Detective Inspector Bayles looked as avuncular as ever in my sitting room the next morning. But, having seen it before, I could now recognize the steeliness of purpose in his eyes.
‘And, Ellen, Gervaise Palmier is vegetarian – is that correct?’
‘Yes. Yes, he is.’
‘I can’t help noticing that you have a slight reaction each time I say “Gervaise Palmier”. Am I to understand that you are unfamiliar with that name?’
‘It’s not what I call him.’
‘Which is …?’
‘“Dodge”. It’s a nickname.’
‘Yes, I assumed it was. Not many “Dodges” you hear round the font these days. And, might I be reading too much into it … but did he get that nickname because some of the things he does are a bit … “dodgy”?’
‘No, certainly not. It’s just that … Do you really want me to explain?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ said the inspector implacably.
So, I went into an explanation of ‘Diogenes Syndrome’, also known as ‘senile squalor syndrome’, a condition of extreme self-neglect – and frequently hoarding – in the elderly. I explained it was named after the ancient Greek philosopher, Diogenes of Sinope, and it was in fact very unfair to him. He apparently lived in a large jar in Athens and was certainly not a hoarder. In fact, he was an extreme minimalist, and it was for that reason I had dubbed Gervaise with his name, later shortened to ‘Dodge’.
The further I got into this narrative, the more ridiculous it sounded. And the inspector’s expression showed that he shared that opinion.
‘So, Gervaise is a minimalist?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Very keen on recycling. Won’t let anything go to waste.’
‘Admirable,’ said Bayles drily. ‘And do his green principles extend to vegetarianism as well?’
‘Yes.’ Then I couldn’t stop myself from saying, ‘But you really don’t need to talk to Dodge. I know he was probably the last person to see Cedric Waites alive, but he can’t have had anything to do with his death.’
‘Possibly not, Ellen. But, as I told you when we last met, as a policeman, I start from very minimal knowledge. I have to work from the evidence I have. There’s no sign of Gervaise Palmier – or Dodge, if you prefer – at his home, and no one seems to know where he’s gone. But he knew that I wanted to talk to him. I left a message on his phone. In my experience, people who don’t want to answer straightforward enquiries from the police usually have something to hide.’
‘I don’t think Dodge has anything to hide. He just has complex mental health issues.’
‘“Complex mental health issues”?’ the inspector echoed. ‘Yes, we hear that quite often these days. But, in this case, the person in question also has a criminal record.’
Ah. Finally, I had confirmation of what I’d suspected for a long time. The breakdown Dodge had suffered in his late twenties had involved getting on the wrong side of the police. I thought the issue had probably been something to do with drugs. ‘Can I ask what he has a criminal record for?’
‘You can ask, but it’s up to me whether or not I give you an answer. And, in this instance, I prefer not to. But when we add to the fact that someone doesn’t want to talk to the police the additional fact that he has a criminal record … well, what started out as a minor suspicion becomes rather more substantial. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘I can see how it could look like that,’ I conceded. ‘But, from what I know of Dodge, he’s just very paranoid about any dealings with the police.’
‘So are most criminals,’ the inspector observed tartly. He smoothed his hands over his large belly. ‘So, you have no idea where … Dodge … is?’
‘No.’
‘Apparently, he drives a rather distinctive vehicle?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could you tell me what that is?’
I felt like a captured agent shopping a complete spy network, but I couldn’t pretend I didn’t know. ‘It’s a 1951 Morris Commercial CV9/40 Tipper van. Painted blue.’
‘You wouldn’t know the registration?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve never noticed.’
‘No worries. We’ll be able to track that down.’
And also, no doubt, be able to track Dodge down. I felt even worse, imagining his potential reaction to being cornered by the police. He was capable of getting himself into a whole lot more trouble.
‘I believe your son works with him?’ the inspector went on.
‘Yes. Ben, he’s called.’
‘Right. And I dare say, as his mother, you’d have a contact for him?’
I supplied Ben’s mobile number. Bayles thanked me and levered his large bulk out of the armchair.
‘Inspector …?’
‘Yes?’
