Dovetail

by Bernard Pearson

  Indeed they had been. During hard times, Bill would take a rather indifferent stick of furniture apart and, with great skill, guile, and very special stains and polishes, produce a piece that would pass, to even a moderately educated eye, as something rare and desirable. Then Dolly would put the word around that she was about to receive some gem of an antique that had fallen from the French windows of a nice house in one of the home counties. Not coming right out and saying it was stolen, of course, but dropping enough hints that those mugs who thought they were part of the ‘special end of the trade’ would mosey round and have a look. If enough people were interested, Dolly would hold an impromptu ‘Dutch’ auction – sealed bids opened at lunch time, winner to collect and pay before the market closed – to add to the illusion that the piece was dodgy.

  Dolly had always wanted more than Bill thought prudent to provide, and he eased himself out of the relationship as soon as he could. Dolly, however, got greedy and took on another partner, one who was nothing like as skilled as Bill, and the inevitable happened. She was rumbled, and one of her former customers was angry enough about the refunds he had to give as a result of her activities (or rather their discovery) that he gave her a severe beating. When Bill heard about that he came up to London to visit her in hospital, bearing a huge bunch of flowers that concealed a bottle of gin. That’s when he found out that ‘Dolly’ was really Dennis and had once been a drag act at Danny La Rue’s nightclub in Soho.

  As they talked of bygone days, Bill carefully slipped in an offhand enquiry as to whether old Manny was still alive. It seemed he was, but he had retired from the trade.

  ‘Well, dear, he must be 80 if he’s a day, and all that drink and sex in the House of Lords has got to take it out of you!’ bellowed Dolly. Apparently Manny had a nice little council flat nearby; she knew the street but not the number. Bill quickly moved the conversation on, and after another hour of weak tea and detailed descriptions of Dolly’s current medical problems, Bill was able to get away.

  He had no trouble finding the street Manny lived in. It contained a row of two-storey council flats with their doors all painted the same colour blue. Not a long street, it must have been bombed during the war and these dwellings put up in the 1950s. Not at all the sort of place he imagined Manny would have ended up. A mews cottage in Kensington perhaps, or maybe some little thatched number in Surrey that would make for an easy journey to the Oval, but not one of these humble workers’ dwellings.

  Walking up the street as near to the houses as he dared, Bill looked into all the front windows. The last thing he wanted was some busybody calling the police and accusing him of being a peeping Tom, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

  Luckily, the street was deserted, and before very long Bill found a front window containing a vase so large it must have blocked out all the available light to the room. It was garishly ornate and had a picture of a very bored-looking Queen Elizabeth II on one side. Bill knew this vase well, and the story behind the monstrosity.

  On the succession to the throne of our gracious Queen, Royal Doulton in Stoke-on-Trent created 100 of these huge urns to commemorate the happy event. No expense was spared, and distribution was limited to heads of state and fellow royals attending the coronation. However, the Doulton potters, glazers, kiln packers, and all the other workers were firm monarchists, and extra urns had to be made for glazing tests and in case of accident. Of course there were ‘rejects’.

  Not too long after all the celebrations were over, the new Queen was on a tour of her realm and eventually rocked up in Stoke for a look around the Doulton factory and other places of civic interest before a knife-and-fork tea at the town hall. Her open-topped car was driven down a small, typical street in which many of the Doulton pottery employees lived. So, having been told by the great and the good of Royal Doulton that only 100 coronation urns bearing her likeness were ever made, what does the lovely young Queen see but urn after urn proudly displayed in the front-parlour windows of these workers’ homes!

  Doulton management were furious and threatened to fire and prosecute for theft any worker found to possess one of the illicit urns. Fortunately, saner heads prevailed; an amnesty was declared and a small reward given to those who handed the things in for destruction. Most were destroyed, but the few that weren’t became even more highly sought after than the official run of production. Bill had seen this self-same vase before and heard the story of its making from dear old Manny, antiques expert, staunch monarchist, and well-connected fence, as he reverently dusted the revolting object.

