The Price of Rubies

By C Webster

A crime thriller set in Essex, England involving a stolen brooch, a mysterious Eastern figure called the Exalted One and a wild adventure across Southern India

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781447699293

Book preview

18

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

‘It is the most iconic of all the jewels. It signifies devotion, fidelity and above all, ever-lasting love. Cultures, empires and dynasties have revered it for thousands of years. Today, it may no longer be seen as fashionable – yellow diamonds seem to be the girl’s best friend - but in its heyday, it was the embodiment of power, wisdom, beauty and wealth. It was truly the jewel in the crown,’

Sitting in the back row, a young man sneered. Yeah, right, and my arse is a friggin’ window box.

The audience shifted in their chairs and began chattering amongst themselves. He’d been speaking for over an hour, perched on his rostrum, bombarding the listeners with facts and theories in equal doses. At least he should have known what he was talking about - he being Professor Daniel C. Carter, Professor of Gemology at the University of Heidelberg. He had written a well-received book, The Eternal Charm of the Ruby: Everlasting Stone. The flysheet on the empty chair next to the young man also told him that the forty-three-year-old American trained as a mineralogist and held several teaching posts, offering global consultancy to all the big mining companies. It sounded a cushy number, flitting from one position to another, reciting the same old crap. His cult website, it added, gave insight into the age-old attraction of rubies and how they had often gave their owners mystical powers. More baloney, figured the young man, but people loved all that.

Now the professor was on a whistle stop tour of the UK, invited by members of the Gem and Jewellers Guild. In front of him sat a motley crew of locals, gem dealers and diehard fans of the novels of Agatha Christie.

‘How many of you have actually got a ruby?’ The professor enquired as his eyes roamed the room. Not a soul raised their hand. The professor unbuttoned his tweed jacket, revealing a denim shirt to match his twinkling blue eyes and stepped off the rostrum. He began to ‘work’ the room, waving his hands, pacing up and down. ‘Surely you, madam, or you, madam? How about you, sir?’ Hands stayed down, clasping umbrellas resolutely, fingering flysheets or simply doing nothing. ‘Have any of you ever felt the urge to rush out and buy one?’ Still no response. He strode across the room in his green corduroy trousers, making a faint squeak with his brown loafers. ‘OK, let me answer that one for you. I guess there are probably a thousand reasons why you wonderful people don’t own a ruby. You think they’re too expensive, right? Wrong. A decent ruby will cost you less than a gas plasma TV, so which one is still going to give a perfect picture in 2050? Maybe you figure a ruby lacks pizzazz, it’s boring old red, right? Wrong, high quality rubies sparkle in the moonlight just like diamonds but also glow in the most stygian of gloom. But they’re unfashionable, right? Wrong, what’s going to stay in fashion longer, a precious stone or an overpriced, overstuffed Gucci handbag?’

A loose guffaw echoed from a young woman.

‘You, madam, I guess you disagree?’

The woman shrugged her shoulders. ‘Someone wears a ruby round here, it wouldn’t last five bleedin’ minutes before it got nicked.’

A chime of recognition peeled around the room: only partially deafened by the wind pounding outside, beating on the mullioned windows of the late Georgian library. The guest speaker smiled gently. ‘Ah, you mean the hoodies?’ he enquired with a professorial air, ‘those rascally knaves, thieves, muggers!’ He gazed out once more on his pitifully small audience. ‘Then I wonder what they would think of this?’ His hand shot into his jacket pocket and produced a blood-red stone the size of a baseball. There was a collective intake of breath and a stunned silence. The young man leaned forward. ‘This…ladies and gentlemen is the Burmese Tiger: 2,200 carats, weighing fifteen ounces, one of the most famous jewels in the history of humankind.’ He held it in the outstretched palm of his hand; the gem smouldering like a burning lump of coal. ‘This jewel was owned by Kublai Khan himself. People travelled the globe to touch it and benefit from its wondrous powers…only it wasn’t…it’s a fake, a very good one, but a fake.’ Groans of disappointment went round the room. ‘You see, ladies and gentlemen, not everything is what you see. But a real ruby is. It is perfection, it can’t be faked, it can’t be tarnished, it is eternal.’

