by stewartgiles
FORTY FOUR
POETIC JUSTICE
Monday 4 January 2009
“Where shall we start sir?” Whitton asked as they drove into town.
“I’ve printed out a list,” Smith said, “There’s a couple of pawn shops on WalmGate and a few more on Foss Bank. You can park in the long stay car park just up ahead and we can walk from there.”
Whitton parked the car. It was threatening to rain as they made their way to the shops.
“Do you think Theakston will be ok?” Smith asked, “He’s not used to being by himself.”
“He’ll get used to it,” Whitton said, “he’ll have probably chewed his way through the whole house but that stops after a while I think. Here’s the first one on the list ‘Ishmael and Sons.’ Sounds very up market.”
Smith laughed.
“Lets hope they can help us,” he said, “don’t let on we’re Police.”
“Just Mr and Mrs Smith?” Whitton joked.
Ishmael and Sons was a treasure trove of mostly worthless goods. One wall of the shop was lined with shelves containing various power tools; there was a counter next to the cashiers desk containing what looked like cheap tatty jewellery and there were clothes racks littered all over the shop floor holding clothes that were straight out of the seventies. Something at the back of the shop caught Smith’s eye. There was a rack with a dozen or so guitars lined up next to each other.
“Do you see what I see Whitton?” he said.
“Is your guitar there?” Whitton seemed excited.
“No its not, but look at this little beauty.” He picked up an immaculate sunburst electric guitar.
“If I’m not mistaken,” he said, “this is a Rickenbacker 330. Collector’s piece.”
“Looks pretty ugly to me,” Whitton said.
“Have you got any money on you?” Smith asked, “I wasn’t planning on buying anything today.”
“How much do you need?”
“Two hundred; they obviously don’t know what this things worth.”
“But it’s got no strings on it.”
“Ten quid strings. These go for over a grand. I’ll pay you back.”
“I’ve got my credit card but I need it back; I’ve just had to fork out a fortune to fix my car.”
“You’re a star Whitton.”
“Shouldn’t we ask about the stuff that was stolen?” Whitton asked, “That’s why we’re here isn’t it?”
“I don’t see any of it here.”
He took the guitar to the front desk. A young girl was busy on her cell phone.
“Excuse me Miss,” he said, “sorry to drag you away from saving the world but I’d like to buy this guitar please.”
The girl looked at him as if he was asking her to change his car tyre.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” he added.
His sarcasm was wasted on her. She took the label off the guitar and wrote out an invoice. Whitton handed her the credit card.
Outside the shop, Whitton was about to put the credit card slip in her purse when she noticed something.
“Sir,” she said, “the guitar’s a gift; call it a late Christmas present.”
Smith was astounded.
“I can’t take this,” he said, “I said I’d pay you back.”
Whitton showed him the credit card slip.
“She rang up twenty quid instead of two hundred,” she said, “or should we go back and tell her?”
“No chance,” Smith said with a wry smile, “these sharks get rich from people’s misfortune. Plus, that sales assistant was bloody rude. Poetic justice if you ask me. You do realise what this means though?”
“No sir,” Whitton said, “what does it mean?”
“When you buy someone a guitar it means you have a bond with them for life; nothing can break it.”
Whitton blushed.
“What about this place?” she said as they passed a shop with a sign that read ‘Music City’. “They’ve got tons of guitars in the window.”
“They’ve got my guitar in the window,” Smith said and took a closer look.
His red Fender Stratocaster was staring at him from behind the glass.
“How do you know it’s yours sir?” Whitton was dubious.
“Let’s have a closer look,” he said, “mine had a small sticker on the back plate; the Australian flag.”
As they entered the shop, Smith’s phone rang. It was Chalmers.
“Smith,” he said, “I’ve got some good news for you. We’ve got the little scrotes who robbed your place.”
“That was quick sir,” Smith’s heart was pounding.
