'Sell me the security, Tel, and potholes?'
'Sure. Cost you half a long, Lovejoy. Half a grand to the blokes.'
Translation: fifty zlotniks to Tel, five hundred to the security sussers. These are ruffians who don't actually ruff. They just know who'll be on duty, if the electronics surveillance people have flu, where you should arrange a van to break down, a robber's essentials.
Potholes are flaws in standing security procedures. Some naughty security firms actually incorporate flaws, to be sold to would-be crooks on request. It's modern double-think.
'That's blinking dear, Tel,' I groused.
'Art theft's gone up. Dulwich's been done too frigging often. They learned the hard way.
Now, the place only looks easy. If I was you, I'd try somewhere else.' He gave a booming laugh, sweaty mounds shaking. 'They can't afford the insurance. Said so on telly, last time somebody lifted their recycled Rembrandt.'
True. I was relieved Tel knew about it. Dealers joke that their Rembrandt was stolen so often in the old days it went in and out like a fiddler's elbow. I wanted him to be sure to remember this conversation.
'What'll you charge to keep shtum, Tel?' I asked, trying to look threatening. I can't do it, but try. 'I don't want all London coming to watch, if I try to nick Dulwich's Old Masters.'
'Another.' Meaning fifty zlotniks more.
We haggled. I stroked Plato. Like Mortimer's dog Jasper, it knew I wasn't up to much, so watched the horses line up on TV. I agreed Tel's fees. Interestingly, they weren't all that exorbitant, proving that Tel knew Dulwich was the hardest place on earth to burgle. I knew that anyway. As long as he told the world that Lovejoy was going to give it a go, it would be money well spent. He would give me details of Dulwich Picture Gallery's security arrangements with supposed potholes.
I said so-long to Plato. Leaving, I hoped whoever Dieter Gluck had trailing me could take a decent photo, and that my stalker was good enough.
Two phone calls later, I started my plan.
Luckily, the day turned out brilliant. It was like a St Thomas's summer down at Henley when I got there. I told the steward on the gate I was a guest of Sir Jesson Tethroe, MP, and Mrs Gloria Dee. With disdain, I was given a blazer and an anonymous tie, and made to wait.
I honestly wonder if women have some inbuilt radar that tells them how our weather will be. She looked dazzling in green taffeta, hair filling out with sun, complexion marvellous. Sir Jesson harrrumphed, eyed me, gave my attire a reluctant nod. He mellowed when Mrs Dee greeted me kindly.
'Call me Jesson, Lovejoy,' he said, like awarding me a discount.
He wrung my hand, clearly chairman of the board. I stared with admiration. He wore a boater, very Henley-on- Thames, and a smart blazer that talked down to scruffy me. If I were him, though, I'd have got a new tie. It had faded to a vague grey. People all around nodded or fawned, according to station. Waiters hung in hopes. Alluring ladies smiled at Sir Jesson.
We were on a kind of tatty wooden jetty. I suppose class is as class does. I caught Gloria Dee's amused smile.
'Henley is superb, Lovejoy, is it not?' she said. I got the irony.
'Best place on earth,' Sir Jesson bellowed. 'The royals,' he intoned, stooping to confide in a stentorian boom, 'don't come here much. Obsessed with horses. Ascot people common as dung, what? And Wimbtedon's for ball- fiddlin' poofters, beggin' ya pardon, what?'
'Er,' I said, lost.
'Standards, Lovejoy!' he thundered, ordering drinks with nothing more than a finger twiddle. Waiters sprinted. 'Princess Grace of Monte Carlo - y'know her? Second Division crown, o'course, not top notch. Her pa got excluded from Henley, what?'
'Why, Jesson?' Gloria Dee asked, sweet with innocence. She'd obviously heard the tale a thousand times.
'General Rules, Rule One brackets e,' he foghorned across the Thames. 'Manual labourer. Blighter was a common bricklayer, some place called Philadelphia. Actually wanted to scull at Henley. Can ya believe it?'
'Good heavens,' I said politely. The waiter deposited the drinks, glared at my clothing.
Gentlemen milled and strolled in white flannels, coloured socks. Ladies called loudly for
'Pimm's, daaahling!' and complained about the shampahs. Striped blazers - you never see so many buttons as on Henley cuffs - and heavy-duty grins, flowered hats and swirly dresses.
'Leander,' Gloria whispered as Jesson rose to greet a gaudy mob. Salmon pink seemed to be their colour. I'd never heard such brash laughter. 'Very up, Leander.'
For a second we were on our own. Sir Jesson was saying, 'Like wagering for Dartmouth, what?' and folk were chortling. It was another world.
'Ta for letting me come, love,' I said quietly. 'Would you do a robbery?'
She leant away, to look better, her smile draining.
'I'll accept the danger and suffer the consequences. It could save a young lad's life. And rescue somebody else.'
'A robbery?' she asked faintly. 'You mean steal?'
'No, love. Theft is mild, like pickpocketing. Robbery is violent.'
Fingering her pearls, she repeated the word, her gaze off the scale. 'Violent as in…?'
'As in damage, love. I need you, Gloria.' For a second I waited. 'I'll try to keep you out of any problems.'
A gust of haw-haws made all speech impossible before she could respond.
'You're
