Charlie set a trip to Roubaix up in a matter of minutes, booking a ferry on line. Few people cross the Channel at five on a Thursday morning. Then he prowled into the kitchen, found some kidneys in the fridge, opened a bottle of red, fried up a couple of onions with a handful of grated garlic, added the chopped up kidneys and a can of chopped tomatoes, followed with a good dollop of tomatoe puree, poured in half a glass of wine, and cut himself a hunk of bread. The food was really winter rather than summer fodder, but it went down a treat, and he ate a chunk of cheese to follow.
Jennifer returned just as he washed up. She stood in the kitchen doorway looking a little disappointed. ‘Didn’t you cook anything for me?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘You don’t like kidneys.’
It was true, she did not. But Jennifer felt a little cheated, particularly as she had gone to some trouble to mobilise five thousand pounds in cash. She compensated by tossing the wad of notes on the kitchen table. She had a feeling that she was winning with Freddie, with Charlie heading for relegation.
Charlie took the money, caressing the edges of the notes. ‘How much?’
‘Five.’ Jennifer was short.
‘That’s good.’ He riffled through the pinky brown wad with a sense of elation. He was holding the equivalent of well past seven thousand euros, and he could deploy massive bargaining power. Roubaix would be a cinch. He polished off the rest of the red and made for his bed. Jennifer could feed herself.
The Sprinter was a dream to drive. Charlie picked up Croat music on radio Zagreb and hurtled down the M25, tailing a VW Golf that seemed happily oblivious to watching speed cameras. He maintained a safe distance, alert for a camera double flash, ready to change lanes at the drop of a hat: cameras never come in side-by-side pairs. Jennifer was fast asleep on an inflatable mattress in the back of the van – she had matched Charlie’s bottle of red by downing a bottle of Muscadet of her own, and was now snoring stertorously. With luck she would have an unpleasant hangover when she wakes.
He reached Dover with forty minutes to spare before embarkation, and frowned as a port security man waved him towards an inspection area. Charlie disliked being questioned on the purpose and destination of his day trips. Britain continued with border controls that the rest of the European Community had long since tidied away. He opened the van window reluctantly.
‘Good morning, sir.’ The security man was affable. ‘Just a brief security check. May I ask where you’re going?’
Charlie thought of telling him to mind his own business. But he wanted no bother, so he forced a smile. ‘I’m going to pick up some chandeliers in France.’
‘Chandeliers, sir?’
‘My wife restores them.’
Jennifer managed a wan smile. She was not feeling good, in fact she thought she might be close to throwing up. But she would do nothing capable of making Charlie feel superior.
The security man ran his eye along the side of the van. Customs wanted an eye kept on white vans making day trips. ‘May I look in the back?’
Charlie got out reluctantly. The van was empty but for the mattress, a duvet, and a couple of cushions.
‘Wife been taking a nap, sir?’
Charlie nodded.
The security man pondered for a moment. Something struck him as a little odd about the van: the floor seemed very fresh and clean, as though it might have recently been resprayed. He looked at Charlie hard. ‘Your van, sir?’
Charlie shook his head. ‘I’ve rented it for the day.’
‘And you’re just going to fetch chandeliers?’
‘Chandeliers and some wine.’
‘For your own personal consumption?’
‘It’s a third of the price.’
‘Something to go with your dinner?’
‘We can put away a couple of bottles a night.’
‘You won’t be carrying anything for anyone else?’
Charlie had been expecting the question, and shook his head. ‘No.’
The security man was still uncertain. He had worked in a garage, in his time, and something nagged at his mind. But it was not a thing he could pin down, and perhaps the firm renting the van out was fanatic about cleanliness. He could hardly delay a driver without reason. ‘Alright, sir. You can go.’
Jennifer eyed Charlie as he drove the van slowly towards the waiting P&O ferry. ‘What was that about?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘He was being a pain.’
