Victoria Squire and her husband lived in a modest post-war house in a road of similar dwellings in Henleaze, north of the city centre. Cross and Ottey parked in the road outside the house. They had driven there in silence, which wasn’t unusual for them, although Carson’s announcement may have had something to do with the current dearth of conversation. It was difficult to know. They rang the doorbell. The blurred shape of Victoria appeared behind the glass of the door. The house had the feeling of somewhere well lived, somewhere a family had been raised. The skirtings and walls still bore the scars of careless children’s heels and prohibited games of indoor football. Cross reflected how different it was to the Georgian grandeur and interior proportions of Torquil’s place in Berkeley Square. They did have one thing in common though. The house was filled with books. Wherever you looked, in bookshelves and piled up on the floor, against any available wall space. The general state of the house and furniture gave the impression that there wasn’t necessarily a lot of money to be made in the second-hand book trade.
Charlotte and Sebastian, the Squire children, had driven down the night before. They seemed very protective of their grandfather, with Charlotte sitting on the arm of his chair. Less so with their mother, perhaps because she seemed to be coping with the situation by bossing everyone around and organising them. The two police officers declined her offer of refreshment and sat on chairs opposite the family, who had instinctively gathered themselves together. Persephone hadn’t stayed the night. Victoria had provided her with a sleeping pill before she went back to her flat.
Ottey began the interview. She looked at Torquil, who seemed to have shrunk into himself a little since the night before.
‘Mr Squire, can you tell us exactly what happened when you got home last night?’ she began.
‘The first thing I noticed was that the door wasn’t locked. I thought for a moment Percy had forgotten to double lock it. She’s always doing that. I’ve had a word with her. But she’s young,’ Torquil began. ‘When I opened the door, I saw that a number of books had been knocked off the shelf by the front door.’
‘Why didn’t you pick them up?’ asked Cross.
‘Because I knew something was wrong. If Percy, Ed or Sam had knocked them over, they would’ve put them back. I called out, but there was no answer. I looked in on the ground floor room but no one was in there. That’s when I noticed the smell.’ Torquil faltered at this.
‘What smell?’ asked Ottey.
‘When you’ve lived in the same place for decades and worked there, you know everything so well. Intimately. It’s like a part of you,’ the old man ruminated. ‘The smell, it’s so familiar. But you’re never really aware of it until you’ve gone out and returned. Then you can sense it. As with all bookshops of its ilk, Squire’s smells of learning, scholarship, creativity. But last night there was an unfamiliar smell. Metallic, like the inside of a metal container.’
This was, of course, the smell of blood, but neither Ottey nor Cross mentioned it.
‘I went upstairs and found him. My boy. All that blood on the carpet. I knew he was dead before I touched him. He had these beautiful blue eyes, piercing, inquisitive, and they were quite dull.’
Victoria and Charlotte both sobbed as this image flashed before them.
‘I checked for a pulse.’ Torquil stopped, not needing to go on.
‘Was the body cold or cool?’ asked Cross.
‘What? I don’t know,’ Torquil snapped for the first time, at Cross’s indelicacy. ‘Not normal. He was dead, for God’s sake!’
‘Has anything out of the usual happened in the last few months?’ asked Ottey. The question seemed to be aimed at the room as a whole.
‘In what sense?’ asked Victoria.
‘In Ed’s personal life, or to do with the business? Any arguments or disputes with anyone?’ Ottey expanded.
‘No, not really. I mean, certainly not in our life. Not on the verge of divorce or anything like that. We’re pretty boring, to be honest,’ replied Victoria.
‘Business is fine, isn’t it, Pa?’ Charlotte asked.
‘As far as I know, yes,’ he replied, then turned to Ottey. ‘I’m a little more hands-off these days. I mostly write the catalogues for our collections…’
‘He has quite the reputation in the books world for his catalogues,’ said Charlotte. ‘Some of the early ones are collector’s items now, aren’t they, Pa?’
