Fair Exchange.

The feeble late-autumn sun glanced idly through the stone mullioned
windows of the "George Hotel" as Jim Webster seated himself with his
first whisky of the day. Around him, similar respectably-suited clients
lounged, speaking in whispers, attracting no attention. Everyone looked
well-fed, prosperous and comfortable.

"Comfortable" was the word that best described the inhabitants of
Market Stokely, along with the town itself. From its ancient Market
Square pubs to its expensive specialist shops, from its mellow,
well-used parish church to its steadily improving restaurants.

Few of the former workers' cottages had escaped restoration,
modernisation and being sold off to wealthy incomers: those unfortunate
locals who serviced the town and its outlying agricultural businesses
formed the only class that couldn't afford to buy property. For them, a
council estate had thoughtfully been provided between the main road and
the industrial estate.

Set in a bucolic vista of rolling East Anglian countryside, but within
easy reach of the county town, Market Stokely attracted retired
stockbrokers and nouveau-riche entrepreneurs alike. In their wake, the
optimistic vultures had flocked: the "antique" dealers, the chi-chi
upmarket decorators, the oily salesmen who grandiosely described
themselves as financial consultants.

"Ronnie!" Jim hissed. It wasn't done to raise one's voice, not in the
lounge: people looked at you disapprovingly. Ronnie trotted over and
parked himself opposite his friend.

"You're early today," Ronnie observed. A lifetime of running a
successful jewellery business in Essex had left him with a weight
problem and a permanently worried expression.

"That chap behind you.. " Jim nodded, and Ronnie turned with some
difficulty.

"Oh, him.. flash with the cash all right. Been in a lot lately. You
know him?"

"Mm. From a long time ago. Seems like he's still in the same line, from
what I can make out."

"What's that?" Ronnie swigged his double down in one with practised
ease and rose, extending his hand to take Jim's glass.

"The art business. Cheers. Same again."

Ronnie returned with refills and a puzzled frown.

"There you go. How come you know anything about the art business? I
thought you was in the motor trade, like?"

"Oh, I was," Jim affirmed. "And a few other things, mind. Had my finger
in quite a few tasty pies before I retired here." He rose, leaving
Ronnie still frowning, and walked across to exchange a few friendly
words with the stranger. They shook hands warmly, and Jim sauntered
casually back to his friend. "I asked Richard over for a dram tonight.
You're still on, I take it?"

"Sure," Ronnie shrugged. "Must be off, the missus'll be letting that
gold card out of her bag if I'm late meeting her. See you
tonight."

"Oh, that would never do! Cheers," Jim laughed and settled back to
watch Richard from a distance.

Ronnie arrived breathless on the doorstep of Jim's immaculately
restored bijou cottage shortly after eight. Any form of physical
exertion left him red-faced, and Jim chuckled as he opened the
door.

"Motor gone belly-up again?" he asked slyly as Ronnie waddled in,
mopping his brow. "I warned you not to buy it. So-called British
classic, eh? Might be if it ever made it out of the garage."

"Yes, well.." Ronnie gasped as the glass was thrust into his eager paw.
"Oh, hello!"

Jim's other guest was instantly recognisable: regimental blazer,
matching tie, immaculate haircut.

"Call me Richard. Everyone does." The handshake was commendably
firm.

"Richard's been looking at my painting!" Jim said, leading his guests
back into the low-beamed sitting room.

"It's a good example of early Nicholas Hicks," Richard opined,
examining the signature with what appeared to be an expert eye.
"Nineteen oh three, yes.. before he became really well known, of
course. But it must still be worth.. five grand?"

"Insured for six!" Jim exclaimed and Richard smiled broadly at his own
cleverness. It was something he did frequently.

"Mind you," Jim whispered conspiratorially. "I picked it up for three,
only last year. In Tunbridge Wells, of all places!" Richard whistled.
"Of course, it would have fetched far more round here."

"Exactly. The fool should have sold it on." Richard nodded gravely. "A
Hicks is always going to command a higher price round here."

"Why's that?" Ronnie enquired innocently. This painting business was a
closed book to him, always had been.

"Local artist, see," Jim explained patiently. "Painted scenes around
here that people still recognise, that's why they're so popular. Sort
of instant nostalgia. Always sells, that."

"Indeed it does," Richard agreed. "What line were you in, Jim?"

"Cars. Well, limos.. in the sixties, we had all sorts coming down to
Brighton. Pop stars, agents, trendy photographers, the lot. Good
times.. very good times indeed. You said you used to be based on the
South Coast, Richard?"

