I press the silver button and a buzzer sounds on the other side of the glass. A few seconds pass before the latch clicks, and Clement pushes the door open.
The inside of Barlow Brown is more like a jewellers than a pawnbrokers. There are waist-high glass display cases positioned against the walls to our left and right, stocked with watches, bracelets, rings, and necklaces, all beautifully arranged. Another display case, running parallel to the rear wall, serves as a counter, with a till on top and a narrow archway behind.
A man appears from the archway and sidles up to the counter.
“Good morning, folks. Rotten day out there,” he says with a warm smile, his middle-class voice as smooth as butter.
As we approach the counter, I’m struck by how handsome he is. He must be in his mid-forties, judging by the flecks of grey peppering his collar-length brown hair, and the fine lines around his chocolate-brown eyes. His broad shoulders and tapered torso are cloaked in a white cotton shirt; the sleeves rolled-up to the elbows to reveal tanned forearms. I notice the absence of a wedding ring.
“Are you the boss?” Clement asks.
The man’s smile broadens, revealing a set of platinum white teeth.
“Well, I pay the bills, so I guess I am. Richard Barlow, nice to meet you.”
Handshakes are exchanged and my cheeks adopt a rosy hue as Clement introduces me as Louise. Just my luck I look like a sack of shit this morning.
“So, how can I help?” Richard asks.
Please, Clement. Don’t call him Dick.
“It’s a bit of an odd one, Dickie.”
Is that better or worse than Dick?
“An item has come into our possession and we’re not really sure what to do with it.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
“Louise will explain.”
Richard’s gaze turns in my direction, his seductive eyes prompting a flutter in places that really shouldn’t be fluttering.
I do my best to relay the story of how we found the gold under my floorboards, but it feels rushed, flustered.
“So, Richard, we were wondering if you might be interested.” I coo.
To my relief, his smile is still in situ and his body language remains open, cordial.
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted,” he replies. “But I’m afraid I can’t take it.”
“Why not?” Clement interjects.
“All pawnbrokers have to be licenced, and to secure a licence you have to agree to certain rules, many of which relate to the way we purchase goods. Buying or pawning an item without completing a raft of paperwork and obtaining official ID is a big no-no, and we certainly can’t take an item we suspect might be stolen.”
“You can’t bend those rules, Dickie?”
“Afraid not. If you get caught, you lose your licence. You can’t trade without one, so no matter how lucrative the potential reward, the risk is just too great. I’m sorry.”
“So you reckon no pawnbroker will touch it?”
“Maybe one in hundred, if you’re lucky, but not in this part of the world. I know nearly all my local competitors and I can say for certain none of them would touch it.”
“What about Oswald Powell?”
Richard’s face puckers as if he’s just caught wind of a particularly bad smell.
“Oswald Powell was the one in a hundred and lost his licence six months ago. He shouldn’t be trading, and certainly not as a pawnbroker.”
I exhale a resigned sigh and offer my hand to Richard.
“Thank you anyway, Richard. Lovely to meet you.”
He shakes both our hands and we turn to leave. We take barely three steps when a thought appears to strike Richard.
“Actually, guys, there might be another option.”
We spin around and stare at him, expectant.
“But you never heard this from me, right?”
I nod, and Clement gives him a thumbs up.
“Jewellers aren’t licenced so they can buy whatever they like, and some of them do accept scrap gold. If you’re prepared to provide a name and address, I think I might know a jeweller worth talking to — Gerrard Clarke.”
“We have to provide a name and address?” I parrot.
“Yes, but I didn’t say whose name and address,” he replies with a wry smile. “Gerrard Clarke is more inclined to bend the rules than most.”
He tears a slip of paper from a notepad and scribbles something down.
“Here’s Gerrard’s address.”
I reach out and grasp the slip of paper, taking the opportunity to stare into Richard’s deep brown eyes one final time.
“Oh, and here’s my card,” he adds. “If you need any advice on, shall we say, more legitimate items, please give me a call.”
I take the card and reciprocate his flirtatious smile, although I fear my attempt is more of a gurn.
We leave Richard in peace and scuttle back to the car.
“He was helpful,” I comment as we buckle up our seatbelts.
“Yeah, considering how you virtually threw yourself at him.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You were about as subtle as a sledgehammer. Honestly, doll. That made my toes curl.”
I feel my cheeks flush again, and try to turn the tables.
“Yes, well, we could have avoided all of this if you’d known pawnbrokers had to be licenced. It was your suggestion.”
“I did know, but licencing only came in during the mid-sixties, and plenty of them didn’t play by the rules back then. How was I to know they’re all bleedin’ saints these days?”
We reach an uncomfortable stalemate.
“Anyway, let me check the address of this Gerrard character.”
Clement does a three point turn and by the time he swings back onto the main road, I’ve entered the address in to the sat nav.
“It’s about nine miles away.”
“Triffic.”
For the first few miles we don’t talk. When Clement does decide to get chatty, I wish he’d remained silent.
“You fancy him then?”
“Who?”
“You know who I’m talking about. Dashing Dickie.”