‘When you asked whether Dodge was vegetarian …’
‘Mm?’
‘… was it because the poison that killed Cedric was something plant-based?’
He looked at me ironically before saying, ‘Ellen, contrary to the practice much featured in crime fiction of the more traditional type, we in the real police force tend not to share details of ongoing investigations with anyone who asks for them.’
I felt duly put in my place.
Petworth’s a pretty little Sussex town, with more than its fair share of antique stores, non-chain coffee places, Range Rover Discoveries and Hermès scarves. Sort of place it’d be no surprise to find an antiquarian bookshop.
Augustus Mintzen’s was in an old building just off the square. A low doorway, small shopfront with grey-painted wooden window frames, bulging slightly and asymmetric. Over the years I felt sure the shop had sold many things other than books.
I pushed the door open, activating an old-fashioned bell on a spring. That seemed almost too self-conscious a period detail, and it was of a piece with the shop interior. Books had been scattered with that artlessness which takes a lot of art to achieve. As a connoisseur of untidiness, I recognize calculated untidiness when I see it. There was something about the place that felt like a film set. This, it seemed to say, is what an antiquarian bookshop should look like.
The owner, when he appeared, maintained the theme. He looked like the sort of actor who would play an antiquarian bookseller in a movie.
But before he emerged, a woman hurried out from the stockroom or whatever lay at the back of the store. She was indeed wearing, tied over her hair, a Hermès scarf with a design of horse brasses. ‘He’ll be through in a minute,’ she said as she brushed past on her way out to the street.
I had a fleeting sensation that she looked familiar, but my attention was quickly monopolized by the appearance of Augustus Mintzen himself. As I said, Central Casting could not have done better. He was probably only in his fifties but dressed to look older in a greenish tweed three-piece suit. He had a soft cream-coloured cotton shirt and a deliberately askew red tie. White hair curled around the fringes of a bald spot and continued into a fluffy beard. He wore a pair of tortoiseshell half-glasses, clearly used more as a theatrical prop than for seeing. Everything about him, to me, screamed phony.
And yet I know there are a lot of people who take comfort from fitting into the stereotypes of their profession. It’s particularly noticeable in the medical world, where consultants take on the mannerisms of a previous generation, probably the generation who taught them. And patients respond to this illusion of the familiar. Everyone wants to be back in the world of Dr Finlay.
(It doesn’t happen with declutterers. Ours is a relatively new form of employment, born out of the stresses of modern life. There is no previous generation for us to mimic.)
‘Good morning. What can I do for you?’ asked Augustus Mintzen. His voice, as I’d noticed on the phone the day before, was professorial, eccentric, slightly fuddled. Another part of the act.
‘I’m Ellen Curtis.’ For a moment, he looked at me blankly. ‘We arranged for me to come to discuss Cedric Waites’s book collection.’
‘Ah yes. Yes, we did. Of course we did.’ He looked around the shop. ‘Did you bring the books with you?’
‘No.’
‘Oh? I thought you said you wanted me to give a valuation of them.’
‘Yes, but since they were all bought through you, I thought you’d have a record of the transactions. I have a list, anyway.’ I produced it from the back pocket of my jeans. ‘And I’ve put down what Cedric paid for them.’
He looked at the sheet of paper dubiously. ‘Of course, when valuing old books, their condition is often significant. A tear to a dust jacket can reduce the price by hundreds of pounds. So, without actually seeing the volumes in question …’
‘All the ones listed here were sold to Cedric Waites within the last eight years. Their condition can’t have deteriorated much in that time.’
‘You’d be surprised … I’m sorry. I didn’t take note of your name …?’
‘Ellen Curtis. Call me Ellen.’
‘Very well, Ellen. As I say, I’d have to see the books to give a realistic valuation. Things can deteriorate quite a lot in four years. And I gather that Cedric Waites lived in conditions of some squalor.’
I wondered idly how he knew that. ‘Maybe, but he took punctilious care of his book collection. The ones on the list were kept in a special glass-fronted bookcase and dusted regularly.’
‘Hm.’
