by Phil Lovesey

* * * *

If there’s anyone in the mystery field who can equal Phil Lovesey’s genius for piling twist upon brilliant twist, it can only be his own father, Cartier Diamond Dagger winner Peter Lovesey. Phil Lovesey’s new story for us turns on the all too understandable weaknesses of an ordinary, child-rearing husband and wife. Other tales in which the ordinary turns surprising are already in EQMM’s lineup from Phil Lovesey for the coming year.

“It’s not going to be a problem, is it, Chris?”

Chris shook his head, tried to sound unimpressed, casual, as his old friend handed him the keys to the brand-new BMW Z4M convertible that now sat alongside Chris’s own safe family saloon in the double garage. “Naah,” he said. “That’s fine, Dave. Not a problem at all.”

“Mary won’t have a problem with it?”

Chris smiled. “I’m sure she’ll come round.”

“Like I say,” the proud owner continued, “it should only be for eight months, till I get back from New Zealand, and frankly I wouldn’t want to leave forty-three thousand pounds of quality motor in my garage for a weekend on its own, mate, let alone eight months. Someone would have the thing away within hours.”

“Not a problem at all,” Chris slowly repeated, eyes sweeping over the immaculate lines and silver chrome of the dark blue two-seater. He reckoned the price of the wheel-trims alone would easily pay for his old heap.

“Nought to sixty in less than five,” Dave said, reeling off the statistics as only car nuts can. “Top whack—hundred and fifty-five miles per hour. You’ve got three hundred and thirty-eight bhp under the hood, plus the computer gadgetry’s so smart the thing could probably drive you wherever itself.”

“The bachelor life, eh?”

“Just one of the perks, mate,” Dave confirmed.

Chris looked around his yard, a chaos of brightly coloured plastic toys, cheap garden furniture, and the remains of an old barbecue the kids had ruined last summer, now lying in pieces, as if provocatively symbolic of the fire that seemed to have seeped from his own life over the past few years.

“Still,” Dave said, slapping him on the shoulder. “You’ve got Mary and the kids, Chris. Lot of men our age wouldn’t swap a dozen BM’s for that.”

“Right,” Chris replied, wanting to know exactly who these mythical men were.

Dave shook his hand. “Got to be off, mate. Jen’s giving me a lift to the airport.” He looked over, waved at the smiling young blonde in the VW soft-top. “Guess I might even miss her a little, too.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Chris replied, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice, knowing full well his old friend would most probably manage to arrive at Auckland airport with a stewardess from the flight on each arm. It had simply always been that way between them, right from when they’d first met as students. Dave Seabrook, the popular one; Chris Jones, the boring one. Chris often used to suspect his new friend merely used him as an obvious physical comparison, a weapon in his female charm-offensive—a war that nine times out of ten, the taller, more good-looking of the two inevitably won.

But, Chris tried to convince himself, Dave was right about one thing. He had Mary and the kids—three healthy kids—which Dave didn’t. Surely he must have been a little lonely at times, bored of the superficiality of the eternal bachelor life? Whereas with Mary and the kids, there was simply no time for boredom. Just the sheer effort of getting three teenagers to after-school clubs, friends’ houses, trips into town—together with the expense of keeping them fed, designer-clothed (Why was it kids refused to wear anything else these days?), and up to date with the latest mobile phones, computers, and music-players—left precious little time, money, or energy for anything else.

Dave turned to go. “Give my love to Mary and the brood, mate.”

“Will do. Enjoy New Zealand.”

“Chris, it’s business, remember?”

“Like that’s ever stopped you before.”

Dave smiled, began walking away. “Now, don’t you go getting all jealous about me. Just you look after that beauty in your garage. I’ve only had her three weeks, but already she’s the love of my life.”

“And there was me thinking it was just a rather sad penis-extension for a lonely middle-aged man.”

Dave good-naturedly flicked an obscene gesture, then stopped, hurried back. “Listen, Chris, you’re not going to...”

