commuters, found each other again. 'She'll have a ton of good reasons to shop you, Lovejoy. Morality, sympathy, suchlike crap.' He shook his head at the folly of beautiful women.
'Tinker?' I asked. 'Sorbo?' Then, after a bit, 'You?'
His gaze was level. 'Lovejoy, I can see why Tinker says you're a prat. What do you want me to do?'
'Go to the Dulwich. Get permission, and film every nook and cranny. We'll need every picture.'
'Here, Lovejoy,' he called as I got a ticket and started through. 'Any idea when we start getting paid?'
'Pay?' I gave back. 'With free morality and sympathy?'
I heard his croaky laughter, and I was off on my ultimate deception. A miniature bloke carrying a camcorder round the fashionable Dulwich Picture Gallery would be a decoy if anything would. Now for the real scam, which I would do on my own. Then if my team got in trouble with the police it'd be their hard luck, and I'd get away scotage free. I felt a surge of optimism.
Which only proved how stupid I really am.
London's ghosts I've already told you about. Even at noon, you get some strange feelings. I'm not one of these spiritual people, omens and ectoplasm everywhere. Nor do I find portents in freak face-in-the-cloud photographs. I mean, this week's seen the opening of our kingdom's very first shop devoted to fairies (original meaning, please). I honestly wish it well. Rock on, sprites everywhere. And I'll applaud vigorously to keep Tinkerbell's little red glow burning bright. But don't ask me to stalk clanking figures on fogbound moors, or explore yon dank castle in the candle hours, please. Wander down Haunted Hollow of a midnight, you're on your own. I'll hold your coat and stay in my cottage, ta very much.
No, I'm not spookish. I'm no mystic. People say I must be, since I feel the vibes of genuine antiques. They're wrong. It's totally different. I mean, a craftsman made that wondrous Davenport desk, not a ghost. I once said this to Lydia when we were arguing about it - she reads horoscopes. She only said, 'But that eighteenth-century craftsman is a ghost now. Don't you see, Lovejoy?' I called her a stupid cow, and stalked off. She laughed, like she'd won.
Despite my disbelief, I stood there on the pavement outside Wrinkle's workshop with its corrugated roof and locked doors somehow knowing he'd done a bunk. Maybe it was the lack of chimes from his three genuine antique pieces of furniture, telling me? Except I can't feel them at a distance. I've got to be within chime-shot.
I went round the back, climbed to where I'd seen Honor waggle her fingers at me as I'd gaped at her and Wrinkle making smiles, and broke in by clubbing the begrimed glass pane with my elbow. It hurt like hell. I unlocked the window, and nearly broke my frigging ankle tumbling down, missing the bench and almost braining myself on a stool.
I puffed upright, switched on the light. Nothing but wood shavings, neatly swept mounds of sawdust ready for bagging up in plastic containers. We use heartwood remnants for infillings and other deceptions. I mean forgers do.
From sheer fury, I almost wept. The swine had done a moonlight, probably funded by the cheque-toting Honor. Did he suspect I'd be furious because Honor's cheque had bounced, and I'd come to throttle him for the money he still owed me? Or, evil thought, had Gluck somehow got wind of my treble-bluff and somehow got to Wrinkle?
Blokes with lifelong dreams - Wrinkle's an example - are a pest. For secrecy they are unmatched. They have more hidey-holes than a hedge dunnock. They're also loners.
The antiques trade hasn't much time for them, because whatever it is they're up to it's too long a haul. Dealers want money now, if not yesterday. If the money's vaguely promised for next Kissing Friday, they'll laugh in your face. This is the real problem with
'longers', as Wrinkle's merry band of long-haul forgers are termed. If, say, a bloke is making a complete collection of Royal Doulton figures, he'll never come within a light year of completion in his own lifetime. It can't be done. And if another is faking every known painting by Gainsborough he'll run out of old canvas so there's a hitch. And so on. Antique dealers always pass them by. Occasionally you'll hear the lads in some pub having a laugh at Old Jake in Carlisle who's making, faking, forgeries of every Parian ware piece ever recorded. Old Jake's real, incidentally. I'm not making him up. He's still nowhere near finishing his epic slog. Pondering, I swung my feet over the edge of Wrinkle's workbench, on which he and Honor had cruelly reached ecstasy without a single thought for my welfare.
Parian ware is an unglazed porcelainy stuff you make figurines and statues from. It's faintly translucent - think of greased fish-and-chip paper. Its matt surface has a satiny feel. You can't mistake it, once seen. Much hallway statuary is Parian, in fact. It came in when Copeland in Stoke-on-Trent brought it about in 1846. Soon it was made by everybody. So you'll find even genuine Wedgwood, and Minton, Parian pieces. The most pricey, though, are American Parians made in Bennington, USA, because they're rarer. Was it worth phoning Jake in Carlisle?
Desultorily I hunted clues. It would take weeks to find Wrinkle. Think of London as a collection of villages, where gossip is common knowledge among the villagers but inaccessible to outsiders. I picked up bits of wood, shavings, scanned the browning notices tacked to the wall. Nil. I'd actually started to climb out when something struck me. One scrap was a little card, with dates of cricket fixtures. It was labelled 'MCC'. One fixture was today's date. And I remembered that Wrinkle was a cricket addict.
We'd once argued about Len Hutton's captaincy in Test matches. I'd accidentally said Hutton was duff. Wrinkle went ballistic. I'd never seen such apoplexy. Me, I couldn't have cared less. He'd seen every Aussie match at the Oval and Lord's since Adam dressed. And the Australians were playing today! I climbed out, dropped nonchalantly to the pavement near an old dear pushing a pram load of faggots, and dashed to find Lydia. Two hours later, I was spruced up in borrowed plumage, entering the hallowed vicinity of Lord's cricket ground with Lydia, trying not to lie.
Cricket is beyond mere explanation because it's unknowable. I was never any good, being a leg-break bowler until I went sane. As a game, cricket's got every known drawback. For a start, one Test - international - match takes five days. No kidding. Start in the morning, play until darkness rescues the world. Injuries abound. The ball hurts like hell. Exhaustion eventually sets in among spectators and players alike. My own attraction for the game, of course, is its antiques, because antiques cricketana (I'm honestly not making the name up) is priceless. Proof? Rummage in your attic.
An elderly lady neighbour had an old husband she loved. Okay? He fell ill, needed constant nursing. She was broke. Their children were estranged, for family reasons beyond understanding. The DHSS social services thought up this solution: 'Sell your house, missus. Then, being destitute and homeless, you can buy the nursing care your hubby needs.' Enter Lovejoy. Raquel told me about them, a DHSS lass I was seeing. I booted her out, which she richly deserved, and visited the old dear in the nick of time. I looked at her furniture, trying to save her selling up.
Thrill of thrills, I found a painting of some geezers playing cricket. Dated 1787. Elegant
