‘Detectives!’ Denholm Simpson greeted them warmly. ‘Your visit is most guilt-inducing. No! That sounds horribly wrong. Not guilt in the sense of the dreadful murder of our dear Ed, but a realisation that I still haven’t been in touch with Torquil.’
‘Did you not go to the funeral?’ asked Ottey. Ed Squire’s funeral had been the week before. Ottey and Cross didn’t attend, but Prianka had. It had been well attended by the extended family, people from the book trade and customers. The only thing of any interest was that Ian Hartwell’s Spanish wife had accompanied him, which caused a minor scene with his ex, Sarah, who according to Prianka had only gone to be supportive of her daughter.
‘Another shard of guilt pierces my heart, Inspector. I did not. I couldn’t face it. Too many funerals at my age and all they do is show you what you have to look forward to in a not very inducing manner. But I also thought my presence might not be welcome.’
‘Did Nigel attend?’ asked Cross.
‘Nigel? No. Why do you ask?’
‘Well he’s back in Bristol, is he not?’
Simpson paused slightly before answering.
‘Yes.’
‘Something you neglected to tell us on our last visit,’ Cross pointed out.
‘Something you neglected to ask,’ came the swift reply.
‘Is he here?’ Cross went on.
‘He is. Upstairs in his office.’
Cross started to make for a staircase at the back of the shop.
‘That only leads to the upstairs of the bookshop. You’ll have to go back outside. It’ll be the door on your left.’
‘You don’t live above the shop yourself?’ asked Ottey.
‘No, never have. We have— I have,’ he corrected himself, ‘a house in St Paul’s. Same one I bought when I first came to Bristol. If I told you how much I paid for it, well you wouldn’t believe,’ he said cheerfully.
They rang the doorbell outside the shop, with some difficulty, as it was hanging on to the wall for dear life. Ottey took it in one hand and pressed the button with the other. After a moment they heard someone coming down the stairs inside and opening the door. Before them stood a well-preserved man in his mid-fifties with a short, manicured beard. He was enveloped in a huge, baggy cardigan which threatened to swallow him whole. Having identified themselves, they were invited in. His ‘office’ appeared to be the living room of a one-bedroomed flat above the two floors occupied by the shop. They sat opposite him on a small sofa which meant Cross was closer to Ottey than he was really comfortable with.
‘I assume you’re here because of Teddy,’ he said.
‘Teddy?’ asked Cross.
‘His childhood name. I think I’m the only one who uses it these days. He grew out of it. I guess I never did.’
‘Were you close as children?’ asked Ottey.
‘Yes. Our families were close. As I’m sure you’re aware, our fathers married a pair of sisters.’
‘Which actually makes you cousins,’ observed Cross as it occurred to him for the first time.
‘Yep.’
‘But you grew apart,’ suggested Ottey.
‘Cynthiagate,’ he replied.
‘You didn’t go to the funeral. Why was that?’ asked Cross.
‘I didn’t feel I’d be a welcome presence.’
‘Because of Cynthiagate?’ asked Cross. ‘It was so long ago.’
Nigel Simpson elected not to answer this question.
‘Perhaps it was something to do with your work at Carnegie Books?’ said Cross.
‘What is it you want?’ he asked, a little testily.
‘When did you and Ed Squire reconnect?’ asked Cross.
‘About three years ago. He got in touch with me. Let’s just be clear about that.’
‘Why do we need to be clear about that?’ asked Cross.
‘Well, I’m sure you’ll be wanting to have the pertinent facts in their chronological order and context,’ he replied.
‘What facts and context?’ asked Cross.
Simpson declined to answer this. There was something about Cross’s direct manner which warned him to be careful. That if he wasn’t, he might soon tie himself in knots and trip up.
‘Why did Mr Squire initiate correspondence with you?’ asked Cross.
‘I’m sure you already know that.’
‘I think it would be best you make no assumptions about what I may, or may not, know and just answer the question,’ Cross instructed him.
‘To be clear, he didn’t initiate correspondence with me. It was with the head of the company, Patrick Gibb.’
