“Lovejoy?” My cue from Big John.
“Phoebe was showing you a genuine old Pargeter copy. She’d not made it herself. That way, she’d win this contest and get the job.”
“And our money…” Corse choked, his face a vast sweaty plum.
“Josh,” Big John intoned.
Josh Sparrow came at a low creep, quivering and bleating. “John, I swear to God. On my mother’s life. My baby’s head. I never had any notion there was a scam. I honestly don’t know what’s happened —”
“What did?” Corse grunted.
Happen? My turn. In a wobbly yodel I managed to start. “Your competition was to fake the Portland Vase. Phoebe submitted a repro made in the 1870s, by famous old glass-makers. Steve here submitted his own work.”
“You sure?” Corse loomed over me like solid cumulus.
“Positive. Hers felt antique. Steve’s doesn’t.”
Corse’s great puce visage cleared. He rotated, looked at Big John. “Here, Sheehan. Is Lovejoy a divvy?” And got a nod, thank God.
“I am, yes, I am!” I said, desperate to show I was agreeing with everybody, especially BJS. I’m pathetic. I was still cold.
“That’s okay, then,” Corse said, to my vast relief.
“Josh,” Big John said, as everybody relaxed and started shaking hands on unknowable deals. “Six and eightpence in the pound. For four months.”
“Right, John!” Josh croaked brightly, grinning as if he’d just been awarded a knighthood instead of having to cough up thirty-three per cent of his income for the next twelve weeks for letting mistakes happen on his territory. Still cheaper than death, though.
They paid me a groat and let me go, into that slippery old rain. That was the start of it.
Sometimes a vehicle can seem a real pal. A goon gave me the keys as rain chilled my face and motor-car doors slammed and serfs lurked about the loading bay. I stood watching them go, weakly raising a hand—ignored—in salutation to Corse, then Big John. The vehicles splashed past. Other saloons started up, roared after. No sign of Phoebe Colonna, or Jan Fotheringay of great renown. Gulp.
Alone and safely out of it.
I got in the cabin and sat there in the darkness to let my sweat dry. Escape comes in many guises. Across the estuary, lights winked. The harbour’s opalescent sheen toned the night sky. Peace. I started the engine, drove out, heading along the wharf towards our town’s orange sky glow.
Then the customer’s buzzer sounded loudly in my ear, frightening me to death.
“Lovejoy?” a woman’s voice said on the intercom.
Diana? Still here? I thought the goons had run her and her tame shag back to the limousine-riddled lay-by whence they’d come.
“What the hell are you doing still in there, silly cow?” I swerved nastily, yelled into the squawk-box. “You made me jump out of my frigging skin.”
“Thank goodness,” the intercom said with relief. “For one moment I thought you were one of those hulks, Lovejoy. Find a quiet place where we can talk.”
“Get knotted, missus,” I said. I was blazing, really narked. “You’re going back to Gazza Gaunt’s garage—”
“Or I’ll complain that your incompetence exposed the Tryste Service to the police, my influential husband, the Vice Squad…” Women’s voices go sweet when they threaten.
“The Drum and Fife’s got quite a nice secluded lounge,” I said politely, swallowing a bolus of pride.
“Good, Lovejoy. You learn quickly.” It was a purr. She’d never swallowed pride in her life. I could tell, she’d defend her pride with blood. I wish now I’d remembered that, but once pathetic, always.
CHAPTER THREE
« ^ »
The Drum and Fife is a posh roadhouse, a cut above spit-and-saw-dust. To my dismay the place was heaving when I parked in its ancient flagged courtyard. I was too fed up to try anywhere else, and went to undo the passion wagon’s rear door.
The lady stepped out, tutting because I’d no umbrella for her. I’d have used it for me, if I’d had one.
“Does it never stop raining?” She drew her collar round her.
“God left the taps running when he built East Anglia.”
“Well?” She gazed at the tavern. “What are we waiting for?”
“Your, er, gentleman.” He hadn’t emerged. “Worn out, is he?”
She smiled in the exotic coloured lights that taverns string about themselves these days. “Jervis left,” she said, and walked among the gleaming wet carapaces of the motors.
