Steeplejack (Alternative Detective, #1)(69)

“I have always been most cooperative with our fine friends in law enforcement,” said Macinnes. “I see no reason for besmirching my good name.”

“Your good name,” said Andrews, “smells like what comes out the back end of a warthog.”

“I don’t have to stand here and listen to you casting aspersions on—”

“In fact,” said Andrews, “that’s exactly what you have to do. So. Mr. Macinnes, are you aware that trading in stolen luxorite is a crime punishable with a thousand-pound fine and three years in prison?”

“I did, actually,” said Macinnes at his most cherubic, “though I can’t image why you think that might pertain to me. You ought to be protecting the likes of me from looters.”

“Is that right?” said Andrews. His three uniformed officers had eased themselves around the store, and they projected an aura of regimented menace, like dogs ready to break the leash. One of them, truncheon already out, was watching the bullish security guard closely, and though the guard was both imposing and armed, he looked very unsure of his role. “Then perhaps,” Andrews continued, “you would like to explain why the Dowager Lady Hamilton told me not one hour ago that she purchased a luxorite pendant with some very shaky-looking documentation from this very establishment.”

Macinnes must have considered his options earlier. He was the kind of man who kept his ear close to the ground, and news of what happened at the opera house had surely reached him. He had been expecting us.

“I did indeed sell the good lady a piece of fine jewelry,” said Macinnes evenly, “but I am shocked to hear that you think the paperwork not entirely in order. I assure you that when I acquired the piece—”

“Who from?” Andrews cut in.

“What? Well, I’m not sure I can remember. It was so long ago—”

“No,” I interjected. “It wasn’t. The stone was new, but judging by what you have in this case, the setting wasn’t. You mounted it yourself, yes?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, stiffening. “I don’t believe I’ve seen your badge.”

“Miss Sutonga is a consultant,” said Andrews, daring him to argue. “She is assisting the police with their inquiries.”

“Sutonga?” he echoed. “You’re the one what did for young Billy Jennings!”

“Miss Sutonga has been cleared of those charges,” said Andrews.

“Did you get the stone from a Lani boy?” I pressed.

“A Lani boy?” he repeated, still hostile.

It was the first time since we had come in that he seemed off script. He looked surprised, confused even, as if he might have misheard.

“Did you get the luxorite from a Lani boy?” I pressed.

“No,” he said.

“Then who?” Andrews demanded.

“I have many associates—” Macinnes began, acting again.

“Three years in prison,” said Andrews, “and a thousand-pound fine. Both of which I can make go away if you are as cooperative as you say you are.”

The color drained from Macinnes’s cheeks. He opened his mouth to protest, but Andrews just stared him down. No one else in the shop made a sound.

“How do I know you’ll be as good as your word?” he ventured. “If I had, indeed, anything less than strictly legal to report, which I’m not saying I have.”

“You don’t,” said Andrews. “But I’ll tell you this. I don’t actually care about tracking stolen goods. This is a murder inquiry.”

Macinnes looked taken aback, but before he could say anything, a door into the rear of the shop opened and a woman came in.

It was Bessie.

She had been about to speak to Macinnes, but hesitated when she took in the sight of the police. Then she noticed me.

Her face flushed, her eyes—already red rimmed from crying—shone, and she took two decisive steps toward me before anyone could stop her. She slapped me hard across the face, and though I turned fractionally, I did not try to evade the blow.

One of the officers seized her from behind before she could strike me again, and for a moment she struggled before sagging into their arms, face averted, sobbing.

Macinnes looked embarrassed, and Andrews merely turned his eyes down. Through my confused horror I felt an urge to go to her, to whisper my apologies, but this was not the time. It probably never would be.

“Perhaps we should step outside,” said Andrews, motioning Macinnes toward the door.

We moved into the street, and the terrible sound of Bessie’s furious grieving was lost to us. It felt like an evasion, and for what felt like a very long time I stared off down the road, seeing nothing.

“I got it from this black fella,” Macinnes said. “The dowager’s pendant. I’d never seen him before. Hand to god. He just came in and showed me what he had.”

“He wanted you to sell it for him?” asked Andrews.

“Kind of,” said Macinnes.

“What does that mean?”

“He wanted to know what it was worth, how much I could get for it, how much I thought I could sell if he brought more.”

“He said he had more?”

Macinnes nodded. “Showed me another piece about the same size and shape,” he said, “but said he could get more.”