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Susanna JonesALL FOR CHARITYThe shoplifter was one of our most regular customers. For that matter, he was one of our most regular shoplifters. We had plenty. We wondered whether, since it was a charity bookshop, people who wouldn’t steal from normal shops felt that it was quite all right to pop in and help themselves when they were in need.  For most it was just the odd Dr Who video or Guide to English Country Churches but some were more ambitious. There was the guy who brought his mobile phone to the music section and texted details of our stock to some remote controller who told him which ones to pilfer. Another one somehow distracted the attention of the volunteer at the till and escaped with the emergency appeal collection box under his arm. Perhaps he thought he could get the £40 quid’s worth of 2p’s to Darfur faster than the relief vehicles could. For panache, you couldn’t beat the soft-skinned young man who arrived as a new volunteer and walked off in his first afternoon taking not only the contents of the till drawer - several hundred pounds - but also the till drawer. That time we should have seen it coming; his name, he told us, was Robin. But the person who became known to us simply as ‘the shoplifter’ had less pizzazz, was more persistent. An artist’s impression in the shop daybook showed an unassuming man with smooth black hair under a baseball cap. He was short with a wobbly beer gut. He had a tattoo. He wore a coat on top of another coat, each with large, baggy pockets. He knew that we had different volunteers in the shop every half day and it would take us a while to catch on. We did, but by the time we worked out that all the shoplifters with spider tattoos and blue baseball caps were the same person, half the stock was gone. The shop managers kicked him out at least twice but he always came back. The day I first saw him, the shop was quiet. I was on my own at the till. I recognised him from the picture as soon as he appeared in the doorway. Since there was no one else around, I thought I’d better keep an eye on him. He moved close to the books in the art section, fiddled with his coat pockets. I watched his hands. Some of those books were expensive. "How much will you give me for these, darling?" I jumped. A small doll-like woman with a floppy hat and badly rouged cheeks grabbed my wrist. With her free hand she plonked some tea-stained books about Brighton history on the counter. "I’m sorry. We can only take donations. It’s a charity shop." I smiled and struggled to free my wrist. I tried to see past her to the art section but her face came closer to mine. "If you’re a charity," she sprayed, "let me sell my books. I need the money." Then she bounced to the centre of the shop, held her books up high. "A pound each,’ she rasped. ‘Who wants to buy?" A small crowd formed. I could no longer see the baseball cap. Someone gave her 50p for a book of maps. Eventually the group cleared and I saw the cap poking out behind the music stand. The floppy hat moved in next to it. "Look at this," the woman sighed to the man. "The Beatles. I used to like this record. It’s a lovely picture." "Uh," he said, then headed out of the shop. He gave me a smug smile as he left. He knew I’d missed my chance. The woman came to the till and rapped on the counter with a pile of CDs. Her rouge glistened. "Here you are. No, I’m not buying them. That man with the funny hat was trying to steal them. And this a charity shop." I gawped. "How did you get them off him?" She screwed up her mouth and stared, apparently insulted. "He might think he’s good but I’ve been picking pockets for years. Now I’d like a couple of quid for my books please." When she left, I watched her in the sunny street, head held high on her tiny frame as she wove through the shoppers. A couple of kids sat on the pavement outside and began to sing Wonderwall to a badly tuned guitar. 8:41 AM - 4/5/2006 - post comment
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