Like other crooks, he'd begun to confuse reality and myth. The actors going through their paces on stage were acting rehearsed fiction. The import of antiques through his diplomatic channels was criminal reality.
'They were pretending,' I said patiently. Abruptly I was tired, sapped to exhaustion. 'It's me alone that would divvy your illegal shipments.'
'But—'
'If you think they can do it, hire them instead.'
'What he says is true,' Susanne said quietly. 'Remember? It's on the video movie Taylor made at Saffron Fields that day.'
He seethed, glared. A thwarted politician is an ugly sight. I wondered if Congress had a televised Prime Minister's Question Time like us. It's the nearest the electorate ever get to a straight answer. It's still miles off.
'One shipment a month would be better.'
'One a fortnight, Lovejoy.' He put the flat of his hand on the coffee table so hard the crockery jumped. 'And that's that. I already have one shipment here. You start tomorrow.'
'Right.' I gave in. If I'd guessed right, we'd not get to his bloody shipment anyway.
Where were the Keystone Kops? I felt I'd done enough, got them all to speak the obvious.
'Can I have another drink, please?'
'Shandygaff, isn't it, sir?'
A waitress was already carrying a tray bearing a glass. Psychic? I looked up against the aura of my headache. I knew that face. The head waitress?
'And,' she said amiably to everyone, placing the drink in front of me, 'you are under arrest.'
Mrs Thomasina Quayle? I squinted up, dizzy now. Had her hair been that colour? And specs?
The tavern went silent. Four silent figures stood by our alcove, their bulk sending our nook into penumbral shadow. I recognized ploddites only a mother could love. They wore their arrest faces, an unsmiling satisfaction beyond ecstasy. The moment they lived for.
Petra Deighnson went white. She fumbled for her handbag, brought out a card.
'Don't bother, Petra,' Mrs Thomasina Quayle said calmly. She took the handbag. 'We'll look after this for you. Mr Dexter, please do the words.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
A plod stepped forward and intoned his gibberish. A small camera unit, videos busy at the wedding party by the tavern's entrance, had solidified into a steady focus on us. I was collared, every word got down on film.
While everybody expostulated – I'm a diplomat, I'm a SFO officer, I'm innocent, etc, etc
– I drank my gill and wondered through my migraine if I'd got any friends left. Maybe they'd spring me.
Smiling, Mrs Thomasina Quayle placed a bill in front of me. 'If you'd care to settle up, Lovejoy, we'll be going.'
The bill? For one manky shandygaff? The police laughed and laughed, telling and retelling Mrs Quayle's crack to each other. Justice always triumphs – for the richest one per cent. I'd never been included. Didn't look promising.
40
BY EVENING OF the tenth day, I still hadn't recovered my spirits. Tinker came round endlessly. I was trying another Gainsborough portrait, still unable to get her eyes. Eyes are practically everything.
'Got ter snap out of it, son. We've work on.'
'What work?'
'Antiques. Ferdinand and his Norma. They've got landed with the Yank's shipment.
Much got reclaimed by that African country. The rest, well, they don't know if it's gunge or priceless.'
'Tell them I'll divvy it for four fifths of its resale value.'
He cackled, falling about, blundering into my portrait.
The easel swayed. I grabbed it. I'd been trying out the new water-miscible oils pigments. Disturbing how good they were.
'You're learning! Here, son. Say you want Norma as well. You used to. I'll bet she'd jump—'
'Tinker, mate,' I said wearily. 'Knock it off.'
'Consul Sommon has escaped justice,' Mortimer said. He helped me to right the easel.
'You burke!' I fumed, shaken. 'Where did you spring from? Stop creeping.'
Tinker laughed and almost spilled his beer. Five new tins were lined up ready. He perched on my stool, coughing. I raised a finger to stop him. He spat into his empty can.
'Leaves tomorrow. Diplomatic privilege.' Mortimer crouched against the wall like an Australian drover, one leg outstretched. 'You must make sure he does not profit.'
More orders? I sighed. 'The brigadier sent you to tell me this?'
'No. The brigadier will be exonerated from the death of Mr Sep Verner, but is a declared bankrupt. He and Mrs Alicia Domander now live together at the Garrison Riding Stables.'