‘Did you ever meet, Cedric, Mr Mintzen?’
‘No. He contacted me initially through my website and thereafter most of our correspondence was by email.’
Again, the implication that, at least at some point, the old man had had some kind of computer. I must try to root that out when I was next at 14 Seacrest Avenue.
‘Did you ever speak to him on the phone?’
‘A few times. Early on, I suggested delivering his books in person. He very much didn’t want that to happen. Everything had to come through the post.’
That confirmed Cedric’s status as a recluse.
‘And, Mr Mintzen, do you know what prompted Mr Waites’s interest in book collecting?’
‘He told me it was something he’d wanted to do all his life but could never have afforded. His wife’s death had given him the opportunity to follow his ambition.’
‘Does that imply that he came into some money when his wife died?’
‘I have no idea what it implies, Ellen. I was not cognizant of Mr Waites’s financial circumstances.’
Again, Augustus Mintzen seemed to be playing the part of an eccentric bookseller. Does anyone in real life actually use the expression ‘cognizant of’?
‘I’ve done a rough tot-up of the figures here,’ I volunteered, ‘and I reckon we’re talking thousands.’
Augustus Mintzen narrowed his lips in a sceptical intake of breath. ‘Selling prices and repurchase prices can differ considerably, Ellen. The dealer obviously has to make some profit for the transaction to be worthwhile. And then there are other factors which can affect valuation considerably.’
‘What “other factors”?’
‘Where shall I start? Fashion is a big one. Author’s reputations go up and down as fast as skirt lengths. Some minor writer languishes in post-mortem obscurity, then a feature film is made from one of his books and everyone in the world is suddenly desperate for a first edition.
‘It works the other way too, of course. Authors drop out of fashion like stones. Particularly comparatively recent authors. For the sales of some, death is literally the kiss of death. Permanent fixtures in the bestseller lists … a few years after they kick the bucket, with no new title on the shelf, suddenly they feel very old-fashioned. Out of print in no time. Early twentieth-century fiction, the bottom’s really fallen out of that market in the last few years.’
‘Really?’ This just sounded like salesman’s talk to me. Surely it was no coincidence that my list of Cedric’s books all fell into that category. He was softening me up for a very ungenerous valuation. And a hefty profit for himself.
I didn’t feel any loyalty to Augustus Mintzen. I’d already decided that, if I was charged with selling the books, I would do it through another dealer. So, I challenged him. ‘You’re just saying that, about early twentieth-century fiction.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t believe that the value of Cedric Waites’s collection has gone down noticeably in the last eight years.’
‘Don’t you?’ He gave the full over-the-half-glasses stare. ‘Then it’s just as well that I’m the bookseller and you’re not, isn’t it? Because I actually keep an ear to the ground when it comes to the shifting popularity of deceased authors – and you clearly know nothing about it.’
I’d got as far as I was going to get with Augustus Mintzen. I picked up my list off his overcrowded desk and said, ‘I must be on my way. Thank you very much for your help.’ I hope he got the full impact of the ambiguity I put into the final word.
‘My pleasure,’ he said, apparently impervious to irony. Then, just before I reached the door, he stopped me. ‘You’re a declutterer by profession, is that right?’
‘It is. Yes.’
‘So, you must come across a lot of books when you’re going through people’s stuff?’
‘I do.’
‘Well, if you ever come across anything interesting that you’re about to chuck out, give me a bell, eh?’
‘How do you define “interesting”, Mr Mintzen?’
‘Unusual? Old? Possibly a first edition?’
‘So, by “interesting”, you mean “valuable”?’
‘Yes, that’s precisely what I mean,’ he replied brazenly. ‘Pity for stuff like that to end up at a car boot sale.’ He seemed to read dissent in my expression. ‘I’d give you a good price for them.’
Of course, that wasn’t the reason for my potential argument. I was tempted to lash out with my response but curbed the instinct. I’d a feeling I might need to consult Augustus Mintzen again during my investigation. No point in parting on bad terms.
‘Well, anyway,’ he said, picking up a catalogue from the desk and handing it to me. ‘Take this. You’ll see my prices are very fair. Compare well with other dealers, both here and internationally.’
