“Here, Gobbie. You really running this lot?” I couldn’t help asking.
His face parted in a great grin round one tooth. “Nar, son. Dunno what they’re all on about.”
And off he shuffled. Box shipper, one who exports container loads by sea. Mate, a Cockney’s drinking partner, trustworthy to the hilt. To do for, to kill seemingly by accident so there’s no fallout.
“What can I do, Gobbie?” I called after him. I meant to repay the favour.
He didn’t stop, laughed ack-ack-ack. “Bring times back, Lovejoy. I’d give everything for just one last scam.”
The old soldier’s laugh. You used to hear a lot of it, old sweats who’d been in the trenches. Inaudible beyond eight yards.
“Look.” The cricket secretary came, sweating heavily, pointing in an aggrieved manner. He’d seized on me, authority by association with the old magic man. “Look. I can’t have those children dancing on the bowler’s approach run.”
“Sod off,” I said sourly, and left through the hedge. People get my goat. Everybody wants solutions for their problems. Who helps me with mine. Bloody nerve.
Falsehood may be the bride of truth, but in murder and antiques it’s legend is her lover. Old Gobbie meant that Leon had been topped. Like Baff, though the means of killing was different. Two deaths, Troude the common factor.
Stopping off before I reached town, I went to sit in a tavern yard. They rig up pot plants, swings, a children’s zoo—rabbits, a guinea-pig, hamsters, smug chickens—with trestle-tables for you to swig ale on. It encourages families to come.
Troude hadn’t mentioned Leon the French divvy, not by name, so I was guessing. I knew little of the bloke, except he was famed in subterranean antique lore. He’s supposed to have helped the Louvre, in its multitude of nefarious dealings among Continental antique dealers. Just as a roving football scout spots schoolboy talent in a Sunday park then clandestinely phones a First Division club, so Leon—no surname ever whispered—would spot that staggering convent altarpiece, let’s say a Lorenzo Lotto painting, and for a consideration contact some Louvre stringer. The convent delightedly accepts a pittance (less than a hundred dollars) for their old daub, whereupon the Louvre then announces the discovery of a priceless old Lorenzo Lotto painting, got for a song! (Well, a song plus Leon’s cut.) Imagine how sweetly ye heavenly choirs do singen over such a triumph! Lawyers join in, soon as the courtroom opens. Incidentally, if you think I’m making up this Lorenzo Lotto story, don’t ever go into the antiques business.
Leon was a power, made a good living. Except suddenly I was uneasy. How much of all this was fact, and how much lies or legend? Troude, posh in his richdom, lived remote from my level. I mean, I’d never heard of him a little ago. This is the trouble: penthouse princes see us from a height, as eagles see ants. And I’ll bet one thing for absolute sure—those eagles don’t know one single ant, whereas we ants can identify every individual eagle down to the feathers on the tail.
The pub was quiet, hardly a soul in. Almira’s motor arrived, it came like a military band. Two old soaks on the bench lusted at her stridey figure as she advanced on me to stand akimbo, glaring.
“Are you avoiding me, Lovejoy? And who’s that mare in your cottage?”
Who indeed? Two children stopped admiring the little zoo to stare at this aggressive newcomer.
Better look downcast, I decided. I hung my head in sorrow. “Still there, is she, dwooerlink? She’s haunting me. I had to escape.” I shrugged, all pent-up emotion. “It’s not her fault, Almira. She’s going through some crisis.”
She blazed on. “That doesn’t explain—”
“Why the hell does she come to me, though?” I paraphrased her forthcoming sentence. “I can’t solve her frigging love life.” I gestured her to sit down. She did so, reluctantly. I eyed her. Yes, time to give her a gentle reprimand. “Your phone, love. Is your husband having it tapped? Makes some funny noises.”
“My phone?” New thoughts for old, I saw in her face. “There were no messages, Lovejoy.”
“That proves it. Somebody wiped them both off. Is he back?”
“Who?” She looked at the two children, now standing listening beside us. “Go away!”
They didn’t move. “Why’s your mummy cross, Lovejoy?” Peggy, the taller girl, asked me gravely.
“Because I won’t do as I’m told,” I said. They were shocked. So also, I saw, was Almira. She tried to smile, to show she detected no double meaning.
“Run along, children,” she said tightly. She wasn’t used to brats. She’d say that, soon as they were out of earshot.
“You have to do as you’re told,” the titch Justine said sadly. “I’ve to wipe my own buttom. I can’t wee on the tortoise.”
Lucky old tortoise. “That’s not fair, chuckie,” I said. Somebody called them and they went disconsolately towards the tavern’s side door.
“No, Lovejoy. Jay isn’t home for several more days yet.” She’d had time to think. Now, Jervis isn’t all that common a name. But it definitely does start with a jay. She tried to be seductive. “I’d like us to take a run out tonight, Lovejoy. Stay over somewhere. London, perhaps? I’ve a friend who says her cottage will be free for us to have a week or so on the Continent. Will you come?” Lips wet and luscious, seduction at its most powerful.
Drawing breath, I prepared to say no, resist her. She was offering unrestrained passion, but it was me who’d be walking into danger now the moment had come. “Course, love,” I said. My mind complained she’d baulked at France a short while ago. Now it was the Continent at all costs. Why?
As I went towards my Ruby she actually came out with it. “I’m not used to brats, Lovejoy. You have such odd patience.”
See what I mean? Sometimes you can guess what women’ll say, or even do, but you’re no nearer. I’d have to do an exploratory stint on Gazza Gaunt’s Tryste wagons.
“Good heavens!” I patted my pockets. “Forgot to pay! My cottage, half-five. You will come, dwoorlink?” I looked