‘So where’s the real one?’ Someone shouted out.

He popped the fake back into his pocket and walked back to his rostrum. ‘The real one? Where are the fabled jewels of Samarkand and the King of Nepal’s legendary Elephant Stone? Scattered like seeds to the four corners of the globe, my friend. The real stone was broken up and disposed to pay for debts, but one day….one day the missing parts will reappear because all great things do. So ladies and gentlemen, next time you pass a jeweller’s, consider a ruby and appreciate its purity, depth of spirit and innermost beauty. Let me leave you with one last thought: fashion is temporary, jewellery is permanent and a ruby is eternal. Buy one and you will be in thrall of the magic of this…‘Lord of Gems’. Thank you and good night.’

There was a smattering of applause and a clatter of chairs as the people got up to leave. A middle-aged bespectacled woman shot out from the side. ‘I’m sure you’d all like to express your appreciation to Professor Carter for his very interesting and informative speech. I would also like to thank the members of the Guild for making all this possible. Without their sterling efforts to raise funds, we wouldn’t have had the opportunity to listen to such an expert on this fascinating topic. In a couple of minutes he will be signing copies so please form an orderly queue.’

People were already putting on their coats and raincoats and heading towards the door. The young man picked up his newspaper and looked around. How many here were actually interested in rubies? he wondered. Maybe the two overweight guys who looked like they spent their days trudging the ploughed fields of Essex, armed with metal detectors and their entire nights eating burgers. Then a tiny smattering of fans of the professor’s cult website and the fully paid-up members of the Guild who’d huddled at the front, clutching their signed copies of his book. But who else? The rest were either bored out of their skulls or trying to shelter from the rain.

He joined the small queue, trouping out of the main hall into the garishly lit foyer. He headed straight for the exit door and the teeming rain. He fastened up his jacket, hunched up his collar and pushed the door aside. He stepped outside and got out a cigarette. He was just about to light up when he heard a voice.

‘Excuse me, young man?’

He looked round and saw a frail, elderly lady coming up behind him. He hadn’t noticed her. He opened the exit door and stopped it from swinging shut. She hobbled through with her handbag.

‘There you go.’

‘Thank you.’

They stood side by side sheltering under the porch. The rain was slanting in, buoyed by the winds. A roll of thunder rumbled off to the west. They gave each other a furtive look. His car was only fifty yards away. He was going to have to run, otherwise he would get soaked. He set out, glancing over his shoulder. The woman was standing there, immobile, a look of grimness etched across her face. He stopped, turned and ran back towards the library door.

‘Can I give you a lift?’ She peered at him, appraised his character, based on eight decades of experience, and replied firmly. ‘No, I’ll get a bus.’

‘A bus! It’s lashing down. You’ll get flaming soaked! Look, my baby’s just there!’

The baby in question was a fuel-injected, midnight blue Peugeot 206 with rear spoiler, twin carbs, 18" alloy wheels and a 400 watt sound system. She followed the line of his arm, considered the ‘death trap on wheels’ for a full three seconds and stared back defiantly, ‘No, thank you.’ As the rain continued to sheet in, her coat morphed from spotless beige to splattered dark grey. Small puddles formed around her feet. The remainder of the audience were filtering out from the library, dashing for cover. A squall almost toppled her over and he had to put out a hand to steady her.

‘You’ll catch your death of cold, darling. I can get you home in a jiffy.’

She winced, looked at the rain once more, removed his hand from her shoulder as if it was a piece of fluff and eventually said, ‘Very well.’ Then she gave him a look as if she’d just made a pact with the Devil.