  Bill rang the bell on the council-blue door and eventually heard a slow, shuffling sound that gradually grew nearer. Bolts were withdrawn with great difficulty and the door was finally opened as far as the security chain would allow. A face appeared in the gap between door and frame; a face that was folded in as if made from wet flannels, but with a pair of sharp eyes peering out from the layers.

  Suddenly the door swung open and a reedy voice twittered, ‘Bill, darling, well I never! I never did, indeed, how splendid, do come in!’

  Bill entered a short hallway, every wall of which was covered with paintings in shabby gilt frames. He was pushed along by Manny, who was trailing a cloud of Chanel Number Five and wintergreen ointment, to a door at the end. This opened into a small room made even smaller by a mountainous chaise longue and two enormous overstuffed club chairs covered with myriad shawls and throws. Small, brass-topped occasional tables were loaded with bric-a-brac and photographs in silver frames. As in the hallway, every wall was covered with oil paintings, watercolours, and huge gilded mirrors that went from floor to ceiling. There were more pictures here, Bill thought, than in most provincial galleries.

  Bill was waved to one of the chairs and sank into a morass of silk shawls. Manny sat on the chaise and adopted as coquettish a pose as his arthritis would allow.

  His first words were ‘You look a mess, Bill, darling.’

  Bill looked at him and said simply, ‘Manny, I think I’m really in the shit this time.’

  Manny got painfully to his feet again and said, ‘Well, we’re both going to need a cup of tea, then. I’ll make it, and you feel free to wander around and smoke that foul pipe of yours.’

  Bill had known and liked Manny from his earliest days in Bath working for Harry Pexton. He would sometimes ask Bill up to his hotel room when he was staying over, but never took it personally when Bill refused. Manny admired Bill’s enthusiasm for his craft and love of old and interesting things and would answer all of Bill’s many questions at length. He even loaned him books on restoration and, when Bill finally left the clutches of Harry Pexton, gave him an original 1803 copy of The Cabinet Dictionary by Thomas Sheraton. It was worth a fortune; Bill still treasured it.

  Manny’s special area of expertise was Russian icons, and he had made many visits to Soviet Russia during the Cold War when visas were almost impossible to obtain. But obtain them he did, thanks to his specialized knowledge and the universal freemasonry of ‘the exuberantly joyful’. Manny knew them all, from cabinet ministers to East End gangsters and, as he liked to say with a twinkle in his eye, ‘all stations in between’.

  Bill was still walking down memory lane when Manny returned with a tray bearing two large mugs, a teapot, and a bottle of Navy rum.

  ‘Just like old times,’ said Manny as he set the tray down beside him on the chaise and passed a mug to Bill. ‘A bit of Navy for you?’ he asked with smile.

  ‘No, thanks, I might have to do some walking later and I’ll need my wits about me in this wicked city.’

  Bill took a sip of tea, choked on it, and started to cough; one of his bad episodes that went on and on. Finally, wiping his mouth on his handkerchief, he looked up. Manny sat on the chaise looking at him with eyes that were as full of cunning as ever, but also something else: friendship and concern. ‘You’re ill,’ he said.

  ‘No, not really. It’s just all that bloody dust I’ve sucked up over the years.’


  ‘Well, tell me about this shit you’re in, then,’ said Manny with a wry smile that creased his old face further.

  Bill put his handkerchief in his pocket, sat back, and told Manny the story of Skates and the chairs. Manny was a good listener and let Bill tell the story without interruption. He didn’t ask any questions, and when Bill stopped halfway through to have another coughing fit, he simply waited, his eyes never leaving Bill’s face. When he finished his story, Bill felt spent, as though he had been running, but also slightly more relaxed. He hadn’t realized how tightly his nerves had been stretched until they loosened a bit.

  ‘Right,’ said Manny, ‘I’ll go make some discreet phone calls, and then we’ll have a bit of lunch.’

  Manny went into his bedroom to use the phone as Bill finished his tea. When he came back, Bill followed him into a small but surprisingly modern galley kitchen filled with every conceivable appliance, but not a single antique. They chatted as Manny fussed around making eggs and toast.

