One murderous scowl, one flash of muscular arm, and one glimpse of prime Brazilian breast later, Jesus of Rio is hurtling my way at meteor velocity; I react with a tenth of a second to spare, and Jesus hits the door and turns into a thousand plaster hailstones.
THE SIX O’CLOCK gloom promises snow. I put on my possum-hair hat. All’s well in Richmond’s prosperous backstreets. House owners draw curtains on middle-class rooms lined with books, hung with art, lit by Christmas trees. I make my short detour via Red Lion Street. The girl at reception in the Aston Martin dealership has curves as pert as the cars’ but facially she’s an out-and-out ET. She’s gossiping on the phone as I stroll by—I give her a curt your-boss-is-expecting-me nod and cross the showroom floor to the open door of VINCENT COSTELLO, SALES TEAM. The occupant looks to be in his early thirties, has a gelled mullet, an off-the-peg suit from a mid-range high-street outfitter, and is making a dog’s dinner of wrapping a big box of Scalextric. “Hi,” he says to me. “Can I help you?” Jack-the-lad accent, east London; a photo of him and a little boy on his desk, but no mummy and no wedding ring.
“Vincent Costello, I presume?”
“Yes. Like it says on the door.”
“I’d like to inquire about the resale value of an Aston Martin Coda. But first,” I peer at the half-wrapped box, “you need an extra thumb.”
“No, no, really, you’re fine.”
“I am, yes, but you are not. Let me help.”
“Okay, cheers. It’s for my five-year-old.”
“Formula One fan, then, is he?”
“Crazy about cars, motorbikes, anything with engines. His mother does the wrapping normally but …” A tongue of Sellotape tears off a strip of paper, and Costello refines an “Oh, shit” into “Oh, sugar.”
“Wrap boxes diagonally.” Before he can argue, I nudge him away. “Get the little squares of Sellotape ready beforehand, persuade the paper to fold, and …” A few seconds later, a perfectly gift-wrapped box sits on his desk. “Good to go.”
Vincent Costello’s duly impressed. “Where d’you learn that?”
“My aunt runs a small chain of upmarket gift shops. It has been known for her wayward nephew to lend a hand.”
“Lucky her. So. Aston Martin Coda, you say?”
“1969, hundred and ten on the clock, one careful owner.”
“ Verylow mileage for such a mature specimen.” He takes out an A4 sheet of numbers from a drawer in his desk. “May I ask who this careful owner is? ’Cause youhaven’t been driving since 1969.”
“No, a friend inherited from his father. I’m Hugo, by the way, Hugo Lamb, and my friend’s one of the Penzance Penhaligons.” We shake hands. “When my friend’s father passed away, he left his family one ungodly financial mess and a humongous bill for inheritance tax.”
Vincent Costello makes a sympathetic grimace. “Right.”
“My friend’s mother’s a lovely woman, but hasn’t got a financial bone in her body. And, to cap it all, their family solicitor cum financial adviser’s just been banged up for fraud.”
“Blimey, it’s one thing after another, isn’t it?”
“Just so. Now, when I last spoke with Jonny, I offered to mention his Aston Martin to our local dealer—you. My parents live on Chislehurst Road. Cowboys outnumber sheriffs in the vintage motor business and I’m guessing a London dealer like yourself could offer a degree of discretion that my friend wouldn’t enjoy if he went to someone in Devon or Cornwall.”
“Your instinct is bang-on, Hugo. Let me consult an up-to-date price list …” Costello opens a file. “Is your own father a client here?”
“Dad’s a BMW man at present, but he may be in the market for something niftier. Beamers are such a yuppie clichй. I’ll mention how helpful you’ve been.”
“I’d appreciate that. Rightio, Hugo. Tell your friend that the ballpark figure for a 1969 Aston Martin Coda with around a hundred K on the clock, all things being equal, is …” Vincent Costello runs his finger down a column, “… in the regionof twenty-two thousand. However, London weighting’d work in his favor—I’m thinking of an Arab collector on my client list, a gentleman who’ll pay a bit extra, knowing we sell a sound vehicle, so I couldstretch to twenty-five K. We’d need to have our in-house mechanic inspect the vehicle, and Mr. Penhaligon’d need to bring in the paperwork himself.”
“Naturally, we want everything to be aboveboard.”
“Here’s my card, then—I’ll be ready if he calls.”
“Excellent.” I put it in my snakeskin wallet and we shake hands as I leave. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Costello.”
December 23
BERNARD KRIEBEL PHILATELY of Cecil Court, off Charing Cross Road, envelops me with pipe-tobacco fug as the bell jingles. It’s a long, narrow shop with a central stand where sets of midprice stamps are displayed, like LPs. Pricier items live in locked cabinets along the walls. I unwind my scarf, but my old satchel stays around my neck. The radio is warbling Don Giovanni, Act 2. Bernard Kriebel, clad in green tweed and a navy cravat, glances around the customer at the desk to ensure I come in peace; I send him a take-your-time face and stay at a tactful distance, perusing the mint condition Penny Blacks in their humidity-controlled display cabinets. It soon becomes clear, however, that the customer ahead of me is not a happy bunny: “What do you mean, fake?”
“This specimen is closer to a hundred days old,” the proprietor removes his delicate glasses to rub a watery eye, “than a hundred years.”
The customer pinches the air like a comedy Italian: “What about the faded dye? The browned paper? That paper’s not contemporary!”
“Period paper isn’t hard to obtain—although the crosshatch fibers suggest the 1920s more than the 1890s.” Bernard Kriebel’s unhurried English has a Slavonic burr: He’s Yugoslav, I happen to know. “Dunking the paper in weak tea is an old gambit. The blocks must have taken many a night to craft, I’ll admit—though with a list price of twenty-five thousand pounds, the prize justifies the labor. The ink itself is modern—Windsor and Newton Burnt Sienna?—diluted, slightly. Not an inept forgery.”
Appalled falsetto huff: “You accuse me of forgery?”
“I accused someone, not you. Interestingly.”
“You’re trying to beat the price down. Admit it.”
Kriebel grimaces with distaste. “A part-timer at Portobello may bite, or one of the traveling stamp and coin fairs. Now, if you’d excuse me, Mr. Budd, a genuine customer is waiting.”
Mr. Budd snarls a gaaaghand storms out. He tries to slam the door—but it’s not slammable—and he’s gone. Kriebel shakes his head at the ways of the world.
I ask, “Do many forgers bring you their handiwork?”
Kriebel sucks in his cheeks to show he’ll ignore the question. “I know your face …” he searches for me in his mental Rolodex, “… Mr. Anyder. You sold me a Pitcairn Island set of eight in August. A good clean set.”
“I hope you’re well, Mr. Kriebel.”
“Passably. How are your studies? Law at UCL, wasn’t it?”
I think he’s trying to catch me out. “Astrophysics at Imperial.”
“So it was. And have you found any sentient life up there?”
“At least as much as there is down here, Mr. Kriebel.”
He smiles at the old joke and looks at my satchel. “Are you buying or selling this afternoon?”
I bring out the black folder and remove a strip of four stamps.
A Biro in Kriebel’s hand goes tap-tap-tapon the benchtop.
The philatelist and his Anglepoise lamp peer closer.
The Biro falls silent. Bernard Kriebel’s old eyes look my way inquisitorially, so I recite: “Four Indian Half-Anna Deep Blues; 1854 or 1855; from the right of sheet, with part marginal inscription; fresh condition; unused. How am I doing so far?”
“Well enough.” He renews his inspection under a Sherlock-sized magnifying glass. “I won’t pretend that a plethora of these pass through my hands. Did you have any … price in mind?”