Page 6 of Fe
He pulled on his seat belt, and turned his mind back to the case. Now all he had to do was hope his powers of persuasion worked again, but this time in court. Mal Peters, his belligerent client, was a handful. It wasn’t the first time Ripley had acted for him. He’d done his best to ensure Mal understood the need to be quiet in court, at all times, but especially when witnesses gave their side of the story. Unfortunately, Ripley wasn’t surequietwas in Mal’s vocabulary.
Mal was lightning fast to fly off the handle, not a trait Ripley wished to be seen by the judge, opposing barrister or jury. Or himself, come to that, should Mal not be happy with the result of the trial. Ripley winced. Victory was not a forgone conclusion, especially when he was fairly certain Mal was guilty. Mal had sworn blind he’d not raised a baseball bat to his neighbour’s expensive car, but then Ripley wouldn’t be defending him if he’d said otherwise.
Criminals rarely confessed their guilt, even to their lawyer, no matter how obviously guilty they were. They knew the score: once they said they’d done it but still wanted to plead not guilty, they lost their brief. Mal liked him, though that was almost certainly because Ripley had got him off last time. But Ripley treated Mal’s promises to ‘behave’ with scepticism.
Ripley made his way to the robing room, a place for barristers to change into wig and gown, discuss cases and sometimes to hide from troublesome clients. He exchanged a few words with a couple of other barristers he knew though not with opposing counsel. Not that he was likely to be tricked into giving something away. Most people in there were reading, only a couple looked up. There was never enough time to prepare as thoroughly as you might like.
Gown and annoyingly itchy wig in place, Ripley switched off his phone. There was little that irritated judges more than mobile phones interrupting proceedings, unless it was a defendant calling a witness a liar. Was Mal capable of keeping quiet? Ripley sighed. If he’d believed crossing his fingers would have made a difference, he would have.
The case was won, more because the other side had slipped up on a detail they should have checked, rather than Ripley showing his brilliance, though he’d seen the issue coming when he’d read the notes. Mal was suitably grateful, telling him he’d be recommending Ripley to everyone he knew. Ripley thought, but didn’t say,so are all your friends criminals?Because they probably were.
“Don’t let me see you again,” Ripley said.
Mal laughed. “Don’t hold your breath.”
Fuck.Ripley hoped he paid on time. He wasn’t someone he wanted Billy to have to chase.
3
Fen took the medal into work with him the next day. He had a feeling the driver of the car was going to come in search of it. The moment Fen stepped through the door, Charles pounced and Fen jumped. “Priority for you is cleaning up that revolving bookcase. I’ve got someone interested.”
That was quick, considering yesterday Charles supposedly hadn’t wanted it. But Fen said, “Okay,” because adding anything else would get him into trouble. He hung up his coat and put on his apron. “Morning, Alistair.”
“Morning, Fen,” Alistair called from the other side of the workroom.
Fen had learnt all he knew about the antique business, including repair and restoration, from Alistair, Charles’ younger brother. After he’d left school at eighteen, Fen had struggled to find work, and not stuck at any job for very long, until Alistair had offered him an apprenticeship. For the last three years, Fen had worked for him and Charles, and for the last year, Alistair had been going out with Fen’s mother. Fen had been a bit unsure about that at first but Alistair had reassured him that even if he and Fen’s mum didn’t last, the job would. Though Fen suspected depending on the way they broke up, it probably wouldn’t.
Alistair was kind and Charles was not. Alistair never lost his temper. He was patient, fun and had a great sense of humour. Charles ordered, demanded, complained and shouted. Alistair worshipped Fen’s mum so that made him a good guy, though Alistair didn’t cope well with illness, in himself or anyone else, and he backed away from confrontations, which meant Charles got away with too much.
Scott had come to work in the business two years ago. Under duress, from what Fen understood. Fen had only caught snippets of conversations, but Scott had left university without graduating. ‘Asked to leave’ was what Fen understood. Scott was an arsehole. He was lazy and a liar. He was supposed to be learning the business, but the only time he showed any enthusiasm was when money was mentioned, or if any attractive women came into the shop. Scott’s day comprised of flirting with Tara or Vicki, depending on which of them was working, messing around on his phone, more than likely gambling, and occasionally wafting a duster around when his dad was watching.
After Charles had left the workshop, Alistair came over to Fen. “It’s a nice bookcase.”
“Charles said he wanted the lot below in the catalogue, not this.”
Alistairtsked.“There’s no pleasing him.” He ran his hand over the top. “Rosewood with satin birch cross banding. It’s well made.”
“Revolves well too, considering its age.” Fen rotated it on the casters.
“I don’t think it needs too much work. Though replacing the broken slat will be tricky. Want a hand lifting it up?”
“Please.” Fen put his crutch to one side and between them, they lifted the bookcase onto his work table and laid it on its side.
Alistair went back to the old chair he was recovering and Fen pulled on his gloves, partly because it was cold, partly because he didn’t want to dirty his fingers. He wondered about asking Alistair’s opinion on what to do about the things he’d bought yesterday, whether he should give them back. Though hadn’t he already made up his mind? He needed to call the auction house and find out for certain if that man had been telling the truth about the lot being withdrawn.
The first thing Fen did was to wipe the bookcase with mineral spirits, which gave the impression of it having had a coat of clear varnish. It showed whether there were any imperfections needing to be dealt with. Not every blemish had to be blended away. They were part of the piece’s history and gave it character. This bookcase looked pretty good for its age. Fen gave it a scrub with a sponge using a vegetable-based oil soap and warm water, then spent some time removing ingrained dirt with a toothbrush and tooth pick.
He wiped it down again and left it to dry while he searched for a piece of rosewood to make a new slat. He couldn’t take the whole thing apart to put another in, so he’d have to find a way to gouge out enough space, top or bottom, preferably top, to slip it into place. It needed to be a tight fit. The discovery of a strip of wood that might work made him happy, and he took it over to compare to the one he’d removed.Not bad.Now he had to make it identical.
That afternoon, Alistair had gone out and Fen was still working on the bookcase when Scott came in from the shop. “There’s some dude asking for you.”
Fen pushed himself up from his stool. Since the only person who ever came to the shop and asked for him was his mother, he could guess who this might be. He took off his apron and gloves and pulled down the sleeves of his sweater. He glanced at his crutch, thought about leaving it behind, but then grabbed it.
He was right about the identity of the man. He was half-turned away from him, but Fen recognised his hair. He was tall, over six feet, quite a bit taller than Fen, and wearing a dark grey, three-quarter length Crombie coat. His side profile was… Fen gulped.Do not let yourself fancy him.The guy was staring into the cabinet of Oriental curiosities, which happened to contain Fen’s favourite items in the entire shop.
Once Fen reached his side, he cleared his throat. “Kintsugi ware. The globe has been repaired with lacquer mixed with powdered gold. The imperfections make the object unique.”
The man turned to look at him and his dark eyes widened in surprise. Why was he surprised? What was different about Fen from yesterday? He no longer looked like a drowned rat?