“What?”

“Take it for a spin, or anything?”

“Me?” Chris tried to sound shocked, as if the thought had never occurred.

Dave shrugged. “It’s just that insurance on these things is a nightmare. I’m the only named driver. And frankly, mate, even if I added you to the policy, well...” His gaze drifted to Chris’s less-than-impressive vehicle.

“Well, what?”

“Chances are you’d spill the thing before you’d got it out of the drive. She’s a wild beast, and it takes quite a driver to tame her.”

“Dave?”

“What?”

“Why don’t you sod off to the airport?”

* * * *

“What do you mean, it isn’t a ‘problem’?” Mary Jones sighed as her husband showed her the latest gleaming arrival. She was tired, it had been a long Saturday of shopping, visiting her mother in the rest home, and endlessly ferrying the kids from A to B and God knows how many other places—then to come back home to this, some ridiculous little sports car now occupying half of the double garage? Of course it was a problem—and a damn big one at that.

Chris sensed the weary irritation. “It’s just till Dave gets back. Eight months at the most.”

“Eight months?” Mary gasped, rubbing her forehead. “And what the hell have you done with all Mum’s stuff?”

“Moved it.”

“Where, Chris?” She had her arms outstretched. “Where on earth have you managed to move a lifetime of my mother’s possessions?”

“Just sort of ... put them around the place.”

It was true, ever since he’d had the call from his old friend that morning, Chris had been shuttling boxes of his mother-in-law’s clutter back and forth from the garage to the house in order to make way for the car. Mostly, he’d managed to stack them in the hallway and landing areas, the result being a series of small walkways enclosed by waist-high boxes permitting, at best, awkward single-file access to bedrooms, bathrooms, and living areas.

“Oh God,” Mary moaned, when confronted with the maze beginning just outside her kitchen.

“Everything will be fine, my love,” Chris insisted. He went for the hug, but she stepped back, almost fell over a box. He didn’t feel now was the time to tell her about the one or two small “breakages” he’d had on the way. She’s tired, that’s all, she’ll soon come round.

“How long have you known about this?”

“Dave rang just after you left this morning.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I didn’t see it as a problem, love.” He tried to ignore the sarcastic laugh, offer a titbit of something more substantial to soften the blow. “He’s going to pay us.”

“How much?”

The sarcasm ended when he told her. “You fool! That’s a pittance, can’t you see that? To professionally garage a car like that would cost ten times as much! And in the meantime, whilst he’s sunning himself on the other side of the world, my house has been turned into a miniature bloody warehouse. I mean, how do you suggest we get around the place, in a goddamned forklift?”

“Mary, he’s a good friend.”

“No,” she quickly corrected him. “He’s a user. Always has been, always will be—only you’re too thick to see it.”

Loud complaints began emanating from upstairs as the three Jones offspring voiced their disapproval at the new living arrangements. But here, stepping around three boxes marked “CHINA—FRAGILE,” Chris called up the stairs and played his trump card.

“Hey kids,” he shouted. “Come and see what Uncle Dave’s left us all in the garage!”

* * * *

On Sunday, Chris took over duties as the unpaid (largely unappreciated) taxi-driver for the kids. Not in the BMW, however secretly tempting the thought might have been, but in the eleven-year-old family car—much to the children’s annoyance.

“When are we going to go for a burn-up in it, Dad?” his son asked on the way back from karate. “My mates’d think it was so cool if you dropped me off in it.”

“It’s off-limits, Sam,” Chris replied, wishing it wasn’t, wishing he could screech to a thundering halt in front of his son’s friends, bask in shocked adolescent awe before wheel-spinning away. If only...

Wasn’t ever going to happen. He was a family man. Any dreams of leading the life were to be left far behind, steamrollered as they were by the hectic, exhausting reality of his and Mary’s life together.

A surprise awaited him when he got back around five. Mary had been busy. The hallway, packed with boxes just that morning, was now as clear as it had been a little over thirty-six hours previously. Not an item of his mother-in-law’s remained.

