his slippered feet until he could rest the gun barrels on the desk and keep the weapon trained on me with one hand. Then he reached for the phone.

‘No, please, don’t call the police.’ Of all the things that might happen, getting arrested had never figured in any scenarios I had imagined. Unmoved, he dialled 999.

Last chance now. ‘I am being blackmailed into breaking into your house, it’s not what I normally do, there’s a boy’s life at stake, in fact I’m a private eye and a client’s son has been kidnapped and breaking in here and stealing the Penny Black is part of the ransom, you have to believe me.’ I rattled it all off quickly before he’d get through to the police.

He paused and gave me a contemptuous look. ‘That’s the most pathetic cock and bull story I have heard for a long time.’

‘Honestly. I wish there was a less fantastical explanation but that’s the situation I’m in.’

He shook his head and waggled the receiver at me. ‘Did you cut the phone line?’

‘No, didn’t think of that. Should’ve, I suppose. Why, is it not working?’

‘No, must be the weather. It happens. Joys of country living.’ He replaced the receiver and gripped the gun with both hands again. ‘So you’re trying to tell me someone went to the trouble of kidnapping a boy – which carries a mandatory life sentence if I’m not mistaken – to make you steal my Penny Black?’ He shook his head. ‘That’s a very unlikely story, Mr Burglar.’

‘Why? Drugs, money, art, diamonds, rare stamps, it’s all currency in criminal circles.’

He nodded. ‘True. Do you have any idea how much money we are talking about here?’

‘Not really.’

‘About two-fifty.’

‘Quarter of a million?’ I whistled.

‘No, you saphead. Pounds. Two hundred and fifty pounds will buy you a fair example.’

‘There must be some mistake. It must be worth more than that. I thought it being the first ever stamp and . . .’ I faltered, faced with the pitiful look he gave me.

‘Do you know how many of them were issued?’ he asked, frowning disapprovingly at my ignorance. ‘More than sixty million of them. Even an unused one in mint condition wouldn’t exactly break the bank.’

‘So they got it completely wrong . . .’ A thin silver lining stole into my mind, looking for a cloud.

‘It’s a common misconception,’ he explained happily. ‘Now if we were talking about, let’s say, the Blue Mauritius, then a million dollars would be a good starting price, and the Treskilling Yellow sold for over a couple of million a while back.’

‘But you don’t have any of those . . .?’

‘No, never had, either. I offloaded most of my collection long ago, and just in time too. Others got badly burnt when the bottom fell out of the stamp market in the eighties but I saw it coming. And it’s about to happen again, I might add.’ He lifted his nose as though he could sniff the imminent collapse of the stamp market in this very room. ‘I kept the Penny Blacks though. Out of sentimentality, mainly. I remember being very excited when I was able to add a copy to my collection when I was a young man. I don’t remember what I paid for it but it seemed a fair bit of money to me then. And then there’s the historical connection of course. They were issued in Bath after all.’

‘Yes, I know about that part. Did you say Penny
Blacks
? Plural?’

‘Yes, I have three examples. One is right here, see?’ He turned the picture frame on the desk around and proffered it up for my inspection. Without thinking I walked up to the desk and took it – and noticed in passing that I didn’t get shot. What earlier I had taken to be a small black and white photograph was in fact the famous stamp. It had the head of a young Queen Victoria on it and bore the legend
Postage, One Penny
. In the bottom left-hand corner was a Q and in the bottom right a G.

‘What do those letters mean?’ I enquired.

‘Oh, they give the exact position of the stamp on the sheet. They were printed in sheets of two hundred and forty, you see, twenty rows of twelve, so this example came from the seventeenth row, Q, and the seventh position, G.’

I handed him the frame and he set it back in its place on his desk. There were no other pictures, no photographs of his wife, for example, I noted. Perhaps he had fonder memories of the stamp than of the dearly departed dauber. ‘So the man who forced me to break in here to steal that stamp is labouring under a serious misconception, i.e. that the thing is worth a fortune.’

‘So it appears. Are you being serious about this kidnapped boy story then? Surely you could have simply gone to the police. Should have, I should add.’

‘It’s the mother’s decision.
No police
. Who am I to make that decision for her? I feel guilty enough as it is. The kidnappers told her to get in touch with me so they could use her son to make me do their bidding. This isn’t the first burglary they forced me into, but the last one went wrong. Then they came up with this scheme and here I am looking down the barrels of . . . a rather fine shotgun, I can’t help noticing.’

‘Yes, it is rather fine, and it does you credit to have noticed it. You’re a better judge of guns than paintings perhaps. It’s a James Purdey, engraved by Stephen Kelly, one of a pair. Probably the most expensive items in the house, that’s what you should have gone for,’ he said, giving me a schoolmasterly look over the top of his gold spectacles.

‘Look, I’m really not a habitual house-breaker. I’m a private investigator, as well as a painter . . .’ I started rummaging in my jacket pockets for a business card while Connabear tightened his bony grip on the polished walnut stock of the gun. When at last I managed to fish one out it was damp and dog-eared and looked like I’d found it in the street somewhere.

He took the proffered card reluctantly but the expression on his face brightened as he looked at it. ‘Honeysett. You’re the chap who found that woman who was imprisoned in the old railway station, that made national news, Nikki Somebody or other. I remember seeing your picture.’

‘Nikki Reid.’

‘That’s her. Worked for an estate agency. So . . . this story you told me is really true? About the boy?’

‘I’m afraid it is. I messed up the first burglary they asked me to do, well, the burglary went all right but then I got mugged on the way home . . .’