‘Right, tell you what!’ He shouted. ‘I’ll bring the car round so that you won’t have to cross the road. Do you live far?’

‘No, Crestview Drive. It’s about two miles away.’

‘I won’t be long!’ He sprinted across the road and clambered into his car. A clutter of unpaid bills lay on the passenger seat. He swept them away and threw his newspaper on the back seat. He turned the ignition. It failed to fire on the first two attempts but rumbled into life on the third. He swung the car around and brought it directly outside the library. Then he wound down the passenger window and gestured to her. ‘Come on!’ He pushed open the passenger door and she advanced into the night air, treading the distance between pavement and kerb like a rope bridge. She’d be soaked in seconds, he decided so he dashed out of the car, ran round and threw his coat over her head. At first, she resisted but then grabbed the makeshift protection. He escorted her to the car, making sure she lowered her head at the appropriate moment. He removed the coat from her head, and closed the door. ‘Jeez, what a night!’ he sighed, as he climbed back in the driver’s seat. She had already worked out the passenger mirror above her head and had begun fussing with her hair. ‘OK?’ He asked, releasing the brake. She glanced nervously, straightened herself and slowly raised her thumb.

There was a growl of 1.6-litre turbo-charged engine as he roared away, through curtains of rain and glistening roads. She sat back, hands primly in her lap, looking resolutely ahead, like a dowager being taken for a ride in the chauffeur-driven Rolls. Someone ran straight in front of the car without looking.

‘Stupid bugger!’ he shouted out as he blared his horn.

She blanched for a second but quickly recovered her poise and her self-imposed sangfroid. The car raced through a deserted high street, past boarded-up shops and run down pubs until he turned to her and asked, ‘So, what brought you along tonight, Mrs…?’

She turned her head. ‘It’s Miss, Miss Richmond.’ She said, with a trace of irritation.

‘Miss Richmond.’

‘Oh, erm…well, it’s a long story.’ Her voice trailed away.

‘Well, you must be dead keen, coming out on a night like this?’

‘Actually, I don’t go out much these days. I just thought it might be interesting.’

‘Did you believe any of the crap he was going on about?’

She batted her eyelids. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean this idea of a fabled jewel?’

‘Why not?’

‘So you believe him?’

‘I don’t wholly discount his theories,’ she said haughtily, ‘though his conclusions are pure speculation. Anyway, young man, why did you come?’

‘I was curious.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘Well business, actually. I work for a jeweller, just over there, as it happens.’ He thrust out a hand, waving it airily, leaving just one hand to steer.

‘Oh, Peyton?’

‘That’s the one. The way I figure it, if someone’s got something valuable they’d flog it or put it in a museum. I mean, you don’t just hoard these things, do you?’

Miss Richmond said nothing.

‘It’s what I’d do, anyway.’ He continued. ‘Pointless hanging onto something like that. You just get clobbered for insurance. But then, most people seem to think they’ve got something valuable. I tell you, if I had a quid for every person that came into my shop, telling me they’ve got a rare jewel, I’d be the Sultan of Oman.’

The car barrelled along the Broadway, past people sheltering in shop doorways, waiting for the rain to pass. The driver jerked the wheel violently and the car skidded down a winding road, until the windswept cliffs came dimly into view. ‘It’s just along here!’ she shouted, pointing where he couldn’t see. ‘Oh dear, I really should have brought my glasses.’

A neatly trimmed hedge ran along the length of the roadside facing outwards to the estuary below. In one of the gaps was a black metal gate with fancy wrought-iron motifs. ‘Ah, there it is, down there!’ He screeched the brakes and the car stopped dead on the greasy surface.

‘That’s the one.’

A sign said ‘Beware of the Dog.’ He didn’t like the sound of that. He wasn’t that keen on dogs; they were irrational, fixated beasts that couldn’t do anything useful, except fetch a stick - and how many people wanted a stick fetched? He peered in through the gate. No signs of a canine, not even telltale poo. It was probably a fake sign.