Mary stood, smiling at him, as the kids made their way upstairs, gasping at the change. Apparently, there was little to show for their grandmother anywhere in the house.

“I’ve been having a clear-out,” she announced.

“Wow.”

“Maybe getting that car was a good thing.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I guess it forced me to see all of Mum’s stuff for what it was. Just boxes and boxes of old rubbish.” She looked at the recently cleared space, sighed. “Maybe it forced me to look at Mum, too. Her problem. I mean, I’m kidding myself if I think she’s ever going to get out of that home.”

Chris went and put an arm round his wife.

“She’ll die in there, Chris. She’ll never need any of it again, and it was just cluttering our lives.”

Chris tried not to nod too enthusiastically.

“Anyway,” Mary went on, “most of Mum’s stuff is now safely distributed around local charity shops. Nine trips I made. Good little car, ours. Couldn’t have done it in that boy-toy of your mate’s.”

Chris grinned, scratched the back of his head. “Amazing. And the charity shops simply took all that stuff?”

“Sure,” Mary replied. “Like I say, I had to drop it off at a few of them. There was too much of it to give it all to one shop.”

He hugged her, pleased she didn’t immediately pull back this time. “Top work, love. And I think it’s what your mother would have wanted.” He felt her flinch at his last clumsy word, cringed himself.

“Chris,” she admonished. “She’s not dead, yet.”

True enough, but as it happened, also partially inaccurate; for part of Mary’s mother was already dead, the onrushing Alzheimer’s having cruelly seen to that. Mary sometimes wondered why she even bothered making the trips out to the rest home, such was the lack of recognition between mother and daughter. Take the previous day’s visit. Her mother had greeted her with the wide smile afforded the sudden arrival of an old and unexpected friend. The problem being, she really thought Mary was an old friend, then spent the next hour detailing the wild time they’d both had way back as teenagers in the 1950s. Apparently, Mary was told afterwards by a rest-home worker, the long-term memories are the last to leave, often become more vivid, real to the Alzheimer’s sufferer. And although the afternoon had proved depressingly bizarre for Mary, it had also revealed a new side to her mother, a pre-married side, which had really set Mary thinking...

* * * *

Around seven that night, with the kids either out with friends or glued to the virtual world, Mary took Chris’s hand as he sat slumped watching television in the lounge.

Something felt hard and cold in his palm. Looking down, he saw she’d pressed the keys to the BMW into it. He looked up quizzically.

“I only want to sit in it,” she teased.

“Dave’s car? But I thought you said you hated the thing?”

She opened a nearby drawer, handed him an old black-and-white photograph of a young couple in the front seats of a speeding car. It was wonderfully animated, a near-perfect moment of joyous celebration, the wind whipping the long hair of the laughing woman in the front passenger seat as she turned and laughed at the unseen photographer in the rear. The driver’s eyes, his face obscured, could be glimpsed in the rearview mirror, marvellously expressive, eyebrows raised in tremulous excitement, as if directly addressing the viewer.

“Any guesses who the woman is?” Mary asked.

Chris already knew the answer. “Your mum.” He studied the shot. “Wow, must have been in her twenties. Look at her, loving it. The driver, is that ...?”

“Dad? No. Look at the eyes. Totally different to Dad’s. It must have been taken before she met him. I found it today when I was going through her stuff.”

Chris gave a low whistle. “Seems weird, doesn’t it?—your parents being young, free, and single. Kind of always imagine them as parents.”

Mary turned at this. “And what is a ‘parent’ in your mind?”

He shifted. “Mature, I guess. Responsible. Grown-up.”

“Boring, you mean.” She took the photo, looked at it. “This young girl, it’s like she’s another being. I mean, I know it’s Mum, but it isn’t. It’s a sort of ‘before’ Mum—before she met Dad, had us kids, became the mum she is now.” She turned to him. “Yesterday, when I saw her, she thought I was some old friend from way back. Called me Woody, then went into some old memories. Quite racy, some of them. Started going on about her jugs.”

