“A thought, son. They were older blokes than usual, see? Them touring Geordies are all of seventeen, eighteen as a rule.”
The hooded raider had seemed thickset, maybe forty or so. Gobbie was right. Ramraiding’s a youth’s game. So why was an older bloke pulling a stroke like that?
“Like”, Gobbie continued, gently nursing me into thinking, “ that lot of gorms last month as raided the Metro Centre. Did the wrong stuff, remember? Too young to know the difference between tom and tat. Did a beautiful rammer, got clean away, and found they’d nicked a display of imitation jewellery.”
Yes, I’d heard. It was desperately worrying. Too many variables all of a sudden.
“Any ideas, Gobbie?” I asked. How pathetic. Me supposed to be the leader of this private little side scam, and here I was asking a wrinkly for advice. I disgust me sometimes. I’d have dozed through the whole thing if it hadn’t been for him, too. “Forget it,” I said, and walked away.
“Night, son. See you there.” I swear the old sod was grinning. I was narked. One day I’ll get the upper hand, then people’d better watch out, that’s all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
« ^ »
Didn’t the Commandant say something about London?” I asked hopefully in next morning’s flying start.
Guy tore us through the countryside. I wanted some aspirin, but Veronique fell about when I asked. I was really narked. Just my luck to draw the one bird in the world without a ton of paracetamol in her handbag. “Is this north?”
“He’s quick on the uptake!” Guy cried, swerving, sounding his horn. I shrank in my seat as the wind ripped through me. Everything he said sounded copied from American films. Mind you, what’s wrong with that? Same as me, really. Birds often tell me so.
Veronique was smiling. I was exposed in the bucket seat, my regular place now. “He’s a servant,” she said, turning to speak directly at me. “Aren’t you, Lovejoy?”
“Aren’t we all?” I was worried about my helpers. I meant me.
“No!” she cried. “You are
“I’m no serf,” I fired back. Staying a buffoon never did me any harm.
Not a bad description of Mentle, marina and all. So she —meaning Guy too—had been there? I thought about poor Baff.
From then on, I decided, I’d really try. I shone, talked instead of sulked. I began trying to draw them out, embarked on some funny not-so-funny tales, Actions I Have Known, scams, robberies (no names, no pack drill as people say), and within a few miles had her smiling. No mean feat, with Guy yippeeing, attacking every vehicle on the road. I slyly timed him, supposing he’d shot his lot before we started out. He’d have to pull in somewhere when his jangles got too much.
“I mean, I really like Alma-Tadema’s paintings,” I was giving out when finally Guy started to become quieter, his driving less flamboyant. What, an hour and a half of belting along the motorway? We’d come out of Paris on the A6. “What’s wrong with detail, if it’s lovely? He painted all the faces in his enormous crowds. But so what? Easier to fake.” I’d been on about the old 1980s forgeries, still around in some galleries.
“You’re a secret luster, Lovejoy,” Veronique gave back in that encouraging reprimand women use. “We heard.”
“Not a word to anyone, or I’ll stand no chance.” I grinned apologetically, innocent Lovejoy, hoping but never really expecting. “Where do you find anybody to do detail like Alma-Tad nowadays?” I hummed, trying to remember the melody of that old music-hall song. “Alma-Tad, oh what a cad…” My Gran used to sing it in her naughty moods, dreadfully risky. It worked.
“Look in the right place, Lovejoy, you’ll find anything.” Veronique’s implacability phase returned for a second.
“Not nowadays, love. Forgers don’t have the application. And if fakers can’t be bothered, who can? You need time, money, love.” I chanced it as Guy, all a-twitch, began looking for exit roads. Veronique darted him a glance, nodded permission. “Don’t annoy me. I’ve lived like a monk since I arrived. Gelt’s all very well, but I’m short on vital necessities.”
She burst out laughing, a beautiful sight, the wind, blonde hair flying, all shape and pattern. “I
Even though they’d killed Baff, I was narked at her amusement at my expense. “Look, love. Birds can go years without a bloke. We can’t last more than a couple of days without a bird.” I was still fishing, laying groundwork. “Everybody’s… well, fixed up, except me.”
She was still rolling in the aisles at my lovelorn state when we halted at a service station. On the way in, I took a gander at the wall map, and realized we were heading east. Reims led to Metz, to Strasbourg. The E35 darted south along the Rhine then, to Zurich. A guess right, for once? No sign of the Sweets, which surprisingly gave me a pang. Lilian had been brilliant, for all that she was the wife of a SAPAR hunter. And none of Gobbie and Lysette.
“How long’s this going on, Veronique?” I asked while we waited for Guy. “I need to know the plan, when, some detail.”
“Why?” We’d collared some superb French coffee. She gazed levelly back, chin resting on her linked fingers.