She slumped back into her seat. They both felt they had just escaped from something potentially rather nasty, but neither of them was prepared to tempt fate by translating their fears into words.
The security man pondered to himself as he returned to the small room where he and his night shift colleagues passed the time watching television, and a thought clicked into place. He realised why he had been doubtful – the floor of the van had seemed rather high, as thought it had been raised a few inches or so. For a moment he was tempted to mention his suspicion to his colleagues, but then pushed the thought away. Suspicions should never be delayed, and he would make a real fool of himself if his shift leader called the van back, only to find nothing amiss. There are times when sharp eyes and overly suspicious minds can add up to a lot of bother.
Charlie slept on the ferry, but began to worry a little as he drove out of the Calais terminal – he was now alone in the dawning, for Jennifer was back on her inflatable mattress, and snoring again. The security man at Dover had been scouting for something, for all the world like a bloodhound seeking a scent. The van must have activated his antennae, in a world where things out of the ordinary can be dangerous things, and one worried man can worry any number of colleagues. He would be back at Dover in less than twelve hours, and men might be waiting. He began to develop qualms, but he was trapped: the van must go to Roubaix, and then return. He did his best to push fear away as he hurtled down the Dunkirk-Lille motorway. He would be frank and open and honest, if he was stopped, and his honesty would defend him. Hopefully.
He left the motorway at exit four, just south of Lille, heading for Wazemmes market. Roubaix could wait whilst he shopped. Wazemmes was a mix of markets, half selling fruit and vegetables, half selling knicknacks and cheap clothes, with a market building stuffed with charcuterie and cheese, and specialist corners stocking flowers and junk. Charlie knew a number of traders well enough to shake hands, and a Moroccan pressed a cup of mint tea on him. Jennifer trotted along behind. Soon he had filled plastic bags with North African bread, and olives of all sorts, couscous, and a selection of little Charentais melons.
Then he was on his away again, heading for the big Cora discount store at Villeneuve d’Ascq, just east of Lille. Jennifer stocked up on coffee and cheese and saucisson, and Charlie smiled a little grimly, because she was not overly keen on hard French sausage, but would soon find herself alone with a quantity.
Then he made for the address Victor had given him. Roubaix was a big, ramshackle, run-down town just north-east of Lille, a town of ageing cars and low-wage immigrants, and the wrecks of abandoned factory buildings with smashed windows. He found Victor’s address in a long street of shabby little brick houses, and Charlie realised that he was expected, because a group of men loitering aimlessly came to life as he stopped.
The men were dark, swarthy, and scruffily dressed, and looked vaguely menacing about them. One walked up to the Sprinter. He was stocky and square-headed, with stony eyes, and a leather jacket that had seen better days. Charlie eyed him coolly.
‘You are the Englishman?’
Charlie nodded without speaking. The Sprinter had a British registration, and he had no need to confirm the obvious.
The man frowned, and his companions strung out acrossed the front of the van, as though to prevent it pulling away. Several had tucked their hands inside their jackets, and Charlie suspected that they might be hiding weapons of some kind or another.
‘Who has sent you?’
‘Victor. He told me to ask for Osman’.
‘I am he.’ The man held out his hand. ‘You have a letter.’
He opened it quickly. Charlie could not see it well, but could have sworn that it contained nothing but a sheet of blank paper.
‘Ok.’ The man suddenly held out his right hand. ‘Welcome to Roubaix.’ He smiled briefly, gesturing at the row of houses behind him. Charlie noticed that a front door had opened, as though of its own volition. ‘My men will offer you some coffee whilst I busy myself with the van for a moment.’
Charlie opened the driver’s door. He knew better than to ask any questions. The less he knew, the better he would feel.
