“I got no idea ’bout any of that,” Old Bloke retorted. “An’ I’m not about to develop one. Mind my own business is what I do. Long ’s I c’n hear the telly, I don’ stick my nose anywhere else, do I.”
THE NARROW WAY
HACKNEY
NORTH-EAST LONDON
Usually, Mark Phinney waited before heading home. It was a long haul to get there from Empress State Building, so the journey was best made once commuter traffic was no longer an issue. He generally spent the intervening two hours with paperwork or, occasionally, with his colleagues having a pint along Lillie Road, the nearest pub being not far from the police headquarters. His habit, then, was to arrive home round eight, bid goodbye to Robertson, and have dinner with Pete. Lilybet would have long since been given her tea, which was nearly always the same meal, fed to her by either Robertson or Pete: scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese mixed in, along with a bacon toastie. Once she’d eaten, she’d settle in for a nap, which she took in her wheelchair next to the kitchen table. This allowed Pete to make a meal for the two of them to share—often with Robertson joining them. Sometimes this worked well. Sometimes it did not.
On this evening, though, he didn’t wait for the traffic to subside. He also didn’t journey to Lower Clapton. Instead, he headed north to Hackney, bisecting London diagonally once he reached Holland Park Avenue. This route was like taking an economic tour of the town, as grubby terraces gave way to pristine mansions that gave way to neighbourhoods once considered disreputable but now deemed unaffordable. His objective was one of Paulie’s two pawnshops. They were kept open till nine o’clock, so he had plenty of time.
He didn’t want Paulie, however. He wanted Stuart, Paulie’s brother-in-law.
Mark looked at his watch as he pulled into a space in front of Paddy Power betting shop, across the way from Pembury Estate and a short diagonal walk from one of Paulie’s shops. He got out of the car and crossed over to The Narrow Way. Families were out and about in the pedestrian precinct. The open shops provided them with a mild diversion and the evening air was probably cooler than the insides of their houses.
The pawn shop’s two neon signs were ablaze, and the bells on the door jangled discordantly as he entered. It was hideously hot inside as there was no air-conditioning and no cross ventilation either. Mark was surprised the walls weren’t sweating.
“Moment,” Stuart called from the back. He sounded as if his mouth were crammed with something as it no doubt was. McDonald’s was just down the way.
“Take your time,” Mark called back to him. “？’S Paulie around?”
“Mark . . . ? Lemme . . .” Stuart came through the beaded curtain, wiping his hands on a paper napkin, which he then applied to his forehead. “He’s down below,” Stuart said, by which Mark knew he meant the other shop at the far end of the street. “Sh’ll I ring him, then?”
“No. I actually wanted you,” Mark told him. “I’ve already spoken to Paulie.” He took from his pocket the claim ticket for the pawnshop that he’d found in Pete’s bag. He slid this across the counter to Stuart. “Found this in Pete’s wallet,” he said.
Stuart said at once, “Oh, I say Mark. If Paulie wouldn’t—”
“Could be that I didn’t make myself clear enough when I asked him,” Mark said. “I’m trying to work out what Pete might have done with the money you gave her in exchange for whatever she pawned. What was it, by the way?”
“I can’t tell you that,” Stuart said, although he did look slightly uncomfortable, which was gratifying to Mark. “That’s between the client and the shop, that is. Why don’t you just ask her?”
“Obviously,” Mark said. “She’d prefer I didn’t know.”
“Well, then . . .”
“I don’t need to know the amount of money you gave her, Stuart,” Mark said. “I don’t even need to know the exact item she brought in.”
“Items,” Stuart said, glancing away from Mark as if in a search for eavesdroppers or listening devices.
Mark decided not to jump on that. He said, “I just need to know—for her sake and for Lilybet’s sake—the category of item she brought in.”
“I don’t quite . . . category?”
Mark looked round for something that would explain what he meant. Behind Stuart and arranged on a glass shelf in no particular pattern and with no particular method were six humidors. He pointed them out and said, “Items relating to cigars. And”—with a gaze into the glass case between them, where pocket watches and wristwatches were displayed—“timepieces.” He pointed to the wall and said, “Paintings or, if you’d like, art pieces.”