Strange Ways to Sacred Places

"Just come out, have you?" the man said, his broad Manchester accent somehow softening the question.

It nevertheless made Jeff hesitate before he began his second pint. "How did you figure that?" he asked.

"Not very hard," smiled the publican, extending his hand for Jeff to shake. "We're the nearest pub to Strangeways Prison, and you drank that pint like you'd just crossed the Sahara Desert on foot." He resumed washing and rinsing glasses. "I won't ask your name or what you were in for, but mine's Alfred Sutton and I did a little stretch myself before I got unbent and managed to buy this place." He grinned again. "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if you could eat a nice hot steak and kidney pie right now, eh?" Jeff nodded. "I get them fresh every day. You'll like it with some chips on the side, after what you've been eating."

So here he was sitting in a booth, eating his pie and drinking his ale, trying not to think too bitterly about the last four years and what had led to them. Cheered by the food and beer, he managed at least a wry inward smile at the trick of fate that had got him shopped. If only the painting he had arranged to be stolen from the Manchester Art Gallery hadn't turned out to be a fake! If only Charley Monk had detected the fake while he was copying it! But how could he have known that? After all, Charley had done it from detailed photographs and viewing it at the gallery. He had never got close enough to touch it or examine it with a magnifying glass.

Only the man for whom he'd stolen it could do that, and that was the man who had shopped him, figuring it was Jeff who had knowingly sold him a fake. And to top it off, Jeff didn't even know the man's name; Jeff had dealt only with his agent. That's the way those things were done. Some wealthy businessman gets obsessed with an art work, wants to add it to his private collection, and will pay anything for it. The trouble with this particular painting was that it was not for sale. It belonged to the Manchester Gallery, and had for nearly sixty years.

It was the first time over the line for Jeff. He had earned a respected reputation for dealing with art and antiques, was believed by many in his profession to have a "good nose" for spotting the genuine article, and was making a decent living at it. The recession had struck simultaneously with his divorce from Jenny, and Jenny was asking for the moon in settlement. So when he was offered a hundred thousand pounds by the agent to get the painting, for the first time in his life Jeff stepped across the line.

Stop feeling so damned sorry for yourself, Jeff muttered below his breath. He couldn't help sighing though, as he gazed vacantly through the bevelled-glass doors of the pub. That's when he saw the Rolls for the second time. It was a dark gray Corniche and it was parked on the curb right outside the pub. Jeff watched idly as a well-dressed man got out of the driver's side, glanced around, then headed for the door of the pub. What's a toff like that doing in a place like this? Jeff mused to himself. And what was he doing parked outside the prison gates? Now don't tell me he's just come out, too! The tall, gaunt man, wearing a well-cut, brown tweed suit and country-style brown tweed hat, entered the pub and glanced around as if looking for someone. The only thing out of place with him were the dark glasses he was wearing. It was a typical Manchester March day outside -- blustery, cold, and clouded over, threatening rain. The dark glasses, together with the down-turned brim of the hat, effectively obscured the upper part of his face. This man doesn't want to be recognized, was the first thought that

flashed through Jeff's mind. His second thought was: What the hell is he coming over to me for? Sure enough, the man smiled when he saw Jeff and now came over to his booth and sat down on the bench opposite to Jeff.