by Lee Wood
Peter could barely conceal his excitement to the point of almost letting out a chuckle as he stood up from the seat he had occupied at the end of row six and sauntered to the back of the room and towards the exit.
After all the years of lying, cheating, dishonesty, crooked deals, underhand ways, sly moves, double-dealing and illegal scams that had come to nothing, finally his lucky break had arrived.
The Picasso painting that he had ‘discovered’ in the front room of a small house in an English town and picked up for a song ten months earlier had just turned him from a struggling third-rate wheeler-dealer into a premier league millionaire art dealer.
The painting had been sold to an anonymous buyer. After the deduction of all fees and costs he would end up with around $4 million. Not bad for a day’s work, he thought. I’ve had worse.
Yet two hours earlier he had been worried. Would the painting sell? Would there be a last-minute hitch?
There he was, walking along the streets of New York’s Upper East Side. It felt as if the plush carpets of Sotheby’s had followed him. Like they had magically extended right out of the door and the deep pile was still beneath his feet. It was a feeling like walking on a cloud of air.
So this is what it's like to be a millionaire.
A lot of doors that had previously been closed to him would now have a big ‘welcome’ sign hanging on them.
Yes, just three months into 2017 this would be his year of opportunity. Life was going to be wonderful from this point on.
He needed to phone home, to tell Norman the wonderful news. He was rich, no, they were rich. And money comes to money, right.
Peter speed dialled a number on his iPhone. He realised his mistake as the answerphone at the tiny antiques shop in London cut in. He had forgotten the five-hour time difference between New York and London. Two o'clock local time was seven in the evening back home.
He dialled a different number and heard Norman’s voice. “Hello, lover, how did it go?”
“Norman, darling, we did it. We’re rich. It sold for $5.3 million. Put the champagne on ice I’ll be home tomorrow and we can celebrate.”
“Oh Peter, that’s wonderful news. You’ve worked so hard for your success. Well done. I told you you’d do it in the end. When you get back let’s have a holiday. Where would you like to go?”
Peter’s mind was whirring. St Tropez seemed apt. Or maybe Italy?
“Yes, a couple of weeks in the sun is the least we deserve. I’ll give it some thought and we can book it when I get home.”
“I’m so proud of you Peter. Most people would have given up, but not you. This is your reward for all those years of struggle. Enjoy your success. You know I always believed in you. I’ll be here waiting for you when you get back. I love you. Bye.”
Peter’s mind was buzzing. The world looks different when you have money. He should start to make a list. Perhaps a personal trainer would be a good idea.
Sotheby’s had promised the payment would be in his bank account within fourteen days. So by the time they returned from holiday the first port of call would be a visit to the Jack Barclay car showrooms on Berkeley Square in Mayfair. A brand new Bentley Continental. Maybe a convertible would be nice. At around £170,000 it wouldn’t make too much of a dent in the bank account.
As the taxi made its way from the dingy budget hotel that had been his home for the past two days, Peter thought he deserved a treat. So he called the airline and upgraded his ticket home to first class.
Why not? He could afford it and he was worth it. Life was wonderful. No more settling for second-rate, thank you very much. From now on it would be first class all the way.
As the Boeing 747 took off from JFK International heading for London, Peter sat back in the comfortable reclining seat with his second glass of Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle and reflected on how life had been compared to how things would be.
What a lucky break he had met the stamp and postcard dealer Martin Young.
Chapter Eight
THE FIVE BELLS INCIDENT
Schoolteacher Barry Turner picked up the tray of drinks from the bar at the Five Bells pub. As he turned round to walk towards the table where his three colleagues were seated discussing the events of another day at Trentbridge High School, he caught the arm of someone standing behind him. “Sorry.” He said.
“Watch where you’re walking you prat.” The words were virtually shouted in his ear.
He apologised a second time and walked away, thinking the altercation over, but didn’t see the big dark man with the strong Irish accent put out his foot. It tripped the schoolteacher and sent him flying to the floor and the tray with the four pint glasses go crashing down with him.
“Watch yer step,” said the Irishman, laughing to the two younger men by his side.
“You stupid bastard, you did that on purpose.”
“Nothing to do with me. You tripped over your own feet.”
The man behind the bar came round, holding a dustpan and brush. He leaned down looking as if he were there only to scoop up the broken glass but he whispered from the side of his mouth to the man still on the floor, “Don’t get involved, not a man to cross, just leave quietly while you can.”
Unfortunately, his words went unheeded.
“You’re just an ignorant Irish pig.” Barry needed the last word. Schoolteachers always do.
Picking himself off the floor, he walked over to his friends. “Sorry, guys, I’ve had enough of this place. You stay if you want but I’m getting out of here.”
“Okay, Barry, we’ll stay for one more and see you in the morning back at the asylum.”
