EQMM, July 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Or not selling it."

  ''I'm selling it, Zoe. It's just . . . “

  "You're not getting the money?"

  "It'll come."

  "Just as long as we don't end up in one of your bloody Japanese tents, Steve."

  "No way."

  "Here's your beer."

  "Thanks."

  "So—you going to ask me?"

  "About what?"

  "My day. My exceptional and brilliantly good day?"

  "Let's see now. I walk in, and for once you greet me brightly. You ask about my day, then offer me a beer from the fridge. Even more confusing—you're smiling, appear happy for once. All I can conclude, judging by previous instances such as this, is that you've been spending money again."

  "Objection! Merely circumstantial evidence at this point, Your Honour. It could just be that I'm pleased to see you."

  "And you're wearing new shoes."

  "Correction, Your Honour—new designer, vintage shoes."

  "Oh Christ!"

  "And, for the benefit of the jury, would you mind estimating how much I paid for these shoes?"

  "Zoe, please. Can we stop the lawyer game? I'm not a barrister anymore."

  "More's the pity. You were good."

  "I lost too many cases, Zoe, you know that."

  "You just got unlucky, that's all. It could have turned around. One juicy case would have turned it around. You just gave up."

  "Zoe, it's old ground now. Can we move on?"

  "You should have stayed another couple of years, that's all."

  "Zoe—Rourke asked me to leave. If I hadn't, he'd have fired me. At least by resigning I got the settlement."

  "And promptly spent in on tents."

  "Japanese tents, Zoe. State-of-the-art tents."

  "Which you can't sell."

  "Which I'm currently negotiating retail outlets for."

  "You shouldn't have taken Rourke's offer. He's a slime-ball."

  "Can we move on? Perhaps to the shoes?"

  "You like?"

  ''I'm kind of more concerned about the price, to be honest."

  "Wouldn't be, if you'd stood your ground with Rourke."

  "Zoe, how many times have I said it? We can't spend money like we used to. Just can't. It's . . . insane to be buying stuff like that."

  "Exhibit A, Your Honour . . . “

  "Zoe, please—like I said—drop the lawyer stuff . . . “

  "One pair of genuine vintage Prada shoes. Condition—immaculate, barely used. Worth close on four hundred pounds."

  "Oh good God. Tell me you bought them from a charity shop for twenty quid. Please."

  "Twenty pounds for Prada? Not even close, Tent-boy. Not even close."

  "Zoe, this really isn't funny . . . “

  "Ninety-nine p, Your Honour. Ninety-nine p."

  "What?"

  "Exceptionally brilliant, I'd say."

  "Ninety-nine p?"

  "The wonders of eBay, Steve. The joy of surfing for a bargain, then finding out no one's bidding for it, there's no reserve, and you can close the deal as sole bidder for a pittance. In this case, ninety-nine p."

  "You bought designer shoes from the Internet—for less than a pound?"

  "Kind of. I mean, there was a delivery charge of fifteen quid, but that was for the whole box."

  "Whole box?"

  "Sure. The seller just put it on as a box of vintage designer stuff. No photos or clues. Like one of those mystery goody-bags you get as a kid. Just pay your money and take your chances. So I thought I would. Bid for it—won it. Won the whole thing for ninety-nine p. Today, it came. And it wasn't just shoes in there, but other stuff, too. And Steve, wait till you see the other stuff."

  "Slow down, love. You're telling me you bid on a box of stuff? Without knowing what was in it?"

  "Neat, isn't it?"

  "But you must have had some idea?"

  "Sure. The guy who placed the ad said his wife had recently died and he was getting rid of some of her designer stuff."

  "On eBay?"

  "Steve, it's a crazy world. People do crazy things. And this is a gift horse that I'm not going to look in the mouth."

  "You're wearing a dead woman's shoes?"

  "I'm recycling a dead woman's shoes, Steve. Oh, what—you're going to have some sort of moral stand on this now, are you? Listen, the guy wanted to get rid of his wife's stuff. Maybe he pitched the whole ad wrong. Maybe he was expecting to get a fortune for it, I don't know. All I do know is that when I found it, I put the minimum bid on—and won."

