are.
'She'll not bring anything out, Lovejoy,' a familiar voice said.
My heart sank. Police, this early? 'Wotcher, Sep.'
Sep Verner had once been in the nick with me. I'd showed him how to paint like Van Gogh. To repay me and society he became a copper, CID no less. He takes bribes, to show that not all education is wasted. He's tall and languid, a better than average dresser, and hates blokes who wear earrings.
'Who's the Yank bird, renting Saffron Fields?'
'Eh? No idea, Sep.'
'Funny. Her husband gave your name to Grundy. Wants a search done on you. You should've heard us laugh.'
I eyed him. He grins friendly, but menace always does. I saw him kick a bloke nigh to death over an argument about a pop song. In another life.
'Search for what?' I said, just as Mrs Domander came briskly out, hesitated only slightly then walked on. Her expensive leather handbag was bulging. She wears the latest fashions. You never see her without a loony hat and lace gloves. She carried Peshy, who was looking smug.
'Past transgressions, Lovejoy. Come and be interviewed.'
Without a word to Mrs Domander or a gesture to the antique dealers crowding the auctioneer's windows, I entered his motor. We drove to the police station.
'This is a kindness on my part, officer,' I told Sep loudly as we disembarked. 'I only have a few minutes.'
Which was true. You can't be compelled to accompany the plod unless they arrest you.
It's a mistake to go, because they keep you there, using all sorts of coercion, kidding you that they've limitless power when they haven't. (Incidentally, never let them into your home, either, because they're hard to get rid of. These are the forces of law and order I'm talking about.)
'This way, Lovejoy.' He walked ahead, entered a bare room. Somebody followed me in.
I stood there like a prat. 'This the same man?' he asked.
'He's the one.' Taylor Eggers, still in garden gear.
'You still got it, Lovejoy?' Sep went conversational. 'Just give it back and this gent won't press charges.'
'Got what?' I asked, blank.
'His painting, the one you nicked.'
My eyes closed as headache struck. How could I nick an antique from Saffron Fields manor, when I hadn't, and my supposed offspring Mortimer was .. .?
'Knock it off, Lovejoy. You were seen hanging around. It happens to be Mrs Eggers's ancestor. Show him, sir.'
The Yank brought out several papers, unfolded them. Receipt for an ancient portrait, shippers, customs stamps, import duty waivers, the lot.
'Better proof of honesty than the last opium shipment,' I joked feebly.
'Ha ha,' Sep said gravely. 'Where'd you cran it?'
A cran is a place where you leave stolen stuff. It can be a grand London auctioneer's warehouse, a remote godown amid tangled thickets, or simply a hollow brick in a disused garage. Mine is a tombstone corner in St Peter's churchyard on North Hill.
'Sorry, Sep. Never seen it. Sure, I went to Saffron Fields, to see ...'
Oops. I petered out. I had a barmy job for the lovely Susanne Eggers, assemble several phoney divvies to suss out some antiques. This American bloke with the homely attire and greying hair, looking unflappable, was Mr Eggers. Presumably we were on the same side, but in which battle? And these Yanks thought Mortimer the village nut?
This is what I meant about families. Great invention, but they're chains of trouble.
'To see ...?' Sep prompted.
'Er, if I could get a job, Sep.' I shrugged, almost caught a nod from Mr Eggers. 'No luck, though.'
'Will you be bringing charges, Mr Eggers, sir?' Sep asked. I stared. Humility and the plod just don't go.
'You've been great, Sergeant,' Eggers said. 'I'll consult my lawyers. Thank you.'
We watched him leave. Sep exhaled a foul breath, truly naff. Paprika? Must be in the Police Training Manual; first get bad breath.
He clicked sundry controls. Tape deck off. No record of this next bit of chat.
'Bunce, Lovejoy.' He said it quietly. 'If you find the Eggers's missing portrait, I want a cut.'
'Money, Sep? I've got none.'
'Like me.' He gave a cadaver's grin. Yellow teeth. 'I need some. I'll be frank, Lovejoy.
Got a bird in my sights. Married, though. Officer's daughter.'
'Birds are private. Can't help you.'
'You can.' We waited, some longer than others. He looked his old self, shifty, on the cadge. 'She's class. Her hubby's in antiques. Lame, though. I know I could get her – if I'd bunce enough.'
He wanted wealth, to lure an antique dealer's wife? Who doesn't? It never happens in real life. If I ever get a wadge, some bird dissects it from me. If some bonny woman happens along, I'm always broke. It's how life is.