“No, no, no,” Chris moaned. “Don’t, please. That’s just not right.”

“It’s true,” Mary insisted. “Honestly, she really thought I was this Woody person, and she was going on about her boobs.”

Chris winced. “Sorry, love. Must have been awful.”

“It never even caused her to blush. And there I was, listening to this old woman—my mother, for God’s sake—and do you know what I was thinking?”

“That you never really knew her at all?”

“No,” Mary firmly replied. “I was seeing myself as her. There, alone, and balmy in some rest home in forty years’ time, you long-since dead like my dad, and our kids coming to visit me.”

“Thanks for writing me off so early.”

She ignored this. “Which is when it struck me. I’m not going to have any racy memories to tell them. My life’s been a bloody boring series of expected events. God’s sake, you were even my first proper boyfriend.”

“Thanks for that, as well.” He tried not to sound too hurt.

“All I’m saying,” she went on, snuggling closer, “is it struck me that maybe now’s the time to make a few memories.”

He brightened at this. “Racy ones?”

“Perhaps,” she replied with a suggestive smile. “But maybe not in the way you think, lover-boy.”

* * * *

They didn’t just sit in the car that night—inevitably, they took it for a spin. Even though Chris knew he wasn’t insured, that he could easily drive the thing into a wall with one tiny slip of his foot on the accelerator pedal, he nervously reversed all 43,000 pounds’ worth of two-seater designer car from the double garage and cautiously drove out into surrounding streets. With the soft-top down, wind in their hair, they slipped effortlessly out of the town and into the surrounding late-evening countryside, until finally stopping for a drink in a small country pub they’d often spied but never had the chance or opportunity to pull in at before.

And how they pulled in! Chris, getting more confident behind the patent-leather covered wheel, managed to turn most of the heads sat drinking outside as he skidded to an impressive stop in the gravel. Then, going for the kill—and much to Mary’s rising amusement—he unbuckled the seat belt and, in one totally unexpected move, stood on the driver’s seat and semi-vaulted over the door, before casually strolling to Mary’s side and making a big show of helping her out like a royal chauffeur. Three or four of the amused onlookers actually clapped, whilst Mary was especially grateful for the wolf-whistle as she and Chris ambled inside.

“This,” she happily concluded, as they sat down with their drinks at a small table by the fire, “is finally living.”

He raised his glass to hers. “Here’s to us.”

“Here’s to racy memories,” she replied.

Chris stuck to soft drinks, as Mary matched him with large glasses of white wine. Within three, the effects were beginning to show, as she began slurring her words and giggling a little too much. Chris, at ease, looked around the pub, basking in the spontaneous contentment of it all, enjoying the sensation of simply being there with Mary, idly playing with the BMW key fob in his hand.

“ ‘Scuse me, mate. That your motor outside?”

Chris looked at the large beer-bellied man, his gaze drawn to the dried oil patches on the huge hands that made the pint glass he held look like a half. “Yeah,” he replied, trying to sound oh-so-cool about it; loving it as Mary giggled again.

“Nice motor. Mind if I join you for a mo?”

“Sure.”

The stranger sat down, quickly introduced himself as Jake, then began a conversation built entirely around the technicalities and specifications of the BMW. Chris, realising he’d unwittingly invited a car nut to join them, did his best to feign a slight interest, whilst trying to adopt the character of someone who was simply too rich to care about traction bearings, overhead camshafts, and cylinder rebores.

“Thing is,” the bearded intruder concluded, lowering his voice, “if you’re ever thinking of selling her, I’d be, you know, interested.”

“It’s not for sale,” Chris quickly replied, wondering just when the colossal bore would leave him and Mary alone.

But then Mary suddenly asked, “How much?”

“Twenty grand—cash,” Jake quickly replied, winking at her.