Now the scruffy men were all charm and smiles. They ushered the Tindals through the open doorway into a bare room with chairs arranged around a table, waiting politely for Jennifer and Charlie to seat themselves. A small dark woman with a scarf around her hair and a long skirt that all but trailed the floor appeared through a doorway carrying a tray with tiny cups and a tall brass coffeepot, glasses and a bottle and a jug of iced water. The cups were little more than large thimbles, without handles or saucers. She filled each with thick black coffee that scented the room, setting a glass of iced water at the side of each cup. Then she went off with the tray, to return a moment later with several dishes of small sticky cakes. One of the men signed to Jennifer and Charlie to drink, and all the swarthy men raised their cups in unison with the Tindals, as though drinking a toast. But none of the men spoke.
Charlie smiled, and the men smiled back. He essayed a question, looking at a swarthy man facing him. ‘Where do you come from?’
‘We are Turks.’ The man bit off his reply: he was still smiling, but it was plain that he did not care to engage in conversation. He gestured at a plate of cakes, and Jennifer nibbled one politely. She was not sure that she felt very safe.
The room was silent, but for the clinking of little cups. Then the street door opened, and Osman came into the room. He took a chair and looked round, nodding benevolently. He looked pleased, as though he had done something successful. One of his men poured him a cup of coffee and he sipped the black liquid slowly, before beaming at Charlie.
‘Ok, Mr. Englishman, everything is ready. The van is filled with diesel, and you can take it back to London.’ He stood up, holding out his hand, and all his men stood with him. ‘I wish you a good journey.’
Jennifer took a deep breath as Charlie drove away. The street behind the Sprinter was empty, with every front door closed. ‘That was very strange.’
Charlie shrugged, as though dealing with dubious men from the Near Orient formed part of his daily routine. ‘I think we paid the rent.’
‘Do you think they’ve hidden something in the van?’
Charlie stopped at a traffic light. ‘What we don’t know, we don’t know.’ He paused. ‘I think we should forget we ever met Osman.’
Jennifer nodded doubtfully. She was not sure she was very happy with the way the trip was developing, but she would keep her mouth shut. Nobody could blame her if she said nothing.
They found the Moroccan with the chandeliers in Roubaix’s Grande Rue, or Great Street. The house was almost as scruffy as Osman’s address, though this house was on four floors, rather than two. It stood next to a small corner café, with more men loitering outside – Roubaix seemed to have a glut of men with nothing to do but stand around.
Charlie parks, and nodded affably at the men, and pushed at a bell. A first floor window opened, and woman leaned out. ‘Are you the Englishman?’
Charlie nodded. It seemed almost as if he was the only Englishman ever to visit Roubaix.
‘Driss has gone away on business.’
The window slammed shut, and it was plain that Charlie was not welcome. He wondered what he should do next. He had come all the way from England, with an empty van that might attract unwelcome attention at Dover if it returned without cargo, and he was nothing if not a persistent man. He pushed at The Stag again.
The woman reappeared. ‘I told you that he has gone away.’ She snapped her words. But this time she also waited, making it plain that she wanted to know whether he had something new to say.
Charlie smiled up at her politely. ‘I come with some presents for his father.’
She looked down suspiciously. ‘How, presents?’
He was nonchalant. ‘Some biscuits. A few little cakes. I was so pleased with what I bought from him last Sunday, that I gave myself a duty to bring him something to show my gratitude.’
The window half closed, and Charlie imagined that concealed listeners might be discussing his words. The loitering men moved a little closer. But they were not threatening: it was plain that they admired Charlie’s tactic, and wanted to see how this little drama would play itself out.
The window opened again. ‘Mr. Abdelrahman has nothing to sell you.’
Charlie looked up, and shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. I come with gratitude in my heart. I will give you the little cakes, and you can present them to him, and I will go.’ He smiled the smile of a grateful man. He was playing a very reluctant fish, hiding behind this shutter, and he needed to handle his line with the utmost skill and care. But he also knew that he was presenting the father with a difficult choice. It would be the height of discourtesy to refuse a gift from a man who had travelled a very long way to present it, and who offered it with such politeness.
