A Snapshots

Snapshots

By Paul Diamond

When you haven't got a job you're forced into a routine. You can't
afford

anything else. It was two years since I'd been let go. Office manager
at a small

branch of an insurance company isn't the most exciting way to spend
your life

but I liked it. I'd lived alone for fifteen years, ever since the
divorce, so I enjoyed

the company and the responsibility. When the Dutch giant took us over
and

closed us down it hit me hard. Now the brass handshake was running out
and

nobody wanted a fifty five year old who'd worked in the same office for
thirty

five years. I was forced into a routine.

I got up late and did whatever housework and shopping needed doing.
A

quick in and out at the job centre to show willing; there was never
anything for

me. Lunch was a sandwich or, if I was being self indulgent, a cheap
burger .

Then I went to the Central Library to look through the papers.
Sometimes I

found something in the Sits. Vac. that I could apply for but I rarely
had a reply.

Even if I got an interview I was either too old or over qualified. At
about four o

clock I went over to 'The Oak Leaf' and had a pint of bitter. I could
sit there for

a couple of hours and read a book if I could ignore the landlord
glaring at me. I

went home, made some supper and watched the tele until it was time to
go to

bed. The only change to my routine was that every other Monday I had to
sign

on.

The reading room at the library had its regulars. There were two or
three

dossers who slept the afternoon away in the warm. Some old age
pensioners,

always men, spent hours reading the magazines. And there were others
like me,

desperate for work, not just for the money but because we felt we had
no status if

we weren't working. We were defined by a job and with no job we
were

nothing.

One guy who was often in there used to join me sometimes in the
pub.

Fred was a lot younger than me but couldn't get work because he'd just
got out

after doing what he called a carpet in the Scrubs. Eventually he
confessed he

wasn't looking for work. He was a professional burglar who had been
through it

all, probation, twice, community service and a couple of prison
sentences. It was

a family tradition. His grandfather and his father had been in the same
trade

and his mother still ran a gang of shoplifters. He thought of what he
called bird

as a reasonable price to pay for the life he enjoyed. When I mumbled
something

about morality he pointed out that he only robbed the very rich and so
the losers

were the insurance companies. "And you should know." He laughed.
"They're

the biggest gonnifs of the lot." I didn't know the word but I got his
drift.

He was taking a rest from burglary and making a reasonable living as a
finger

man. He came to the library for the upper class magazines, Country
Life, The

Tatler, Horse and Hound, Hello!, to look at the homes of the super rich
and to

find what he could of the layout and contents. Very often the gossip
columns

would say when the owners were spending time at their villa in Tuscany
or their

penthouse in New York. Sometimes he would even go to the property
posing as a

meter reader or a water board inspector. He would pass the information
on to a

colleague and after the place had been robbed and the proceeds fenced
he would

get a ten per cent cut. A few years ago I would have been horrified at
the idea of

socialising with Fred but after the way I'd been treated I thought
'what the hell'.

One day I'd only been sitting in the library for a few minutes when he
put

his hand on my shoulder and jerked his head for me to follow him. We
went

over to the pub and he bought in a couple of pints. He sat and stared
at me so

that I began to feel uncomfortable. "What do you want, Fred? I
haven't

finished looking through the papers yet." He continued to stare.
"Didn't you

once say you did a lot of photography?" I shrugged. "Used to. Can't
afford it

now. Anyway, I've had to sell my cameras." It was true. I'd been a
passionate

photographer, had even won prizes for my stuff. Fred went on. "Can you
do

your own developing and that?" "Well yes. I've got my second bedroom
set up

as a darkroom and I used to do my own processing. It's all still there
but I

haven't used it for ages." "Have a look at this." Fred handed me a
piece of

paper torn from the small ads page of one of the broadsheets. There was
a boxed

display ad. 'Amateur Photographers Wanted in All Areas. Up to eighty
pounds

a day for photographing antiques. Own car and camera.
Telephone............'

I smiled. "Lovely. But I haven't got a camera and I haven't got a
car." "Never

mind about that. You 'phone them, I'll sort out the rest. I'll see you
here

tomorrow." and Fred rushed off. I went straight home and 'phoned. The
one

thing I'd kept was the telephone in case one of the jobs I applied for
wanted to

get in touch. A man with a rather plummy upper class voice gave me
an

appointment for two day's time.

