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Authors: Ben Aaronovitch
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already begun?’
‘The book hasn’t been reported stolen,’ I said. ‘As far as Arts and Antiques are concerned, there’s no crime to investigate.’ And what with the Met currently being seriously mullered by spending cuts, nobody was in a hurry to find an excuse for more work.
‘Curious,’ said Postmartin. ‘Perhaps the owner doesn’t realise it’s been stolen.’
‘Perhaps the owner is the guy who tried to sell it,’ I said. ‘He might want it back.’
Postmartin gave me a horrified look. ‘Impossible,’ he said. ‘I have a security van coming to whisk this book and myself away to Oxford and safety. Besides, if he is the owner, he doesn’t deserve what he’s got. To each according to his abilities and all that.’
‘You’ve hired a security van?’
‘For this?’ said Postmartin, looking fondly at the book. ‘Of course. I even considered coming out with my revolver.’ He checked to make sure I was suitably horrified. ‘Don’t worry. I was a crack shot in my day.’
‘What day was that?’
‘Korea,’ he said. ‘National Service. I still have my service revolver.’
‘I thought the army had switched to the Browning by then,’ I said. Clearing out the Folly’s arsenal the year before had been an education in twentieth-century anti-personnel weapons and just how many decades you could leave them to rust before they became dangerously unstable.
Postmartin shook his head. ‘My trusty Enfield Type Two.’
‘You didn’t, though? Bring it.’
‘Not in the end. I couldn’t find my spare ammo.’
‘Good.’
‘I searched high and low.’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘I think I must have left it in the shed somewhere,’ said Postmartin.
Charing Cross Road was once the bookselling heart of London and disreputable enough to avoid the multinational chains in their unceasing quest to turn every street of every city into a clone of every other. Cecil Court was a pedestrianised alleyway that linked Charing Cross to St Martin’s Lane where, if you ignored the upmarket burger restaurant at one end and the Mexican franchise at the other, you could still see what it might have been like. Although, according to my old man, it’s a lot cleaner than it once was.
Amidst the specialist bookshops and galleries was Colin and Leech, established 1897, current proprietor Gavin Headley. He turned out to be a short burly white man with the sort of smug Mediterranean tan that comes from having a second home somewhere sunny and sufficient Mediterranean genes to stop your skin going orange. The inside of the shop was warm enough to grow pomegranates, and smelt of new books.
‘We specialise in signed first editions,’ said Headley and explained that authors were persuaded to ‘sign and line’ their freshly published books – ‘They write a line from their book at the top of the title page,’ he said – and his customers would then buy these and lay them down like a fine wine.
The shop was tall, narrow and lined with modern hardbacks on expensively varnished hardwood shelves.
‘As an investment?’ I asked. It seemed a bit dodgy to me.
Headley found that funny. ‘You’re not going to get rich investing in new hardbacks,’ he said. ‘Your kids maybe, but not you.’
‘How do you make your money?’
‘We’re a bookshop,’ said Headley, shrugging. ‘We sell books.’
Postmartin had been right. The thief would have to have been unbelievably stupid to try and sell a properly valuable antique on Cecil Court, particularly in Colin and Leech. Headley hadn’t been impressed.
‘He had it wrapped up in a bin-bag for one thing,’ he said. ‘As soon as he unwrapped it, I thought “fuck me”. I mean, I may only be at the contemporary end of the market but I know the real thing when it’s plonked down in front of me. “Do you think it’s valuable?” he asks. Is it valuable? How could he be kosher and not know? Okay, I suppose he could have found it in his granddad’s attic but is
‘The book hasn’t been reported stolen,’ I said. ‘As far as Arts and Antiques are concerned, there’s no crime to investigate.’ And what with the Met currently being seriously mullered by spending cuts, nobody was in a hurry to find an excuse for more work.
‘Curious,’ said Postmartin. ‘Perhaps the owner doesn’t realise it’s been stolen.’
‘Perhaps the owner is the guy who tried to sell it,’ I said. ‘He might want it back.’
Postmartin gave me a horrified look. ‘Impossible,’ he said. ‘I have a security van coming to whisk this book and myself away to Oxford and safety. Besides, if he is the owner, he doesn’t deserve what he’s got. To each according to his abilities and all that.’
‘You’ve hired a security van?’
‘For this?’ said Postmartin, looking fondly at the book. ‘Of course. I even considered coming out with my revolver.’ He checked to make sure I was suitably horrified. ‘Don’t worry. I was a crack shot in my day.’
‘What day was that?’
‘Korea,’ he said. ‘National Service. I still have my service revolver.’
‘I thought the army had switched to the Browning by then,’ I said. Clearing out the Folly’s arsenal the year before had been an education in twentieth-century anti-personnel weapons and just how many decades you could leave them to rust before they became dangerously unstable.
Postmartin shook his head. ‘My trusty Enfield Type Two.’
‘You didn’t, though? Bring it.’
‘Not in the end. I couldn’t find my spare ammo.’
‘Good.’
‘I searched high and low.’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘I think I must have left it in the shed somewhere,’ said Postmartin.
Charing Cross Road was once the bookselling heart of London and disreputable enough to avoid the multinational chains in their unceasing quest to turn every street of every city into a clone of every other. Cecil Court was a pedestrianised alleyway that linked Charing Cross to St Martin’s Lane where, if you ignored the upmarket burger restaurant at one end and the Mexican franchise at the other, you could still see what it might have been like. Although, according to my old man, it’s a lot cleaner than it once was.
Amidst the specialist bookshops and galleries was Colin and Leech, established 1897, current proprietor Gavin Headley. He turned out to be a short burly white man with the sort of smug Mediterranean tan that comes from having a second home somewhere sunny and sufficient Mediterranean genes to stop your skin going orange. The inside of the shop was warm enough to grow pomegranates, and smelt of new books.
‘We specialise in signed first editions,’ said Headley and explained that authors were persuaded to ‘sign and line’ their freshly published books – ‘They write a line from their book at the top of the title page,’ he said – and his customers would then buy these and lay them down like a fine wine.
The shop was tall, narrow and lined with modern hardbacks on expensively varnished hardwood shelves.
‘As an investment?’ I asked. It seemed a bit dodgy to me.
Headley found that funny. ‘You’re not going to get rich investing in new hardbacks,’ he said. ‘Your kids maybe, but not you.’
‘How do you make your money?’
‘We’re a bookshop,’ said Headley, shrugging. ‘We sell books.’
Postmartin had been right. The thief would have to have been unbelievably stupid to try and sell a properly valuable antique on Cecil Court, particularly in Colin and Leech. Headley hadn’t been impressed.
‘He had it wrapped up in a bin-bag for one thing,’ he said. ‘As soon as he unwrapped it, I thought “fuck me”. I mean, I may only be at the contemporary end of the market but I know the real thing when it’s plonked down in front of me. “Do you think it’s valuable?” he asks. Is it valuable? How could he be kosher and not know? Okay, I suppose he could have found it in his granddad’s attic but is
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