'What do we do?'
'Ted minding the body, is he?' I said, walking past. 'Go on up until the police come.'
They went toward the staircase, dogs and all. Their relief was tangible, somebody telling them to do something and mentioning the police.
There's no bridge across the river until you reach the railway pub, then you get a choice of three. Too far. The theatre's lights were coming on, giving enough light to see the leisure boats. I unmoored one and rowed clumsily across to the opposite bank, left it there and walked until I judged I was opposite the place where I'd heard what I thought were lovers.
'Quaker?' I kept shouting. 'Quaker?'
Like a fool I'd not brought a flashlight. I did the best I could, flailing about the undergrowth by the towpath. Nothing. Then I heard it, a magic sound that almost brought tears of relief to my eyes. It was a long slow wheeze repeated until the ground shook. Tinker's cough. He thinks I don't know he still smokes. His snitch is always stained with snuff, which he's not used – honest, Lovejoy – for ten years, the lying old sod.
'Tinker?'
Answer came from across the river. Then lights, but from curtained windows. I recognized Maud and Quaker's house.
'That you, son?' And instantly into grumbles. I still couldn't see him. 'I found this lame bloke in the water like the brigadier said. I didn't get his wheelchair out. Sod that.
Turns out the lazy bastard's nothing wrong wiv him. Not a drop in the house.'
'Stay with him, Tinker. I'll be back.'
'Right. The brigadier get on all right, did he?'
'Aye, fine,' I said drily. I'd a mile walk into town.
'The brigadier said there'd be booze here but I found noffink. Any idea where he keeps it? This silly burke keeps showing me photographs of the Olympics.'
I walked on in silence.
The Drum and Flag is ancient, even as our local taverns go. Every so often some enthusiast dredges up proof that this pub or that hostelry was around in the ninth century, but we've some taverns encrusted in old Roman walls and they're still hard at it, serving their ale and nosh.
Ashamed, I walked into the light. It was still fairly crowded. I carried my jacket, and had turned my collar under. People must have assumed I was from the gala. The head waitress was standing at her podium, blonde, smart, thick spectacles, uniform. I asked for the Americans. A waitress conducted me to the alcove where the three of them were seated.
Consul Sommon smiled affably with that well-nourished bonhomie only millionaires can attain. I have a sneaking feeling that it puts the rest of us down onto some servile plane. Like society women, whose rich dresses do the same to the poor.
He was not quite sprawling – the sprawl is another characteristic of worldly power – on a couch. Before him, a long coffee table stocked with drinks, food, enough to host a party. People all about talked, chatted, called to friends. Some TV match was on.
Pleasant, everything safe, the town solvent for a generation. People were happy.
'Sit you down, feller. What'll you have?'
Friends, now he thought it all over.
'Nothing, thank you.'
The food looked stupendous. I looked away.
'May I offer you a shandy, Lovejoy?'
'Yes, please, Ms Deighnson.' Could I call her Petra?
'What the fuck?' said the consul. 'My drink not good enough?'
Grief is the only emotion insoluble in alcohol. I thought this, but did not say. He'd have demanded an explanation.
Petra Deighnson signalled a waitress and ordered me a shandy ('The gentleman likes his lemonade in first, please!' – the first I'd heard of it). 'You know, Lovejoy,' she went on quietly, 'half the trouble is that our country has never signed UNESCO's treaty banning the sale of archaeological treasures.'
'It's time you stopped these sales!' the consul exclaimed, his remark of course for public consumption. I've always found that those in public office want controls because they're on the right side of the barricades.
'Where will the antiques be exported?' I asked.
'You mean what, exactly?' she asked, her smile hardening.
Definitely not the question to ask Petra, for she was among friends. I wasn't.
'The consul's Nok-Jos terracotta in the theatre foyer isn't illegal here. A dozen antiques shops openly specialize in them.'
She almost winced. 'The Continent. The USA. It's a seller's market.'
'The United States is taking enormous steps to control traffic in illegal antiques.' The consul intoned the party line.
God, but politicians sound good. You have to admire them. They're really lifelike.
'You're not,' I told him, but pleasantly, like I too was their pal, part of the team. He'd recruited me at the Martello tower restaurant. He must take the consequences.
'The US of A has made enormous strides towards an ethical goal.'