  Bill said, ‘Last I knew, you were living in Kensington. When you weren’t in Russia, anyway.’

  ‘Yes, well, there was plenty of money to be made in those days, my dear, but after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, the quality of the clientele went steadily downhill, I can tell you. ‘Rough trade’ wasn’t in it! Dreadful people, and there came a point when I simply couldn’t stick it any longer.’

  ‘And what then?’

  ‘I decided to take a holiday away from smoky old London. Picked up a lovely boy in Nice, reminded me of David Hockney, though he couldn’t paint to save his life, bless him. He did try though.’ Manny paused and sighed. ‘Alas, he was very trying in the end.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, once the money ran out, the little tart buggered off with the few valuables I had left and I was broke. Stony broke. The mews flat gone, my business gone, and no capital with which to start again.’

  Manny served up the scrambled eggs and a huge pile of toast, made another pot of tea, and they carried everything into an elegant if overcrowded dining room. The plates were valuable Ceres, but the cutlery was strictly Woolworths.

  ‘So, what about this lot?’ asked Bill, waving a piece of toast at all the pictures and objets d’art around them.

  ‘Oh, friends,’ said Manny, coyly. ‘I still have friends, some of whom even come to see me when they’re not in trouble.’

  Manny laughed, but Bill still felt slightly guilty.

  ‘No, but life’s easier now,’ Manny continued. ‘I have a bit of a pension, a dear friend got me this place as I was technically homeless and just a wee bit disabled. To earn a crust, I act as a consultant to those whose pockets are deeper than their knowledge and who want a bit of advice as to what is good and what—like sex with a guardsman in Hyde Park—should be treated with caution. I also make discreet arrangements when some old darling wishes to dispose of a few family treasures without the heirs finding out and getting their greedy young paws on the proceeds.’

  Same old Manny, thought Bill with a smile. Still fixing and mixing, and not a stone’s throw from the market. He always was a cunning bugger.

  The phone rang and Manny went into his bedroom to take the call. Bill helped himself to another slice of toast and tried to keep his nerves from contracting again. After what seemed like ages, Manny came back, ‘Right, listen up, Bill darling. Skates is known. Back in the 80s and 90s he was a property developer in and around the East End, the type who is frequently troubled by suspicious fires in buildings that can’t be developed because they are either listed or contain little old ladies with long tenancy agreements. My informant is a porter for Spink now, but he used to be a restorer for one of the big auction houses. He lived in Islington in a flat taken over by your friend Skates, and sure enough, his building caught fire one dark night. He and a lot of other people barely escaped with their lives. He can’t use one hand properly now because it got burned while he was helping another tenant leave the building. He told the police he saw Skates and Warren on the stairs and Warren attacked him. There was enough evidence to charge them both, but at the trial Skates paraded a wife who swore blind he was at home with her all the evening and had driven her to church for an early service the next morning. Skates even had a priest to swear it was him driving the car that dropped his wife off. Warren, on the other hand, pled guilty, swore he acted alone, and went down for five years.’

  ‘Jesus, what a pal!’ said Bill. ‘Why on earth would he do that?’

  ‘Who knows? But eventually Skates sold off some of his flats and gentrified the rest just as places like Islington were going upmarket. Made a fortune and apparently decided to educate a few shillings by putting them into antiques. Speaking of which, I think I may have found a connection with those chairs. After he made his pile, Skates did a little social climbing and bought his way into the late Lord Deverill’s set.’

  Bill had heard of Lord Deverill. At one time he had owned a vast collection of Elizabethan furniture and artefacts, but it was never fully catalogued because some of the items were of dubious provenance. What he was mostly known for, however, was his passion for gambling and his rotten luck.

  ‘Rumour has it that Deverill was deeply in debt to Skates at one time and, after receiving various threats to life and limb, gave him some of the dodgier items from his collection in lieu of payment.’ Bill thought for a moment, then said, ‘Very interesting. But getting back to the trial, you mentioned a wife. The last time I saw Skates he said he had no family. So, what happened to the wife?’

