Maybe even worse?
'These last ones are fake,' I said. My voice shook.
'Fake?' She looked at them. At me.
'Fake,' I said firmly.
Her face paled. She tried to speak.
'But, Lovejoy. Mr Sommon has been accepting bids on the Internet. And some of them are from ...'
She gulped. I too felt like gulping. I could guess who the serious bids were from, money laundering being what it is.
'Well, you did want me to help out,' I prompted.
'Lovejoy.' She sidled up to me. I mentally apologized to the authentic genuine statuettes.
'Yes?'
'Look, darling.' She bit her lip, tried again. 'Is there any way you could, say, provide us with the same number of genuine statuettes? I know you have contacts. Only,' she added, tears running down her cheeks, 'only, me and Ferd have come so far. We couldn't possibly go back to scrimping, living hand to mouth. Please?'
'You said I was no more use.' Well, I couldn't make it too easy or she'd suspect. Also, I was narked.
'Darling. You'll always be essential to me. You know that.'
'Right, love. I'll do it. Tell the airline your shipment will be delayed. I'll get you the genuine ones in three days.'
'Can't you do it sooner?'
'Sooner?' I cried, meaning every word. 'Casting Benin bronzes that quick? And terracottas like these? Honest to God!'
'Sorry, darling. I do understand.'
'I'll get rid of this dross for you, love. Possession of fakes will land you in it.'
'Oh, thank you, darling. Will I see you soon?'
That was it. Tinker loaded the eleven artefacts up in Taylor's limousine, and we drove them away to Eleanor's garage. As soon as Taylor Eggers had gone, we shifted them on wheelbarrows in the darkness. I ordered a load of common reproduction Benin heads and Nok-Jos terracotta figures from Sanko Deane Pitt's sheds in Southend. He always has a reasonable stock of fakes, though his Old Masters are truly rubbish since his girl from the Guildhall eloped with that Geordie heavy goods driver. I got Shammer – he of the many voices – to place the buy.
He asked, 'Who's the buyer?'
'Consul Wald Sommon,' I said.
'Do I give a phoney name?'
'No,' I said. 'Just as it sounds. And pay cash on the nail. Have them delivered to Stansted Airport for export to New York, okay?'
You can be slothful with genuine antiques, but fakes demand precision. Ferdinand and Norma, I said blithely, would know the address.
God help Consul Sommon. Well, I reasoned in a sad moment late that night, he shouldn't go round killing people.
41
STANSTED AIRPORT is somewhat seedy. It's there because of a plot by politicians.
Public enquiries ruled against the airport. Politicians promised that of course they'd not allow it to be built. Then they reneged. The politicians then made fortunes, the old wallet tango.
We stood like refugees in the wind, rain in the air. The Customs shed is marginally less drossy, but that's only because their turnover is faster, their authority absolute. It must be great to be a robber baron. The nosh is horrible.
'These the cases, ma'am?' some uniformed bloke asked cheerily. They always make cheerfulness sound ominous and agreement a crime.
'Yes.'
Thomasina Quayle was with Florence. I'd got Florence a thick coat from Eleanor. She was well wrapped, a cloche hat jammed on her head. She'd told me five times that she was perishing.
'Forms, ma'am.'
Mrs Quayle took an age filling things in. Only once did she pause, to ask me which of the two largest crates was which. I didn't hesitate. The one containing the fakes that Tinker had driven up from Sanko Deane Pitt's place the previous night was slightly larger and painted green.
'That big green one holds the genuine antiques,' I lied. 'Personal to Consul Sommon.
His certificates ...'
'We did the certificates.' Thomasina Quayle smiled fetchingly. 'You're absolutely certain, Lovejoy?'
Her joke. The Customs and Excise man laughed with a mortician's joviality.
'Yes. The smaller red one only has reproductions. To go to the African state.'
Me and Florence waited for the consignment to move to the aircraft. God, but these new planes are giants. Makes you wonder how they ever get up there.
