1

Steaming coffee in hand, Nick could hear the distant ring of the gallery telephone as he strolled around the corner onto New Kings Road. ‘Bloody hell,’ he swore under his breath, ‘who would phone this early?’

It could be Frank Constantino. It was afternoon in Sydney, and probably hot and steamy, not like the freezing November here in London.

He smiled back at a teenage girl walking toward him who, by the slightly glazed look in her eye, had mistaken him for the actor David Tennant, currently starring as Dr Who. Nick had to admit there was a passing resemblance. Ever since the resurgence in popularity of the program, he’d had a few such encounters, mostly awkward. He picked up his pace and fumbled for the shop keys.

Holding the edge of the cardboard cup between his teeth, Nick jiggled the keys into the gallery’s door, entered and closed the door behind him, leaving the excited fifteen-year-old ‘fan’ staring at the entrance. The phone was still ringing.

CARTOGRAPHIC WONDERS
EXHIBITION AND SALE
NOV 14 – DEC 12

Great poster, thought Nick. It had been Bronte’s idea to use the Munster map on the poster and invitations. It had worked well. People loved sea monsters in old maps.

A high-pitched whistle welcomed Nick as he stepped through the security beam into the shop proper. He quickly punched the code in, sprinted past the easels and flicked the phone to his ear.

‘Morning, Lawrance Gallery.’

‘Nick Lawrance?’ It was a voice Nick did not recognise.

‘Yes, speaking,’ he said cautiously.

‘Inspector Jaeger, Scotland Yard.’

‘Yes …’ Scotland Yard? Jesus, had someone he knew died?

‘Have you got a few minutes, Mr Lawrance? We’re rather in need of your expert help.’

‘What type of help, Inspector?’ said Nick, trying to place the accent. Dutch? South African?

‘It’s in regard to maps, Mr Lawrance. I was led to believe that’s your speciality. Is that right?’

‘Yes, Inspector, it is.’ It no longer surprised Nick to be called a ‘specialist’. For over twenty years he had been buying and selling antique maps, first from a stall in the Portobello Market, then from a dingy first-floor shop in Hammersmith. The business had moved to its present location in Fulham ten years ago.

‘Will you be available in twenty minutes? I’ll come to you.’ ‘Yes, twenty minutes will be fine,’ said Nick, hiding his irritation. Fan-bloody-tastic! You come in an hour early to catch up, clear your head and then this. What was it his grandmother said? ‘So you want to make God laugh? Make some plans.’ Something like that.

Nick put the phone down. His eyes roamed the gallery, checking each spotlight and making a mental note to replace the blown ones. There was something about the early morning light, the quiet and the maps that intrigued him, even after all this time. The golden age of Dutch map making covered the display walls. They were all represented here: Ortelius, Mercator, Blaeu, Hondius, Jansson. All the greats. Ever since he could remember, Nick had had a fascination with maps and charts. He could clearly remember long afternoons lying on the carpet at his grandmother’s cottage, poring over Boys Own Adventure annuals: Shipwrecks, Cannibals, Lost Cities and, most importantly, Treasure Maps.

It hadn’t been a difficult decision to buy his first map as a fourteen-year-old, even though it used up all the savings from his paper round. Two pounds – a princely sum as far as Nick was concerned. It was a small Joseph Moxon county map of Oxfordshire, depicting Grandma Lawrance’s village of Witney – church spire and all.

So buying it had been easy, almost natural. The difficult decision had been to sell it a few minutes later, albeit for a nice profit. Nick had just paid Mr Berelowitz, handing the money to the old man over piles of ancient dusty books and manuscripts, when a stocky red-necked bull-faced man who had also been fossicking throughout the shop, called him over.

‘Let’s have a look at it, son,’ the stranger urged. ‘I’m interested in maps of Oxford.’

Nick reluctantly pulled the map from its brown paper bag and handed it over while glancing at Mr Berelowitz for reassurance. ‘Don’t worry, son, I’ve known Winston for years,’ said the old antiquarian.

The red-faced man held the map in both hands, using his thumbs and first fingers. His eyes roamed the paper, squinting at the inscriptions. He turned the map over and inspected the back, then turned it over again. ‘I’ll give you four quid for it, son,’ he said matter-of-factly.

This was double what Nick had paid for it.

‘Winston, leave the boy alone,’ chuckled Mr Berelowitz. ‘It’s his first map, after all. We all remember our first, eh?’

‘He’s got to learn sometime, Saul.’ The man turned to Nick. ‘Well, son, it’s up to you. Is it a deal?’

Nick hesitated. Winston was looking him straight in the eye, not saying a further word, a bargaining technique Nick was going to see a lot of in the future, and learn from. But right then … the pressure!

‘Uh, I’m not sure.’ He stuttered.

Winston continued to stare.

‘I … I suppose so,’ Nick managed at last.

‘Good boy!’ The man reached inside his tweed jacket and pulled out a roll of money. ‘Here,’ he said, handing Nick four worn pound notes. Then he turned to Berelowitz. ‘Well Saul, now he’s made his first deal. Anyhow, I should be going. I’m off to Sotheby’s on Friday. You want me to bid on anything for you?’

‘No thanks, Winston. I can‘t afford their prices, especially with your commission added on!’

The two friends shared a laugh and the red-faced man turned to leave; then as an after-thought, he turned back to Nick. ‘Hey, son, you have a pretty good eye for a kid. Come and see me if you ever find anything else interesting. Saul will tell you where to find me.’