came into fashion in pre-Victorian days. They're very collectible. Two dozen will net you a posh Continental holiday. Tip: Don't polish them. Just rinse them lightly in baby soap, then drip purest grade Italian olive oil over the surface, and the Indian Ink writing will come up beautifully, legible as the day some hoary old gardener wrote it. Course, there are fakes—
'Lovejoy?'
'Wotcher, Flymo.'
'Seen you down Bermondsey. Business bad out in the Sticks, is it?' He chuckled harshly.
'No. Here for the padpas.'
'Dosh should never have bought them in the first place. We all knowed they was substituted.'
Did you now, I thought. I chanced it. 'I've been looking for Colette Goldhorn, but can't see hide nor hair. Times change, eh, Flymo?'
He sighed. I bought him a pint so he could sigh without spraying me with his spittle aerosol.
'I'm thinking of giving up the con game, Lovejoy. I'm too frigging old. Know what happened?' He waxed indignant. 'Three days since, I do me knock, and this bird opens the door. I race my lawn mower in, saying my, 'Here's your lawn mower, love, where should I put it?', all according to plan.'
'So? Con as usual.'
'Not frigging likely.' He tapped my chest in outrage. 'Know what? She simpers, 'Just leave it there in the hall. Come through. We can have a nice cosy chat.' She was after a bit of the other, Lovejoy! From me! When I'd got work to do!'
I almost choked laughing. 'Behold your sins will find you out, Flymo.'
He was narked. 'It's all very well for you, Lovejoy. Shagging's your thing. But me? It takes me all my time to get round a single street these days. Mind you, Colette's been a godsend.'
'Colette? You sell to Colette Goldhorn?'
This is like hearing that a duchess does a bit of cleaning for pin money. Colette, buying nicked dross from the likes of Flymo?
'One of my few outlets these days,' he said mournfully. 'You wouldn't be interested in a little Chinese bowl?'
With Fagin-like glances about the crowded bar, he fetched out a small lavishly decorated K'ien Lung Cantonese bowl. It felt genuine enough to warm me, and looked absolutely perfect. I waited for a lull in the chatter, though, and held it to my ear just as a precaution. You must do this simple test on any porcelain, because light can trick your eyes. I tapped it with my knuckle and listened. Sure enough, the clear distant
'pong' wasn't distinct. It went buzzzzzz. It's horrible. It means you mustn't buy, not even if the dealer offers you 90 per cent discount, because the bowl's side is fractured.
Never mind that you can't see any crack, or that you can't feel one with your finger nail.
If the faint 'pong' isn't clear as a bell, if it goes buzzzzzz, you're holding a poor wreck of a thing. And please ignore the dealer's prattle. He'll be frantic, saying how he's had the antique bowl authenticated by the British Museum, offering certificates from Sotheby's and all.
'It's got a mended crack, Flymo.'
'Thought you'd spot it,' he said gloomily. 'You wouldn't take it off me for a third third, would you, Lovejoy?'
Antique dealers work in thirds, never wanting to buy any antique at more than a third of its value, and always wanting to sell at full price. Flymo was offering me this at a third of what he might have paid, if his purchase had been legit instead of stolen. A third of a third is one-ninth.
'Thought you were going to sell to Colette?' Clever old me.
'Not tonight, Lovejoy. She's in that Soho churchyard. Winos give me the frigging creeps.'
Tut tut, those terrible drinkers hard at it. I bought him another pint, took the Cantonese bowl off him for one- ninth of its market value, and had the precise night location of Colette Goldhorn, Lady of Saffron Fields Manor. I would use the antique bowl as an excuse to talk to Colette. See how cunning I am? A little think, you get there. And now Flymo owed me. I was pleased with myself, forgetting that confidence is just another name for stupidity.
13
GO UP SHAFTESBURY Avenue from Piccadilly Circus, the fire station's on your right nearing Cambridge Circus. Left, you pass Soho's old church of St Anne's. Facing it, quite a narrow street, you see a minute churchyard. Couple of benches, not much greenery, overlooked by nearby theatres and back office windows, it's one of those tiny refuges with which London abounds.
It's also a place where deadlegs kip of a night. Nothing against them - I've been one, done it - but it's no place to meet your Gran in the lamp hours.
Seven or eight folks were distributed about. One or two drank from bottles concealed in brown paper bags. Others eyed them with envy. Others kipped, supine. There's enough light from the streets to see. One thing, London's always crowded, folk moving past with laughter, shouts from taverns, still one amazing fruit barrow busily trading.
Incidentally, if you don't know the places I'm telling of, the distances are mere paces.
I'm not talking miles. London's a place for walking, not taking taxis.
Gingerly, I went from figure to figure in steady drizzle. The dossers were under plastic, wrapped in newspapers beneath. One glistened in black dustbin liners. I excluded the alert drinkers, which left five. One was a man, from his massive Wellington boots. Two separate plastic-sheeted figures emanated giddy smoke. Surely Colette couldn't be a druggo as well, for Christ's sake? That left two. One was snoring, choking on every inhalation. Colette snored but kind of forgetfully, not serious.