‘What was the purpose of his getting in touch?’
‘Ed had a theory that we were cornering the market in certain modern authors, well, authors of the last century, mainly Evelyn Waugh.’
‘What made him come to this conclusion and why did he get in touch when he did?’ Cross enquired.
‘He had a customer who collected Waugh. There was a particular edition of a book, inscribed by Waugh, this gentleman wanted. We actually had it and Ed wanted to buy it from us,’ Nigel replied.
‘Seems fairly straightforward,’ commented Ottey.
‘He objected to our price, the value we’d placed on the item.’
‘He was negotiating,’ Cross said.
‘And,’ Nigel continued, ‘suggested that we were trying to inflate the pricing across the entire Evelyn Waugh market.’
‘Did he buy the book?’ asked Ottey.
‘He did not. We couldn’t find a price that was mutually acceptable. So we didn’t make a sale.’
‘To Ed,’ Cross added.
‘That is what we’re discussing, isn’t it?’ asked Nigel defensively.
‘But you did sell the book,’ Cross insisted.
‘Yes.’
‘To Geoffrey Hardyman, the collector in question. Ed Squire’s customer,’ Cross continued.
‘Correct.’
‘Who then became something of a regular customer of yours?’
‘Also correct.’
‘Which must’ve irritated the hell out of Ed Squire,’ Ottey commented.
‘It did. It’s partly what prompted his absurd campaign against us and a few other booksellers.’
‘Because he thought you were cornering the market in certain authors, buying up all available stock and then dictating the market price,’ said Cross. ‘Was there any truth in that?’
‘Absolutely not. For decades certain bookshops have specialised in selected authors. It makes complete sense. They become experts in their field. Buyers know where to go and that they are getting the genuine article when they do. They appreciate all the research and scholarship that has gone into building up a collection of stock for sale. Look at Ed’s father, Torquil. A world-renowned expert in Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Has anyone ever accused him of monopolising the market in Brunel? Of course not.’
‘Would it be fair to say that Ed Squire became something of a thorn in your side and several other booksellers’?’ asked Ottey.
‘I wouldn’t go that far. But it was inconvenient at times. Having said that, a lot of people thought he was becoming a bit of a joke. It was damaging for Ed, looking back on it,’ Nigel continued.
‘Fatally, perhaps?’ Cross pondered. Simpson laughed.
‘I shouldn’t laugh, I’m sorry. The rare book world may be many things, but it is not one where murder occurs on a regular basis,’ he said.
‘Oh, I’m sure it isn’t. But we are only investigating the one murder,’ Cross commented.
‘Why did you leave Carnegie Books?’ asked Ottey.
This caused Simpson to hesitate momentarily.
‘That’s confidential,’ he replied.
‘In what respect?’
‘I signed an NDA,’ he explained.
‘An NDA in the bookselling world. Who’d’ve thought?’ said Ottey.
‘The implication being that you were sacked,’ commented Cross.
‘Like I said. I can’t discuss it. All I will say is that my association with them ended by mutual agreement,’ he said, sounding like he was reading from a pro-forma PR statement.
‘So, what’s the plan now?’ asked Ottey.
‘I’m not entirely sure. Taking over this place from Dad is an obvious option. It’s always been something we’ve discussed and now might be the right time. My ambition would be to navigate its way back into the rare book trade.’
‘In direct competition with Squire’s,’?’ observed Ottey.
‘I think there’s more than enough room for both of us in Bristol. So many bookshops have disappeared now.’
‘Had you seen Ed Squire before he was murdered, now you’re back in Bristol?’ asked Cross.
‘I had not, no.’
‘Were you angry with him?’
‘Why would I be angry with him?’ he asked.
‘Perhaps because he had something to do with your losing your job?’ Cross suggested.
‘I haven’t said that,’ he pointed out.
‘No, indeed. Because of your NDA. Possibly Patrick Gibb will be more helpful,’ Cross wondered.
‘I doubt it,’ came the nervous reply.