Chapter 1
Bonnie Brookland tried to concentrate on polishing the smears out of the cabinet door and block out the nasal voice of her boss Ken Grimshaw spouting the biggest load of bull she’d heard all year, but he was nigh on impossible to ignore at that volume.
‘You see, it’s just a lot of old junk really, love, so twenty-five quid would be my final offer,’ he was saying to the little old lady who had just handed him a box full of what she’d hoped were treasures. People did it so often. They came through the doors hoping they’d leave ten minutes later as millionaires after watching a couple of Antiques Roadshows and Cash in the Attics. They presumed every decorated egg was a Fabergé, every cracked blue and white vase was a Ming. And even if they were, asking Ken Grimshaw to value them was a huge mistake because, Rolex or rubbish, he’d automatically say they were junk so he could offer peanuts. Bonnie couldn’t see all of what was in the old lady’s cache, but she did spot a white Holmegaard Gulvase vase on top which was quite rare and alone worth more than the twenty-five pounds which Grimshaw was offering her for everything. He didn’t know as much as he purported to about antiques, but he’d definitely identified that piece correctly because it had set off his facial tic, which is what usually happened when he recognised something of value and knew he was going to get it for a song.
Bonnie had worked at Grimshaw’s since she was a schoolgirl, first just weekends then full-time after leaving school. Once upon a time it had been Sherman and Grimshaw’s because her dad, Brian Sherman, and Ken’s father Harry had been in partnership, but when Brian became ill, Harry had bought him out, though, as a mark of the respect in which he held his friend, he kept the Sherman name above the door alongside his own. Harry had been very good to Bonnie and she’d loved working for him and had learned a lot from him over the years. He’d been a fair man, a respected man and the shop had been beautiful. Then he’d died suddenly two years ago and his revolting son had taken over the business and it had gone downhill faster than an overweight bull on a bobsleigh. It was full of junk now, car boot stuff, give or take a few lovely but ridiculously overpriced bits of jewellery in cabinets. Bonnie knew that many of the gemstones in them were fake. People automatically presumed if a stone was set in gold, it was the real McCoy, even if the ‘ruby’ had scratch marks on it or there were tiny bubbles in a ‘sapphire’, but Ken had advertised them all as if they were. He was prepared to take a risk that he wouldn’t be found out. So far, he was winning.
Harry Grimshaw had valued Bonnie’s extensive knowledge, her intuition and her wonderful way with people. Ken Grimshaw treated her like something nasty that he’d stood in. As far as he was concerned, she was there to sell things, clean up, make the tea and occasionally, when his cronies were in, to leer at. They’d make under-the-breath smutty comments about her as if they were all in a seventies sitcom. Bonnie hated the days when they came in, but she needed the job so she put up with them.
Ken reached in his pocket and pulled out a creased tenner and when he went into the back room for the rest, Bonnie reckoned she had a window of thirty seconds tops. She darted over to the old lady and spoke rapidly to her in a low voice.
‘Don’t take his money. Go to another antique shop. That vase alone is worth much more than he’s offering.’
‘Really?’ came the reply, along with a plume of warm breath which showed up in the cold air because Ken didn’t waste money on heating.
Bonnie raised her finger to her lips. ‘Shh. Don’t say I said anything.’
She managed to be back into glass-cleaning position by the time Ken reappeared to see the old lady replacing her things in the box.
‘I think I’ll see if another shop is interested,’ she said. ‘You’re not paying me enough.’
Ken shrugged. ‘Of course you’re at liberty to do that but I could have saved you some shoe leather. What about thirty quid then?’
The old lady stole a glance over Ken’s shoulder at Bonnie who was shaking her head.
‘Thank you but there’s a nice antiques shop in Spring Hill Square,’ said the old lady. ‘I’ll try there.’
Ken laughed. ‘You’ll get even less there, love. He’s only been in the game five minutes. Wouldn’t know a Vincent Van Gogh from a Dick Van Dyke.’
The old lady pointed at Bonnie. ‘She said that vase was worth a lot by itself.’
Ken Grimshaw’s head twisted sharply to Bonnie and she felt an instant stun of embarrassment. She knew that she was in for it as soon as they were alone. And she was right.
Ken Grimshaw started shouting the moment the door had closed on the old lady.
‘You snidey bitch. You’ve got a nerve, haven’t you? If you think I’m paying you for sending people away to rivals you’ve got another pissing think com—’ He snapped off his rant as if he had just realised something. ‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you? No wonder I’ve got no frigging customers left.’
‘No I have not, though I admit I don’t know how I’ve stopped myself, but this was one step too far. You could have given that woman a fair price and still made a decent enough profit. Your dad would be disgusted if he were here, Ken Grimshaw.’
‘Well he’s not here, is he, he’s dead,’ said Ken, spittle spraying from his mouth. ‘He and that stupid bastard of a father of yours might have been soft, but I’m not and I’m not paying you to send people to other fucking dealers. You should be working over there, love,’ and he stabbed his finger at the window towards the Hospice charity shop across the street. ‘In fact you can piss off and ask them for a job. Go on.’ He stomped into the small, scruffy office at the back of the shop and returned with Bonnie’s handbag which he threw on the floor at her feet. ‘Now fuck off and don’t come back, you cheeky cow.’
Anger pulsed through Bonnie’s whole body. As much as she needed this job, she couldn’t work for this vile human being one more minute but she bit down on what she would have liked to have thrown at him because she needed her wage. It would be bad enough going home and telling Stephen she was now unemployed without having to add that she’d worked nearly a month for nothing.
‘You owe me three and a half weeks’ money please,’ she said, her voice riding a tremble. ‘I’ll take that, then I’ll go.’ She held out her hand, reading from his expression that she had about as much chance of getting it as Oliver Twist had of getting a second bowl of gruel.
He pushed his face into hers and let loose a loud ‘Ha’, his breath rank from the cigarettes he chain-smoked. ‘You’re sacked, love. Gross misconduct. Here, that’s all you’re getting because it’s all you’re frigging worth.’ He picked up a two pence piece from the counter and tossed it at her. ‘You can whistle for the rest. Take me to fucking court, I dare you.’
If only her dad or Joel had still been around. They’d have flown up here for her as soon as she told them about this and not only would she have had her wages but Ken Grimshaw would be missing his front teeth. But her dad was gone and so was Joel and the man she was now married to would equate such confrontation with Neanderthals.
Bonnie bent down to pick up her things. She was aware that Ken was watching, enjoying the sight of her bending in front of him, scooping up the items that had spilled from her bag when he’d thrown it. She walked as steadily to the door as her shaky limbs would let her, feeling his eyes burn holes in her back. It was of small consolation that he’d have no one to manage the shop whilst he was on a stag week in Benidorm at the end of the month. He’d be furious later on, when he thought of that.