23

Frustratingly, not much progress was made over the next few weeks. This was often the case in murder investigations. There would be lulls when detectives just sat at their desks, rereading witness statements, reviewing CCTV footage endlessly and generally scratching their heads, trying to find a breakthrough. The people who found this lack of developments most upsetting were, understandably, the families of the victims. If they couldn’t see any progress, arrests, suspects, the discovery of murder weapons, then it seemed as though nothing was happening at all. Cross often took advantage of these periods to visit the families again, ostensibly to inform them of the paucity of leads. But in reality, it was an attempt to uncover anything relevant they might be keeping to themselves. Either because they thought it was unimportant, or because they were worried it might reflect badly on the victim.

So, he decided they should pay Victoria Squire another visit. Both his and Prianka’s research had brought a couple more interesting, not necessarily leads, questions for her. DI Ottey had, by virtue of her new rank, been deployed by Carson to oversee a couple of other investigations and outstanding cases at the MCU. So their journey in the car was her first opportunity to catch up with Cross’s research. They’d called in advance as Cross wanted Victoria to have notice of their visit so she could consider, if she was holding onto something, whether to reveal it or not.

‘This is all very disappointing,’ she began, as they sat down in her living room. Cross noticed immediately that there were several new framed photographs of Ed around the room. Cards of condolence, which had adorned the room in the past few weeks, were piled up on the table neatly. She seemed to be in the process of replying to them. ‘But I suppose it’s often the case in a killing as strange as this one.’

‘What do you mean by strange?’ asked Cross.

‘Well, I don’t know. Surprising. Inexplicable. I mean, he sold books for a living,’ she replied.

‘Murder investigations can take time. It’s not like you see on the TV,’ replied Ottey.

‘I don’t watch much television, to be honest with you. So, I wouldn’t know,’ she replied with that unspoken pride people often had when claiming to avoid what they obviously saw as a rather common, modern vice. They sat there for a moment then she said, ‘I sense there is more to this visit than simply telling me there is nothing to tell me.’

‘Did your husband enjoy his work, Mrs Squire?’ asked Cross.

‘Yes. I think so. What am I saying? Yes, of course he did. He was doing what he loved, after all,’ she replied.

‘Not just doing what his father loved?’ asked Cross.

‘Well both, obviously.’

‘How did he find the book world?’ Cross continued.

‘Much the same as anyone else, I suppose. Interesting. Challenging. He often said he would’ve loved to have been a bookseller a hundred years ago, rather than now.’

‘Why?’

‘Books were such a different phenomenon then. More important, in a sense, than now. The book trade was different. He loved Walter Spencer’s book Forty Years in My Bookshop. He marvelled at how literary giants of that age would regularly go into the shop, like Thomas Hardy and Oscar Wilde. Ed thought the whole thing was very romantic,’ she told them.

‘I can understand that. I’ve been doing a little research into the world of rare books myself, since working on this case. It is fascinating and I think, had I not become a police officer, it would have suited me very well,’ Cross mused.

‘Really?’ Victoria asked.

‘Yes. I like the idea of collecting. I’ve resisted it myself as I know I’m prone to become a little obsessive. The nearest thing I come to collecting is convictions.’

Victoria Squire laughed at this.

‘Oh, I’m being perfectly serious,’ replied Cross, surprised by her reaction. ‘I have a summation of all of my successful convictions in ledgers. I find it comforting to know they’re there. Also encouraging when things aren’t going particularly well, as with this case. I’m reminded of when things seemed hopeless in past cases, then something happens and everything falls into place. I like the idea of expertise, and detecting has become my expertise. I think I would have found an area in the rare book world to dedicate myself to, and become an expert in. I like the specificity of specialism. Like Torquil’s expertise in Brunel.’

Ottey found herself intrigued by this. It was the closest she’d ever come to hearing Cross talk about himself and it made such sense to her, knowing him as she did.

‘Torquil is a world expert,’ Victoria stated proudly.

‘He is.’

‘And what would you have specialised in, do you think, Sergeant?’ she asked, warming to the conversation.

‘Oh, that’s easy. Organ music. Scores. Manuscripts,’ he replied.

‘DS Cross plays the church organ extremely well,’ Ottey said, like a proud parent.

‘Really?’ Victoria replied, unable to disguise her surprise.

‘I think research and cataloguing would have been my main strength though,’ Cross continued.

‘Well, it’s never too late.’

‘Oh, I think we both know it is. Did your husband have a speciality at all?’ Cross asked.

‘His first love was modern fiction, first editions. English authors. That became his speciality. He also had a predilection for the old explorers. But that was a very crowded field. Although…’ She faltered, as if she’d changed her mind about what she was about to say. ‘But mainly first editions.’

‘I’ve been examining your husband’s correspondence on his computer,’ said Cross, suddenly changing the subject.

‘Oh yes,’ she replied nervously.

‘He had a great turn of phrase,’ Cross commented.

‘He did,’ she agreed with a smile. ‘I always said there was a novel lurking in there somewhere. It was actually something he talked about doing in his retirement.’

‘Was he planning to retire?’ asked Cross.

‘No. It’s just something people say, don’t they? I think he would’ve gone on selling books till he…’ She stopped and had to compose herself.

