The temptation was to make a desultory search, find nothing and regard it as success.
Des saved the day. He was grinning broadly when he announced: "I've an idea; how does this sound? We've some job-experience kids with us this week, all said they want to be firemen. It's a pain in the backside finding things for them to do non-stop questions all day long. I could send them down here this afternoon, with a supervisor, and tell them to sift everything metallic out of that lot. Would that be a help?"
We accepted the offer like a banana republic dictator accepts a medal.
In return we offered Des his lunch, but were pleased when he declined.
We cleaned up in the fire station, and after a quick mug of tea and a laugh with Green Watch stormed back over the Tops to our own side of the lines.
An auction house in Leeds had supplied one of the expensive pieces on the claim. I sent Nigel on a preliminary recce to see them. If the search of the ashes showed that there had been some valuable stuff in the building then we were barking up the wrong tallboy. But if our instincts were right, we had no time to waste.
I wrote a brief report and spent the afternoon shifting paperwork. Much of it was the usual comical stuff: vernacular accounts of the exploits of our clients, complete with expletives. Some of it wasn't funny at all, just part of the endless procession of the sad, the mad and, occasionally, the bad that passes through our hands. Sparky came in, looking weary. He'd been interviewing witnesses at an unsuccesful bank robbery.
"Any luck, Dave?" I ventured.
"Fantastic," he declared. "He was black, or maybe white; between five feet four and six feet, and possibly walks with a limp. He's wearing a very distinctive coat: one side of it is leather and the other is an anorak."
"That narrows it down. Tell me, do you know what an escutcheon is?"
"No, Charlie, but I'd have it looked at if I were you."
Nigel arrived just before five. "I saw Mr. Somerby himself," he told me. "He's a lot younger than I expected; must be the son. He was amazingly helpful and open. He remembered the escritoire it's a writing desk because they'd had it in for a quite a while. They were trying to sell it for an old lady. It was a beautiful item but her reserve was too high. They'd put it through auction a couple of times before without it moving."
"Did he say what the reserve was?" I asked.
"Yes, seven and a half thousand. When Wheatley started bidding Mr.
Somerby recognised him. Apparently he'd been going round the sales for over a year, buying the best items, often at top prices. Mr. Somerby said that when he started bidding for the escritoire he couldn't believe his luck. The last genuine bid was at three grand, then Wheatley joined in. Somerby took him up to the reserve, then knocked it down to him. I was staggered when he admitted that."
"So Mr. Somerby did the auctioneering himself?"
"Yes. Sorry, boss, didn't I say?"
"Never mind. Anything else?"
"Well, yes." He hesitated, then went on: "Because he'd been so frank with me I showed him the list. He remembered several of the pieces; said they were all fine items. But they didn't… coalesce was the word he used."
"Coalesce? What did he mean by that?"
"He meant that there was no rhyme or reason behind his buying, no pattern to it. Wheatley wasn't going to make a quick profit, because he paid top prices; he wasn't furnishing a house, because who needs four commodes; he wasn't forming a collection, because they were all from different periods… and so forth."
"I get the message. Mr. Somerby sounds useful to know. Hope you pointed out that we're only acting on suspicions, so far."
"Never fear, boss. Then he showed me some of the things in their next sale. Told me the reserves on one or two that caught my eye. I might make a small investment with him after next payday."
"Sounds like he's a good salesman. Fireman Des hasn't rung. I'll call him in the morning. C'mon, let's have an early night for a change." I had a feeling that it might be our last for a while.
Des's call dragged me out of the morning briefing, before I'd had a chance to say my piece. "You've a good job," he declared. "Rang you last night but you'd already gone."
"Home for a snatched bite, Des. We don't have the luxury of three-shift cover like you. How did the kids go on?"
"Great!" I could hear him chuckling at the memory. "We gave them oilskins, and they came back looking like black slugs. Had to hose them down in the yard."
I smiled at the picture. "What did they find?" I asked. "Any escutcheons?"
"Not a one. I've two buckets here, filled with all sorts of bits and pieces, but nothing that looks antique."
"Can you tell what they are?"
"Yes," he replied. "Hundreds of nails, out of the floorboards; quite a lot of hinges the type used on modern kitchen units; a few handles made from aluminium or monkey metal; steel drawer sliders, that sort of stuff."
"All MFI rather than Chippendale."
"Exactly. What do you want me to do with it?"
"Any chance of a brief report, saying what you've just told me?" I ventured, pushing my luck.
"No problem," he replied.
"Great," I declared. "In that case, if you don't hear otherwise from me in a day or two, you can chuck 'em in the skip."
I thanked him for his help and promised to let him know the outcome. So far, over the months, I'd promised several people that I'd keep them informed. It was a tool I used to good effect: they gave me information, I satisfied their natural curiosity. It was a fair exchange. When the time came I'd run through the list and pay my debts. One of the unmentioned penalties suffered by the law-breaker is that he loses his right to privacy. His misdemeanours become public currency. Tough turds.
"So what we need to know," I told Nigel, when I found him, 'is where are the antiques now?"
"Abroad," he said.
I'd decided that was the best bet myself. "Expand," I ordered.
"Some of the pieces are quite well known, at least locally. The further away they are off-loaded, the safer it is."
"Australia?"
"Maybe not that far. America's a better market. If he sells them over there at a small profit, and gets paid out by the insurers, he won't have done too bad, will he?"
"Then we'd better frustrate his efforts, hadn't we?" I pulled the Yellow Pages directory out of my drawer and slid it across to Nigel.
"There are fifty-two entries under Shipping Agents in there, I've just counted them. One for every week of the year, except you haven't got that long. Give them all a ring and see who's done business with Brian Wheatley Developments lately."
Nigel's face fell. "It'll take all week, boss," he stated.
"Nonsense. Just pray that they're all computerised. You could always give your friend the auctioneer… I've forgotten his name…"
"Mr. Somerby."
"That's right, Somerby. Why not give him a ring, see if he thinks we're on the right lines. He might have a suggestion about who has experience in transporting antiques. What was it you were thinking of buying from him?"
"A couple of paperweights, by a French maker called Baccarat. It's my parents' thirtieth anniversary soon; I thought they'd make a decent present."
"Mmm, they sound nice. Give him a ring, see what he says. All in the third person, of course: no names. Then offer him twenty percent less than he's asking for the paperweights."
"Right, boss. Can I use your office?"
"Sure. Tell you what, I'll take Jeff Caton off what he's doing and let him help you. Fill him in with the details. I'll be upstairs, somewhere."
Young Caton was on a futile mission knocking on doors at the Sylvan Fields housing estate, asking deaf and blind people if they'd seen or heard anything. He was glad to come in from the rain. I caught up with Gilbert and told him what we were doing.