by Ben Stevens
He realised before he’d finished speaking just how futile his lying was. His well-honed ability to appear impassive no matter what had deserted him, and no bloody wonder: he was looking at five-thousand pounds’ worth of instrument.
‘I don’t know much about these things, but I reckon that despite the dodgy paint job and the knocks this is still one hell of a valuable guitar. Your face told me that – even you couldn’t hide your reaction. And you’re good at that, I know,’ Tony said, still smirking.
Maurice wanted Tony to leave and to never return: he was the first person to have cracked his facade, to have seen behind his impassive mask. But it was useless: he wanted that guitar more than anything else he’d ever wanted in his whole life.
Entirely at the man’s mercy, he waited mutely for Tony to continue.
‘Five-hundred,’ Tony said harshly, ‘and it’s yours. You’ll have no comebacks, and you’ll never see me again.’
‘Two-hundred,’ bid Copper-White immediately.
The effect on Tony was instantaneous: snapping the case shut he picked it up and began walking towards the door.
‘Okay, okay,’ Maurice squealed, thoroughly frightened that the guitar would go forever. This thought was a nightmare – he had to have that guitar.
Tony stopped walking and glared back at him.
‘Five-hundred, Copper-White, and stop fucking me around,’ he growled.
‘One moment, one moment,’ Maurice assured him, before he scuttled into the stock storage room and lifting the hidden roll of notes from under the floorboard subtracted the required amount.
He scurried back into the shop.
‘There,’ he panted as he handed Tony his money, the man quickly counting it.
Satisfied, Tony smiled for the first time since entering the shop.
‘Cheers mate,’ he said graciously, and he left the shop.
Having locked the door behind him Maurice Copper-White fell to feverishly examining the guitar, repeatedly laughing to himself as he did so.
Five-hundred pounds! That was all he’d paid for this object of beauty! Five-hundred pounds was usually a sizeable sum, but for this…
‘Oh, thank you God, thank you God!’ Maurice exclaimed, turning to religion for the first time in his life. For the next quarter of an hour he continued with his examination, the silence of the shop regularly interrupted by his ecstatic cries. The guitar already seemed so familiar, just like an old friend come to visit after a while spent away.
He was interrupted by a knocking on his door, and he turned his head irritably round.
‘Go away, we’re shu –’
His dismissal was choked as he saw a smartly-dressed woman and a man standing outside his shop.
Maurice recognised the law immediately.
‘Oh shit,’ he whispered.
There was no way he could hide the guitar, which was unfortunate. He couldn’t guarantee that it had been Tony’s to sell. In fact, considered Maurice subsequently, it was highly unlikely that it had been Tony’s to sell.
Turning to religion for the second time in his life he silently mouthed a quick prayer before unlocking the door.
‘Maurice Copper-White?’ inquired the man.
Maurice nodded.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Cartwright and this is Detective Constable Randall,’ he stated, showing Maurice some identification. ‘We’ve received a report that you may be in possession of stolen goods.’
Oh please God no, thought Maurice as sweat coursed from each armpit, a rare and embarrassing reaction in times of gigantic stress. With a supreme effort he appeared outwardly calm.
‘What nonsense. I’m afraid that you’re wasting your time, detective. Still, have a look around if you like. I’ve got nothing to hide.’
‘Thank you, sir – if you’ve no objection. You understand that we have to investigate these reports. ‘
The female detective stood just inside the shop, avoiding looking at Copper-White as her colleague took advantage of Maurice’s invitation.
Cartwright saw the passage at the back of the shop that led to the dusty, cluttered stock room and kitchen, and walked along it. Maurice’s relief was immense: neither copper had glanced at the guitar.
His brow wrinkled in thought…
Just what were they after?
His mental question was answered as Cartwright re-entered the shop, carrying the ‘Butterfly Woman’ statue that Maurice had put out back for safe-keeping. His relief was almost unbearable: it would be awkward, but he’d avoid any trouble concerning this.
He guessed that Tony must have tipped the police off in revenge for Maurice paying him such a derisory amount for the antique, but had ‘come across’ the guitar afterwards and had taken a chance in visiting the shop owner to sell it, remembering Maurice’s interest in the instrument.
Typical, thought Maurice: give the man money and he rats on you. Still, he considered charitably, when one does business with thieves one must expect such behaviour.
Cartwright looked at Maurice, a faint gleam of triumph in his eyes.
‘Recognise this, sir?’ he asked with light sarcasm.
Maurice nonchalantly studied the statue for a few seconds, and then shrugged his shoulders.
‘I’m afraid not. It’s nothing I’ve bought in. Awful cheap tat.’