“Twenty-five, maybe,” she said.

“Guess we could haggle all night, you and I, lady, eh? Come to some sort of arrangement?”

Chris was beginning to get uncomfortable with the way Mary’s eyes flirted as she looked at the man over the top of her fourth large wine. “Like I said,” he soberly interjected, “it’s not for sale. I don’t even have any of the paperwork.”

Jake shrugged. “Not a problem, mate. You ask any of ‘em in here about Jake’s ‘vanishing’ motors, you’ll soon see.”

Mary leant across the table a little unsteadily, then whispered, “Tell me more, Mr. Magic-man.”

He smiled. “Let’s just say you hand those keys over to me right now...”

“No way!” Chris insisted.

Jake held up a hand. “Listen me out, pal. It’s just a hypothetical.”

“I’m listening,” Mary slurred.

“You give me those keys, I give you the cash. When you get back home, you report the motor stolen to the police. In the time it takes for the insurance and the coppers to sort themselves out, I’ve had it resprayed, new plates on it, and it’s on its way to some Russian fellas I know who’ll pay a tidy sum for it.” He finished his beer. “Job done. Everyone wins. Just think of it as an early equity-release scheme.”

Mary said, “Maybe now’s the time to tell you about my husband’s day job. He’s an undercover officer investigating car fraud.”

Jake laughed. “I doubt it, love. Wouldn’t be able to afford a motor like that on those wages.”

“Aha!” Mary replied, enjoying the banter. “But maybe he’s a corrupt undercover officer who takes large bribes.”

“In that case,” Jake concluded, “maybe I was talking to the right person in the first place.”

* * * *

Chris was in no mood for Mary’s singing on the way back home. It was dark now, and negotiating winding roads back to the town was far more difficult than on the drive out.

“God, you’re so boring!” she objected, as he turned the music off. “Just because you’re sober.”

“No,” he tried to calmly reply. “You’re boring because you’re drunk.”

“You’re just annoyed because Jake kept looking at me.”

Which was true, though Chris wasn’t about to admit it. “Mary, he ruined our night. God’s sake, we didn’t come all this way to spend it with some third-rate car crook.”

“Because we have to be ‘grown-up,’ ‘mature,’ and so bloody ‘responsible’ all our lives?”

“Listen, Mary, going out for a spin and a few drinks is one thing, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather it didn’t result in an appearance on next month’s Crimewatch.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence, the mood ruined, the creation of any “racy” memories as unlikely as the chances that they’d ever own a car like the BMW for real.

* * * *

Four days later, as he finished loading the dishwasher after supper, he heard the agitated cry. “Chris!” came Mary’s urgent voice from the lounge. “Get in here, now!”

He raced in expecting to be confronted by some sort of hideous domestic accident, only to find his ashen-faced wife pointing at the television screen. “What’s going ...?”

“Just watch!”

It was an early-evening local news item. A reporter stood by an elderly, smiling woman holding a pair of small, brown, white-trimmed jugs in each hand.

Jugs—the word tripped something off in his mind.

“And this was entirely unexpected?” the reporter asked the beaming woman.

“Absolutely,” she proudly replied, as the camera zoomed in on the two antiques. “I was working in the back of the shop, rooting through all the old boxes of stuff people had dropped off on Saturday, and there they were. Two Wedgwood jugs. Well, when I got home, I got my neighbour to look them up on his Internet, and that was when we discovered their true value.”

“Which is?” the reporter asked.

“Anywhere between five and ten thousand pounds. They’re very rare indeed. Crimson-dipped Jasperware.”

Chris slowly sat down. “Oh my God,” he said, pointing at the screen. “Your mother. The jugs. The friend—Woody. Your trip to the charity shops on Saturday...”

Mary quickly hushed him, eyes still fixed to the screen.

The reporter asked what was likely to happen to the jugs.

“Obviously, we couldn’t sell them in the shop,” the charity-shop worker continued. “So we’ve decided to auction them this Friday. That way we’ll get a proper price for them.”