Next day Fred met me at the library and we went straight to the pub.
I

told him about my interview. "I've got a couple of cameras here." he
said "Will

they do you?" He pulled a Hasselblad and a Leica M6 out of a canvas
bag.

There were lenses, a tripod and flash. My jaw must have dropped. Talk
about

top of the range. Fred was testy. "Will they do you?" he asked again.
"Yes,

great, couldn't be better." I stammered. "Right. Take just one with
you

tomorrow to show you're serious. I'll have a car for you by Friday." I
was

beginning to suspect his motives. He was a friendly guy but not a
philanthropist.

"What's this all about Fred. Why are you giving me three or four grands
worth

of camera and a car." "Look" he said. "My guess is that you're going to
take

pictures for the insurance. They won't let you make prints, not if
their security

have got any sense. You'll take the snaps and hand in the film for them
to deal

with. All I want is for you to take a second lot and to develop them at
home and

pass the prints on to me. I'll give them to my contacts and we'll split
the

commish. OK?"

"You mean that I'll be doing an inventory for your burglar
friends."

Fred was surprised. "Of course. What do you think we're doing it for?"
He

could see I was hesitant. I've always prided myself on being honest.
The last

time I wasn't was when I was eight and pinched sixpence from my
mother's

purse. He became persuasive. "Who are they robbing?" he asked.
"The

bleedin' insurance. You of all people don't owe those bastards. And
some of the

marks are only too happy to get the money for family heirlooms they're
not

allowed to sell. Trust me. Nobody can connect you with my contacts. You
don't

know them and they don't know you,"

"But if the places I go to all get burgled they're bound to suspect
me."

Fred laughed. "Give us some credit. We're looking for a really big
tickle.

Antique silver, jewellery, portable stuff. We'll only move for a good
score. It's

not worth setting this up for less than a hundred grand which means
five grand

each for of us. I'm talking one, perhaps two worthwhile jobs. They'll
never

suspect you." He was right. Why should I care about the insurers, or
for that

matter the fat cats who lived like kings and did sod all while I'd
worked hard all

my life and finished up signing for a giro. I went to the interview
next day

without a qualm.

The office in Old Compton Street was new and smart, it still smelled
of

fresh paint. I was greeted by a pleasant looking fortyish woman, who
gave me an

application form to fill in and when it was done I was let into the
inner office

where the man with the upper class plummy voice was on the 'phone. He
waved

me to a chair, finished his conversation, put the 'phone down and
glanced

through the paper I'd completed.

There was no problem. I'd brought a portfolio of my stuff to show I was
a

competent operator and he was impressed by my Hasselblad. The eighty
pounds

a day was very much an 'up to'. London jobs were paid at thirty pounds
for half

a day. You might have to travel anywhere in the London area and if you
could

do the job in a morning or an afternoon you got thirty cash in hand.
Outside the

M25 you got thirty five and more than fifty miles forty. You used your
own car

and paid for your own petrol. They provided the film which they put in
your

camera and sealed it so that you had to bring the camera to the office
to return

the cassette. Fred had been right. The photos were for insurance
purposes. If

anything went missing it could be put straight onto the Art and
Antiques Squad

computer. I went home with the promise that they would 'phone when they
had

a job for me.

On the Friday Fred gave me the keys to a Ford Escort, L Reg. It
was

taxed and insured in my name. Insured would you believe with the
Dutch

company. It wasn't exactly smart but, as he said, the less flash I
showed the

better. I got the 'phone call on Monday and did my first job on
Tuesday

morning. It was a collection of what I was told were Pratt ware pot
lids.

Apparently these Victorian coloured pictures on pottery are collected
like

stamps, some of them worth hundreds of pounds. I used the Hasselblad
for the

company's pictures and had no trouble making a second set with the
Leica. I

processed the duplicates and gave them to Fred but he wasn't impressed.
"What

a load of old tut. If that's all we're going to get it's not going to
be worth the

bother."

I went on working. I got about three assignments a week, mostly
thirty

pound jobs and I still had the giro. I could go to the movies or see a
play

occasionally. Once a week I could treat myself to a decent meal in a
restaurant.