Nothing happened for a long moment, but the window did not close, and Charlie’s loitering audience was attentive. Finally the street door opened, and the young Moroccan came out. He was dressed in shirt and slacks, but he had an older man in a white shirt and grey trousers under an embroidered djellaba with him. The young Moroccan looked a little discomfited as he shook Charlie’s hand.
‘My father says you paid me much too little.’
The older man also shook Charlie by the hand, but said nothing, and looked unyielding. He was a man of presence, with close-cropped grey hair under a small embroidered cap, his eyes hard grey chips of granite.
Charlie held up his gifts in their smart wrapping. The older man looked at them doubtfully, and then took them, handing them to a woman who had appeared in the passage behind him. His expression softened a little, and he spoke in a harsh guttural tongue.
The young Moroccan smiled wryly. ‘My father thanks you from the bottom of his heart, and is grateful that you have come so far. He invites you to coffee.’
Charlie beamed. So far, so good. But there were more important prizes. He started to speak hesitantly, so as not to seem pushy. ‘Tell your father that I would also like to offer him some money.’
The older man mades an angrily dismissive gesture with his hands. He obviously understood French, even if he had no wish to speak it. Charlie looked at him, and then looked down. It was a sign that he wished to be accomodating. ‘He might like to start again.’
The young Moroccan spoke quickly in his own language. There was a garage next to the house filled with chandeliers and bits of chandeliers, and they were all sleeping money, and it would be madness to send this foreigner away with empty hands. But he felt his way carefully, for he knew his father well. Abelrahman was a good businessman, and now owned half the houses in the Grande Rue. However he was not a man to pressure, and he could be as stubborn as a mule.
So he was gentle and full of respect as he spoke. ‘Show him what you have, father, whilst the women prepare the coffee.’ He spoke in the dialect of the mountain town that his father still regarded as home, even though he had lived in Roubaix for more than thirty years. ‘You will lose nothing by talking to him, and he has good manners.’
Abelrahman snorted. ‘He wants everything for nothing.’
Driss, the young Moroccan, shrugged. ‘He is a businessman. So are you. Good business is good dealing. One man wants to sell high, another wants to buy low. There is always a middle ground.’
Abelrahman snorted again. He was an angry stallion, and he would not be roped. But then he relented, and reached into his trouser pocket for his keys, for Driss had quoted one of his favourite maxims back to him, and the words made good sense.
Charlie watched as the older man slowly unlocked a big door next to the house. The space inside was a jungle of chandeliers, piled on the ground, piled on tables, leaning crazily against the wall, hanging in festoons from hooks. He caught his breath, and beckoned silently to Jennifer, who had been standing demurely all this while in the background. She advanced cautiously, to run an expert eye over the jumbled mass, and nodded wordlessly. It was an approval, and an invitation to treat.
Charlie now spoke directly to the older man. ‘We would like to buy.’
‘What, m’sieur?’ Abelrahman eyed him. Now he was speaking French, and they were on common ground. ‘These are treasures. I could sell them for very interesting prices in the auctions.’
Charlie forbore from pointing out that the chandeliers seemed thick with dust. He turned to Jennifer. ‘Pick out what you want.’
Now she moved like an expert, slipping deftly here and there, inspecting gilded metal arms and glass and crystal drops, disentangling structures from each other, counting to herself as she moved. Then she stopped, retracing her steps.
‘I think I can take the lot.’ She paused. ‘But I’d need a hell of a lot of drops to finish them off.’
‘They’re not complete?’
‘No way.’ She shook her head decisively. ‘Somebody has tried to restore some of them. But the drops don’t match.’
Charlie switched into French. ‘My wife is very interested. But she says a lot of drops are missing.’
Abelrahman snorted impatiently. ‘Drops? I have boxes and boxes of drops.’
Charlie translated. Jennifer shrugged.
‘They may or may not match. Tell him I’m going to have to do a lot of work on them.’
Charlie translated again, but the Moroccan was silent. Then a woman’s voice called from the doorway, and Abelrahman gestured upwards. ‘Now we take coffee.’