“And what would you like to say to the kind donor if he or she is watching?”

She turned to the camera, her benevolent smile almost mocking Chris and Mary. “Thank you, whoever you are, for this astonishing donation to the charity.”

The report ended, cutting to the local weather, as Mary gently put her head in her hands and moaned.

* * * *

Three long, agonising, argument-fuelled hours later, they had a plan, if “plan” could ever be a word for it. To Chris, it was a ludicrous gamble, a dreadful betrayal of his old friend’s trust, a shameful, illegal exercise. To Mary, smarting at the loss of her mother’s priceless antiques, it was the only option.

They were going to sell the car to Jake.

“Then,” Mary had said, “we’ll use the money to buy the jugs at the auction. Get them back. Don’t you see? They’ll go up in value, be worth far more in the future. It’s the only way we can raise that sort of money before Friday.”

“It’s illegal,” Chris insisted. “A crime. There’s got to be another way.”

But no matter how they thought about the problem, nothing else came. They tried ringing the television station to trace the smiling charity-shop worker, only to be politely told they were the seventy-seventh call that evening claiming to be the rightful owner of the jugs who’d donated them by mistake, and no further calls on the subject were being taken. Crime, it seemed, was endemic, and in a world in which petty criminals and chancers proliferated, perhaps now was their moment to join the law-breaking throng.

“Go now,” Mary urged, giving Chris the BMW keys. “Go to the pub and tell Jake you want to sell.”

“Mary, he’s a crook.”

“He’s also our only real chance,” she reminded him.

* * * *

Jake knew a desperate man when he saw one, and his years in the dodgy motor trade made him know full well how to play one. After all, he’d only met the cocksure BMW owner and his drunken wife the previous Sunday night, and already the bloke was gagging to sell the motor.

Easy pickings...

He took Chris to a discreet corner of the pub and told him to come to his barn on Friday morning, giving him some nonsense about it taking time to get twenty grand’s cash together, watching Chris’s perspiration begin to break out, knowing at that precise moment just how hungry for the money he was.

Too easy, really...

Jake wrote down an address of a nearby farm on the back of a beer mat and told Chris to be there on Friday morning at nine. Then, trying to hide his smirk, he ambled back to his laughing pals at the bar.

* * * *

Chris and Mary got to the farmyard as just after nine, already tense, hearts pounding. It had occurred to Chris as he drove the BMW over, Mary following behind in the saloon, that the whole deal could be some hideous setup. What if it was “Jake” that was really the undercover police officer, luring them both to inevitable arrest?

His bad feelings about the whole thing didn’t go away when Jake’s large, lumpen, boiler-suited body appeared from a barn, urgently waving at Chris to drive the car inside. A myriad of rusting machinery, arc-welding equipment, and car parts lay scattered around on the cold concrete floor. He parked, stepped from the BMW.

“This way, squire,” Jake said, walking to a nearby table. Chris could already see the bundles of used notes on the dirty surface.

Mary appeared by his side, counting them. “How much is that?”

“Ten grand,” Jake replied, watching them both.

“You said at least twenty!”

He nodded. “True, love. And I can get you twenty. But not till next month. Ain’t got that much cash lying around, have I?” He held out a huge hand for the keys. “We got a deal or not?”

“No chance,” Chris nervously replied. “Not for ten lousy grand.”

“Suit yourself, pal,” Jake casually replied, starting to scoop the bundles away.

“No, wait,” Mary panicked. “We’ll take it.”

“Mary!”

She turned to Chris, tight-lipped. “We’ll take it.”

“But it’s a con!”

“And how else do you think we can get the money, eh?”

Jake smothered a laugh with a cough. “Listen, folks, I’m a busy fella, got things to be doing. Can’t stand here and listen to you two arguing. It’s the ten grand, or nothing. End of.”