I even got interested in the things I was photographing and went and
looked

them up in the reference library after a job.

It was three months before I found anything that would satisfy Fred.
I

had to go to a big detached house in Hampstead. The people were away
but

there was a butler looking after the place. He opened a safe hidden
behind a

picture on the wall and pulled out a strongbox. Inside the strongbox
there were

about a dozen gold snuffboxes all wrapped in silk. Some of them had
enamel

pictures of classical landscapes on top but inside the lids were more
enamel

pictures of naked men and women doing what naked men and women do

together. There were a couple of large gold watches which were made
rather like

those old Noddy alarm clocks we had as kids with a moving figure of
Noddy on

the front his head waggling backwards and forwards with the tick of the
clock,

but one showed a woman on her back and a man rogering her
enthusiastically,

moving in and out as the watch ticked. The settings and the few clothes
they

were wearing were from two hundred years ago. The other was similar but
the

man was on his back and the woman was astride him bouncing up and
down.

They were beautifully made and very detailed anatomically.

The butler explained that they were all eighteenth century so it
wasn't

pornography, it was erotica. The walls of the room were covered in what
even I

could see were classic oil paintings. I was only supposed to photograph
the snuff

boxes but I did some of the pictures and the front of the safe on
Fred's film.

He was delighted. "That's more like it. There's blokes pay a bundle
for

that stuff. I think we've got our tickle." He was especially pleased
that I'd got a

picture that identified the safe. "Harry used to work for them. He'll
open it like

a can of beans." I'd even snapped the burglar alarm outside. I was
developing a

criminal mind.

I'd done all that was required, taken the pictures and given the prints
to

Fred. I just went on photographing the places I was sent to. It all
came to a

stop one day when Fred 'phoned me and asked me to meet him, not at
the

library but at the MacDonalds in the High Street. He looked terrible
and had a

suitcase on wheels which he set by the table. "What's the trouble?" I
asked. I

could see there was trouble. He groaned. "Remember that place you gave
me,

the place with the gold and enamel boxes and the watches and the
pictures?"

"Of course. You said it would be the big tickle and we'd make a bomb."
"Well

Harry and Charlie went to do it last night. The trouble was that two
other mobs

had the same idea. They'd all chosen the same night because there was
no moon.

That butler had arranged to let Arnie and Stevie Bates in. They were
going to

tie him up and do a three way split.

Your photography boss was waiting with a Transit outside. He'd set
it

up with the Caporro boys when he was in Pentonville for running a long
firm

and they were in for the usual. Anyway there was a ruck. Tony Caporro
always

had more muscle than sense. It spilled out into the front garden and
somebody

called the filth. Harry got away and came to give me the office. The
others have

all been nicked so I'm going to stay with my auntie in Bristol until it
blows

over."

This was terrible. "What about me?" I asked. "You're all right.
None

of them know your name and your boss burnt all his records before he
went on

the caper. He was going to close down and scarper when it was
finished."

"What about the cameras and the car?" I asked. "Keep them.
They're

not strictly kosher. Don't try to flog them. Nobody'll do anything
about them as

long as you keep quiet. Shame it didn't work out." He got up, smiled
briefly,

and was gone.

I sat and thought about what I could do. I'd gained two good
cameras
and a reliable old banger from this experience and I had a few hundred
pounds

in cash in the cutlery drawer at home. I went to plummy voice's office.
The

secretary was there looking worried. She obviously knew nothing about
our

boss's activities. I told her what had happened and she was even more
worried.

Then I put my proposition to her. She still had some bookings which she
hadn't

passed on to Plummy. I said that I would do them and I would try to
keep the

firm going if she would help. We could be partners and split any
profits. She

agreed to give it a try.

That was six months ago. I've been so busy I've had to take on
two

assistants, OAPs, old friends from the camera club. I pay them eighty
for each

job however long it takes and I make sure they only carry one camera. I
spotted

Fred the other day in the High Street. A uniformed policeman was
helping him

get into a marked car. We didn't speak.

I get on very well with my partner. We don't split the profits
any

more; we share them. Which is nice. So if your insurance company wants
your

antiques photographed give us a bell. We charge two hundred and fifty a
day

and security's guaranteed.