“Boyko?” Paulie came through the curtained doorway that led to the back of the shop. The unfortunate Stuart lurked sheepishly behind him.
Stuart said, “Hiya,” to Mark and “Sh’ll I bunk off now?” to Paulie.
Paulie said with an expressive rolling of the eyes, “Surely, yeah, Stu. It’s what you do best.”
“Sorry again,” Stuart said as he made tracks for the front door. He’d come on his bicycle, which he had left inside the shop only partially out of the way of customers. He swooped his helmet over his thinning hair, put clips on the legs of his trousers, and rolled out of the shop.
“I am,” Paulie said, “a bloody saint to put up with him.”
“What’s he done this time?”
“He breathes.” Paulie looked round the shop with a scowl. “He was meant to put the place in order. Do some dusting up. Hoover. Sweep. Instead he takes two hours for lunch and claims he’s been to the dentist about his ‘roots.’ The man talks crap, I swear. If he wasn’t Eileen’s baby brother, I would have put my booted foot into his bum crack long ago.”
“Ah well. You’re a softy, you are, Paulie. Always were.”
“Bloody too true, that.” Paulie set about closing up the shop, beginning with lowering the window blinds and removing jewellery from the cases in the windows. It always seemed sad to Mark, people pawning their wedding rings and engagement rings and bracelets and medals and whatnots. Paulie had told him long ago that most of these objects were never redeemed, but instead they were purchased by someone hoping to find a bargain. Paulie’s prices were always fair. He wasn’t greedy and never had been.
Mark watched him and made no move until Paulie had the jewellery stashed in the safe that stood behind the curtain to the back room. He followed that up with the money from the till. He came back out front and leaned against the glass counter. The odd piece of silver was displayed in this case: serving pieces, snuff boxes, card cases, powder jars.
“So,” Paulie said. “Another visit to Massage Dreams? I c’n ring ’em. Do you remember her name?”
Mark said, “Not here for that.”
“No? I wager you’re due. Am I right?”
Mark avoided answering by taking from his pocket the beige ticket he’d found inside Pete’s wallet. Its companion would be in this shop or in Phinney Pawn at the bottom of The Narrow Way. Paulie looked down at it then up at Mark. His expression was blank, neutral. Mark wanted to see wariness in his brother’s eyes but he saw nothing.
Mark said, “What did she pawn?”
Paulie said, “No.”
“No she didn’t pawn a thing, no you won’t tell me, or no this ticket isn’t one of yours?”
“You know the rules, Boyko. It’s confidential.”
“As a policeman—”
Paulie barked a laugh. “Don’t try that. First you need a warrant, which no one is going to give you. Second, what I said before and what you know because you worked at the other shop summers and so did I when we were in school.”
“In this case, that can’t matter. It’s important, Paulie. Pete hid it from me and it could mean something crucial.”
“Crucial to who, Boyko? Crucial to what?”
Mark couldn’t bring himself to tell him. He just needed to know what his wife had pawned. The date on the ticket was August 3. That might have been insignificant were it not the day after he’d found Teo unconscious in her bed.
When Mark didn’t speak, Paulie went on with, “You want to know details, Pete’s the person to give them.”
“What she pawned, though. It’s here? It’s in this shop? If I have a look round, will I see it, Paulie?”
“You asking me to play cold-warm-hot with you? That what’s going on? Boyko, it’s not going to happen.”
“For Christ’s sake, I’m your brother.”
“Not likely I’ll forget it.”
“So you’ve got to—”
“Boyko, I’ve got to nothing. She trusted me and I’m not breaking that trust and that’s where we are. Now. Want to go over to Mare Street for a pint? Or something stronger if that suits you? I’m paying the tab.”
Mark shook his head. A drink with his brother was the last thing he wanted from him. What he wanted was the truth but he knew he wasn’t going to get it.
9 AUGUST
NEW END SQUARE
HAMPSTEAD
NORTH LONDON
Winston Nkata arrived at the Bontempi home before seven in the morning. It had been years since he’d engaged in an all-nighter at work, and he was fairly done-in despite the three cups of coffee he’d had before leaving New Scotland Yard. These were in addition to the numerous coffees he’d had while gazing at the Streatham CCTV footage along with the two DCs that Lynley had borrowed from DI Hale. The result of their efforts consisted of nineteen images they’d captured of individuals who’d either aroused their curiosity or, on the day or the night of her attack, had needed to ring the buzzer in order to enter the building in which Teo Bontempi lived. The images weren’t great. They weren’t even particularly good. But they were the best he and the DCs could come up with until such time as the Met’s tech wizards were able to improve them. Before he left New Scotland Yard, he instructed the DCs to sleep for two hours and then get on to their next activity, tracking down the patients whose files Lynley and Barb Havers had taken from the clinic in Kingsland High Street.