'I see,' she said icily. 'Are you sure your girl-friend hasn't bought them for you?'
'No, look, love,' I was saying when she slammed the phone down.
I went out to work on my painting, whistling. She'd come round.
In the back garden near where Manton and Wilkinson fly I have this workshop. The big work of the moment was transferring a genuine 1774 Wilson painting to a new canvas.
I goggled up, apron, mask and all. Janie laughs at my garb, but what's wrong with being not stupid?
When your superb antique painting's rotting to hell you must act. If you're a beginner, take it to an expert for advice. This painting's Richard Wilson, possibly the most underrated grand master. I'd found it being used to pad the back seat of an old Austin Ruby. The bloke thought I was off my head. He was the sort who would chuck away a First Folio and keep the string.
If a painting's canvas is literally falling to bits you've a choice, of simply (figure of speech, that - it's really very complicated) rebacking with a new canvas, or of lifting the old delicate work of art off the canvas and putting it on a new one. This isn't fraud. It saves a precious thing for another three centuries. It's therefore essential. My method is to stretch small-grain gauze until it's even, then stick it carefully to the painting's face. (My glue's secret. Find your own.) Several layers of paper tissue stuck to the gauze, and you now remove the painting, still on its decrepit canvas, from the wood stretcher. After days of drying, tissue-gauze surface downwards, and, on an absolutely even bench, in the right wooden frame to hold it still, you gently caress the old canvas away. It takes maybe three months to a year's sparetime caressing. It's not much. For a beautiful luscious - or even an ugly - antique oil painting it's worth every second. You need to remove the debris as you go. Some use pumice stone, others special flat-face drills. I use me and a special powder I make up myself. Then stick a new canvas on any way you like. Tip: if you ever do it, be careful to announce the painting's been re-canvassed or you'll not get a bean for it. You can't blame the honest old public for being worried if they see yesterday's date stamped on the canvas of a genuine Constable. They're a very shrewd and suspicious mob.
I was caressing away when somebody coughed at my elbow.
'There's a bell at the gate,' I said angrily, not looking up.
'So sorry.' Great. Nichole's bloke, your actual Edward Rink.
Eventually I rose, stepped carefully back from the bench and turned. He was there, hesitant but determined. He must have left his car in the lane.
'I called in Dandy Jack's early this morning.'
'Survive, did he?'
'He says he sold the sketch.'
'That's life,' I said, wondering if Dandy actually had.
He pulled out a gold case and did the fire ritual. No kind offer of a fag to one of the world's workers.
'To a young lady.' His bottled eyes quivered indignantly. 'I think it was your young lady, Lovejoy.' Two little discs of red glowed on his cheeks.
'Oh?' Typical of Dandy. I bet he'd really sold it to Beck. Dealers are rarely truthful about these innocent details. I decided not to say this, and to mention nothing about Nichole's phone call.
'And the diaries Nichole's uncle wrote. I understand from Dandy Jack you have them.'
'You do?' I was thinking, what the hell's going on?
'Now, Lovejoy.' He was trying so hard. I watched curiously. 'I'm willing to pay for them.
You - you have no car, I believe.'
'True.'
'Nichole treasures her uncle's things.' He swallowed shakily. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. 'I'm willing to buy you a popular car. In exchange.'
'What's so precious about them, Rink?'
'Nichole's sister. She…' his voice hardened. 'They don't see quite eye to eye. Kate's often… unpleasant to Nichole. It happens in some families. I heard she called on you last night, Lovejoy.'
I eyed him. How did he know that?
'Yes. And practically told me to get stuffed. Anyway, it's a lot of money for two old scrap-books, isn't it?'
'Lovejoy,' he said, whitening round his lips. 'You will let me have them. And obtain your girl-friend's co- operation. Or else.'
'Eh?' I couldn't believe my ears.
'You heard, Lovejoy.' The pillock mistook my amazement for awe.
'Are you trying to -?'
'Threaten?' His little eyes flicked round the garden, the shed. 'Yes.'
'You? Me?' I asked fascinated. I'd seen some rum customers in my time, but this…
'You.' He flung his cigarette down and stood on it - note, not stamped or ground it in with his heel. Simply stood. I should have been thinking at the time. I'd have seen what sort of a swine he was. 'You have a choice, Lovejoy. Money plus physical well-being. Or poverty and…'
'And?' I prompted hilariously.
'And pain, Lovejoy,' he said gravely.
'Look,' I tried to say, but this wart actually tapped my chest to shut me up.
'You look, Lovejoy.' Worse, his breath was unfortunate. 'I'm a businessman. I can play rough. I have the money to get things done. By others. Tougher than you. And you are strapped, practically in the soup queue.'