He ushered Jennifer and Charlie back into the street, through the front door of the house adjoining the garage. The loiterers now sat in front of a small cafénext to the house. They all smiled politely at Charlie, and it was plain that they admired the way he had behaved. The Tindals climbed a steep flight of steps, and a girl ushered them into a large bare room with a big carpet and sofas against three bare walls. A large breakfront display cabinet filled with china filled a fourth wall. Charlie noticed that the Moroccans all left their shoes at the door, and bent to untie his own.
A large woman in a brightly coloured and all-enveloping robe came into the room, smiling regally. She was stout, and greying a little, perhaps a year or two younger than Abdelrahman, with the same shrewd grey eyes as her husband. Driss introduced her as his mother, and Abelrahman waited for her to settle on a sofa, before taking a seat at her side. Driss signed to Jennifer and Charlie to sit facing his parents, but remained standing. Two young women came in, one with a coffee pot and iced water, small cups and glasses, the other with a tray of small cakes, together with Charlie’s gifts, and Driss introduced them as his sisters.
For a moment the room was silent, and the Moroccans all watched Charlie. He beamed at them all in general, and began to made small talk. He hoped the cakes he had brought were welcome. He was grateful that he and Jennifer were being treated so kindly. The Moroccans all beamed back, reciprocating gratitude.
Then he gently touched on the chandeliers, mentioning that his wife was an expert in these things, and most interested. But he pointed out that she had also told him that they represented a great deal of hard work, and needed of course to be rewired to conform to British regulations.
Abelrahman nodded from time to time as he listened. The Englishman was trying to talk prices downwards. He did some quick sums in his head. He had collected the chandeliers for some time now, and restored a few, but he had then grown bored. They were now something of an encumbrance, but possibly worth a good deal of money in the right hands. He beckoned to Driss, to speak low into his son’s ear.
Driss straightened up. ‘My father will fill your van for five thousand euros.’
Charlie made a face. ‘They need drops.’
Another low conversation. Driss straightened again. ‘He will give you the drops with them.’
Charlie frowned, and leans towards Jennifer. ‘He’ll sell the lot for three and a half grand sterling, and the drops come with them.’
Jennifer looked thoughtful. ‘They’ve got to be cheaper than that. I counted forty of them. I think there were ten really big ones that I’d like to get for sixty each for as they stand, that’s six hundred. Then another twenty medium ones, maybe another thousand, and twenty little ones, another five hundred, making twenty-one hundred overall. There may have been more, but I’ll stick at that.’
‘You’re both a long way apart.’
She shook her head. ‘Go up to two and a half. Isn’t that three thousand, seven hundred and fifty euros? I’ll go to four.’
‘Sure?’
‘Top whack.’
Charlie starts to bargain. He offers three thousand euros, and Abelrahman shook his head abruptly. Then three and a half, and Driss began to fidget. Three and a half thousand euros was a great deal of money, and no bad price. He was afraid that his father would blow it, but it was not for him to speak. Driss’ mother also nudged her husband. She had watched him accumulate a garage filled with junk, and now this foreigner was offering a sum large enough to take the whole family back to Morocco for a holiday.
Abelrahman looked uncomfortable. He shaded to four and half thousand euros, and Charlie edged to three-six, and they began to play out their endgameout, because both knew four was a middle ground, and a logical conclusion. Charlie hesitated, and looked at Jennifer.
‘I think I can get them for four. Just under two-eight sterling.’
She pursed her lips. She woud be paying out at the top end of her range, but she would make a fortune. ‘Go for it.’
Charlie reached for his wallet, to brandish a fat wad of fifty pound notes. One of the young women left the room, to return with a newspaper. For a moment the Moroccans locked in a discussion about exchange rates. Charlie counted out fifty six notes, and they smiled, because he was offering sixty euros more than they expected. They they all shook hands, and the deal was done.
