Free Dead Point by Peter Temple

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    The driver’s name was Boz and she was a film grip, an occupation whose essence, as I understood it, was the moving of things. When not gripping films, she used this skill to cart stuff around in her vintage van. I’d met her through Kelvin McCoy, a conman artist and former client of mine who leased the building across the street from my office. Boz transported McCoy’s appalling creations to his gallery in the city. He had not been receptive to my suggestion that, on these missions, the Boz vehicle should display a Hazardous Waste sign.
    ‘There’s a side door,’ I said. ‘Just beyond, it’s probably best.’ I’d hired her for the day; one person couldn’t move the library bits around.
    I got out and pressed the button in the wall, could have smoked a full cigarette before David, Mrs Purbrick’s personal assistant, came down the gravelled driveway. His hair was wet and he bore the telltale signs of someone not long vertical.
    ‘My dear Jack,’ he said. ‘Apologies in full. I was on the phone, dealing with this most dreadful rug trader. Can you believe the man’s tried the old switcheroo on us?’
    ‘The switcheroo? That’s impertinent,’ I said.
    ‘My word.’ He held up a key. ‘I have to unlock these now. It turns out all the high-tech electronic rubbish can’t keep out a 12-year-old armed with an old remote control. So much for maximum security.’
    The gates swung open on silent hinges. Boz drove in and lined up the truck with the side steps to within a centimetre.
    She got out, broken-nosed, six foot two, near-shaven-headed, a woman in khaki bib-and-braces overalls and a white sleeveless tee-shirt.
    I introduced her to David.
    ‘I can see you work out,’ he said admiringly.
    ‘Work out?’ said Boz. ‘Work out shit, I’m a manual labourer.’
    David was suitably taken aback. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it.’
    It took us half an hour to move the pieces of the library into its home, an empty room with deep windows looking onto the side garden.
    Then the real work began.
    We started with the plinths, six of them. Their fit was snug but allowed for wood movement. More important were the levels. I worked my way around the room with a long spirit level and a box of maple shims. Fortunately, the floor was true; only three thin shims needed.
    Next came the base cupboards, fixed to the plinths with Charlie’s hidden locking wedges. Then we put the shelf cabinets on the bases, again fixing them with secret wedges. As instructed, I screwed each cabinet to the wall with two screws that went through prepared slots. Then I slid into place the decorative cover strips that hid the expansion gaps. Finally, I attached the cornices and the skirtings.
    The room was transformed. Boz and I stood looking at it. We’d worked well together, said little as we turned a bare room into a library: woodwork softly glowing, bevelled glass catching the light. With books, a library table, a few chairs, the room would be complete.
    ‘You blokes know what you’re doing,’ said Boz. ‘It’s beautiful. Best thing I ever carted.’
    ‘Did your bit,’ I said.
    I walked around, tested a few locks, opened and closed a few doors and drawers, admired the fit, even admired my hand-cut dovetail joints and raised panels. This piece of furniture would be giving pleasure long after everyone alive on this day was gone, Ithought. It was not a bad thing to have helped create.
    A voice said, ‘Oh my God, I’m dreaming. Heaven, this room is absolute heaven.’
    Mrs Purbrick, owner of the house, danced into the room, head thrown back, came around me, pirouetted with arms above her head, finished leaning back against me. It would have been girlish had not Mrs Purbrick’s girlhood been somewhere in the early 1960s. She was a short blonde with a formidable bosom, all of her lifted, tucked, sucked, puffed, abraded, peeled, implanted, stripped and buffed, and, today, packaged in a short-skirted dark-grey