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Authors: James Craig
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developments.’
‘Thank you,’ Cole smiled. ‘Of course, these items are not the property of my company. We simply have a significant financial exposure . . .’
‘How much?’ Carlyle asked.
The smile drained from Cole’s face, to be replaced by the kind of sadness that only money can bring. ‘I believe,’ he said quietly, ‘that the items were insured for somewhere in excess of their retail value.’
‘Is that common?’
‘Not uncommon. Personally, I would not read anything into it.’
‘So you don’t think it was an inside job?’
‘I would never express a view. That is for you to decide.’
Carlyle nodded, grateful that for once, someone was prepared to let him get on and do his job without telling him how to do it. He tapped the list with his index finger. ‘How much do you think this stuff will fetch?’
‘Once again,’ Cole said weakly, ‘I would not wish to be drawn on a matter that is not really my area of expertise.’
‘We’re just talking amongst ourselves,’ Carlyle reassured him. ‘It’s not something that I’m going to hold you to.’
‘Well,’ Cole thought about it for a moment, ‘some things may have been stolen to order, but from what we have been able to make out so far, it doesn’t seem that they targeted particular pieces.’
‘No,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘they just shot out the windows and grabbed what they could.’
‘So,’ Cole went on, ‘assuming that they have to find a buyer, they might get ten or fifteen pence in the pound.’
‘That’s still six million quid. Not bad for an afternoon’s work.’
‘It might be less, of course. Some of the items, like the dragonfly brooch, for example, might well be unsaleable. In that case, pieces might get broken down and sold for little more than pennies.’ Cole looked genuinely pained at the thought.
A question popped into Carlyle’s head. ‘Will you be offering a reward?’
‘That is not our policy in cases like this.’ Cole looked at him steadily. ‘At least, not at this stage.’
‘I understand.’ Carlyle got to his feet and picked Cole’s card off the desk, along with the list of stolen items. ‘Thank you for these,’ he said. ‘I will be in touch.’
Cole carefully replaced the remainder of the papers in his bag and got to his feet, glancing apologetically at his untouched coffee.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Carlyle said. ‘Let me show you out.’
Standing on the steps of the station, Carlyle shook Trevor Cole’s hand with more enthusiasm than he had when they had first met. It ’ s funny , he thought to himself, how a little bit of respect goes a long way in terms of goodwill. At that moment, the inspector actually wanted to get the stolen jewellery back – for Cole, if not for the store’s owner.
As Cole disappeared round the corner, Carlyle turned and skipped up the steps of the station, running straight into a woman who had been standing behind him.
‘Sorry.’ Carlyle took a half-step backwards, trying not to fall.
‘Good morning, Inspector,’ the woman said imperiously.
Carlyle stared back blankly.
‘Abigail Slater.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he mumbled, wondering just how she knew who he was. Taking another step backwards, he checked the lawyer out. She was dressed in an expensive-looking red jacket and skirt combination, with the skirt rather shorter than you might expect for a Catholic lawyer. Under heavy make-up, she looked tired but determined.
‘I was looking for you,’ Slater continued, reaching into her shoulder bag and pulling out an envelope.
‘What’s this?’ Carlyle asked, making no effort to take it from her.
‘It is a copy of the letter that has gone to your commanding officer,’ Slater said, her tone almost gleeful, ‘outlining your assault on Father McGowan and the legal action we will be taking, both against yourself, Sergeant Roche and the Metropolitan Police Force.’ She pinned the letter to his chest with an index finger, forcing him to take it
‘Thank you,’ Cole smiled. ‘Of course, these items are not the property of my company. We simply have a significant financial exposure . . .’
‘How much?’ Carlyle asked.
The smile drained from Cole’s face, to be replaced by the kind of sadness that only money can bring. ‘I believe,’ he said quietly, ‘that the items were insured for somewhere in excess of their retail value.’
‘Is that common?’
‘Not uncommon. Personally, I would not read anything into it.’
‘So you don’t think it was an inside job?’
‘I would never express a view. That is for you to decide.’
Carlyle nodded, grateful that for once, someone was prepared to let him get on and do his job without telling him how to do it. He tapped the list with his index finger. ‘How much do you think this stuff will fetch?’
‘Once again,’ Cole said weakly, ‘I would not wish to be drawn on a matter that is not really my area of expertise.’
‘We’re just talking amongst ourselves,’ Carlyle reassured him. ‘It’s not something that I’m going to hold you to.’
‘Well,’ Cole thought about it for a moment, ‘some things may have been stolen to order, but from what we have been able to make out so far, it doesn’t seem that they targeted particular pieces.’
‘No,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘they just shot out the windows and grabbed what they could.’
‘So,’ Cole went on, ‘assuming that they have to find a buyer, they might get ten or fifteen pence in the pound.’
‘That’s still six million quid. Not bad for an afternoon’s work.’
‘It might be less, of course. Some of the items, like the dragonfly brooch, for example, might well be unsaleable. In that case, pieces might get broken down and sold for little more than pennies.’ Cole looked genuinely pained at the thought.
A question popped into Carlyle’s head. ‘Will you be offering a reward?’
‘That is not our policy in cases like this.’ Cole looked at him steadily. ‘At least, not at this stage.’
‘I understand.’ Carlyle got to his feet and picked Cole’s card off the desk, along with the list of stolen items. ‘Thank you for these,’ he said. ‘I will be in touch.’
Cole carefully replaced the remainder of the papers in his bag and got to his feet, glancing apologetically at his untouched coffee.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Carlyle said. ‘Let me show you out.’
Standing on the steps of the station, Carlyle shook Trevor Cole’s hand with more enthusiasm than he had when they had first met. It ’ s funny , he thought to himself, how a little bit of respect goes a long way in terms of goodwill. At that moment, the inspector actually wanted to get the stolen jewellery back – for Cole, if not for the store’s owner.
As Cole disappeared round the corner, Carlyle turned and skipped up the steps of the station, running straight into a woman who had been standing behind him.
‘Sorry.’ Carlyle took a half-step backwards, trying not to fall.
‘Good morning, Inspector,’ the woman said imperiously.
Carlyle stared back blankly.
‘Abigail Slater.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he mumbled, wondering just how she knew who he was. Taking another step backwards, he checked the lawyer out. She was dressed in an expensive-looking red jacket and skirt combination, with the skirt rather shorter than you might expect for a Catholic lawyer. Under heavy make-up, she looked tired but determined.
‘I was looking for you,’ Slater continued, reaching into her shoulder bag and pulling out an envelope.
‘What’s this?’ Carlyle asked, making no effort to take it from her.
‘It is a copy of the letter that has gone to your commanding officer,’ Slater said, her tone almost gleeful, ‘outlining your assault on Father McGowan and the legal action we will be taking, both against yourself, Sergeant Roche and the Metropolitan Police Force.’ She pinned the letter to his chest with an index finger, forcing him to take it
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