'That's allowed for,' I told her. Her painstaking attention to detail was getting me narked. There wasn't going to be any Dulwich robbery, for heaven's sake. 'Once you're in the shadows, my insiders will lower the paintings to you.'
'There are no shadows round the building, Lovejoy.'
I sighed. She was a bloody nuisance.
'There will be,' I said knowingly. 'At midnight.'
'Who are the insiders? And how do we get the paintings away?'
Had she no imagination, for God's sake? As for helpers, I'd just made them up.
'Two false police vans will come to the front of the building,' I invented impatiently. It was the best I could think up on the spur. 'Okay? Load up and drive off.'
'Where to, Lovejoy?'
Jesus, but I was worn out. Coldly I stared her down until she coloured and started to apologize.
'Who's lost sleep to help you?' I demanded. 'Who's spent a fortune phoning, er, Amsterdam, just to pay off those Cockney fight-fixers?' I waxed indignant, thinking what a martyr I was and what ungrateful bastards friends were.
'I'm so sorry, Lovejoy. I didn't mean—'
'It's all right,' I said, broken, a real sob in my voice. 'All I need is honesty.'
She promised. I said fine, and went to find a friend.
Judith Falconer's the world's most desirable radio reporter. Her station doesn't rival the BBC, being a decaying mansion outside London. I've hungered for her some years, with no luck. Every time I've drawn breath to suggest she takes me on holiday to Monet's Giverny and ravages my poor defenceless body she just makes casual conversation.
She was waiting as arranged facing Eros, gorgeous as usual. We did the usual coffee fencing then got down to it.
'Want a scoop, outside broadcast? Judith, you can be the saviour of the nation.' Okay, so I'd promised Lisa. But was she here? No.
Judith was unfazed. 'Do you know how much an outside broadcast costs?'
'A titchy dictaphone will do. The only thing is, you don't air it until next morning.'
Her lovely brown eyes held me. 'What do you get out of this, Lovejoy?'
'Nothing,' I said, no acting needed. 'But if you'd come to Giverny with me, no obligation, I'd be glad.' She said nothing.
Being scooped by TV is the radio reporter's greatest fear. Her eyes sparkled.
'Can I trust you, Lovejoy?'
The world was low on trust today, I said. She smiled, said okay. Nothing about Giverny, selfish cow. See what I mean? Help others, you get nothing back.
We parted amicably. I walked round the Tate until the vibrations from the paintings made me feel queasy. I phoned Saintly, told him about the forthcoming robbery tonight at an unnamed art gallery.
'I'll phone you about ten o'clock tonight,' I said blithely. 'By then, I'll have sussed out who's doing it and where.'
'Is this on the level, Lovejoy?'
'Straight up,' I said. 'If nothing happens, you can arrest me. Incidentally, don't make too much noise or they might get away. And don't arrest a reporter called Judith who'll be describing events from the bushes.'
Lovely feeling, being honest to the police. I'd never done it before. I felt holy. In spite of my new-found piety I didn't call into St Paul's for a quick prayer as I went past. No sense in risking the She Wolfs ghost at this late stage. I rang St Thomas's Hospital.
Tinker was stable. They wouldn't give me any news about Trout. I insisted I was his brother, but they were adamant. It betokened bad.
The trains were running on time. I made it to East Anglia, got a lift from an old lady who'd just come from the dentist. She gave me a cheery monologue on the most reliable adhesive for dental plates, should I ever reach false teeth. I said ta. She told me she collected antique hat pins. Don't laugh. You can buy handfuls for a farthing at any boot fair - today, that is. Tomorrow, nobody knows. If I'd spare change, I'd buy up every old hat pin in sight. For less than an afternoon's wages you could have a massive display - ivory, Edwardian silver, Victorian, early plastics (soaring, unbelievably rare), unique porcelain-headed hat pins made in craft potteries. We'd just got talking when she dropped me off at Best River Outcomes, Ltd. I was sorry to see her go. 'Come to tea, Saturday, Lovejoy,' she offered roguishly. 'I'll have my new teeth in.'
'It's a date, Tranquillity.' I waved her off. Her collection sounded worth something.
She'd described several original Art Deco pins.
Alone, I surveyed the canal. After London the stillness was unnerving. The boatyard was soporific, the water motionless. It looked painted by a stoned artist. Three longboats lay canted on the bank, to voyage no more. Others rotted in the yard pool, one down at the stern. A moorhen chugged out of a half-submerged window. Only one longboat looked worthy. No wonder developers like Talleyton and Gluck had itchy fingers. It was an investor's dream - a pittance now, for a fortune tomorrow.
A half-hearted hammer struck metal. 'Wotcher, Kettle,' I called.
'That you?' a voice quavered.
'Can you be more specific?'
