studded wand that plays tunes and lights up, and dances to demonstrate any antique that he thinks worthy of such tribute. He has a degree in fine art from the Courtauld, teaches somewhere. It must be quite a course. He is one of these blokes who look normal-sized, until you realise that he's simply huge. Like the Woolwich Rotunda building.
'Lovejoy! He's here, officer! My mother's doctor! In the nick of time!'
'Eh?' I recoiled from the traffic warden's glare.
'Is that right, sir?'
I hate it when they take out their notebooks. They remind me of magistrates. Dressed as I was in my usual threadbare jacket, frayed shirt, trousers that had seen better days, years, I couldn't pass as anybody's physician.
'Er, she thinks I'm her brain surgeon,' I said, smiling. I thought quickly. Social workers are scruffy. 'I'm her social worker. What's the trouble?'
'Not allowed to park here, even if he does have a barmy old coot inside.'
'I'll see to it, officer. They'll be gone in five minutes.'
He pocketed his book and stalked off. I glared at Gaylord. He did a pirouette of balletic joy. People all about were catcalling at his antics. So this was my offer of help? I needed action and vengeance - no delete that. I'm honestly not one for vendettas.
'Come in, Lovejoy! Wait for me, oh people!' He opened the caravan door and waved goodbye to the world.
These trailer things amaze me. From the outside they look made for luggage. Inside, they expand to the horizon, rooms in every direction. This held Auntie Vi, still with her eye patch, still smoking a clay pipe, rocking by a radio. She wears a shawl, clogs, black garb.
'Lovejoy, you reprobate! About time!'
'Still pretending you're straight out of Silas Marner, Vi?' I believe she's got the vision of an owl, part of her act. I coughed. 'Put that pipe out for God's sake. I can't see through this blinking fug. I'm still coughing from Puntasia's crud.'
She beamed. 'You know, Gaylord, I like this beast. Have a glass.'
'More than I got from Hello Bates, or from Deeloriss.' Or any other sympathetic dealer I'd talked with so far. What good's sympathy?
'They offered you ideas for a good scam, though?' Her one eye judged me candidly.
'For Dieter Gluck?'
I said bitterly, 'Next time we're at war, I'll recruit the antiques trade as spies. We'd win in a week.'
'Don't be cross, Lovejoy. They're your friends.'
'Then why didn't they let me know when Arthur got done?'
'They thought you'd know.' She belched noisily. I leant away from the rum fumes.
'Being Colette's shagger.'
'I'm here now. Much good I'm doing.'
'Don't feel sorry for yourself, you prat. It's Arthur who's got murdered.'
'I'm racking my brains, Vi.' I was aware Gaylord was standing in silence. 'I've had hints about gold brick cons, none very convincing. I can't think of anything. I don't know this Dieter bloke. I've got my apprentice lass Lydia sussing him out. And Trout and Tinker.
Sorbo's willing, so that's five. I'm hoping they'll come up with something.'
'You're thick, Lovejoy. What've you considered?'
'Everything from robbing the Prado to selling Gluck the Copenhagen Mermaid. They've all been done. Selling Tower Bridge, the Mona Lisa, the Holy Grail, Rembrandts, you name it.'
'He doesn't know, Auntie,' Gaylord said, so quietly I almost didn't hear.
'Hush, Gaylord. Go on, Lovejoy.'
'I've even thought of rigging some of the scams I've already done. That Guernsey thing.
That Scotch clan auction, the Welsh valleys with those poor mental cases, Roman gold, East Anglian witchcraft. Even that new Impressionist painter I created in Hong Kong.
This Gluck has me stumped.'
'Try Chinese antiques, Lovejoy. They're your best bet.'
'Only good forger of Chinese antiques is Wrinkle, and he's gone to earth. It's the cricket season, and Wrinkle lives for the game.'
'You went and got yourself arrested. Inspector Saintly, wa'n't it?'
Thank you, Radio Antiques. 'Aye. Got off with a warning. And that Bern scares me witless. I contacted Colette, but he booted me.'
'You're right, Gaylord. He hasn't a clue.' Auntie Vi looked at me. I got narked.
'I'm off. Play your queer games without me. Ta-ra.'
I'd actually risen when she said, 'You visited Arthur's grave. Did you see the lad?'
Which stopped me. Some lad sang at the interment, that vicar said. I hadn't stared at the figure in the foliage. It could as easily have been a motionless youth as an adult. I hadn't felt threatened, just spooked.