He flicked off the ignition and looked around. The road was noted for tidy, landscaped gardens, terracing, underground parking and bijou houses hidden away from the traffic above. Estate agents called it ‘an exclusive area with stunning views across the estuary.’ He braved the rain and dashed round to the passenger side. ‘Lived here long?’ he enquired, as he jerked her door open.

‘Fifty years.’ she replied, busily manoeuvring herself into position. He wondered how she was going to get out. ‘I can do it.’ She said insistently. He stood in the pounding rain and watched her struggle to get elevation. ‘You sure?’

‘Of course.’ He used his coat again as an impromptu umbrella. After a full minute of eye-watering exertion, she attained a vertical position. No wonder she preferred the bus, he thought.

‘Thank you very much, dear.’

‘No problem.’ He replied.

‘How much is that?’

He smiled. ‘Nothing, of course.’ He watched as she shuffled toward the gate and slid back the bolt. It wasn’t locked. There was a steep path leading towards a bungalow. ‘Are you sure you’ll be OK from here?’

‘Yes of course, sonny. You be off.’ He shouldered the rain and watched as she navigated the steps painfully slowly. Then she hesitated. ‘Oh, by the way, what’s your name, sonny?’ The words carried on the wind. He said nothing for a couple of seconds. The rain was soaking through his coat and dripping down his face. Her frail body was edging down the winding path. He watched as she slowly descended. Then, a thin bloodless smile played across his lips. ‘Palmer!’ He shouted out. ‘Gordon Palmer!’

She waived her handbag airily and disappeared from view. He walked back to the car, feeling strange. Strange because he was beginning to be intrigued in what the professor had said, strange because he’d just given a lift to an elderly woman he’d never met, and strangest of all, because his real name was Joey Sutton.

CHAPTER TWO

Five thousand miles away in his mansion, nestling deep in the lush Nilgiri hills, surrounded by grazing deer and wild beasts, a tall, thin man passed quietly out of the drawing room, He walked silently along a long, cool corridor past statues of Indian deities on either side. Above him, the ceiling was a riot of gilded paintings and flowery motifs. He opened the vast panelled double door with golden handles and entered a large room with teak panelling, lush mauve and amber carpets and rows of bookshelves, filled with books. It was his library, housing books on every subject going back hundreds of years. He had books by Pliny, Erasmus, Newton, Locke and Machiavelli and some of the finest works of the Indian civilisation. Kãlidãsa, Valmiki, Tagore and many others. He had not read many but he liked to come here in the coolest time of the tropical evening and view his collection.

His long slender fingernails stopped on one black tome, bound in velum with a leather spine. He brushed the dust off and flicked the mottled pages until he arrived at page four hundred and thirty two. There was a sepia-tinted photo of his great grandfather, the Maharajah Abdul Bezir. He was dressed is a bright silken-red robe and matching soft slippers. His hair was hidden by a gleaming turban topped with a plume of peacock blue feathers. In the centre of his turban sat a large glistening brooch, almost like a third eye.

He snapped the book shut and hurried out of the room, along the corridor, into his study. He went and sat behind his large mahogany writing desk, picked up an enamel fountain pen and swiftly scribbled a note. Then he hastily addressed it to Ravinder Singh, sealed it in an envelope and called out to one of his retinue. A small wiry man arrived in seconds. ‘Yes, sahib?’ He handed it to his manservant. ‘Take this, Sanjit, I want you to send this immediately!’

At 8.52 a.m., a clean-shaven middle-aged man, with cropped chestnut hair, medium height, clear blue eyes and dressed in a crumpled charcoal grey suit, arrived outside the shop front. The man had arrived for work flustered and out of breath. He fumbled with his keys, pushed open the door and walked quickly through the darkened shop and down the corridor where he disabled the bleeping alarm with seconds to go. 8.53. Panic over.