Two minutes later, they were on their way to the auction rooms in the family saloon, Mary driving as Chris sat in stunned, shameful silence with ten thousand pounds in neat bundles on his lap.

* * * *

If anyone ever had doubts about the efficacy of local news items to drum up public interest, the expectant, abnormally crowded auction room that morning proved them wrong. Established antiques dealers sat alongside private collectors, together with interested members of the public who’d simply turned up to witness the spectacle. Rumour had it the television cameras were going to return to interview the successful bidder on the two crimson-dipped Wedgwood Jasperware jugs, the star attraction of that morning’s lots.

Chris and Mary managed to find two of the last available seats, as the back of the room quickly became standing-room only. To the side, a dozen dealers stood waiting on phones, linked to unseen buyers.

In the “planning” stage, neither Chris nor Mary had fully appreciated just how intimidating the atmosphere would be. The thought of actually bidding for an item was terrifying. The auctioneer himself was a stern-faced schoolmaster type, banging his gavel unnecessarily loudly with the completion of each lot.

Tension grew as the main event drew closer. At the appointed time, the assistant gently set both jugs on the table by the lectern, while the auctioneer went through the items’ description, stressing their rarity, value, and the exceptional opportunity for all bidders.

“I’ll start the bidding at five thousand,” he announced, his narrowed eyes scanning the room.

Chris went to raise his hand, but Mary, who’d been observing tactics on previous lots, held it down.

“Four thousand?”

Nothing.

“Three,” he conceded. “Three thousand for this incredible opportunity to own these two beautiful Wedgwood jugs.”

A bid. Somewhere from the back.

Chris turned, tried to spot the raised hand, but suddenly there were too many. Bids began coming in from all over. The price rose and rose, yet still Mary held his hand firmly by his side.

“We wait,” she whispered. “We wait till the last bid. Then we know it’s just a two-way thing. Us, or them.”

The price steadily rose—five thousand, six, seven...

“Now,” she urged, as the auctioneer announced that the final bid of eight-thousand, three hundred pounds was going for the third time.

Chris raised his hand, nodded at the man, causing the room to gasp and turn towards him.

“Eight thousand, five hundred?” he was asked.

Chris nodded, as Mary squeezed his free hand excitedly.

* * * *

Fortunately, they managed to avoid reporters, the auction-house staff showing the successful bidders a discreet side door used when avoiding inevitable publicity. They were, Chris suspected, all too grateful to assist in any way they could, seeing how he’d just paid nine thousand, eight hundred and seventy-five pounds for the Wedgwood jugs. At ten-percent commission, showing someone a side door was the least they could do.

“No problem,” the smiling assistant said, opening the door, but missing Chris’s disgruntled reply.

“Well,” Mary concluded, inspecting the jugs as Chris drove them home, “this is one story I’ll gladly tell the kids about when they visit me in the rest home. Can’t say we haven’t lived a bit today.”

“You might have done,” Chris moaned. “I feel about thirty years older.” He glanced across at the Wedgwood. “Christ’s sakes, be careful! We’ve got ten grand’s worth of antiques in a six-hundred-pound car.” He looked ahead and saw the police officer signalling for him to pull over. “Oh God, what’s this?”

“Stay calm,” Mary instructed. “It’s probably nothing.”

“Nothing?” he replied, pulling up in front of the patrol car. “Christ’s sake, Mary, have you forgotten what we’ve done?”

His mouth dried. The officer seemed to take an age looking around the old car before finally tapping on the window. Chris wound it down. “Is there ... a problem, Officer?”

“Could say that, sir, yes.”

Chris’s heart missed a beat.

The officer pointed at the tax disc on the windscreen. “Out of date, sir. Expired at the end of last month.”

“Oh ... right, yes. I’ve been meaning to go and...”

“This is an illegal vehicle, sir. To drive it is an offence under the Road Traffic Act.”

“I was...” Chris’s mind raced. “I was on my way to get one right now. That’s right, isn’t it, love?”

Mary nodded.