  ‘He must have dumped her,’ said Manny. ‘Is it important?’

  Bill thought it was. If he could talk to Skates’s wife, she might give him some sliver of information that could be useful in the days ahead. And he thought he knew where to start looking for her.

  Bill spent the night on Manny’s sofa. They talked into the early hours, remembering past times and the ghosts that now peopled them. They also agreed that Bill needed to find a way to get out of this damned chair job. After another of Bill’s coughing fits, Manny said perhaps that was the key.

  ‘Cover the bastard’s boots with that horrible green stuff and he might just leave you alone.’

  Bill laughed and said yes, but thought no, it would take more than that to put Skates off.

  He woke early the next day with a rotten headache, which he attributed to an overdose of violet room freshener. When he went to say goodbye, Manny was propped up in bed, the pain from his arthritis and whatever else was slowly destroying him clearly showing in his creased and tired face. But he beckoned Bill over and opened his arms wide. Poor old Manny, thought Bill, but at least he has a safe haven here amongst his treasures and memories. Bill held his old friend for a moment, smiled his thanks, and then left.

  Chapter 6

  SATURDAY, 18 AUGUST

  Wonderful places, libraries. As a boy, Bill loved going to his local one and bringing back his three books, which if his dad was not too tired he would read to him at bedtime. He hadn’t been to a library for years now, however, and the few books he read these days came from car boot sales or junk shops. He didn’t have much use for adventure stories or spy fiction anymore; for him a good book was one about antiques, woodworking, or, surprisingly, chickens. For some reason he liked chickens.

  Luckily, Ilford had a library, and thanks to the fact that he had come up to London by train, he could wander the capital using public transport. Ilford was just outside the East End, which he knew quite well because of its links to the furniture trade.

  From Manny’s informant, he knew Skates’s trial had been held in early 1990 and he had stated at the time that he lived in Ilford. After acquiring the relevant microfiche, Bill trawled the local papers starting from the first of January. He fought his way through the coverage of a seemingly infinite number of dog shows, jolly sports days, and local government meetings, and eventually found what he was looking for in the Ilford Record for 15 March 1990. ‘Local Man Found Not Guilty of Fire Crime.
Mr Darren Skates, of 48 Peal Road, Ilford was found not guilty…’

  Now Bill had an address to start from; one concrete link with Skates he hoped he could build on. Of course, this article was from seventeen years ago. He doubted Skates would still keep a house in such a place, but it was the only chance he had at the moment, and it might at least provide another lead.

  Leaving the library, he found a small café, one of a sort that was fast disappearing from the world. In the fuggy, steamy embrace of its rundown interior, he enjoyed a huge breakfast. A bit of good ballast before becoming a gumshoe, he thought to himself. He liked the anonymity of the place. The man in the creased white apron who stood behind a marble-topped counter on which a giant urn steamed away had hardly glanced up at him as he took Bill’s order. Shelves behind the man held mugs and cups and sauce bottles as well as a dispenser for selling cigarettes, though this last item was empty. Now that the law was being changed to ban smoking in any place that might offend the sensibilities of the general population, it would undoubtedly remain so.

  He selected a table at the back of the room where he could see the door and the other customers, and lit his pipe. The damp air laced with cooking smells gave him an appetite. Bill ploughed his way through an artery-clogging meal washed down with mahogany-brown tea. The meal contained more fat and calories than he normally consumed in a week from his own frying pan (the weapon of choice for a man who lives on his own).

  After breakfast he was able to get an A–Z of London at a newsagent’s and soon found Peal Road. Luckily, it was only a short walk away. Bill had spruced himself up at Manny’s and even wore a clean shirt (one left behind by a ‘friend’ of Manny’s) under his old tweed jacket. His shoes were clean, his corduroy trousers unpatched. He looked at his reflection in the shop window. With his stocky physique, close-cropped grey hair, and ruddy complexion he might not pass as a city gent, but perhaps he could pass for a civil servant. Not a high-born Brahmin of the species, of course, but maybe a hewer of civic wood or a carrier of local authority water.