He was in his fifties, and what muscle he may have had, had turned to fat. His grey hair was sparse, but he’d grown parts of it out to form a comb-over. He also had the same ingratiating smile that lying politicians wore. Callum didn’t need to listen to him fleece his customers to know he was a conman—it was written all over his arrogant face. He was exactly the kind of man that Callum detested: the kind who thought it was okay to take advantage of the poor and desperate.
When a young woman, carrying a baby and selling her old laptop, was given the absolute minimum, Callum decided he’d had enough. As he passed the woman on his way to the desk, he put a hand on her shoulder.
“Wait outside,” he said. “He owes you some money. I’ll make sure you get it.”
She looked startled for a moment, before her eyes welled up and she nodded. Callum watched her scurry from the shop. Her clothes were hanging on her frame, but the baby looked fat and healthy. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the woman was sacrificing for the child. Which made what the pawnbroker had just done even more repugnant.
“What can I do for you?” the man behind the counter said as he assessed Callum. His eyes lit up when he came to the conclusion that a man looking like Callum wasn’t there to sell anything, which meant he must be there to buy. Callum could almost see the man salivate, and would bet he’d just added twenty percent to everything in the store.
“A woman came in a few weeks ago selling camera equipment,” Callum said. “I need to know what she sold to you and if there is anything left.”
The smile appeared again, but the eyes were calculating. “Are you with the police?”
“No.” Callum smiled back and watched the man pale. There was nothing ingratiating or friendly about Callum’s smile. It was all about the promise of pain. “I’m with a security organisation. Tell me about the equipment.”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” the man said. “I get a lot of items through my business. How am I expected to remember everything?”
“I suppose some financial encouragement would prompt your memory?”
The man inclined his head and looked pleased that Callum understood.
Callum understood, all right. “I have other ways that will prompt it.” He reached to the small of his back and pulled out the gun he’d tucked there. He placed it on the counter in front of him.
The owner took a step back, his tongue flicking out in a nervous gesture. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I have cameras in here.”
Callum reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and produced what looked like a small TV remote. “I jammed the feed.” He put the jammer on the counter beside the gun.
The owner’s eyes jumped to his. Now he looked nervous instead of smug. It was a huge improvement. “Who are you?”
“I’m the man asking the questions. Camera equipment, brought in by a woman called Isobel Sinclair.” Ca
llum saw recognition flicker in the man’s eyes. “Do you have anything left?”
The owner’s attention kept straying to the gun. “You won’t shoot me. This is all a bluff.”
Callum pulled a silencer out of his other pocket, picked up the gun and slowly twisted it on. “I have absolutely no problem with taking out your kneecap. To start.”
The owner shuffled back again—from the green sheen of his face, he understood that Callum was perfectly serious. In fact, Callum was hoping the guy would prove difficult, as he’d enjoy putting a bullet in him.
“There’s no need for threats. I know who you’re talking about now. Everybody knows the Sinclair girls.”
“Go on,” Callum ordered.
The owner licked his lips. “She brought in a bag of stuff. Camera bodies, lenses, extra memory, that sort of thing.”
“What kind of lenses?” Callum said.
“BLAH mil.”
Long distance. “Did you look at the camera memory? Was there anything on it?”
“Nothing.” The man shook his head. “It was blank. Like it was brand new.”
“Do you have anything left?”
“No. It sold fast.” He couldn’t quite keep the smug look off his face, and Callum would bet he’d made a good profit from Isobel’s haul.
“Who bought it?”