He had only been in the job three months but he was beginning to learn the rules and routines of the small retail establishment. He scooped up the mail shots, bills, brochures and sundry correspondence lying on the floor and placed them in the in-tray. Then he packed the previous day’s rubbish into black bin bags and deposited them in the backyard awaiting collection.

Monday mornings were always hectic; e-mails to catch up on, deliveries to check and appointments to arrange. Joey Sutton usually arrived first, followed by Kim. Today, both were late, held up no doubt by the multiple road works on the London Road. At least it gave him a chance to make sure everything was neat and orderly before the customers arrived.

He walked back inside, along the corridor into the pale light of the shop. Recently, he had developed a fascination for gemstones, as much for their complex origins as their intrinsic value. How many other types of businesses, he speculated, sold products that took millions of years to form, centuries to discover and years of complex mining and extraction before being cut, shaped, set, graded and transported across thousands of miles of ocean to arrive at a shop in a small suburban town? Not many, he concluded.

Moreover, how remarkable it was, that these tiny stones had been created deep in the Earth’s mantle where they had been forged and welded over millions of years, at the mercy of heat and seismic shifts so intense that generations of enormous lizards had come and gone. Then suddenly, to experience a dramatic shift in the Earth’s crust and be thrust out, emerging as perfectly formed transparent stones. It was truly a miracle.

And yet, these fragile objects only existed because of their ability to thrive in such hostile environments. It was the very intensity of their surroundings that crafted such exquisite beauty and gave them resilience. Nowhere, he concluded, was strength through adversity more aptly demonstrated.

He pressed the light switch. The room was flickeringly transformed. Stones hitherto dull, opaque pieces of crystalline rock suddenly became alive, bright, tiny, delicate pools of coloured light. Jewellery that had appeared lifeless and moribund became glittering works of art. He flicked another switch and the glass presentation cases lit up, diffusing and refracting the artificial white light and revealing their glowing contents to the world.

If only they could speak, he speculated, what heroic stories they would tell! He glanced at his watch. 8.56. He dragged himself away to deal with more mundane matters. He stepped outside. He took the key and wound the handle and the metal grille screeched upwards. Then he grabbed the long pole from the storeroom and pulled down the awning. A stream of rainwater ran off onto the pavement below. In ultramarine blue, the sign unfurled, Peyton the Jewellers.

His fellow shopkeepers were going though similar rituals. A woman at the card shop dragged out the squeaky racks onto the damp pavement while the fishmonger marched along in his rubber boots and sloshed buckets of ice over the day’s offerings. They greeted him with a cheery smile; though there wasn’t much to smile about, what with business being so bad.

He stepped back inside. Now all the jewels were on display, jostling for attention, trying to catch the attention of a passer-by, all winking and shouting, me! me!! me!!! He took a couple of seconds to check everything was in place. A top tray of rings for various occasions, a middle row of diamond necklaces and a lower tier of studs, charms and earrings. One ring had slipped from its stand, so he slid open the case and placed it carefully back on its mounting. Now it was facing outwards, like all the others, gravitating towards the light. A silver and sapphire pendant was twisted. He took it out and unravelled it, slowly observing each successive rotation, spellbound as it dazzled and fizzed like a roman candle. It needed greater prominence so he moved it away from the restrained temperance of eternity rings to the glitzy recklessness of the diamond necklaces.

At 8.58, a harassed TNT delivery driver pulled up outside. He was on a double yellow line. He clambered down from his cab, raced around the back, pulled out two large cardboard boxes and plonked them on the doorstep. Then he rapped on the door. The man opened it. ‘Delivery. Two boxes. Sign ‘ere.’ The driver said, thrusting out a clipboard and producing a pen from behind his ear.

‘Are you sure?’ The man asked.

‘Peyton the Jewellers. Two boxes,’ he repeated, reading from his delivery sheet. The man signed for it, hauled the packages inside and closed the door.