‘Perhaps he might’ve written something about the rare book world,’ Cross suggested. ‘A novel set among the dusty shelves of literary London.’

‘Or Bristol,’ she corrected him.

‘He wasn’t shy in taking on things he didn’t like professionally, was he?’ asked Cross.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I’m sure you’re aware of his latest hobby horse. You can’t feel that passionate about something and not discuss it at home,’ Cross said.

‘I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,’ she replied.

‘Surely he talked about it at home. Sam Taylor says it became an all-consuming obsession,’ Cross continued.

‘I think calling it a hobby horse is a little patronising,’ she retorted.

‘So, you are aware of what I’m talking about?’

‘Ed was quick to take on people who he thought weren’t playing fair, or abiding by the rules,’ she replied.

‘What rules?’

‘The unwritten rules of the rare book world.’

‘I wasn’t aware there were any until, of course, I read Ed’s campaigning emails. He was quite preoccupied in the last couple of years about the increasing practice by some booksellers in London cornering the market in the first editions of certain modern authors. Thereby gaining a monopoly and controlling the future price of such writers,’ he said.

‘It was like a bloody cartel. Yes, he was quite animated by it,’ she agreed.

‘It’s not illegal of course,’ Cross pointed out.

‘No, but grossly unfair to everyone else. Mainly the small bookseller,’ she replied.

‘Your husband had a good customer with a particular passion for Evelyn Waugh,’ said Cross.

‘Geoffrey Hardyman, yes, that’s right.’

‘And he would source rare editions of Waugh for him?’ Cross continued.

‘Which became increasingly hard to do,’ she said.

‘Why?’ asked Ottey.

‘Carnegie, mainly,’ Victoria began to explain. ‘They’re a rare bookshop in London. A while back they started quietly buying up all the Waugh they could. The internet made it so much easier for them. If there was a good quality first edition… actually what am I talking about – they weren’t always bothered about quality. They’d buy inferior ones just to get them off the market. But first editions, proofs, volumes inscribed by the author, they just hoovered them up.’

‘How did people figure it out?’ asked Ottey.

‘Because the prices of various authors suddenly increased in a way that didn’t make sense. Way beyond their real value. But they had recalibrated the market by then. It became a pattern people couldn’t ignore,’ Victoria explained. ‘Ed became aware of it because of his own interest in Waugh. But the more he delved into it, the more widespread it appeared to be. So, he decided to do something about it and draw attention to it.’

‘That must’ve made him popular,’ said Ottey.

‘Oh no, quite the opposite,’ replied Cross, surprised at his colleague’s lack of understanding. ‘It must’ve made things very difficult for you.’

‘It did, particularly at auction. Ed would go to an auction and find he was completely unable to buy anything at a reasonable price. Other bidders would suddenly appear and drive the price up to unmanageable heights,’ she said.

‘Was this just with Evelyn Waugh?’ asked Ottey.

‘No! Anything and everything. As soon as it was known Ed was bidding, it happened. It was a nightmare. He stopped going for a while. Something he loved doing. He had to bid more and more on the internet. Which in turn made him all the more determined to expose what he saw as essentially corruption,’ she said, now getting noticeably upset.

‘So it was something of a conspiracy,’ commented Ottey.

‘It was.’

‘But surely Waugh and all these other authors aren’t that valuable?’ Ottey pointed out.

‘If you own every book available on the market you can make them a lot more valuable than they should be,’ replied Victoria.

‘It reminds me of the old book auction ring,’ said Cross.

‘That’s exactly what Pa said,’ replied Victoria.

‘Which he, in turn, was very vociferous about,’ added Cross.

‘To his cost,’ replied Victoria. ‘It was like history repeating itself.’

‘This is all very interesting, but would anyone go as far as killing someone over it? I mean, as you said, we are talking about rare booksellers here,’ commented Ottey.

‘Well, we are investigating the murder of a rare bookseller, DI Ottey,’ Cross reminded her. From anyone else this would’ve carried an edge which she would’ve resented. But Cross was just emphasising the situation for the benefit of Victoria. He turned back to her. ‘Why did Ed’s campaign come to a sudden halt about a year ago?’

‘I think he just got fed up with it.’

‘Really? After expending all that energy? All that effort? That passion, raging against the injustice of it all?’ he asked.

‘He decided he wasn’t getting anywhere and so devoted his time more usefully to the business,’ she replied.

‘I sense you didn’t approve of the campaign,’ said Ottey.

‘It wasn’t getting anywhere fast, and he was in danger of making himself something of a laughing stock,’ she replied.

They went to leave. Then, as they got to the door, Cross turned and asked her, ‘Why didn’t you tell us about Persephone living with you while she was an adolescent?’

‘I don’t see how that’s relevant. I mean, why would I?’

‘Do you see much of Sarah, her mother, these days?’

‘I don’t, no. She seems to assume I’ve taken my brother’s side in their split.’

‘Have you? Taken his side?’ Cross asked.

‘Absolutely not. He behaved like an absolute pig and I told him so.’

Cross nodded thoughtfully.

‘Why? Do you think Sarah killed him?’ Victoria suddenly asked.

‘We don’t know,’ replied Cross, wondering what might have given her cause to ask this. He and Ottey left.