"Oh, yes." Richard fidgeted nervously. "New Forest, actually.
Brockenhurst. Do you know it?"

"Very well," Jim replied and Richard gulped visibly. "Where was your
shop, then?"

"Oh, I wasn't there for long.. I was in Lymington for longer. Are you
familiar.."

"No, not at all."

"Shame!" Richard could barely disguise his relieved smile. "Do you
know, this is a remarkable coincidence, what with you being a Hicks fan
and all."

"How's that?"

"I know a chap with a Nicholas Hicks, asked me only last week what it
might be worth because he was thinking of selling. I reckon I might be
able to get it if you're interested. Not too expensive, either."

"I'm definitely interested. Can I come round to the shop?" Jim asked
eagerly.

"Er.. the shop's not actually sorted out yet. Problems with the lease,
you know? I'm working from my hotel while it's being sorted out. Very
tiresome."

"I'm sure," Jim nodded. "Well, if you could help me.."

"Phone you tomorrow!" Richard smirked. "Without fail!"

"Well, yes. If you say so.. " Ronnie turned his head to one side. It
was okay, the picture, but he wouldn't have paid out good money for it.
He didn't trust dealers of any sort, not having been one himself for so
many years. He could smell a crook a mile off and, privately, he'd been
quite astonished that his naive friend had been willing to part with
his cash so readily.

"You don't sound exactly convinced!" Jim said.

"It's all right.. quite a nice view, if you like that sort of thing.
But four grand?"

"I'm pleased with the deal."

"Richard said he'd keep his eye out for others?"

"Yes, but I don't expect to see him again. Just hang on, would you?"
Jim walked purposefully out into the hall, and Ronnie examined the new
acquisition while his friend completed the short call.

"Right," Jim announced, rubbing his hands gleefully. "Lovely job,
eh?"

"What is?"

"That is." Jim scraped a tentative finger along the surface of the
paint. "It's dry, too. You'd be amazed at how many of these get smudged
because the greedy beggar flogging them doesn't wait for the paint to
dry properly.

"Dry? It says nineteen ten on it."

"It's actually two, maybe three, days old. Lennie does a wonderful job
on Hicks."

"Lennie?" Ronnie frowned again. This was all getting beyond him.

"Lennie, the uncrowned king of the pastiche merchants. No surname.
Works from a scruffy basement flat in Hove. Been in the game for years.
I can recognise his work straight off. He's expensive, too."

"Hold on!" Ronnie threw up his hands. "Stop! What's going on
here?"

"I've bought a painting, that's what. I'm satisfied with the price.
It's what I'd call a fair exchange."

"You've only just realised it's a fake? After shelling out that
much?"

"Oh, Ronnie," Jim laughed out loud at his friend's innocence. "I knew
it would be a fake, and I was just hoping that it would be a proper
fake by Lennie. Think about it - it's a pleasant picture in its own
right, eh? It would fool most dealers. I don't need to insure it for a
fortune, and if I sell it I'd get at least three hundred for it as a
declared copy. It's no crime to sell a copy, only to pass it off as
genuine. That's how Lennie gets away with it."

"So this Richard.."

"Frank Wrigley," Jim corrected him. "'Chewy' Wrigley. I was only on the
fringe of the dodgy antique trade in Brighton, but I recognised him
straight off. Didn't remember me, though, did he?"

"He'll be off, back to Brighton now, then?" Ronnie asked. "With your
hard-earned?"

"No," Jim smiled as he poured a brace of monster celebratory scotches.
"At this precise moment, he'll be trying to book out of the 'George'
while Pam, that pretty little receptionist, keeps him talking and calls
the police. Someone just called her, would you believe, and asked her
to watch out for iffy twenty-pound notes."

"And what if he flashes the plastic?" Ronnie asked.

"Maybe he will," Jim shrugged. "But I bet a pound to a penny that he
treats himself to a farewell drink. Wouldn't you if you'd just conned a
mug out of that much? Out comes the bulging wallet and..oops!"

"Right!" Ronnie chuckled. "But what if Frank talks?"

"And drop himself in it for the painting scam? I don't think so. He's
been in the game long enough to grit his teeth, conveniently lose his
memory as to where he got the money from and take the loss. Besides,
he's got a record as long as my arm!"

"And you haven't?"

"Pure as the driven snow, me!" Jim attempted to look insulted. "I'm a
professional. I've never had anything to do with the antiques business,
it's all crooked. Cheers!" The pair clinked glasses. "Mind you.." Jim
added with a wink. "If I do say so myself, I am a very, very good
forger."