  "I just think it's weird, that's all. Why not take the stuff down to a charity shop? Why stick it on eBay? Where does he live, this guy, anyway?"

  "The package was postmarked somewhere in London. Anyway, what does it matter? I've managed to get lucky, get myself some designer bits and pieces that we can't afford anymore, and you're sitting there with a scowl on your face. Steve, I'm saving us money. Heaps of it."

  "But it's dead people's stuff."

  "Right. And you think the charity shops are full of clothes people simply decide to chuck out? Breaking news for you, Steve—most of it comes from dead people when relatives clear the houses."

  "I feel awkward even looking at it."

  "Why? It's not even yours. It's mine. I bid on it, I won it. You don't come into it. You want to see the rest of the stuff?"

  "I feel certain you're going to show me."

  "I'll be right back."

  "Zoe? This eBay thing—I mean, it's not going to get out of hand, is it?"

  "Can't hear you."

  "I know it's a bit of fun, and millions of people do it; I just don't want you buying heaps of stuff we can't afford. You know these things can turn into an addiction, Zoe. I was reading about some old dear who spent hours on the site, filled her whole house up with . . . wow!"

  "What do you think?"

  ''I'm thinking that looks amazing. You look amazing in it. Like a movie star going to the Oscars."

  "And you know the best bit?"

  "The body inside?"

  "Calm yourself, Tent-boy. It's the label. Yves Saint Laurent, Steve. It's an original YSL dress. It's got to be worth thousands."

  "Bloody hell!"

  "There's a couple of red-wine stains and a small tear at the back, but apart from that, it's fine. It'll dry clean, and I can have the tear repaired."

  "Red-wine stain—on the back? Don't you normally spill wine down the front of your dress?"

  "I don't know. Maybe she was at some sort of function and someone bumped into the back of her, spilt their drink."

  "Odd, really odd."

  "What is?"

  "Nothing . . . just . . . “

  "What's odd about it, Steve?"

  "To be doing this—speculating about how a stain got onto the back of a dead woman's dress."

  "Well, let's not, then. Let's move on. What do you make of this?"

  "It's a bag."

  "A Louis Vuitton bag, klutz. Seven hundred pounds worth, minimum."

  "Seven hundred pounds? For a handbag?"

  "An exclusive, designer, to-die-for handbag, Steve."

  ''I'm in the wrong business."

  "And maybe I've wandered into the right business. The handbag doesn't interest me, really. Too showy. But I bet if I took some photos of it, put it back on eBay, it'd pull in a couple of hundred at least. It's a hell of a profit margin on ninety-nine p, isn't it?"

  "This Lewis Veeton guy—he doesn't make tents by any chance, does he?"

  "It's Louis Vuitton. And no, they're not big into camping. It's all overpriced branded accessories for the very rich."

  "Pass it here."

  "Please?"

  "Please."

  "Careful with it. I haven't even opened it yet."

  "Well . . . maybe you should have, Zoe."

  "Why?"

  "There's stuff still inside."

  "What?"

  "Here—in the little zip-up side pocket thing."

  "Show me
, Steve."

  "Oh Christ!"

  "What is it?"

  "A bloody mobile phone."

  "You're joking . . . “

  "No way, Zoe. Here, look. A mobile. Her mobile. The dead woman's mobile."

  "Jesus."

  "There's more, Zoe. Some lipsticks, some makeup stuff . . . and what's this . . . ?"

  "Well? Steve? Don't just sit there. What is it?"

  "Money, Zoe. An envelope full of fifty-pound notes."

  "Where?"

  "Here. Well, say something, Zoe."

  "How much?"

  "What?"

  "How much money is there?"

  "Zoe—don't you get it? Doesn't matter how much there is, it isn't ours. It's hers. Her money."

  "Count it."

  "No."

  ''I'll do it, then. Give it here."

  "Zoe—it's not ours."

  "Steve—you're the lawyer. I bought the stuff in a legal transaction. Sold as seen, one box of vintage designer clothing."

  "Right—and nothing about envelopes full of cash. It's obviously a mistake. We've got to give it back to the guy. Hey, I could ring him on the mobile. It's virtually the same model as mine. Hang on, the battery's dead. It's not turning on."

