'Money? You're fired, Lovejoy.'
'Eh?'
He led me to where a few score of tiny trees struggled in dishes. I nodded, pleased. 'My handiwork. They're looking well, eh?'
'No, Lovejoy. They're ruined.'
'Can't be, Tramway,' I said proudly, not getting it. 'I repotted them.'
'Into?' he prompted, waiting. I noticed he looked more ferocious than usual. He held a stainless steel dibble, swung it to and fro in a menacing manner.
'Into bigger pots!' I pointed. 'I used good compost, honest.'
'Why, Lovejoy?'
'They were stunted. Poor little sods were all gnarled. Give them a bit of sun and water, they'll grow like pantomime beanstalks.'
'They were priceless, Lovejoy. They were bonsai.'
'Eh?' I gaped. No wonder they'd seemed little.
'Yes, Lovejoy. Miniature trees, in pots. Some were eighty years old.'
'But their poor feet,' I said lamely, quickly edging towards the entrance where two children and their dad were lugging out some frondage.
'That's why I'm going to stab you to death, Lovejoy,' Tramway said, advancing. 'You owe me thousands for the damage you've done.'
'Let me help!' I called out, desperately trotting over and helping the dad and his kiddies. 'Car over there, is it?'
Screened by the little family, I reached their motor, then legged it. Merry jubilantly emerged to wave me off. I'd made a real pal in Merry by ruining Tramway's conservation programme, but maybe I'd spoiled her herbaceous skullduggery too. I couldn't risk it, so headed for the Antiques Emporium. Go back to antiques where you belong, you can't go far wrong. It's one of my more useless laws. I wondered if Tramway might give me some back pay.
Now all I could do was confront Mrs Eggers with a team of pretend divvies. At least I'd finish up with a bawbee and a bite. For me, that's a good day.
6
GIMBERT'S AUCTION ROOMS were crowded. I was pleased, but worried Liza was in.
In prison slang, to 'chiff off' means to escape, slink away unseen, from the old word for a file or knife. Two years ago, sociologists did a survey on work defaulters. And who were the worst skivers? Answer: TV people – broadcasters, technicians. And second?
The police, that's who. The sociologists didn't test themselves, clever old idlebacks that they were.
Liza used to be a posh sociologist before she clawed her way free to be a reporter. She has special links with the plod. Liza's a stringer, meaning she hangs about hoping for a political scandal, a train explosion, or some meteor to strike before her very eyes. Every reporter's dream. She distrusts me, unfairly, because of something that wasn't my fault.
Gimbert has taken over the East Hill auctioneers and is now the biggest in East Anglia.
He's a sombre grouser of ill fame who endears himself to all by upping his auctioneer's commission every millisec.
'Auctioneers win every time, Lovejoy,' Liza said, guessing from my expression. 'Today, he's going to charge buyers and vendors.'
'Wotcher, Liza. Any news?'
'Out, Lovejoy!' Gimbert called, imperious and testy, on his high seat. 'I'm not having you saying these genuine antiques are forgeries. Out!'
'I'm going, Gimby.'
Banishment didn't altogether displease me, though I really did want to drift among the lots. In every auction, however tatty, musty dusty fortunes lurk, just waiting for me (or, less deservingly, you). Vague shapes of maybe brilliant Turners and Gainsboroughs hang on yonder cavernously dark walls. Cabinets of jewellery – currently the most prolific source of lucky finds – and grimy porcelains, all bring a different magic. My rule about auctions is that every auction contains gold. This is the reason that viewing days are like women, full of brilliant promise. Always have been, always will be.
The lads yelled delighted insults at Gimbert's command, the female dealers smiling silent jeers. I left, giving them all that backhanded wave the old Queen Mother had off to a tee, and went to stand on the pavement outside. There I annoyed Gimbert by pressing my nose against his murky window pane.
The reason I wasn't narked by this exile was that Mrs Alicia Domander was already halfway round Gimbert's load of tat and would be out soon. She always carries her dog.
It's called Peshy, and is a special breed known as a Bichon something. She and I know that, lineage apart, little Peshy is truly special. It's a kleptomaniac, the cleverest thief in the Eastern Hundreds. Who suspects a dog?
Alicia herself wasn't a bad eye, for a human klepto, meaning that a good third of what she nicked was always decent quality. Like, if Alicia Domander casually inspected Fee and Brogan's displays of earrings, gems, necklaces, at our Saturday market, she'd be sure to come away with a dozen stolen pieces hidden about her shapely person, of which three, and maybe four, would be genuine and not paste. I respect a woman whose batting average is that good. Usually 'stickers' (shoplifters, smalltime street thieves) only manage to steal one worthwhile item in twenty. It's their own fault. They don't concentrate. To a dyed-in-the-wool sticker the theft's the excitement. Alicia Domander once confessed that thieving was better than sex, which only goes to show how barmy some folk