The last thing Barry Turner remembered was looking down to pick up the set of keys he had just dropped as he walked to his car. He didn’t see the iron bar that came crashing down on the back of his skull. And he didn’t feel the repeated kicks to his stomach and the three kicks to his head.
Eric Davies was gasping for a pint. It was the end of a long day where he had nearly told his boss where to shove his job, but decided better of it at the last moment. With a wife and two kids to support it would not be a wise move. His tongue could almost taste the amber nectar and he was about to step out of his car and go into the pub when he witnessed the one-sided attack. Not wishing for his day to get any worse he decided to stay sitting in the driver’s seat until the three large figures had walked to their black 4x4 vehicle. He watched them laugh at the crumpled figure they’d left behind and then drive off.
Once he was sure the three thugs were out of his eye line, he dialled 999 requesting police and ambulance. After a few seconds, he started his engine. After what he had just seen he decided the pint he craved so much would probably taste better at a different location and The Crown was only a two minute drive away.
Eight minutes later, as PC Frank Edwards and his colleague arrived on the scene; they took a quick look at the victim on the stretcher being lifted into the ambulance. PC Edwards spoke briefly to the medics then watched as the vehicle disappeared into the night with the reflection of its flashing blue lights bouncing off nearby buildings.
Frank’s colleague PC Pauline Underwood walked over to the small crowd of people standing by the entrance to the Five Bells pub.
“Who dialled 999?” she asked looking at each person in turn and waiting for a response.
No one answered.
“Did anyone see what happened?”
Most avoided eye contact with her and looked down at the ground.
The man who worked behind the bar stepped forward. “We didn’t see anything. Everyone here was in the bar.”
“Did anyone see anyone suspicious inside the pub?”
The crowd remain silent. Most just shook their heads.
“Someone must have seen something to dial 999.”
The silence continued.
“Okay. Everyone please stay in the pub until I say you can leave.”
She walked back to the patrol car so she couldn’t be overheard on
her radio phone. Pauline explained the situation to the operator in the police control room and requested a Senior Officer and a Scene of Crime team to attend.
With no one prepared to give a statement, even though she was in no doubt most of them had seen something, there was little left she could do except wait until the requested backup arrived to take over.
PC Frank Edwards brought his colleague up to date with the condition of the victim. “I had a few words with the ambulance crew. The guy’s in bad shape. His head is pretty much caved in. They don’t hold out much hope. Poor bastard, I hope he enjoyed his pint. It was probably the last one he’ll ever taste. Someone will have to inform his family. The medic said unless he gets a lucky break he’s unlikely to make it through the night.”
Chapter Nine
A HIGHLY SUCCESSFUL YEAR - 2018
Since the seven-figure cash injection into his bank account in early 2017, Peter Winston-Moore had enjoyed the best year of his life. And so far, it looked like 2018 was set to be even better.
A healthy bank balance meant he could buy and sell at a much higher level, at a level he thought more suited his status.
With the money from the New York auction and the sale of the property in south London, Peter had opened a small art and antique gallery in Shoreditch, one of the up and coming areas in east London.
And he had purchased a luxury two-bedroomed apartment not far from Chelsea for himself and Norman.
To buy the gallery and get it up and running had cost £1.25 million. The Dulwich shop and apartment had fetched £450,000 and Peter had added a further £800,000 from his bank account.
Opening a gallery in such an area was already proving to be highly profitable as he could now add an extra zero to the price of just about everything he sold. What he liked was the fact that what most of his clients knew about art could be written on the back of a postage stamp.
The idea from Martin Young the stamp dealer about using full-colour leaflets continued to be a goldmine for discovering new stock. Picking up items for what he liked to call ‘chump change’ and then selling them to people with more money than taste was proving to be highly addictive.
Every time he attended an Antiques Fair he would return with a range of new items that had been purchased for a song. Each piece would then be beautifully displayed in the Shoreditch gallery and sold for a vast profit. Where possible, Peter liked to sell items for ten times the price he paid.
And what made Peter laugh was the fact all of Peter’s competitors were talking behind his back, trying to figure it out but they didn’t have a clue. Yes indeed, just a few weeks in and already 2018, was proving to be a highly successful year.
Having just returned from a meal at their favourite restaurant Norman and Peter were sitting in their living room having just watched the ten o’clock news.
“You look very pensive. What are you thinking about?” asked Norman.
“Nothing really, I guess I’m a little pent up. I just want the ‘rush’ of finding something worth a fortune and grabbing it from right under someone’s nose without them realising it. Like when I found The Picasso.”
“To discover another item that sells for big bucks. It’s not really about the money anymore. I know we are making an extremely good living the way things are but I just need to feel that 'hit' again.”
“Don’t worry, lover. I know you. You won’t rest until you find it. I’m sure something will turn up soon.” said Norman.
Of course Peter could 'afford' to pay fair prices but it was the thrill of the chase that made it so enjoyable to pay the minimum he could get away with.
If people didn’t know the value of what they had for sale it wasn’t his fault. The suckers deserved it. If he didn’t rip them off then someone else probably would!