  "She might not have used it for months. Hell, I don't even know when the woman died. What are you doing?"

  "What does it look like? Counting it."

  "I don't think you should, Zoe."

  "You don't think about lots of things, Steve. Which is maybe part of your problem."

  "My ‘problem'? What if it's counterfeit?"

  "What if it isn't?"

  "I've got an idea. The mobile. It's almost the same model as mine. My charger will most likely fit it. We can plug it in, turn it on, find his number, ring him, tell him about the money. She was his wife, she's bound to have his number in there somewhere."

  "Four thousand, eight hundred."

  "What?"

  "That's how much there is."

  "Oh God."

  "Look at it, Steve. Close on five grand. Think how much we need it. Think how many bills it'd pay. Repayments. Five grand, Steve."

  "Zoe, please, listen to me. You got yourself a bargain box of goodies, fine. And sticking it back on eBay to make a few quid—sure. But this money, this is . . . “

  "Is what?"

  "Wrong, Zoe. Very wrong. I mean, what kind of person carries that sort of cash around in her handbag, for Christ's sake?"

  "What the hell does it matter? Maybe she was married to a millionaire, and never left the mansion without five grand."

  "Tucked away into a side portion?"

  "Safer there, isn't it?"

  "There's no way that guy would have sold this bag if he knew it had all that cash in it."

  "So he missed it while he was emptying it. So what? Chances are he's loaded anyway. I mean, if his wife was dripping designer labels, he's hardly likely to be some sorry little tent salesman, is he?"

  "Below the belt, Zoe."

  "I'm sorry, Steve. Didn't mean it like that. I just want you to see this for what it is. A bloody great chunk of good luck for us. It's not like we've robbed it. Think about it this way: If you hadn't thoroughly checked it, and I'd gone and sold the bag on eBay, then someone else would have the money. And how many people do you think would turn down five thousand pounds if it dropped into their laps?"

  "I still think we should check the mobile, see if we can call the guy up. You never know, if he's as rich as you think he is, he might let us keep the money. It'd feel more honest that way."

  "Steve, how many people worry about being ‘honest'? Those people who owe your business money, they're not exactly ‘honest', are they? You're having to chase them up every day. They don't care because you're just a small-time supplier. This is our chance to get ourselves level again, and you're about to throw it right back because it doesn't feel ‘honest'?"

  ''I'm going to try the phone, Zoe.

  "And say what? Sorry, but we've found five grand's worth of your wife's cash in her Louis Vuitton bag?"

  "Sounds pretty good to me. Pretty honest."

  "Steve—don't. Please."

  ''I'm going to try, and that's the end of it."

  "I don't believe this! The first bit of fortune we've had in months, and you . . . what's happening?"

  "It works, the bloody cable works. The mobile's powering up. Jesus, there's about a hundred unread messages loading on it. It can't have been used for weeks."

  "Read one."

  "What?"

  "It might tell us more about who she was."

  "Zoe—I'm not about to read a dead woman's texts!"

  "I would. Where's the harm in it? Might be from her husband. Could give you his number, if you're so keen to go and ring him."

  "Fine—you do it. Find the number, so I can call him."

  "In a minute, Steve."

  "Now, Zoe."

  "Hang on. Aren't you at least a little intrigued? People keep all sorts on their mobiles these days. Pictures, videos. This little gadget could tell you all about the woman."

  "And why the hell would I want to know that?"

  "Why wouldn't you want to know? Just to have a peek?"

  "Because she's dead!"

  "Right. And nothing's going to change that, is it? What the hell do you think's going to happen? I press a button and the woman comes straight from hell to haunt us?"

  "It's wrong, Zoe."

  "Just a quick peek . . . “

  "What are you doing?"

  "Accessing the picture menu."

  "Zoe! No."

  "Oh . . . God."

  "What?"

  "Well . . . it appears our dead friend . . . led a fairly fun and active social life."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Have a look yourself."

  "Christ . . . !"

  "There's loads of them, by the look of it. Shots of her with various men."

