carrots.
'Can't stand the pace, eh?' I accused.
'I promised, Lovejoy.'
'Remember to crook your little finger over sherry, like posh folks.'
She pulled a face and left. Everything I needed was in reach, drinks with straws and all that.
The second day Janie showed me the letter. It had arrived without a stamp.
Somebody'd shoved it under the door early.
'I kept it,' Janie told me, 'because you weren't well enough.'
It was mid-morning. I was listening to the radio. One of those staid 'experts' was talking about mother-of-pearl decorations - incidentally coming back fast into fashion -
and never said the only important thing about it. Keep it covered. Keep it dark. Never ever put mother-of-pearl under a strong light or on a sunny windowsill. If you do it'll fade, become dull and lifeless. It's practically the only shine we cunning dealers can't ever restore, imitate properly, or forge. Once it's gone it's gone for good.
This letter.
'I think it's something to do with… you know.' She opened it for me.
Dear Lovejoy,
Are you any nearer to handing over the diaries? I sincerely hope that recent events have persuaded you to a wiser course of action than hitherto.
Do not hesitate to contact me should you see sense and wish to sell. Those scribbles can only bring you trouble.
Yours sincerely, Edward Rink.
I looked at Janie, marvelling. 'He's mad,' I said. 'And bloody cool.'
'Is he the one that…?' She shivered.
I turned the radio off.
'It's evidence,' I said, puzzled. 'I'll give it to the police. They'll pick him up.' Geoffrey, our local bobby, is rumoured to wake soon after Easter. Time he did something.
We read the letter again. Janie disagreed with me. 'He could mean practically anything.'
'He says 'recent events',' I countered. 'It's in his own handwriting.'
'That could be anything from the weather to a new offer. You once told me there are a thousand auctions a week. He could say he was talking about a commission.'
She was right.
'I'm going to phone him.'
'Now, Lovejoy,' Janie warned, but I got her to dial the number from his card. We got him third go, a telecommunications miracle.
'Lovejoy? I'm so pleased you rang,' the swine said urbanely. 'How sensible!'
I tried to hold the receiver lightly but my hand took no notice and hurt itself tightening up.
'Cut it, Rink,' I said. 'Did you do it?'
'Now, Lovejoy,' he purred. 'No silliness. I merely want you to be aware your movements are being observed. If you suddenly take it into your head to go anywhere, you'll be spotted. Day or night. More sensible to sell me the diaries and have done.'
'What if I've got this conversation on tape?' I asked suddenly.
'You'd be wasting the magistrate's time, Lovejoy.' He was laughing, the pig. 'I hope you'll see reason. Nichole's desperate.'
'No.'
He sighed down his end of the blower. 'You have one other choice. To become my agent. I would pay you well. And a percentage.'
'Why me?' He was off his rocker.
'Because you have the diaries. And the sketch. And I believe you have a peculiar skill where antiques are concerned.' He paused. 'And that other thing. Poverty.'
'I haven't got the sketch.'
'Tut tut, Lovejoy. Lies.' There was a pause. He cleared his throat, coming to a decision.
'Incidentally,' he said at last, 'I'm so sorry about your friend.'
'Friend?'
'Dandy Jack.' I'd forgotten about him and his accident. 'Such a shame. Still, if he lied to Nichole, he deserved —'
I rang off. My hands seemed made of wood. Janie was making coffee. I made my way shakily back to the divan. Curious, but my head seemed cold and the scalp tight. I let her get on with it for a while before I managed to speak.
'Janie.' I saw her back stiffen. 'How's Dandy?'