Cartwright smiled slightly despite himself – at least the small shop owner sounded convincing in his vehemence towards the statue.
‘This ‘cheap tat’, sir, could be worth something in the region of one-thousand pounds. Or so I’ve been informed, anyway.’
‘Oh my life!’ said Maurice loudly, clutching his small pink hands to his shiny bald scalp. He sat down heavily on the sturdy oak chair he’d recently bought and momentarily stared at the floor; looking up at Cartwright his fleshy hairless face was ashen.
‘Oh please, honestly, I don’t know anything…’
His voice choked and he stared back at the floor. Cartwright looked helplessly at Randall, both of them completely taken aback by Maurice’s reaction.
Copper-White fought against the urge to burst into laughter. It was going like a dream – coppers were such bloody idiots.
At that moment the phone rang, Cartwright looking at the shocked shop-owner as Maurice stood up to answer it.
‘The White Elephant,’ he said weakly, still playing the role of the poor beleaguered fool.
‘Hello, this is Constable Turner at – ’an officious voice began, before Maurice, assuming that the call was for Cartwright, cut him off.
‘One moment,’ he said, holding the receiver out towards the detective.
‘Yes?’ said Cartwright with irritation, annoyed at the interruption.
‘Maurice Copper-White?’ the voice tried again.
‘No, this is Detective Sergeant Cartwright. I thought this call was for me.’
‘Oh – this is Constable Turner, at Weybridge station.’
Cartwright looked at Copper-White, who in the midst of his dismay seemed to have no interest in the phone call. A sudden interest flared in the detective and he replied, ‘Carry on please, constable. Mr Copper-White’s a little pre-occupied at the moment.’
‘Well, he’s been burgled. His cleaning lady, who visits once a week, alerted us. Apparently he’d a collection of rare and valuable guitars, but they’ve all been snatched. There’ve been a few burglaries in his area lately, which appear to have been done by the same person or persons. If it’s any consolation to him he’ll do extremely well from the insurance, ‘cause the cleaning lady says they’re worth quite a bit.’
Cartwright now noticed the guitar lying in the open case.
‘Heavily insured, were they?’ he repeated, almost to himself.
Maurice looked sharply up at the detective’s words.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked shakily.
‘Can you hold the line for a minute?’ Cartwright asked the Constable on the other end of the line, lifting the receiver away from his ear before t
he man had the chance to reply.
‘I’m afraid that you’ve been burgled, sir. It’s Weybridge police on the line. It would appear that all your guitars have been stolen. I’m sorry.’
Cartwright was anything but sorry, suspecting that Copper-White was acting as his own fence for the expensive collection of guitars that had most definitely not been stolen. Copper-White could use his own shops to sell the sprayed and otherwise disguised instruments…
‘May I ask as to whether this is yours, sir?’ he asked Copper-White bluntly, gesturing to the guitar that lay in the opened case.
Maurice looked down at the guitar, noticing for the first time how fresh the purple paint appeared. A dark suspicion began to form in his mind. The guitar suddenly appeared a little too familiar. He looked helplessly at the detective, who decided to come straight to the point.
‘Intending to sell it, were you sir? And may I ask as to whether you had a ‘Les Paul’ in your stolen collection?’ Cartwright asked with a heavy sarcasm, noticing the name on the guitar’s headstock. Being a man with no interest in music whatsoever, even he recognised that name as being a quality and expensive make of guitar.
Maurice stood slowly up and walked listlessly to the counter, where he picked up a flat-headed screwdriver. For a moment Cartwright and Randall feared they were at risk of assault, but Maurice simply walked over to where the guitar lay.
‘Mr Copper-White...?’
Maurice didn’t hear. His face had turned a deathly pale; his breathing was rapid and shallow, as though he was in shock. He no longer realised the detectives’ presence; he no longer realised anything other than his guitar.
Like a drowning man whose life is passing before him Maurice Copper-White saw and heard fragments of the time he’d spent conversing with Tony. He saw the man reading through the insurance documents, with the guitars’ printed replacement values and Copper-White’s home address prominent in the corner.
He heard his reedy voice telling Tony that he lived alone…
‘Mr Copper-White?’ inquired Cartwright again, his voice now sounding slightly uneasy.
With a low moan Maurice bent down to the guitar and began scratching at the painted surface with the screwdriver. As he did so he noticed the guitars missing frets and the scratches that marked the neck – it had taken some real punishment and recently. The paint came easily away, revealing the familiar dull golden finish underneath.
Maurice Copper-White looked at his once beautiful guitar, dropped the screwdriver, and began to cry.
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