At exactly nine o’clock, Sandy tapped on the front door, her fresh and appealing features pressed up close to the glass. Sandy was in her late teens, the office junior, bright, chatty, honey-blonde and hoping to go to university next year. She wore flat white shoes, low-slung jeans with a leather belt, bare navel with piercing and a themed t-shirt. It was the fashion. She also wore large earrings, bangles studded with jewels and a charm bracelet. Her figure was too curvaceous to resemble a sandwich board but she still looked like a walking advertisement for the business.

The man opened the door and she came in like a bouncing ball. ‘Hiya.’ She said.

‘Sandy, you look happy today?’

‘Yes, I am, Gordon. I mean, what isn’t there to be happy about?’

Gordon Palmer pondered for a few seconds. He thought of global warming, injustice, pandemic flu, and his own strained circumstances but said nothing. He switched the door sign to ‘open’ and Peyton was officially ready for business.

‘Can you give me a hand?’ Gordon asked.

‘Give me five!’ she shouted back disappearing down the hallway, jangling towards the loo.

‘No problem.’

Sandy reappeared, zipping up her jeans. ‘Right, what can I do?’

‘Just wondered if you know who ordered this?’

‘Oh, I think Mr Peyton might have ordered it.’

Mr Peyton was the owner. He was in his sixties, semi-retired and only popped in occasionally to check things were ticking over. Palmer thought it sounded more like Joey’s area.

Palmer struggled with the sticky tape and bubble wrap. The consignment had arrived like a Russian matryoshka doll, one box containing a succession of smaller boxes. Eventually he got down to the goods; several hundred eternity rings and charms, all individually wrapped.

Sandy picked them out and began pressing them into their presentation trays, carefully attaching the price sticker and the minutely typed descriptions. ‘We’ll never sell these.’ She fretted.

‘Don’t worry.’ Palmer said. ‘I’m going to have it out with Joey.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘You think that’s a good idea?’

‘Needs must. Any chance of a cuppa?’ He asked.

‘Coming up.’

Sandy returned to say there was no milk in the fridge. ‘The milkman didn’t come yesterday.’

‘Oh. That’s strange.’ Palmer said.

‘I don’t think we’ve paid him.’

‘Well, can you go out and get some?’

‘I don’t have any money.’

‘Where’s the petty cash?’

‘It’s run out.’ He handed her a pound coin and she disappeared across the street. Two minutes later, Kim turned up, her youthful features distorted by facial make-up. She was the sales assistant, twenty-three years old, welded most of the day to music, mocha coffees and her iPhone – a living embodiment of multi-tasking.

‘Morning.’

‘Hello, Kim. How are you?’

‘OK.’ She was talking into her phone. He wasn’t sure if she was talking to him. ‘Byeee!’ Kim popped her phone in her bag and sipped her coffee. ‘More bling I see?’

‘Yes, do you know why we’ve ordered it?’

She shrugged her shoulders.

‘Oh, we’re out of milk. Sandy’s gone to get some.’

‘No worries.’ Kim took off her coat, plonked her coffee on the counter and went into the shop. The doorbell tinkled. Most days, Palmer liked to have a little chat with Kim, go over the displays, fill up any blank spaces before anyone arrived. Today though, a customer was already in the shop, a harassed looking man in a crumpled suit.

‘Good morning, sir.’ Kim said brightly to the man.

‘Not really good is it?’ The man grumbled. ‘Bloody awful in fact. Need something for the trouble and strife. Nothing too fancy. Wedding anniversary. Don’t want to spend a fortune. Probably never wear the thing anyway, but you have to make an effort, I suppose.’

When customers came in determined to pay as little as possible, it made life difficult but Kim was good, she knew all the techniques: the patois, the body language, the way of convincing a customer to be more extravagant than he really wanted to be.

‘What anniversary is it, sir?’

‘Don’t know. Twelfth, I think. Time goes so damn quickly.’

‘I think you’ll find that something silk or with pearls would be appropriate.’ She suggested.