I took the catalogue, said a polite goodbye and left the shop.
And I wouldn’t change my policy of giving excess books, which had to be got rid of, to Oxfam. If someone was going to make a profit from the rare valuable item, I’d rather it went to a good cause.
Certainly not to Augustus Mintzen. He hadn’t taken long to join Michelle Waites on my list of people I wasn’t prepared to think the best of.
When I got back to Chichester, I tried ringing Jools again. Still she didn’t pick up. No surprise. She very often didn’t pick up. And she was very dilatory in responding to voicemails. That’s just how my daughter was. Mildly bolshie.
But Fleur’s niggling had got me worried. I did something I rarely do and sent Jools a text.
I hadn’t got any other appointments that day, so I did some work on my accounts. They tend to get done rather as and when. Maybe if I had a VAT number, I’d have to be more organized doing the quarterly returns, but I don’t make enough money to be registered.
And yes, I do have an accountant, but I still have to get my invoices and expenses in order for her. Sometimes I think it’d be quicker and cheaper for me to do my actual accounts, but I’m not great at maths and would rather have the responsibility shared. SpaceWoman paperwork is the part of the job I don’t enjoy, but I know it has to be done.
I was shuffling through, looking for an invoice that seemed to have disappeared, when my mobile rang. With excitement and a level of trepidation, I recognized the number as Tim Goodrich’s.
He told me that he’d be getting the Deed of Probate for Cedric Waites’s estate some time the following week. ‘I’ve fixed an appointment with the solicitor for the Friday, tomorrow week. For me, Roy and Michelle.’
‘The Reading of the Will?’ I asked.
‘I suppose that’s what it will come to, yes.’
‘Soon to be followed by the revelation of the document’s contents to “other people”?’
He saw where I was going with this. ‘“Other people” being you again?’
‘You read my mind, Mr Goodrich.’
‘Hm.’
‘Once the Deed of Probate is granted, the will becomes a public document. I could access it online.’
‘True.’
‘Though it would be simpler if the executor just told me the details.’
‘Persistent, aren’t you, Mrs Curtis?’
‘Other authorities have observed that, yes, Mr Goodrich.’
‘Very well,’ he conceded with a cheerful sigh. ‘As soon as I have the Grant of Probate, once I’ve told Roy and Michelle, you will be the next person to know.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Anyway, the point is that I’ll be staying over in Chichester for the weekend. The funeral’s going to be on the Monday after.’
‘Ah. They said they’d let me know about that.’
‘To be fair to them, I think they’ve only just got the date fixed. And there’s still some question mark over it.’
‘Why?’
‘Maybe some problem about the police releasing the body …?’
‘Ah.’
‘Anyway, since I’m going to be in Chi …’ He used the abbreviation like the local he once was ‘… I wondered whether you might be available for dinner … say, the Saturday …?’
I said I might.
I could no longer deny it. The prospect of seeing Tim Goodrich again was very attractive. He was very attractive. To me.
It was strange. Since Oliver’s death … well, to be fair to the tact of my friends, since a couple of years after Oliver’s death … I’ve had a lot of enquiries on the lines of ‘Are you back in the dating game again?’, ‘Seeing anyone special?’, ‘I’ve found the perfect man for you – would you like me to set up a meeting?’ And I’ve taken them at the level of banter. Yes, ho-ho, very funny, but in no way applicable to me.
I suppose I thought, sex, relationships … well, I’ve done all that. My involvement with Oliver was so all-encompassing that I had no expectations of another man in my life. Ever. And that was a future to which I was fully reconciled.
Sex was something I’d done in the past, like the netball I used to play at school. I’d enjoyed it at the time but never considered the possibility that it might be part of my life again. I certainly wasn’t on the lookout for a local netball team to join. At my age? Though I was quite a useful Wing Attack in my day.
But Tim Goodrich … Yes, I fancied him. I was excited about the idea of having dinner with him the following Saturday.
It was a strange, unfamiliar feeling. But not an unpleasant one.