‘For the misguided few,’ Torquil chuckled. ‘I also sort out libraries we’ve acquired.’
‘What are those exactly?’ asked Cross.
‘We often get families who want to sell their late parents’, or maybe more distant relatives’, libraries,’ explained Victoria.
‘And what happens then? What is the process involved in acquiring them?’ asked Cross.
‘Well, if it’s an attractive proposition, Ed would go and examine them,’ Torquil said.
‘Just in the local area?’ asked Cross.
‘Good heavens, no. All over the country and even in the States on occasion,’ Torquil replied with some pride.
‘Did Ed always make these trips on his own?’ asked Cross.
‘If it was a large collection, he might take Sam with him, or Percy. He was trying to teach her the ropes until he realised her interest seemed to be solely in selling new books. Examining a library can be quite time consuming. Particularly if it’s a sizeable one.’
‘Had you come into possession of any significant libraries recently?’ Cross went on.
‘One or two.’ Ottey noticed the bookseller’s brow furrow a little. As if he was wondering where this line of questioning was going.
‘Any issues?’ Cross pushed.
‘I’m not sure I know what you mean,’ came the confused answer.
‘Were the sellers all happy with Ed’s valuations?’
Torquil paused slightly before answering. ‘Yes, as far as I know.’
‘But you’re not certain. Which is understandable. As you say, you are much more hands-off these days,’ Cross pointed out.
‘Yes, but I still know what’s going on. It’s my name above the door,’ he replied with noticeable irritation.
‘Speaking of names, Torquil is fantastic,’ added Ottey, trying to ease the situation slightly.
‘Thank you. It seems to be one people remember.’
‘Any financial problems?’ Cross persisted, oblivious of Ottey’s intention.
‘With the business?’ asked Victoria.
‘Either with the business or you personally,’ Cross replied.
‘A few years ago, we had to remortgage the house to help with cash flow. It was after the pandemic. Lots of businesses obviously had problems then,’ she said defensively.
‘Which house?’
‘This one.’
‘Why not Berkeley Square?’ asked Cross.
‘It just seemed easier this way with Torquil’s age,’ she said.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It was just easier, is all I can tell you. Anyway, the business has paid it back. So we’re all square,’ she said.
‘Marriage okay?’ Ottey pried.
‘Yes. I mean, we’ve had our ups and downs. What marriage doesn’t? But we were perfectly content,’ Victoria replied.
‘Not happy?’ Cross qualified.
‘Yes. Happy. Everything was fine.’
‘If you’re asking in a roundabout way whether we know anyone who would want to kill Dad, the answer is no. He was a bookseller, not a member of the bloody mafia,’ said Sebastian, speaking for the first time.
‘Could we have a list of recent acquisitions made by your son?’ asked Cross.
‘All of them?’ asked Torquil.
‘Why not begin with any libraries at the higher end, value-wise.’
‘I won’t be able to do anything until I can get back into the shop,’ Torquil pointed out.
‘Of course,’ replied Ottey. ‘We’ll let you know as soon as it’s possible.’
*
As they were leaving, a taxi arrived. A man in his fifties got out of the back door. He had a cabin-sized wheel-along trolley case. He was tanned, as if just back from holiday.
‘Ian!’ Victoria exclaimed from the front door. She walked over and they hugged, the long, wordless, but fully loaded kind of hug you give your sister after her husband has just been murdered.
‘This is my brother, Ian,’ she explained to Cross and Ottey. ‘I didn’t think you’d be this early.’
‘I got the first flight out of Malaga this morning. Oh, sis, I don’t know what to say,’ he said.
At this she started weeping and they hugged again. Sebastian and Charlotte appeared and joined their mother and uncle in a group hug of grief. Suddenly the road seemed a very private space. Not the place for a couple of murder detectives. Ottey indicated for Cross to get in the car, and they left, the bereaved huddle receding in her rear-view mirror.