‘Hmm, what do you have in mind?’

She stepped from behind the counter, picked out a pearl necklace and draped it over her hand. He lifted up the price tag. ‘Too much.’

She made her way along the tray, fondling each jewel with great fondness. Eventually, she got to the second tier. ‘How much are they?’ He asked. She showed him the tag.

‘Not bad.’ He sniffed.

‘They’re timeless.’ She offered.

‘Timeless are they? Fine, I’ll take them.’

‘An excellent choice,’ she said and began wrapping them up. They were cultivated pearls, not natural: she knew it, he knew it and probably his wife would as well, but at least she’d made a sale. ‘Can I interest you in anything else sir, eternity ring, collar studs, maybe some mother of pearl cufflinks? They’re on special offer this month.’

‘No, thank you.’

The customer made his speedy exit and Joey Sutton arrived.

‘More customers?’ he enquired in his upbeat cockney way.

‘One,’ said Kim. ‘A cheapskate.’

He gave her a little peck on the cheek. ‘They’re all cheapskates. Anyway, where have you been all my life, darling?’ he asked.

‘Stuck here everyday trying to sell your ‘gifts of a lifetime’.’ She said dryly.

As he went down the hallway, Joey Sutton whistled. Then he slipped off his coat to reveal an Armani, $450 dollar, double-breasted cream jacket, matching Boss shirt with monogram JS, and cotton twill trousers. He carefully removed his jacket and combed his luxuriant hair with the fingers of one hand. As he came back he saw Gordon Palmer coming out of his office. Their offices were next to each other and the stud wall partition was so cheap and thin, it felt sometimes as if they were in the same room. He tried to duck into his office but Palmer was a bit too quick.

‘Hello, Joey.’ Palmer said, waving a pink piece of paper.

‘Mornin’.’ Sutton ignored Palmer’s gesture and tried to go into his room but Palmer was in the way.

‘Joey, we got another consignment in today.’

‘Did we?’

‘This piece of paper I have in my hand.’

‘What is it, peace in our time?’

Palmer didn’t smile. ‘No, it’s a delivery note. Two hundred rings and one hundred and fifty charms.’

Sutton didn’t look at the delivery note. He just snatched it from Palmer’s grasp. ‘Leave it to me.’ Sutton snapped.

‘Why did you buy so many?’ Palmer asked.

‘Because we need them, comprendo?’

‘You bought the same amount last month.’

‘Oh did I?’ Sutton said in mock disbelief. ‘That’s because we needed them too. We’re running a business here, already had a customer this morning. Now I must get on.’ Sutton he tried to push past him, but Palmer moved adroitly to his right.

‘Where’s the PO?’ he demanded.

Sutton scowled. ‘The what?’

‘The purchase order’

Sutton looked exasperated. ‘Don’t need it. Got Peyton’s permission.’

‘You still have to raise the order.’ Palmer repeated.

‘Sorry, pal. Let me just rewind here. Who’s supposed to be in charge round here?’

Officially, Sutton was in charge but he was ten years younger and didn’t understand the rules. ‘Listen,’ Palmer explained, ‘it’s important that we do things correctly here.’

‘Listen, it’s important that we do things correctly here.’ Sutton mocked, going po-faced. He’d come in feeling happy and now this guy, who was only on probation, was giving him grief. ‘You should listen to yourself one day. You sound like an utter prick.’

‘Sorry, but I thought Mr Peyton insisted on proper paperwork?’

‘Did you?’

They stood toe-to-toe, like a couple of rutting stags. He may have been much younger, observed Sutton, but they were remarkably similar looking: in height, appearance and colour of eyes. Why, on a dark foggy night a poorly sighted person might even mistake them. Born in the same town, they grew up on opposite sides of the fence, as it were; Palmer’s a life of unashamed privilege, his a life of constant struggle.