Before he’d met Martin and discovered the door-to-door leaflet system, Peter had found new items to sell in the same way as most dealers source their stock, by attending auctions. The problem was they were bidding against other dealers, or sometimes members of the public who might be prepared to pay more as they were not buying the items to make a profit. The other way was to buy from within the trade. And often these deals were done between the dealers while attending an auction.
In the TV series Lovejoy, you would always see him attending a local auction in the hope of discovering a valuable antique that had been overlooked by all the other dealers and then being able to ‘grab it from under their noses and sell it for a small fortune’. It was a cut-throat dog-eat-dog business.
Sure, lots of people watched TV shows such as The Antiques Roadshow but in reality they didn't believe they have something of real value. So fortunes were hidden away in lofts or often in plain sight. From time to time the newspapers ran articles about valuable items being discovered at a car boot sale or at an auction for a few pounds. Maybe every few months there would be a story of a valuable antique or painting being discovered that was worth more than the house it was sitting in. But it didn’t happen often, that was why it made the news.
Chapter Ten
THE THREE ANTIQUE DEALERS
Antique dealers spend a lot of time attending auctions. Many of them are held in run-down properties, often in a converted church or chapel with high ceilings and draughty doorways.
One of the most popular places for London dealers was Swinton’s. Being a purpose-built unit meant was one of the nicer places to spend time. In the winter, it was warmer than most and in the summer they even had air-conditioning.
Besides the regular turnover of good quality lots, situated on the first floor was another reason dealers liked it: a lovely old-style tearooms.
The food was of a far higher standard than the usual burger bars found at most other establishments. It was also popular with many of the male customers, because the auction owner’s wife, who ran the tearoom, was rather easy on the eye and known as a bit of a flirt. Heather Swinton was forty-two, very attractive, and could easily pass for thirty-five.
The area was set out across a balcony overlooking the auction so people could sit and consume their food and drink while waiting for the lots they were interested in to come up. It was a place where groups of dealers compared notes on which items they had their eye on and agree not to bid against each other. An illegal practice but still fairly widespread.
Each auction attracted a wide variety of dealers and amongst its regular clientele were a group known to everyone in the trade as ‘The Three Musketeers’ and when waiting to bid on items, were usually to be found taking up residence at their favourite corner table in the tea rooms.
The trio comprised of Francis Tack who had an antiques shop in Notting Hill, Victor Athos with a shop in Shepherds Bush, and Robin Longhurst who was based in Camden in north London. The trio had been close friends for as long as they had been in the trade.
The nickname had been thought up by a couple of rival dealers, not out of spite, but on account they were usually found together and the fact Athos was the name of one of the original musketeers and Robin had previously been a Captain in the army. It had stuck as it was easier than using all their individual names.
Victor Athos had got into the antiques trade when he was made redundant at the age of fifty. He was the oldest of the three. A big man at six feet tall and rather broad, previously he had worked in the removals business. Nine years earlier, he had started off running the business in Shepherd’s Bush as his own antiques shop but with his lack of experience and the short supply of quality stock to sell more recently he had struggled to make it pay. So as each year went past and trade got a little harder he had turned it into an antiques emporium, letting out more and more areas of space to other antique dealers who paid him rent for the privilege.
Robin Longhurst had been in the antiques trade for over twenty years with shop premises in Camden. Five years earlier, he had reached his half-century. His main passion had long been cricket and he was extremely proud of his handlebar moustache. His shop consisted of a small area of
antiques at the front and an antiques restoration area at the rear of the premises. Having the ability to buy items in poor condition and restore them had kept the business afloat for the past three or four years. Like the others he had found it more difficult to find high quality stock as the years went by. If it weren't for his army pension that had recently kicked in, he would have found it hard to make ends meet.
If they looked back a few years, the antiques trade was booming and none of them thought hard times might lie ahead. The problem wasn’t selling; it was finding good quality items. It made the difference between enjoying the good life, or just getting by.
Robin took a sip from his cup of Earl Grey tea.
“Look, I’ve got to go downstairs shortly. There’s a lot coming up I’m interested in. It’s from the same country house clearance they had last month where I managed to win a George III William Chawner Old English pattern silver cutlery set. I sold that for nearly three grand. That’s why I like coming here. On the odd occasion you can find a bit of real quality.”
Francis Tack had other reasons for liking the place. Heather Swinton had proven to be rather more than just a flirt. On the right-hand side down the passage to the rear of the tea rooms were the ladies and gents restrooms as they were called. On the left-hand side and marked ‘Private’ was the kitchen stock room where on previous occasions Francis had managed to get Heather alone for a few minutes. His ‘longer than expected absence’ had been noticed by his two friends after telling them he was ‘just popping to the gents’ and then returning some fifteen minutes later, looking red in the face and a little out of breath. It might also have been the huge grin that gave the game away.