crooks, the sinful lot of us. I honestly don't mean you – just me and everybody else. We're bad hats.
Hence me, exhausted on my creaky divan, wondering what the hell.
She told me gravely, 'I am Mrs Thomasina Quayle. I approach you because you are, I believe, the most evasive of the local dealers.'
Evasive? Daft, I found myself wondering how little Marie would fit that into her skipping chant, Lovejoy's evasive or some such. I was just tired out.
'Who d'you want to evade?'
'Buyers, dealers, auctioneers. And,' she added prettily, 'thieves.'
'They're usually the ones I hunt down.'
'No flippancy, if you please.' From her handbag she withdrew a purse, gave me a thin wad of notes bound in bank paper. 'This is for the first month.'
'Where's the painting?'
'It is already in your shed.' She meant my workshop, but was too proud to say it. 'I shall expect a written report concerning its preservation from marauders each Sunday noon.'
'Why this malarkey?' I asked, reason struggling to the surface. 'Sotheby's, your bank, some dealers, they all have impregnable vaults. I don't.'
'Can they be trusted, Lovejoy?'
Another headacher. She had a point. 'Not by me,' I said grudgingly.
'There we are, then.' She rose, poetry in motion. I thought, I measure time by how a body sways, then wondered who'd said that. He must have known Thomasina Quayle.
She left then, and like a pillock I rolled over to sleep, my silence implying acceptance of the dumbest con trick I'd ever fallen for.
18
SUSANNE EGGERS DIDN'T deign to drive. Her husband Taylor drove us in a motor so plush I almost nodded off. We went to the River Deben estuary, a favourite site for lovers. Not today, though.
There's a seaside hamlet near one of the large boating centres. Nearly a marina, it has an old Martello tower. These squat edifices were built to resist Tyrant Bonaparte. Now, they're little museums or trendy caffs. This one I already knew. All candles, purple chintz and gothic silver, with waitresses dressed like young witches waiting for the Black Sabbath. Purple lipstick, kohl eyeliner, chalk-white features and niello jewellery. It isn't exactly teatime at Frinton-on-Sea. I once had a long smileship with a bird who used to take two hours doing her face like this. Daft, when she was gorgeous to start with. Forty-three years of age was Bliss, shapely plump, yet a born worrier. We used to come out to this very place and spend summer evenings watching the boats while I'd tell her about antique scams I'd done.
'Stop that smirking, Lovejoy.'
'Sorry.' I hadn't known I was.
Her bloke dashed round and opened the door. The only time I did that for Bliss I fell flat on my face and she rolled in the aisles.
'I said stop smirking. You look Neanderthal.'
'Sorry, sorry.' Do women know when you're thinking of a different bird? It makes them ratty.
We alighted. The foreshore was coolish and breezy. A delivery van was parked by the side entrance, a youth in overalls unloading crates. Two cheapo motors in the little car park. And, three-four furlongs off amid tussocky grass and dunes, a large dark motor.
Nobody in it. Nobody fishing on the breakwater. So why was it here?
Inside, the place hadn't started serving. A senior man was sitting at the far end, last table. I felt odd. It was Consul Sommon, the bloke who'd made serious smiles in my cottage with Mrs Eggers that cold frosty night. The mighty American. I glanced anxiously at Taylor Eggers, but he simply went to stand by the entrance. We serfs are prone to do that, attend humbly on our betters while they live life.
The gent signalled us to approach. I'd seen his face in newspaper photographs, so I was sure. The waitresses were laying tables. A musician was tinkering with those black sound boxes that deafen you, cables everywhere.
'This is he,' Susanne said.
He? How come I was he? I felt his eyes peel my features away. His gaze roamed my skull, ferreting out hidden allegiances. A politician to be scared of.
'Hello, sir.' I didn't fawn or grovel, but showed I was that way inclined.
'How?' the man growled.
Close to, he had large jowls, baggy eyes, impeccable attire, and modern cufflinks that would see off our national debt. Definitely the same man from that cold night. I almost asked how what?
'I tested him with some others,' Susanne said. 'He got every antique wrong. The others got every one correct, on his signals.'
The man almost smiled. She sat, shivered in a sudden draught as the delivery man opened the door.
'Clever.' He fixed me. 'Why?'
He meant why did I try to fiddle the results. This meeting was already hard work and I'd only just arrived. When all else fails, try truth.
'I was scared.'