Sutton lifted his ringed forefinger and jabbed Palmer’s chest. ‘How many times do I have to say this, dickhead? You sell, I buy. Got it?’

Palmer stood unblinking.

‘Your job squire,’ Sutton added with a double prod, ‘is to make the money, I count it. Now let me get on with my work.’

Palmer realised it was futile. He was fighting impossible odds, against a guy who was blinkered, stubborn and crass. He wasn’t in the mood for an argument, certainly not with the power crazy Joey Sutton and his two assistants who, for some inexplicable reason, thought he was sweet. Add to that the fact that he was on probation and it was best to keep his mouth firmly shut. He stepped aside and Sutton crowed triumphantly. ‘Nice to know we’re clear on the rules now, pal.’

Sutton pushed open the door with his name in gold lettering, marched into his office and slammed the door behind him. He flounced into his black executive swivel chair and began chuntering to himself. It wasn’t the first time. People like Palmer thought they knew everything, even when they knew bugger all.

Sutton fired up his computer. He was running the finances. That meant he was in charge, above everyone else. He knew it, Peyton knew it and so should the oik who worked next door.

Kim knocked on his door. ‘Come!’

‘Gordon isn’t happy with all these purchases.’ Kim said softly.

‘Gordon can go take a running jump.’ He snapped. ‘I come in everyday, write up the cashbooks and ledgers, pay the suppliers, do the wages, and make sure everything balances. All he does is sit on his backside and play with himself.’

Kim said nothing. It was best to allow Joey to let off steam, then he usually calmed down. ‘The debits have to equal the credits,’ he persisted. ‘Don’t bloody ask me why, they just do. I have daily tasks, weekly stuff, monthly work and quarterly reports. Then comes the year-end and I have to do it all over again. So I say to myself, here I am doing all the bleedin’ work. Why the hell should I take any crap from someone who’s only here on probation?’

Kim stood and listened to Sutton’s rant. ‘I think you need a drink.’

‘Coffee, strong.’

‘We’re out of milk.’

‘Bugger! Oh well, black will match my mood.’ She thought it was over but he hadn’t finished just yet. ‘Oh, better check first with Palmer to see if I have to produce a purchase order.’

Kim made eyes towards the wall. Gordon Palmer had walked into the adjoining office.

‘OK, see you later, Kim.’ He said, more quietly. ‘Black, no sugar, pronto yeah?’ Kim nodded and closed the door behind her.

Sutton opened his internet browser, practised his breathing exercises that were supposed to keep his temper in check, and let his computer whir into action. The phone rang in the next office. Sutton tensed. It was bad enough to be in adjoining rooms without having to hear Palmer waffle on all day on the phone.

‘Hello, Peyton the Jewellers.’ Gordon Palmer said stiffly. ‘Who’s speaking?’

Sutton winced. The bloke had all the charisma of an eco-friendly low-watt light bulb.

‘Sorry, this is a bad line. I can’t hear you very well. No, I don’t think we’ve met. My name’s Gordon Palmer. Yes…Can I have your name? Right, Miss…sorry what was that again? Richmond?’

Suddenly Joey Sutton stopped working. His bat-like ears picked up every word.

‘Yes, we do valuations,’ continued Palmer, ‘it’s all part of the service. Yes, we can do it at the client’s premises, if madam prefers. Couldn’t agree more. More private, safer too. Absolutely…No, we don’t charge for an initial valuation. Obviously, it’s not binding legally, more of a guide…Yes, we can do formal valuations as well. We have a specialised team of experts.’

That was pushing it, Sutton thought. They’d only used one so-called ‘academic expert’ who undervalued some rings by several thousand quid and still charged a fortune.

‘A family heirloom, is it? I see…Well, I can’t comment until I’ve actually seen it…Yes, we get a lot of, let’s say, senior citizens ringing up saying they have something very valuable only to find out…well you understand what I’m trying to say. Right…not at all, madam. My pleasure, absolutely…Well, I’m busy this week. How about next week?