The offices of Carnegie Books were in Bedford Square, London. They were very well appointed. The company had been there for over two hundred years and there was a sedate confidence about the building, as if it knew that, unlike any of the visitors who came through its doors, it would still be there in another two hundred years. The walls up the staircase were adorned with framed notes from famous authors and signed photographs of them. Bills of sale for books were made out to Charles Dickens, Anthony Trollope and Oscar Wilde. It had the same musty smell as Squire’s Rare Books in Bristol. As they walked past the ground floor where various people were working in complete silence, you could be forgiven for thinking you were in an ancient university. Gibb’s large office was at the top of the building. His chair backed onto the square behind. The room was filled with bookshelves and mostly ancient-looking leather volumes, some in glass cases. Gibb was a quiet man, bald, with a goatee beard. Probably in his seventies, Cross thought. Quietly spoken too, as if raising one’s voice to be heard wasn’t something he had to do in the world he operated in. He looked like he would be more comfortable buried in a book rather than engaged in conversation. He had a habit of stroking his hands when speaking, as if he were comforting himself. Their dryness made a strange phasing sound, emphasised by the hollows of his palms, as he did it. He seemed not only dismissive of Ed Squire’s campaign, but of the man, his father and their ‘provincial’ operation. He said the word as if it were a universally understood slight.
‘Both my father and I had dealings with Torquil,’ he said with some disdain. ‘He’s a barrow boy.’
‘With an acknowledged expertise in Brunel,’ Cross pointed out.
‘He seemed perfectly affable. Everyone’s got to come from somewhere,’ added Ottey.
The bookseller looked at her and, to her mind, was possibly verging on the edge of the dangerous, racist, ‘and where did you come from, originally?’ question. Something she’d become all the more familiar with since she joined the police. But fortunately for him, he refrained. Or was it just that she was becoming oversensitive? No, he was definitely toying with it.
‘Don’t let that sweet old bookseller act fool you,’ he said instead. ‘That man was ruthless in his time when it came to pursuing a book.’
‘Something, presumably, Carnegie Books is above?’ asked Cross.
Gibb ignored him.
‘Just look at the way he left his partner,’ Gibb continued.
‘A partner later jailed for forging inscriptions in first editions. I think it could be argued he showed good judgement in leaving,’ Cross reflected.
‘If, of course, he was unaware of it,’ said Gibb.
‘Why such an aggressive attitude? Such a low opinion of the Squires?’ asked Cross. ‘Is it perhaps because there was more than an element of truth to Ed’s accusations levelled against you and others?’
‘There was no truth in any of it.’
‘Then why did it concern you so much?’ asked Cross.
‘It didn’t.’
‘Yet you threatened him with legal action,’ Cross pointed out.
‘I did.’
‘Did you consult lawyers, or begin proceedings?’
‘I did not.’
‘Why was that?’
‘I realised it was just an annoyance and I could more usefully spend my time on other things,’ he replied.
‘Nothing to do with the fact that, if you went to court, the alleged price fixing might be examined in detail, with results that might not be favourable to you?’ asked Cross.
‘No,’ he replied cagily.
‘Not a good look, I imagine,’ Cross went on.
‘The claims were without merit,’ Gibb protested.
‘According to you. Perhaps the court might have seen it a different way. Not worth the risk,’ said Cross.
‘What’s your point?’ asked Gibb, starting to get tetchy.
‘I’m not making a point, merely asking questions. Did Squire’s campaign have an adverse effect on your sales, would you say?’ said Cross.
‘Of course not.’
‘What makes you say that so emphatically?’ Cross asked.
‘Why would it? Because someone makes misguided and unfounded accusations? Would that stop people buying from us? Of course not. I’m afraid it shows how little you know about book buying and selling,’ he retorted.
‘Just so we’re clear, I know nothing of the book world. I may well learn more over the coming days or weeks, maybe months. But you should treat me as a complete ignoramus when it comes to your world, Mr Gibb.’
This discomforted Gibb, Ottey noticed. It often happened with people when they didn’t know how to deal with Cross. The more astute of them often inferred a need to be cautious. As was the case here.
‘You’re a specialist in Evelyn Waugh,’ Cross continued. Gibb sighed, knowing where this was going.
‘Among other authors, yes,’ he replied. ‘I have a particular fondness for Waugh. My father met him on several occasions. He was a regular customer of his.’ He then got up and went to a glass cabinet on the other side of the room which he unlocked. He carefully took out a book and brought it over. He sat back down and held it up for them to see. ‘A first edition of A Handful of Dust, nineteen thirty-four. My favourite of his novels. It ranks alongside Brideshead Revisited, in my opinion. Look inside,’ he instructed Cross, leaning over his desk to hand it to him. Cross did so.
‘“To Patrick on the occasion of his sixteenth birthday, with fondest regards from Evelyn”,’ Cross read.
‘My father had the edition in stock and knew my love for it. Waugh signed it at a memorable lunch the three of us had at Wiltons,’ Gibb told them.
‘What’s it worth?’ asked Ottey.
‘It’s priceless to me. As you can see, I have a personal and emotional attachment to Waugh. I personally own a first edition of all his novels. This, I can assure you, is not out of a determination to corner the market in Evelyn Waugh, but for my own pleasure,’ Gibb replied pompously. Cross handed the book back to him. ‘Would I be the first to say how unlikely it is that Ed’s murder had anything to do with the book trade? I mean, look around you,’ he said referring to his office. ‘It’s a very reserved, conservative world.’
‘You would not,’ said Cross. ‘This firm has something of a history with the Squires, does it not?’
‘We haven’t done a huge amount of business with them, I don’t think. When Torquil was a runner, he might well have bought and sold from my father. But I wouldn’t know,’ he answered.
‘I didn’t mean business. I meant conflict. Torquil and your father,’ replied Cross.
‘Yes, the ring business. I’ve often thought recently how history seemed to be repeating itself. But Torquil did single us out as one of the main organisers of the auction ring.’
‘Was that true?’ asked Cross.
‘Oh yes, absolutely. But then again, all the main houses were at it.’
‘Does that mean it was a legitimate practice?’ asked Cross.
‘No, I just meant we weren’t the only ones.’
‘An excuse I suppose you could use in relation to the price fixing,’ Cross observed.
‘Except that it didn’t exist. It simply wasn’t happening. It was the imagination of a fevered mind who sought to attach the blame for his own business’s problems to others.’
‘Why did Ed’s campaign suddenly stop just over twelve months ago?’ Cross asked.
‘I have no idea. It just seemed to fizzle out,’ he replied.
‘Nothing to do with you or this firm?’ Cross asked.
‘No, nothing at all. What is more, that question itself should give you the answer you’re looking for.’
‘Which is what?’
‘That the campaign had indeed stopped over a year ago. Why in that case would it have had anything to do with Ed Squire’s murder? Where’s the logic, if indeed there was any logic to your question in the first place?’ the bookseller asked him with a steely eye.
‘You make a good point. It does however ignore the fact that a murder enquiry must investigate all possibilities, however remote, in order to succeed, and that murder more often than not has no sense of logic in its execution. In its solution perhaps. But not in the very act,’ Cross finished by saying, got up and left.