Exasperation’s not much of a response, is it, but it’s sometimes all you can get from marriage. Escapers know that.
“Can’t be done for the price,” I said blithely, but still with a dollop of that good old meekness.
“What kind of financial package are you —” droned Paulie.
“Shut
Everything polarized. What some folk’d do without the first person singular, God alone knows. Cissie’s policy is, third person equals abuse; first equals the cause of righteousness. I thought, blimey. Then got intrigued, because I couldn”t remember ever having thought that Cockney expletive before. Blimey, from the old English curse, blind me if I lie. Why blimey now? I”m no Cockney. Some trigger had set me off.
“Shake him, Paulie!” she was honing.
“Do if you dare, Paulie,” I said evenly. “I didn”t come up the Stour on a bicycle.”
He lowered his hands. I felt sorry for him. He should have got out while he was still alive.
“You have to, Lovejoy,” he said. “Please.”
How desperate it had all suddenly become. I was intrigued. I mean, for Cissie even to summon me to her presence was a step of grimsome magnitude. What an interesting scheme Troude’s was. Maybe the way to obtain more facts was to play hard to get?
“No, ta.” A little unmeekness had crept in after all, which only goes to show you can’t depend on practically everything. “See you. May you live for ever.”
It’s the Chinese backhanded compliment. I chatted all the way to the front door with Katta. She did her soaring yell of a laugh and said, “O keeyooo!” I liked her. She’s the only one talks right in that house.
The Ruby for once sparked at the first crank, and was off the starting grid like a racer. It was glad to be out of it.
CHAPTER NINE
« ^ »
The lamp hours were ended when the Ruby shuddered to a stop. Almira’s Jaguar had gone. Even so, I entered the cottage like a night-stealing Arab, in case. She’d vanished all right. Hadn’t left any grub, thoughtless cow. Sulking, I bet.
I went to bed. The divan was cold, but I didn’t mind. No tubes, no plastic bubble. Over and out.
This tube machine was coughing, regular as a metronome. I came to in a sweat, realized it was only Donk’s motorbike in —repeat, actually inside—my porch. Motorbikers live on the damned things. Makes you wonder how they go to the loo.
“Lovejoy?” Donk yelled at me, peering round the door. “Get your skates on, you idle sod. It’s eleven o’clock. Sun burning your eyes out.”
The old squaddies’ shout made me feel queasy, remembering what had nearly happened to Jan Fotheringay, chucked into his burning caravan by anonymous arsonists.
“Urgent message, Lovejoy. Pay up. And you still owe me.”
I lay and thought while Donk’s wretched machine spluttered and fumes enveloped the world. Diana, Troude, or even Big John Sheehan? Or a normal thing like an antique,
“Right, Donk.” I roused and paid up.
“Ta. Message is, get to Mentle Marina. Noon. Jodie Danglass’ll be there.” He backed his bike, stuffed the notes down his jacket front. “You’re a jammy sod with the birds, Lovejoy. I saw that MP’s missus leaving.”
Diana? Probably still paranoid about Troude hiring me. I was halfway back to bed when I paused.
“Hang on, Donk. When?”
“Three hours since. I come up earlier.” He paused as an idea struck. “Ought to charge double, two journeys.”
“Donk,” I yelled to stop him. “What d’you think of her motor?” Donk’s engine mad.
“Give anything for a maroon Jag, Lovejoy. Who wouldn’t?”
And silence.
Five long minutes I stood there naked as a grape, staring unseeing at the garden where the robin flirted for its morning cheese and the bluetits mucked about and the hedgehog trundled.
My mind kept going: Donk saw, Almira—she of the posh motor— leave my cottage. He’d called her, what, that MP’s missus. I’d thought her husband an investment banker. She’d explained his absences by fluctuating share prices and such. What had Tinker said, in his confusing report that day? Now, I reckoned Diana’s bloke was an MP. Hadn’t Diana said as much, Jervis somebody? Was
