Some of these knocker boys graduated into a life of faux-respectability, setting themselves up as bona fide antiques dealers in well-stocked shops in Brighton’s famous Lanes.
In Regency times privileged classes would divide their balmy days between their modesty-saving bathing machines on the beaches and strutting around The Lanes. This compact network of fisherman’s cottages would evolve into a market place crammed with a delightfully eclectic mix of art dealers, furniture shops and bric-a-brac stalls. As time passed and Brighton grew, The Lanes gained the reputation as the go-to place for classic collectables — and so it remained until recent years, when most dealers turned from the failing antiques market to the more profitable second-hand jewellery trade.
However, this warren of Aladdin’s caves had a dark side, and it soon became the go-to place to fence stolen property. I was struck by the insightful 1996 Independent newspaper headline that proclaimed:
If your antiques have been stolen, head for Brighton — the Sussex resort is now a thieves’ kitchen for heirlooms.
It was fair advice.
While enjoying the latest gripping crime novel it is sometimes tempting to write off some authors’ extremes as poetic licence, the writer getting carried away with the story and leaving reality at the door. However, Peter James throughout the Grace series shows flawless authenticity in his depiction of the evil that some are capable of in the pursuit of wealth.
From my days as a DC with Brighton CID, amid catching rapists, robbers and burglars I became very familiar with the vermin who preyed on the lonely and the vulnerable.
The image of Ricky Moore, the slimy antiques dealer in Dead Man’s Time, is one I recognized immediately: ‘Fifty-three, balding, long, lank grey hair, shiny white open-neck shirt undone to show his medallion, cheap beige jacket, fingers adorned with chunky rings, booze-veined face and sallow complexion but he knew how to charm his way into any old lady’s house no matter how canny she was!’
From eyeballing them across an interview room table in the dank grey Brighton Police Station cell block, I could conjure up many a real villain matching this description.
There may well be antiques dealers who are loveable rogues. You have to laugh at some of their nicknames, ‘Two-fingered Wadey’, ‘Banjo Banham’, and ‘The Dude’ for example. Some will be straight, with a genuine passion for making profits for themselves and their grateful vendors. But many are just crooks, plain and simple.
I hate to think how many trusting and gullible grandmothers and war heroes I met whom these chancers had fleeced. Far too late, they realized they had been duped and I found it heartbreaking when spelling out that the odds of recovering their treasures were hovering just above zero.
The ruse relied on careful target selection, the ability to pass themselves off as experts, and of course plenty of charisma. However repugnant the inner person may be, like Ricky Moore, the knocker boy must come across to his target as a favourite son.
Many were able to pull this off, but several simply skipped the charm and relied on unadulterated violence and intimidation.
Terry Biglow is described in Not Dead Yet as being from one of the biggest crime families in the city, whose activities included protection rackets, drug dealing and of course the illicit antique trade — not a person to be messed with. No surprise that the Biglows and the repulsive Smallbone family (of which the hateful Amis is portrayed as particularly contemptible by James), had Brighton crime sewn up.
There were at least four similar families in my time in Brighton CID. Their tentacles spread into almost any scam you could mention and their reputation for extortion was notorious among would-be challengers. The slam of the cell door on these heartless villains was such a sweet sound.
All through my early career as a detective at Brighton there was a small but highly functioning specialist team who had these criminals firmly in their sights.
The Antiques Squad was housed in a sweltering broom cupboard on the first floor of the imposing Brighton Police Station overlooking the palatial and airy American Express building. Its DS and four DCs held the most complete and sophisticated intelligence of every known criminally active antiques dealer and knocker boy in the UK.
They reflected the more positive traits of Peter James’ DS Norman Potting and I looked up to these old-school detectives. Most of the time they kept themselves to themselves but their knowledge, expertise and intuition were awe-inspiring and I wondered if I would ever have it in me to graduate to their level.
One of the stars was DC Nigel Kelly. He was like a terrier. He would overwhelm his adversaries with a racing intellect and his awesome grasp and recall of every tiny detail. Even the wiliest crooks would need to have their wits about them if they wanted to pull the wool over Nigel’s eyes. I took over an investigation from him once and I will never forget the exasperated look in his eyes as he briefed me when I failed to follow each intricate twist and turn as it was fired at me like a Gatling gun.
As well as being looked up to by rookies such as me, the Antiques Squad was the peril of many a villain. So feared were they that many ne’er do wells would sell their own grandmothers, in an effort to divert the squad’s attention to someone else.
However, in the early nineties their very existence was in jeopardy. They knew only too well that Brighton’s knocker boys were venturing further afield. Pressure was coming down from the big UK cities for the squad to get a grip on its bad boys, who were causing havoc far and wide. Officers up and down the country started to target cars with Brighton registration plates and, if they suspected a link to the antique trade, would order the occupants out of town. Questions were being asked. The squad needed a big result and fast. They had to prove their worth to those who were eyeing them up for the next efficiency saving.
With the eyes of their bosses, as well as those from other forces, on them, the Squad seemed to have hit the jackpot out of the blue. Through their tried and tested technique of striking their prey at their lowest point, they found themselves to be on the verge of a coup that would turn them from zeroes to heroes in a matter of days.
The Squad’s network of informants gave them access to around thirty ‘grasses’ and the team could rely on daily contacts from their snitches. Two in particular were so productive, so reliable that they were afforded ‘agent’ status — effectively on a retainer to gather and pass on information about Brighton’s bad and bold.
As part of an attempt to shift attention to bigger fish, a snivelling thief had blabbed to Nigel Kelly about a huge theft at a stately home in the north of England, which had netted a legendary sapphire stone nicknamed ‘the Plum’. He bragged that this gem, set in a beautiful necklace, was a whopping fifty-nine carats, worth over a million pounds in today’s money, and truly unique. This might have seemed like a desperate boast from a man in a corner but when he described the magnificent house, his tale became more plausible.
To put the size of this stone into perspective, Julie and I considered we had pushed the boat out when we bought what I thought was a massive sapphire set in her engagement ring that had cost £450. I say we bought it as the day we actually decided to take the plunge and select the symbol of our love and commitment to each other, I forgot my credit card. So, in the spirit of sharing, she paid for it. I knew I would never be allowed to forget that so, as soon as I had amassed enough overtime in my new job on CID, I promptly paid her back. I still haven’t been allowed to forget it.