‘Nowhere is safe . . .’

‘So it seems. And . . . so they changed their demands. They gave me your name and address and told me to steal that stamp and now I messed up this burglary too.’

‘I’d say so. You’ve no idea who the kidnappers are?’

‘None. I don’t even know if it’s one or many. I get phone calls from mobiles, a scratchy voice making demands. I feel just a little under pressure to get this right and I’m constantly getting it wrong. If you don’t mind me asking, who would know that you own copies of the Penny Black?’

He chuckled. ‘Many, many people. I was quite an active collector and even people I dealt with in the course of my business had often heard that I collected stamps.’

‘What was your business, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Not at all. Bunting.’

‘Bunting? Is there money in bunting?’

‘Certainly. Decorative bunting, corporate bunting, national bunting, international bunting, point of sale . . . And not just bunting, we did banners and flags and flagpoles. Static flagpoles, portable flagpoles, indoor flagpoles, outdoor flagpoles. But after my wife died I sold the business to a big digital printing firm and retired. I’d only kept the business that long for something to get me out of the house. If you get my meaning.’

I said I probably did. ‘It was common knowledge then that you owned a Penny Black.’

‘Yes, and you’d be surprised how many people thought it was worth a fortune.’

‘So, since I failed to steal yours to deliver to the kidnappers . . . for a couple of hundred I could just go and buy one somewhere? In a stamp shop?’

‘Well, it might not be
that
easy. It might take a while to get hold of a copy, especially a decent one, but then I don’t suppose you’d care whether it was a fair one or not.’

‘Certainly not. I think the kidnapper has proved that he knows even less than I do about stamps. But I would need it quickly. You did mention earlier that you owned more than one copy?’

‘I did. Oh, I see . . .’

‘Yes. I’m wondering if you would sell me one of them.’

He looked at me for a moment as though the request I had just made was the most insulting thing he’d ever heard, then he suddenly widened his eyes, shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t see why not. How do you propose to pay for it?’

‘Would you accept a cheque?’

For some reason he seemed to find this quite amusing. At last he cracked open the gun. He had only loaded one cartridge, which I decided to interpret as a sign of supreme confidence. He stood it on the blotter and leant the gun carefully against the wall before opening a desk drawer and producing a leather-bound book. From its protective pages he pulled a small clear plastic wallet that contained one of the little unprepossessing stamps. He slid it across. This one didn’t look quite rectangular.

‘It looks wonky,’ I complained.

He snorted contemptuously. ‘You’re not really in a position to be picky about these things. Yes, it’s wonky, as you say. They weren’t perforated then, so the postmaster would cut the stamp out of the sheet for you and wouldn’t always be very accurate about it. It affects the value now, of course, but then nobody much cared, I should think. A carelessly cut Penny Black is the cheapest, and that’s what you’re getting.’

I dug out my crumpled cheque book from where it had disappeared into the lining of my jacket, straightened it out and asked to borrow a pen. He shook his head, sighed, opened the drawer again and selected a gold ballpoint pen for me. It looked expensive and felt satisfyingly heavy in my hand. It was about to feel even heavier.

I made the cheque out to Rufus Connabear. ‘How much do I owe you?’ I asked far too lightly.

‘Now, let’s see. The stamp’s not worth all that much, let’s say six hundred? No, make it seven hundred.’

‘But I thought you said an indifferent copy might be had for a couple of hundred?’ I protested.

‘That depends where you buy it,’ he said pointedly. ‘And not if you’re in a hurry. And you’re in a hurry, Mr Honeysett, wouldn’t you agree?’

I admitted it. He slowly and deliberately rubbed his stubbly chin. ‘Okay, then there’s the break-in. How did you get in here?’

‘Through the kitchen. I broke a couple of little panes in the half-glazed door,’ I admitted.

‘Well, they’ll have to be replaced, I’ll have to call someone out and you know what they’re like when they have to come all the way out to the sticks. Another hundred at least. And then there’s the question of disturbing my sleep. Have you
any
idea how difficult sleep is to come by when you get to my age? A good night’s sleep ought to be worth at least a couple of hundred. I tell you what, let’s make it a nice round figure, a thousand pounds. Yes, I think I could live with that.’

I took a deep breath, opened my mouth, then thought better of it and made out the cheque. When I handed it over he first read it attentively, then dropped it carelessly into the drawer as though it was just any old bit of paper. ‘If it bounces, you’ll get another chance to admire the James Purdy. Now . . .’ He checked the paper-thin gold watch on his wrist. ‘You’ve got what you came for, I’ve got what you owe me and it’s now half past four in the morning. I wish you and the poor boy all the luck in the world but I also wish you’d go home now, Mr Honeysett.’

Which I did. With the Penny Black hidden deep in the lining of my jacket I trudged through the night back to the Norton. The rain had lessened but it was still so black out there that having nothing but a tiny LED light to fight off the darkness seemed a little foolhardy. The cloud might not have been but my mood was definitely lifting. I had achieved what I set out to do, even if the manner in which I’d done it was quite unexpected. Connabear was a very cool customer. As he let me out of the house – through the front like a normal person – he’d asked me to let him know about the outcome and I’d promised to do so, even though I had the irksome feeling that, whatever the outcome, he’d probably see it on the front page of his daily paper first.

The Norton was not a happy bike when I got to it. I really should have found better cover for it. I had to pump the kick-starter at least twenty times before the engine decided to catch and it backfired every couple of minutes all the way home.