It was Dave’s turn to shrug. ‘You never know where things will turn up these days. Thanks to the internet.’
Milraud smiled in agreement, then said, ‘Yes, but the internet cannot magically transport a piece that’s residing in my warehouse to this shop. Not yet anyway.’
‘True enough,’ said Dave, then shifted in his chair to show he wanted to get to business. ‘Have you anything at all of that sort here that you can show me?’
‘Of course,’ said Milraud, giving a faint smile. ‘Even some continental items.’
He stood up and motioning for Dave to stay where he was, left the room, returning a minute later with a cherry wood box, which he put down on his desk. Lifting the lid, he exposed a small derringer sitting on a cushion of black velvet. He carefully took the gun out with both hands and handed it to Dave.
‘It is made by Sabayone,’ Milraud declared. Dave stared at the trigger intently and looked down the barrel, doing his best to act like a true aficionado.
Milraud chuckled lightly. ‘Probably the only one to be found in this part of the United Kingdom. Are you an admirer of his pistols?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Dave. ‘A master craftsman.’ He handed back the pistol carefully. ‘What would you ask for such a piece?’ he said, hoping that was the right sort of thing to say.
A shadow of a frown flitted across Milraud’s face, as if the intrusion of money into their conversation had a soiling effect. He said quietly without looking at Dave, ‘Seventeen thousand pounds.’
‘I see,’ said Dave, his eyes widening with surprise.
‘That is open to negotiation, of course,’ Milraud conceded.
‘Excellent,’ said Dave, smiling inwardly at the thought of Michael Binding’s face if he actually bought the gun.
‘You’re interested then?’ asked Milraud, no longer quite so diffident.
‘I might well be,’ Dave said with conviction. ‘It is certainly a lovely example. Do you guarantee its authenticity?’
‘Of course,’ said Milraud with a tolerant air, as if Dave’s hesitation was of no real importance.
‘I’d like to think about it. When could we meet again?’ asked Dave.
‘Well, tomorrow would be possible, I suppose. After that I will be back in France. Although Mrs Carson,’ and he gestured towards the front room and the lady in the silk suit, ‘can always negotiate on my behalf.’
Dave shook his head to show a surrogate wouldn’t do. ‘I’ll come back in the morning if that’s convenient.’
‘A demain, then.’ They both stood up and shook hands.
Dave said, ‘And perhaps then we could talk about more modern armaments.’
Milraud raised his eyebrows a fraction. ‘Why not?’ he said with an almost imperceptible shrug. ‘If you wish.’
That afternoon Milraud’s mobile rang and he answered it cautiously. ‘Oui?’
‘It’s me.’
‘James.’ He continued to use Piggott’s old names.
‘Listen, my friend, I’ve had a communication.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes.’ Piggott gave a dry laugh. ‘Someone’s suggested you’ve been talking to my old British friends.’
‘How interesting,’ Milraud said non-committally. Milraud had done business with Piggott for many years, and they trusted each other – as much as anyone could in their kind of business. But Milraud was always cautious, and this was a lethal accusation if it were believed.
Piggott said, ‘I was wondering whether anyone unusual had crossed your path lately. I mean, if I’m supposed to believe this message, someone should be making an appearance, if they haven’t already.’
‘Mmm. I think we should meet.’
Half an hour later the two men sat down at a table in a nearby cafe.
‘I had a man in the shop just before you rang. He phoned me out of the blue, claiming to be interested in antique pistols. Derringers in particular. I didn’t altogether like the look of him. I showed him a lovely example, and he made all the right noises, except for one.’
‘What was that?’
‘I told him the gun was made by someone called Sabayone. He agreed that Sabayone was a brilliant gunsmith.’
‘And?’
‘There wasn’t a gunsmith called Sabayone. I made him up just to test him.’
Piggott gave a laugh that suddenly stopped – humour was like rationed food to him, allowed only in carefully measured portions. ‘That sounds like our man.’
‘It’s possible.’
‘What was he really after?’
‘He dropped a heavy hint about modern weapons. I’ve arranged to see him again tomorrow morning and then I should find out. I’m sure he’ll come.’
‘Oh so am I,’ said Piggott. ‘You should see him, by all means. That’ll give us a chance to see him too.’
Piggott walked away from the cafe, relieved. He hadn’t ever really thought Milraud would double-cross him, but was glad to have that confirmed.
Yet he hadn’t come entirely clean with his old associate, for he’d avoided telling Milraud that Danny Ryan had reported back to him an hour before.
‘We did our best, Mr P.’
‘Meaning?’
‘We watched the shop, just like you said. There was only one customer this afternoon; he was inside for about twenty minutes. We got a good photo when he left. I followed him as best I could – you said it was better to lose him than get spotted.’
‘So you lost him?’
‘Not there. He was parked at the Castlecourt shopping centre. I picked him up as he left and trailed him as far as the harbour. He was heading towards the A2 when he got away from me.’
‘M2 or A2?’ The difference was important.
‘A2, Mr P.’
And Piggott nodded to himself. The A2 went north. Towards Holywood and Palace Barracks, he thought. He’d have put money on it.
25
Bruno was waiting for Liz when she got back to the embassy. He made a show of looking at his watch. ‘I was getting worried that you might have succumbed to Monsieur Seurat’s charms. From the time you took, it would seem you did.’
She laughed. ‘Bruno, I didn’t know you cared.’
He was not amused. ‘So how did you get on?’
‘Very well. He was most helpful.’
He extended a fistful of paper. ‘This came in while you were gone.’
She cast a quick eye at the pages. It was a long message from Peggy Kinsolving in London, marked Strictly Confidential. ‘Anything urgent in this?’ she asked dryly, as he had obviously read it.
‘Not that I can tell. Though this chap Piggott sounds a handful. You’d better come into my office, Liz.’
Upstairs she went through the document carefully while Bruno pretended to attend to some paperwork. Peggy had been her usual thorough self, going through old files that were inaccessible to Judith Spratt in Belfast. She had unearthed a goldmine of information on Piggott. Liz, a prefatory note declared, the following summary is based on our own files, which have drawn heavily on information from the FBI. Please also see the note I’ve attached at the end.
PK.
Piggott born James Purnell in 1954 in Boston Massachusetts. Changed his name to Piggott by deed poll six months before moving to Ireland three years ago.
Purnell was the child of two first-generation Irish émigrés, and eldest of two sons. Grew up in the working-class neighbourhood of Dorchester – his father was a clerk in a law firm. Educated at the prestigious Boston Latin School after winning a scholarship. Attended MIT and took a Bachelor of Science in a combined mathematics and physics degree, followed in 1974 by a PhD. A brilliant student but references from teachers describe him as headstrong.