‘Show us the place, then, Flo.’
We followed as she flitted away along the side of the warehouse. Soon we heard the soft wash and sloop of the Thames, and the cobbles of the alley sloped steeply down to sand and shingle. Here, where the corner of the building rose from the river mud, a thick black iron drainpipe had been bolted to the mossy bricks. Flo pointed upwards. ‘There’s the pipe,’ she said. ‘See where it runs past that window? I reckon you could get in there.’
‘That window looks too small,’ I said.
‘You’re looking at the wrong one. I mean the one much further up, almost out of sight.’
‘Oh . . . right.’
‘It’s the way to get in if you don’t want ’em seeing you. They won’t be thinking of upstairs.’
I looked at the teetering drainpipe, zigzagging madly up the wall like a line drawn by an angry toddler. To be honest, I was trying not to think of upstairs, either.
‘Fine,’ Lockwood said. ‘We’ll manage. What about you, Flo? You’ve got the boat?’
In response she pointed out onto the river, where a long, low black shape listed half in and half out of the water. Waves sloshed gently over the stern.
George leaned close. ‘That’s her rowing boat?’ he breathed. ‘I thought it was a bit of rotten driftwood.’
‘It’s almost certainly both.’
I’d kept my voice down too, but Flo had sharp ears. ‘What’s that? This here’s little Matilda; I’ve sculled her safely from Brentford Sewage Works to Dagenham Tannery, and I won’t hear a word said against her.’
Lockwood patted her shoulder, then surreptitiously wiped his hand on the back of his coat. ‘Quite right. It’ll be an honour to sail in her. George, you understand the plan? You create the diversion, then wait with Flo in Matilda. If all goes well, we’ll join you, or at least get you the mirror. If things don’t work out so smoothly, it’s Plan H: we make our ways separately back home.’
George nodded. ‘Good luck. You too, Luce. Lockwood, here’s your stuff. You’ll need the masks and bag.’
Setting his rucksack down on the sand, he brought out a hempen bag, similar to but smaller than the one Flo used. A powerful odour of lavender came from it. Two black balaclavas emerged next; we tucked them in our belts.
‘Right,’ Lockwood said. ‘Set your watches. The auction starts in fifteen minutes, at twelve sharp. We’ll want the diversion at twenty past, before they have a chance to do any kind of deal.’ He gestured to the pipe. ‘Lucy, you want to go first, or shall I?’
‘This time,’ I said, ‘I’m definitely going after you.’
It would be nice to say that climbing the drainpipe brought back happy memories from a country childhood, of spending warm summers swarming up trees in the company of other nimble friends. Unfortunately, since I never had a head for heights, the tallest thing I’d ever scaled was a climbing frame in the village playground, and I once barked my shin tumbling off that. So the next few minutes, as I inched my way tortuously after Lockwood, were not the happiest of my career. The iron pipe was broad enough for me to lock my arms right round it, and the circular clasps that fixed it to the wall made decent hand- and footholds. In many ways it was like scaling a ladder. But it was rusty too, and its flaking paint was prone to stabbing my palms, or coming away altogether in sudden shards. A strong wind was blowing up the Thames, whipping my hair into my face, and making the pipe shudder. And it was very high. I once made the mistake of looking down, where I saw Flo wading out to her little floating wreck, and George still standing by his rucksack, staring up at me. They were as small as ants, and it made my hands sweat and my stomach feel as if it was already dropping; so I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes tight shut as I climbed, and didn’t open them again until the top of my head collided with the heels of Lockwood’s boots.
He was leaning out above the dreadful drop, prying and tapping with his penknife at a pane of glass in the window at our side. The lead was old and soft, and soon the pane fell inwards. Lockwood reached in; he fiddled with the metal clasp, cursing at its stiffness. With a final wrench, which made something in the pipe rattle alarmingly, the window swung open. A leap, a shimmy – and Lockwood was through; a moment later he was stretching out to help me inside.
We stood in the shadows for a moment, taking sips of water, and in my case waiting for my arms and legs to stop shaking. There was a dusty smell in the building; not derelict, like the Bickerstaff house, but mothbally and unused.
‘Time, Luce?’
‘Five minutes to twelve.’
‘I’d call that perfect, wouldn’t you? And George will be well on his way to his position now, so long as he hasn’t sunk.’
I switched on my pen-torch and trained it across the empty room. Once, perhaps, it had been a manager’s office. Old notice boards with charts and figures hung silent on the walls. ‘When this is over,’ I said, ‘I think you need to have a word with George.’
Lockwood was at the door, peering out into the passage. ‘What for? He’s fine.’
‘I think he’s feeling left out. It’s always us that does this kind of job, isn’t it, while he has to hang around outside.’
‘We’ve all got our talents,’ Lockwood said, ‘and George is simply less good at this stuff than you are. Can you imagine him climbing up here? That doesn’t mean he hasn’t got a vital role today. If he and Flo mess up their timing, if their boat capsizes, or they don’t find the right windows or something, you and I are quite possibly going to die.’ He paused. ‘You know, this conversation’s making me slightly nervous. Come on, we need to find our way downstairs.’
This floor of the warehouse was a maze of office rooms and connecting passages; it took us longer than expected to discover the brick stairwell in the corner of the building. Time was against us now, but still we went carefully, stopping and listening at every corner. I counted the floors as we went, so as to be able to retrace our steps back to our open window. We’d gone down six full flights before we saw a faint glow extending up the bricks, heard the murmur of voices, and knew we were drawing close to the site of Winkman’s auction.
‘First things first,’ Lockwood whispered. ‘Masks on.’
The balaclavas were essential to protect our identities from the future attentions of a vengeful Winkman. They were hot, itchy, and hard to see out of, plus the wool covered our mouths and made it difficult to speak. Aside from that, it was a joy to wear them.
Pushing open a glass door, we found ourselves on a fenced walkway overlooking an enormous space. It was the cavernous heart of the warehouse and probably stretched the entire length of the floor, though it was impossible to determine its dimensions. Only one small area was properly lit, and that was directly below us. Lockwood and I ducked low; we slunk forwards to the walkway edge to get a better view. From where we knelt, a steep row of metal steps led down to the warehouse floor. We were fairly safe for the moment, for no one within the light would easily be able to see out into the dark.
Winkman, it seemed, liked to keep things on schedule. We had arrived at precisely three minutes past midnight and the auction was already in progress.
Three tall lamps on metal stands had been set up at one end of the hall. They were positioned as if at the points of a triangle, and the area they lit functioned like a stage. Just on the edge was a row of six chairs facing the light. Three were occupied by adults, and three by children. Behind them, in the shadows, two largish, serious-looking men stood like ugly statues, staring out at nothing.
Two chairs had also been placed in the spot-lit space between the lamps, and one of these was occupied by the boy from the antiques shop. He wore a smart grey jacket, and his oiled hair shone softly in the lamplight. He swung his fat little legs back and forth beneath the chair in a bored sort of way as he listened to his father.