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Authors: Alex Connor
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had grease marks on his trousers. He knew that to onlookers he personified the worst kind of travelling rep. Some deadbeat selling life insurance. But for all his sloppy appearance and Peckham vowels, Shaw was one of the smartest handlers in London.
His speciality was objets d’art, which covered a huge remit. Paintings, sculpture, furniture, antiques of any kind, books, medical equipment – and that Holy of Holies – relics. And the word ‘handler’ meant that Shaw literally
handled
pieces for collectors, crooked dealers, private connoisseurs and the criminal fraternity. For handler read thief.
Not that Shaw did his own thieving. He had others for that. Spent
lags down on their luck, eking out a living as runners and dossing down in the Salvation
Army hostels at night. Ex-convicts he would greet – bottle in hand – as the doors of
Wormwood Scrubs or Strangeways unlocked, beating relatives, lovers, certainly the
clergy, to the post. Scuppering any chance of the ex-prisoner going straight, Shaw was a
walking advert for recidivism, catching the vulnerable at the point between prison and
the outside world. The latter usually looked infinitely more threatening than the offer
Shaw was making.
Men who had become nervous about re-entering normal life found themselves lured in. Once in, they became part of Shaw’s team. A numbering dozens team that stretched across London. And each was a specialist in their field. Shaw was an equal opportunities employer too. A woman could often prove more useful than a man, seducing secrets out of people who usually betrayed nothing, even to themselves.
But by keeping himself remote from the actual handling – and by using an intermediary to negotiate for him – Jimmy Shaw was never caught. The runners were caught and served time for him, their sentences made bearable by a healthy retainer or the promise of future work. People might have heard of Jimmy Shaw, but they didn’t deal directly with him.
Except that now there was something in the offing which was too valuable, too precious, to entrust to any of his employees. Something too tempting for any crook to resist. Something Shaw would have to handle himself. A sticky secret, a whisper from Spain. And with it, the promise of enough wealth to satisfy even his greed.
Tripping over the step as he entered the supermarket, Shaw moved to the sweet counter and grabbed a handful of chocolate bars before snatching up a family-sized bag of crisps and taking his place behind the long queue at the checkout.
*
He could see from the sneering gaze of the woman in front of him
that he repelled her, and the thought made him smile. Oh, she’d be singing a different
tune if she knew what he was going to be worth soon. He was already a rich man, but this
new piece of bounty would put him in a different league. No snotty looks then. Just a
queue of women willing to lift their skirts.
‘I can’t put that through the till.’ At the sight of him, the girl had decided to be difficult.
Surprised, Shaw looked at the checkout girl. ‘
What?
’
‘You’ve opened the crisp packet.’
‘I’m eating the crisps. You know a way of doing that
without
opening the pack?’
She pulled a face and the woman behind Shaw joined in. ‘You can’t do that. You can’t come in and start eating things—’
‘Who invited you to the party?’ Shaw retorted, turning back to the checkout girl. ‘What’s the problem? I’m buying the crisps—’
‘A full bag.’
‘I’m
paying
for the full fucking bag!’ he snapped as the
checkout girl pointed to the sign over her till. It read:
WE WILL NOT TOLERATE ANY OF OUR STAFF BEING ABUSED BY CUSTOMERS .
‘I can’t put them through the till,’ she persisted. ‘Not half eaten.’
Nodding, Shaw glanced at the woman behind him. Then, greedily,
noisily and very slowly he began to eat the crisps, the whole queue watching him, until
finally he put back his head and emptied the last
His speciality was objets d’art, which covered a huge remit. Paintings, sculpture, furniture, antiques of any kind, books, medical equipment – and that Holy of Holies – relics. And the word ‘handler’ meant that Shaw literally
handled
pieces for collectors, crooked dealers, private connoisseurs and the criminal fraternity. For handler read thief.
Not that Shaw did his own thieving. He had others for that. Spent
lags down on their luck, eking out a living as runners and dossing down in the Salvation
Army hostels at night. Ex-convicts he would greet – bottle in hand – as the doors of
Wormwood Scrubs or Strangeways unlocked, beating relatives, lovers, certainly the
clergy, to the post. Scuppering any chance of the ex-prisoner going straight, Shaw was a
walking advert for recidivism, catching the vulnerable at the point between prison and
the outside world. The latter usually looked infinitely more threatening than the offer
Shaw was making.
Men who had become nervous about re-entering normal life found themselves lured in. Once in, they became part of Shaw’s team. A numbering dozens team that stretched across London. And each was a specialist in their field. Shaw was an equal opportunities employer too. A woman could often prove more useful than a man, seducing secrets out of people who usually betrayed nothing, even to themselves.
But by keeping himself remote from the actual handling – and by using an intermediary to negotiate for him – Jimmy Shaw was never caught. The runners were caught and served time for him, their sentences made bearable by a healthy retainer or the promise of future work. People might have heard of Jimmy Shaw, but they didn’t deal directly with him.
Except that now there was something in the offing which was too valuable, too precious, to entrust to any of his employees. Something too tempting for any crook to resist. Something Shaw would have to handle himself. A sticky secret, a whisper from Spain. And with it, the promise of enough wealth to satisfy even his greed.
Tripping over the step as he entered the supermarket, Shaw moved to the sweet counter and grabbed a handful of chocolate bars before snatching up a family-sized bag of crisps and taking his place behind the long queue at the checkout.
*
He could see from the sneering gaze of the woman in front of him
that he repelled her, and the thought made him smile. Oh, she’d be singing a different
tune if she knew what he was going to be worth soon. He was already a rich man, but this
new piece of bounty would put him in a different league. No snotty looks then. Just a
queue of women willing to lift their skirts.
‘I can’t put that through the till.’ At the sight of him, the girl had decided to be difficult.
Surprised, Shaw looked at the checkout girl. ‘
What?
’
‘You’ve opened the crisp packet.’
‘I’m eating the crisps. You know a way of doing that
without
opening the pack?’
She pulled a face and the woman behind Shaw joined in. ‘You can’t do that. You can’t come in and start eating things—’
‘Who invited you to the party?’ Shaw retorted, turning back to the checkout girl. ‘What’s the problem? I’m buying the crisps—’
‘A full bag.’
‘I’m
paying
for the full fucking bag!’ he snapped as the
checkout girl pointed to the sign over her till. It read:
WE WILL NOT TOLERATE ANY OF OUR STAFF BEING ABUSED BY CUSTOMERS .
‘I can’t put them through the till,’ she persisted. ‘Not half eaten.’
Nodding, Shaw glanced at the woman behind him. Then, greedily,
noisily and very slowly he began to eat the crisps, the whole queue watching him, until
finally he put back his head and emptied the last
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