Driss led the way back down the stairs to the chandeliers, and now the loiterers transmuted into porters, forming a human chain moving chandeliers from garage to Sprinter, and soon the van was filled, piled high with with chandeliers, and boxes and boxes of drops holding them in place, and their purchase looked impressive.
Charlie and Jennifer shook a whole crowd of Moroccan hands, and then they were in the van, edging their way away from the pavement, and off on their way home.
Jennifer was silent until Charlie reached the urban motorway circling Lille. Then she turned to Charlie and was exuberant. ‘That was good.’
He concentrated on his motorway driving, speaking without looking at her. ‘You’re happy?’
‘There’s a hell of a lot more than I thought.’
‘Really?’
‘We’ll really clean up.’
Charlie smiled. Jennifer was due for a surprise. He was making his last buying trip. He would take the Sprinter home, and start a new life.
Driving back to Calais was a breeze. The Sprinter seemed to fly, even loaded as it was, and they reached the ferry terminal with time to spare. The sea was calm, and Charlie slept, stretched out of a seat. It was a weekday, and there were no old-age pensioners. The queue for passport control at Dover was short, and they were waved smoothly through. But a blue-shirted Customs officer cut short Charlie’s euphoria. He pointed at the van, signing for Charlie to divert into an inspection area.
Charlie got out of the van nonchalantly. He knew that Jennifer could be cool under stress, and prayed that he would seem equally unconcerned.
A small group of Customs officers gathered. They were on notice to look out for white vans. One walked round the van slowly, as though looking for something. He was young and keen, with short neat fair hair and blue eyes. He looked at Charlie.
‘Is this your vehicle, sir?’ He was very polite. Almost too polite.
Charlie shook his head. ‘It’s rented.’ He turned to reach into the van for the rental papers, and watched the Customs officer scrutinise them. The watching group were eyeing him like a small pack of suspicious dogs.
‘Day trip, sir?’
Charlie nodded in affirmation. But the Customs officer plainly wanted some supporting detail, so he smiled politely. ‘I went to buy a whole lot of chandeliers from some North Africans in Roubaix.’
‘May I look, sir?’
This was the crunch moment. Charlie walked to the back of the van and unlocked the door, swinging it open. One of the boxes of drops teetered dangerously, and the Customs officer moved quickly to prevent it sliding out.
They eyed each other. Charlie smiled again. ‘Thank you – you’ve just saved me some money.’
The assembled Customs officers stared at the serried mass of crystal and glass and metal. The inspecting officer wondered whether to tell the drive to clear everything out and run a thorough search. It was a pity, the duty dog handler was off sick. Dogs were so much much better than humans in these situations – they were able to smell scents that things that passed humans by. He prodded tentatively at a chandelier, and it moved alarmingly. He stepped back quickly. The damn things seemed to be balanced one on another, and he had no wish to court breakages.
‘Do you deal in antiques, sir?’
Charlie sensed that danger had passed, nearly passed. He was affable. ‘My wife specialises in restoring chandeliers.’ He reached for his wallet to extract one of Jennifer’s business cards.
The Customs officer looked at it quickly before handing it back. ‘Alright, sir. You can go.’ He paused. ‘But I suggest you drive carefully with that lot behind you.’
He smiled briefly. One of his team, a red-headed girl who had worked as a garage receptionist opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again. She knew Sprinters well, and this one seemed to have a higher than normal floor. It was merely a matter of inches, but the difference nagged at her. However she was still new to the team, and had no wish to made a fool of herself, so she kept her doubt to herself.
Charlie drove off carefully. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, as though he had stared death in the face.
Jennifer was equally subdued as they drive through Dover, heading for the M20. She spoke as Charlie slowed to took a roundabout. ‘I don’t think we should do this again.’
Charlie shook his head emphatically. ‘I won’t. I’m taking the van back tomorrow, and that’s it.’ He smiled grimly to himself, because it was not the only thing he would not be doing again. But he still had to drive back to Fulmer, and he had no wish to drive home fighting.