  "Take it back, Zoe. I don't want to see any more. It's disgusting."

  "I reckon . . . I reckon she was some sort of high-class call girl. I mean it'd explain the money in the bag, wouldn't it? All that makeup she's wearing?"

  "And the clothes she's not. I was expecting someone older. She just looks so young. Twenties, maybe."

  "And maybe, Steve . . . maybe she used the photos to blackmail these poor saps."

  "Throw it away, Zoe. Just throw the lot away."

  "Wait a second . . . have a look at this one . . . “

  "No!"

  "I think you might recognise someone."

  "Who?"

  "Take a look."

  "My God!"

  "It is him, isn't it?"

  "Rourke? Yeah—I think so."

  "Try the other pictures, Steve."

  "What for?"

  "God's sake! To see if you recognise anyone else! Don't you see, if this woman was a call girl, think how much we could make from these pictures? I know for a fact that Rourke would pay through the nose to keep this lot from his wife."

  "Blackmail?"

  "Business opportunity, Steve. Remember how he treated you, just because you lost a few cases?"

  "It's obscene."

  "Steve, he's obscene, can't you see that? This is a chance to get even. Go on, check the other shots."

  "I can't think that you're even vaguely considering this!"

  "Well, I am. Give me back that phone, now. If you won't do it, I damn well will."

  "Zoe—are you even aware of what you're doing? God's sake, this . . . woman was probably involved in all sorts. With all sorts of people."

  "I would have thought that was obvious, Rourke being just one of them. Wait a minute . . . look at this! Isn't that the bloke who presents that news programme on the telly?"

  "Zoe . . . “

  "Have a look. It's him, isn't it?"

  "Might be. It's hard to tell . . . “

  "It's him! I know it is. Jesus, Steve, we've wandered into a gold mine, here. There must be dozens of men on this th
ing. The address book is crammed with numbers. And I bet most of them will be high-profile types who'll want to keep it very quiet. We're made, Steve. Finally. And all for ninety-nine p."

  "What are you doing?"

  "Accessing the video menu."

  "Jesus Christ, Zoe—you're going through a dead call girl's phone!"

  "I am."

  "You know how these people die, Zoe. You know what happens? It's not like they gently pass over in their sleep, for God's sake! They're linked to gangs, underworld people . . . “

  "Stop being so bloody dramatic. You watch a few episodes of Prime Suspect and suddenly, you're an expert on vice crime. It's ridiculous!"

  "Zoe—this woman's dead. A young girl's dead. Look at that dress. The rip in the back? The ‘red-wine’ stain? It could be blood, Zoe. Blood from a stab wound that killed the woman. This ‘husband’ chap who put the stuff on eBay, he could be the murderer."

  "Sure—and you're going to kill someone, then calmly eBay their bloodstained clothes?"

  "It's a way of getting rid of them, isn't it? And maybe making some money out of them, too. Think about it, Zoe—you'd have had the dress dry-cleaned, then repaired the tear."

  "And this ‘murderer’ of yours risks all that for a lousy ninety-nine p?"

  "Only because no one bid against you, Zoe. It could have gone for a fortune if others had been bidding too."

  "You're talking utter rubbish, Steve. However we got this stuff doesn't matter. The point is we can make heaps from it. How quickly do you think Rourke will let you have the job back, once you let him know about this woman and him?"

  "I don't want the lousy job back, Zoe. I'm happy . . . “

  "Selling Japanese tents? Well, fine for you, Steve. But maybe not for me. I can't live like this for much longer."

  "Things pick up."

  "Oh, do change the record, Steve. They won't ‘pick up’ for a long time, and you know it. You're being trod on by everyone, taken advantage of, just like before. You're a fall guy, Steve, and worse—they know it. But this money, this phone—it's a way out of it."

  "Zoe—give me that phone. I'm destroying it."

  "Do that—and you destroy us. Oh my God . . . “

  "What?"

  "There's a video. It's her. She's talking to the camera."

  "What's she saying?"

  "I don't know. I can't find the volume switch."

  "Give it here."

  "Turn it up, Steve! I want to know what she's saying."

  ''I'm trying, for God's sake."

  "She looks terrible."