Jemma shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘Exactly,’ said Raphael, and the atmosphere in the shop lightened a bit. ‘Just empty threats.’ He reached into his coat pocket and held out a paper bag. ‘I brought you a panini. Cheese and ham.’
‘Oh. Thank you,’ said Jemma as she took it. She managed a wavering smile. ‘Who do you think sent the letter?’
‘Not a clue,’ said Raphael. ‘And what’s more, I don’t care. Now, why don’t you make a nice cup of tea to go with that panini.’
Jemma went through to the back room and put the kettle on. She tried to think of nice things like serving customers and putting money into the till, but the note, with its cut-out lettering and its vague threat, kept getting in the way. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, she thought, putting teabags into the pot. And he won’t call the police. She sighed. So there’s nothing I can do.
She felt pressure against her legs, and looked down to find Folio rubbing his head on her ankle. ‘Good cat,’ she said absentmindedly, and reached down to stroke him. When her hand was within clawing range she wondered if that was a good idea, but Folio accepted the fuss readily enough, and even managed a throaty purr.
‘Gooooood cat,’ Jemma purred back, feeling much less troubled. Raphael was right. It was an empty threat. She could barely remember what the letter had said.
She made the tea, took it through, and enjoyed the luxury of eating her panini in the armchair while Raphael counted the morning’s takings. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘The shop is doing well,’ and Jemma felt a little ember of pride warm her through. The sun had come back, lending a pleasing glow to the mahogany counter and the parquet floor, and the shop did look very nice indeed.
Everything went swimmingly, in fact, until Raphael let out a groan. Then he jumped up and strode into the back room, calling over his shoulder, ‘If he asks to see me, tell him I’m dead. Or travelling the world. Or otherwise engaged.’
‘If who asks to see you?’ said Jemma.
‘I don’t know who you’re talking to,’ Raphael shouted. ‘I’m not here.’
The door opened, and a smiley man in a short-sleeved shirt, beige chinos and a tie came in. He was holding a clipboard. ‘Could you spare me a moment?’ he asked.
‘Um, probably,’ said Jemma. He seemed harmless enough.
‘First of all, I don’t suppose your boss happens to be about, does he?’ He consulted his clipboard. ‘Mr, ah, Burns.’
‘I’m afraid he’s busy in the stockroom,’ said Jemma, crossing her fingers under the counter. Raphael might well be in the stockroom, and possibly busy.
‘Oh, I see.’ The smile became even more open and friendly. ‘Could you pop through and ask if he’s got time for a word?’
Jemma shook her head. ‘I can’t leave the shop unattended.’
The man nodded. ‘Quite right too. In that case, I’ll introduce myself. My name is Richard Tennant, and I’m from the Westminster Retailers’ Association, Charing Cross Branch.’ He extended a large hand.
Before Jemma could shake it, Raphael erupted from the back room. ‘Don’t waste your breath, Tennant,’ he said, taking up position behind the counter next to Jemma. ‘I’m not joining your stupid association. Not now, not ever.’
Mr Tennant looked rather hurt. ‘That’s a real shame, Mr Burns. Our membership on Charing Cross Road is higher than ever, and we’re getting to the point where the association has a real voice. Strength in numbers, and all that.’
Raphael looked down his long nose at him. ‘To paraphrase Groucho Marx,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t join any association that wanted me for a member.’
Mr Tennant chuckled. ‘Very droll, Mr Burns, very droll. Well, I see I won’t be able to convince you today, so I’ll leave you our latest newsletter and be on my way.’ He unclipped a colourful pamphlet from his board and laid it on the counter. ‘Perhaps I should add that many of the bookshops in this area are finding it beneficial. Anyway, if you do change your mind, you know where to find me.’
‘Thank you so much,’ said Raphael coldly. And as Mr Tennant turned to go, Raphael picked up the newsletter and, very deliberately, tore it in half. Mr Tennant’s shoulders stiffened slightly, but he kept walking, and left without another word.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Jemma, once the door had closed behind him. ‘Why don’t you like him? And why wouldn’t we want to join a retail association? Surely that would be good for us.’
‘Not if they start telling me what to do,’ muttered Raphael, tearing the newsletter into long strips. ‘Not if they start saying the shop has to conform to this or that regulation. I’ll – I’ll sell the shop before I let some chirpy chap with a clipboard tell me what’s what.’ He picked up the wastepaper basket and swept the strips of paper into it, scowling. ‘I need pastry,’ he said, and stalked out.
Back to Rolando’s, I presume, thought Jemma, with a sigh. She eyed the shelves, which looked distinctly gappy, and hurried to the stockroom for more books. When she opened the boxes, she found an assortment of novels by Len Deighton and Robert Ludlum. Yet they hadn’t sold any spy thrillers that morning, as far as she remembered.
I wonder why he is so against the retail association, she thought, as she began to shelve the books. I mean, I can see it would be a good thing. He could learn from the other booksellers. And I doubt they would tell him what to do.
Then a sneaky little thought almost made her drop The Bourne Identity. Maybe Raphael doesn’t want to join because he doesn’t want anyone to know what he’s doing. And that note said he was up to something.
She slid the book into place, and reached for another. But what, exactly, is he up to?
Chapter 9
Jemma mused as she shelved books. What could Raphael be up to? She was half tempted to nip to Rolando’s and peek in at the window to see if he really was there.
But he was there earlier, her rational brain said. He brought you a panini, remember?
It takes, what, three minutes to buy a panini? He could have popped in after he’d been doing – whatever he had been doing.
It could be something perfectly innocent, she told herself. Raphael might have some sort of side hustle.
Or he could be – I don’t know – smuggling, or money-laundering? On impulse, Jemma opened the till and looked inside. While the shop’s takings were definitely up from the heady heights of the fifty pounds that Raphael had mentioned, there definitely wasn’t enough cash in there to fuel anyone’s suspicions of money laundering. Jemma closed the till drawer, which snapped shut with its usual satisfying chime. Yet she remained unsatisfied.
‘The stockroom,’ she muttered. ‘All those unlabelled boxes. Anything could be in them.’ On impulse she went into the stockroom and picked up a few boxes to test their weight. To be perfectly honest, they all felt about the right weight to be boxes of books, and with some gentle shaking, they sounded like books, too.
Whatever he’s doing, thought Jemma as she closed the stockroom door, I don’t think it relates to the shop. Then she remembered how the shop had chilled when she read the anonymous letter. She tried to dismiss it as a coincidence. But frankly, there had been a lot of similar coincidences. Including the way that the air had thinned and the musty smell had vanished when Raphael dismissed the letter as nonsense.