“No. I don’t fancy him,” I lie.
“Word to the wise, doll — you can’t bullshit a bullshitter.”
“Okay. I admit he was quite pleasant.”
“You gonna call him?”
“I don’t know. Probably not.”
“Why?”
“What is this, Clement?” I snap. “Why are you suddenly interested in my abysmal love life?”
“You should call him,” he replies, ignoring my question.
“Just for a moment, let’s overlook the fact I’m not in the market for a new man, and not likely to be for some time — why is it any of your business?”
“Just looking out for you, doll. He seemed like a nice bloke, that’s all.”
It’s not the answer I was expecting, and it catches me off guard.
“Yes, well, it doesn’t help that he thinks my name is Louise. Lying about your own name is not a great way to start a relationship.”
“Look at it another way. Beth had all that shitty luck with men. Now you can be Louise, and make a new start. Reinvent yourself.”
My gut instinct is to dismiss the fanciful suggestion, but the more I think about it, the more I warm to his thinking. Maybe it is time for a complete overhaul of my life.
“Doesn’t matter anyway. You’re also overlooking the fact he probably didn’t fancy me.”
“He fancied you. Trust me.”
“Really? You think?”
I inwardly cringe. That did not sound as indifferent as I hoped.
He turns to me with a broad grin. “Yeah, I think.”
I try to hide my smile for the remaining fifteen minutes of the journey. It only fades once we turn into Bullers Road; our destination, and hopefully, the final hurdle before I can start planning this new life.
; We slowly cruise along the entire length of Bullers Road, beyond the spot where the sat nav claimed we’d reached our destination. There is no jewellers. We turn around and try again, checking we haven’t missed the obvious.
“Where the hell is it?” I groan.
A horn blasts from a BMW behind us. Clement ignores it and continues at a pedestrian pace. The horn sounds again and Clement glances at the rear view mirror.
“No bleedin’ patience, some people.”
“Shall we just park up and check on foot?”
“Seems a waste of time to me, but if you want.”
We pull alongside a space between two parked cars and Clement slides the gear lever into reverse. He then twists around in his seat as he prepares to parallel park into the tight space.
“I don’t believe it. He can see I’m trying to bleedin’ reverse but he’s right up my arse.”
The horn blasts again. It’s one blast too many, and Clement has apparently had enough.
Before I can tell him to calm down, his seat belt is off and he’s out of the car. I twist around in my seat to see what’s happening, although experience tells me I probably don’t want to know.
I watch as Clement strides purposefully towards the BMW. He raises his hand, beckoning the driver to get out of his expensively-engineered cocoon.
I can’t see the driver’s face but I suspect it’s full of panic, and regret.
Clearly not keen to accept Clement’s invite, the tyres suddenly spin and the BMW reverses at speed. He doesn’t stop until there’s at least a hundred yards of tarmac between us.
Clement turns around and strides back to the car. He clambers in, and without a word, reverses into the parking space.
I should probably warn him against the dangers of road rage, but I’m secretly pleased he scored a small victory against impatient idiots in expensive cars.
We get out of the Fiat and check the number of Gerrard Clarke’s premises — number forty two.
“Even numbers are this side of the road,” I comment.
We pass half-a-dozen shops, none of which are a jewellers. Most of the shops don’t display a number so we have to work backwards from number sixty; a sandwich shop.
We pass a dry cleaners and Clement suddenly stops. He turns towards a door set in an alcove.
“That address ain’t a shop,” he says, pointing to the door, painted gloss red. “It’s an office above a shop.”
We move towards the door and a small silver plaque fixed to the wall. Printed in embossed letters, barely readable, is the number forty two, and the name, ‘Clarke Jewellers’.
“No wonder we couldn’t bloody see it from the car,” he grumbles.
Below the plaque is a doorbell, with a crudely printed sign next to it — ‘Visitors by appointment only’.
“Do you think we should make an appointment?” I ask.
Clement shrugs and presses the doorbell, answering my question.
“Let me do the talking, doll.”
I’m not going to argue. The breaking of any rule, no matter how trivial, puts me in a fluster.
We wait, and just as Clement raises his hand to press the doorbell again, the door opens.
A chubby man with a shock of curly black hair stares at us.
“Yes?” he snaps.
“We’re looking for Gerrard Clarke,” Clement replies.
“Who are you?”
“We’re looking to sell some gold. We were told he was the man to speak to.”
“If you’re looking to flog a bit of nine-karat tat, I’m not interested.”
“It’s not. Are you Gerrard Clarke?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t piss me around fella,” Clement growls. “I was told this Gerrard bloke was a serious player, but if you wanna stand here playing guessing games, we’ll take our business elsewhere.”
The male ego is a fragile thing, and the man takes the bait.
“Yes, I’m Gerrard Clarke.”
“Good. Now, are you interested in buying some gold?”
“Depends on quantity and quality.”
“Hundred and fifty ounces. Pure.”
A smile forms on Gerrard’s moon-like face. “In that case, come on in.”
He turns and lumbers up a flight of stairs. Clement leads and I follow the two men up to a landing with four doors leading off it.