“Forensics got a load of prints. One of the scumbags has been in and out of jail his whole life.”
“I think I’ve found the guitar they stole Sir, I’m at the shop now. What are the names of these toe rags?”
“Steven Maude and John Bartlett. Maude’s the career criminal.”
“Steven Maude?” Smith repeated.
The name seemed very familiar.
“I’ll be there in about an hour sir,” he said, “I just want to put the wind up the owner of the shop.”
“Be careful Smith,” Chalmers warned, “do it by the book.”
“Of course,” Smith smiled, “you should know me by now sir.”
He rang off.
“They’ve caught the crooks that broke into my house,” he said to Whitton.
“That was quick sir,” Whitton said.
“That’s what I said. Let’s have a look at that guitar.”
Smith walked over to the guitar in the window and picked it off the stand. It had a slight nick on the paintwork that was not there before but other than that it was undamaged.
“Quite a specimen isn’t she?” A voice was heard behind him.
“Genuine US Strat,” the assistant added, “plays like a dream; been well looked after.”
Smith turned the guitar over. There was a small sticker of the Australian flag on the back plate.
“That’ll be easy to remove,” the assistant said, “Australians are not really known to be guitar legends anyway. This one will sell quickly; we only got it in this morning. It’s yours for eight hundred, or three hundred plus that.” He pointed to the Rickenbacker.
“Can I speak to the owner of the shop?” Smith asked.
“He’s busy with the accounts in the back,” the assistant replied, “I can help you with anything; I’ve worked here for six months now. I practically run the place.”
Smith took out his ID.
“Go and get him,” he said.
“I’ll go and get him.”
“How long have you been playing?” Whitton asked.
“Just over ten years,” Smith replied, “I bought the Strat when I first came over here. A guy needed money to go to Brazil so I got it for a good price.”
“Can I help you with anything?” the owner appeared.
“DS Smith,” Smith said, “and this is DC Whitton. I’m very interested in this guitar.”
The owner looked angry.
“You can’t come in here and flash your badge and think you’ll get a discount,” he said, “I can report you for that.”
“What’s your name?” Smith demanded.
“Colin Charles,” the owner said, “what’s this all about?”
“This guitar was stolen in a burglary a few days ago,” Smith said, “where did you get it?”
“Two guys brought it in this morning. I remember they didn’t look like musical types.”
“Did you get any identification from these men?” Smith said, “Isn’t that normal practice?”
“They didn’t have any and they said I could have the guitar for a hundred quid; its worth much more than that. How do you know it’s this guitar?”
“Because it was my house they stole it from.”
Colin Charles was now becoming agitated.
“I di
dn’t know it was stolen,” he insisted, “please, just take it; I don’t want any trouble. I’ve had this place for fifteen years. I had branches in Bradford and Leeds but I had to close them down. This recession is really hitting the musical instrument business badly. What are you going to do?”
Smith scratched his head.
“What I should do,” he said, “is arrest you for handling stolen goods but seeing as they’ve caught the guys and I’ve got my guitar back, I’m going to let you off with a warning.”
“I’ll give you four hundred for the Rickenbacker,” Charles said.
“It’s not for sale,” Smith said, “It was a gift from a very good friend.”
He smiled at Whitton.
“I could use a set of strings though,” he added.
“Mark,” Charles said to the assistant, “organise the Detective a set of good strings please. No charge.”
The assistant picked up a set of strings from behind the counter and handed them to Smith.
“Thank you Mr Charles,” Smith said, “and remember, no ID no deals ok?”
“It won’t happen again,” Charles insisted.
“Hopefully you’ll get your Gran’s Jewellery back now” Whitton said as they drove to the station.”
“I hope so,” Smith said, “it means a lot to me. Do you want to drop me off at the station? I’ll get a taxi back; its your day off.”
“It’s ok Sir,” Whitton replied, “I’d only be bored at home.”
Smith smiled.
“People are going to start talking Whitton,” he said.