The officer considered this. “Well, I could save you the bother, sir. If you have the money, I can enter your details on my computer, and a new disc will be sent to your address straight away.”

Relief filled them both.

“Yes,” Chris quickly said. “That’s a great idea. I’ll do that now.”

They legally drove away a few minutes later, every penny of the ten thousand spent, plus an extra forty-two pounds Chris had to put it on the credit card in order to buy the full year’s tax.

“And now,” he announced, trying to keep the rising anger in, “all we have to do is get home and tell the police the BMW has been ‘stolen’ from our garage while we’ve been driving around illegally in this car. Bloody marvellous day, this is, Mary, eh? Really living, isn’t it?”

She didn’t reply, refusing to rise to the sarcasm.

“Then, after that, I simply have to tell my oldest friend that his brand-new, beloved car has been nicked. Not only have I swindled him, I have to lie to him as well. Another top-notch bit of ‘living,’ wouldn’t you say?”

Mary shook her head. “Look, love, I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

“So easy to say. It’s not your friend, or your friend’s car.”

“Come on,” she tried. “Dave’s just a user—we both know that. Well, maybe for once we’ve used him. But only because we didn’t have a choice.”

“No,” Chris loudly objected. “It was because you put those bloody jugs in the charity shop!”

She was angry too, now. “Yeah, I did! But why did I do that, eh? Because your bloody friend parked his car where Mum’s stuff was. Stuff that you went and moved! If he hadn’t dumped his car on us—none of this would have happened!”

It was another silent journey home.

* * * *

The kitchen phone was already ringing when Chris stormed into the house, Mary angrily carrying the precious box a few paces behind.

“Yes?” he barked into the receiver.

“Whoa, down, boy,” came the familiar voice. “Called at a wrong time, have I? That car of mine turning you into a jealous maniac?”

Chris glanced at Mary, hit the speakerphone, silently mouthed “Help” at her. “No, Dave,” he said, “it’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

“Well, it’s pretty bloody fine over in NZ, too, mate. Pretty damn fine, indeed.”

Mary slowly set the box on the kitchen table, took out the two jugs, staring firstly at the phone, then blankly back into her husband’s desperate eyes.

“It’s about the car,” the tinny voice continued.

“Right,” Chris said. “Look, Dave, I’ve got something to tell you...”

“No, mate,” his friend laughed. “I’ve got something to tell you. Well, ask you, really. I need a favour.”

Chris took a breath. “Wha ... what’s that, Dave?”

“I want you to sell the thing.”

Mary flinched, couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.

“What?”

“You heard. Sell it. Stick it on the ‘Net. Thing is, they’ve got all sorts of lovely motors down here, I’ve fallen on my feet with the job, and I can pick up a new motor for about a third of the price. So sell the Z4. I’ll sort the paperwork out, no worries. But listen, don’t take any less than thirty grand for it, you hear?”

Chris sat at the table. “I ... hear. Yes. But listen, Dave, there’s something I really do need to tell you about the car.”

“In a second. Wait up, I haven’t finished yet. Been doing a lot of thinking recently. You know, about stuff. Mostly you and Mary, really. I haven’t been that good a friend, have I? And the point is that I’m doing really well now, and I know you guys are always struggling.”

Out of Chris’s eyeline, and even unaware of it herself, Mary’s hands had begun to shake a little, as the dreadful possibility of the next sentence dawned on them both.

“Thing is,” Dave went on, “I want you guys to keep the money. All thirty grand of it. No objections—it’s yours. Just think of it as a gift from me for all the times I used you. A present from a true friend to his only other true friends.”

Chris gasped, saw Mary’s shoulders begin to sag. Then, to his horror, watched as the two Wedgwood jugs slipped effortlessly from her shocked hands and smashed on the hard kitchen floor.

A tinny voice from the other side of the world cut through the stunned silence. “Chris, you still there, mate? Like I said, just sell it and keep the money. It’s not going to be a problem, is it?”