“Come through here,” Gerrard says as he opens one of the doors into a large room that appears to function partly as an office, and partly as a workshop of sorts. There are no windows, but two square skylights, set in the ceiling, offer some natural light from the ashen grey sky.
Gerrard switches the lights on and flops down in a battered office chair.
“What sort of jeweller are you?” Clement asks as he casts his eye around the room.
“The sort who knows the High Street jewellery trade is dying on its arse. There’s no money in shops these days, so I focus on trading gold, gems, and I’ve also developed a decent manufacturing set up. We do quite well selling mid-range gear online through Amazon and eBay.”
“Amazon and eBay?” Clement repeats.
“You know? The websites?”
I jump in before Clement has a chance to make a fool of himself. “Sorry Gerrard. He’s a bit of a technophobe. The Internet passed him by somehow.”
“Bit like my old mum,” he chuckles. “She doesn’t get it either.”
With the small talk out of the way, Gerrard belatedly invites us to take a seat in front of his desk. I assume it’s a desk, but it’s so crowded with paperwork, tools, plastic tubs, and Red Bull cans, I can’t be sure.
“So, you mentioned a hundred and fifty ounces of pure gold. Have you got it with you?”
Clement opens the rucksack and removes the bar. He places it on the desk and sits back in his chair.
“There you go. And just so you know, we want cash. No paperwork and no questions.”
Gerrard sits forward and runs a hand through his curly mane.
“Good Lord. I didn’t realise you meant a whole bar.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No. It’s just we don’t see them very often, least not this size.”
“And the cash?”
“I can do that, as long as you’re realistic with your price. At best, this is scrap gold so don’t be expecting market value. And I’ll have to take a trip to the bank.”
“Fair enough.”
“You mind if I take a closer look?”
“Help yourself.”
Gerrard reaches across and picks the bar up. Holding it in both hands, he slowly turns it around and studies the hallmarks. Seemingly satisfied, he places it back down on the desk.
“Okay. I’m definitely interested, but I need to run some tests on it first.”
“Do what you like, mate, but we had it tested this morning and it’s the real deal.”
“How was it tested?”
“The bloke shaved a bit off and did something with it.”
“Probably an acid test. My testing is a bit more thorough than that.”
He picks the bar up and waddles across the room to a workbench, positioned against the wall.
“Come over here,” he calls across to us.
We do as instructed and join him at the workbench.
Besides an array of hand-tools, boxes of brightly coloured gems, and more Red Bull cans, the workbench also houses a boxy silver-coloured gadget; a similar shape and size to a microwave oven.
It’s that gadget Gerrard wants to demonstrate.
“This little beauty can tell me the composition of any metallic object. It cost a fortune but, if you pardon the pun, it’s worth its weight in gold.”
My eyes meet Clement’s and we share a puzzled look.
“Almost a quarter of the jewellery I’m offered is not what it seems,” Gerrard adds, noting our perplexed expressions. “For example, only yesterday I was offered an eighteen-karat gold bangle. When I put it through this device, turned out it was onl
y gold plate over a tungsten core — basically it was a fake, cleverly designed to look like solid gold. This device saved me from paying a grand for something worth barely a hundred.”
“And what will it tell you about our bar?” I ask.
“It will tell me the exact purity, and I can’t emphasise enough how important the purity is. If it is pure, or at least very close, you’ve got something of significant value on your hands, darling.”
I want to tell him not to call me darling, but considering he’s about to pay me many thousands of pounds, I’ll let it slip.
We watch as Gerrard prepares the machine. He flicks a catch and a digital display flips up. The screen receives a few prods and a low whirring noise begins. A few more prods of the screen and then he pulls open a door on the front. He carefully places the gold bar inside and closes the door. A switch is flicked, and with a final prod of the screen, he turns to us.
“This’ll just take a minute.”
“You wanna talk about money while we wait?” Clement asks.
“Let’s see what we’re dealing with first,” he replies. “A difference of even a few percentile points in purity can have a significant impact on the value.”
The three of us then stand and stare at the machine for a minute — an extremely long minute.
Finally, it emits three loud beeps and the whirring noise ceases.
“Grubs up,” Gerrard jokes. We don’t laugh.
He leans over the device and runs his finger down the screen, studying the data.
“Well?” Clement prompts, his patience wearing thin.
Gerrard turns and faces us. I can’t tell from his expression what he’s about to reveal.
“Do you want the good news, or the bad?”
“The bad.” Clement replies.
“I’m afraid your bar is not pure gold.”
“And the good news.”
“I don’t need to visit the bank.”
39
For a brief moment, I worry Clement might throttle Gerrard.
“If you’re trying to pull a fast one, I’ll knock you into the middle of next week.”
“I promise you, I’m not,” Gerrard pleads. “The analysis shows it’s only fourteen percent gold.”
“What’s the rest of it then?” Clement booms. “Scotch mist?”
“It’s mainly lead, I’m afraid, plus a few other elements I suspect were introduced during the moulding process.”
Who Sent Clement? Page 34