farthing. I woke with a splitting headache, took half an aspirin because I hadn't any more, drank some water, and went to the village shop with my wealth.
At nine o'clock I made a hearty breakfast – cereal, eggs, those veggie sausages that give you heartburn, fried tomatoes, a stack of bread, tea. I diced some Lancashire cheese for the bluetits and the robin, and put an egg, cracked, by the cottage door for the hedgehog. Mother Nature, a scrounging harridan, could share my affluence.
'To labour, folk,' I told them, took a ton of the money, hid the rest and caught the bus.
Ginny and Ox were already out working the Liveridge estate when I arrived. I'd spent a mint on Visbee's taxi, guessing where they'd be this morning. Visbee reckons he has a brilliant sense of direction, but hasn't. He bets on a mobile phone while trying to chat up some housewife not his own. I spotted Ginny's motor near the livery stables and told Visbee to let them finish their con.
She's boss, so Ox can be ignored. Except, fraudsters need somebody who looks the part, don't they? Ginny is executive pretty and computer smart, twenty-five, smiles like an angel. Ox is thick, but tall, elegant, can make a cheap suit look Jermyn Street. He says nothing. Ginny rings your doorbell and stands there exuding charm. The con trick (soon to your door!) is this: Ginny smilingly offers you a free security check. She'll show you printed cards, credentials, has a security ID pinned to her ample bosom, and offers you letters from dignitaries. You, in all this charade, are the householder soon to be done out of every trinket, your furniture, porcelain, your savings books and credit cards.
Both Ox and Ginny carry gadgets. They're actually micro-camcorders that photograph your locks, windows, doors, and anything worth stealing. Needless to say, there is actually a real security firm should you check up – it's only her cousin Ditch, to whom she is very, very close. He has an electrical shop near Ipswich. The actual burglar is a violinist called Felly, works from darkest Hammersmith. He sells the stolen goods along the M18 motorway, like everybody else. I'm not in favour of Ginny's con trick, incidentally. But needs must when the devil's hard at it. I like to know what antiques they've stolen, keep abreast of what's safe.
'Wotcher, Ginny.' I flagged them down as they left the avenue.
She brightened. 'Hello, Lovejoy. So early, this bright dawn?'
'It's eleven o'clock, love. Where's Sandy?'
Her face clouded. 'Slumming, Lovejoy?'
'Desperate to unravel the plot, love.'
She examined my expression, let it go and alighted. 'Ox, drive to St Edmundsbury. We'll follow.'
'Which way is St Edmundsbury?' he asked, synapses clanging.
'Try the St Edmundsbury road,' she suggested.
And off he drove, we trundling behind in Visbee's motor. I asked her about Sandy. She could be trusted, for Sandy had done her down in a way I daren't repeat. It was foul, sinister, and marked Ginny's mind with permanent grief. Luckily, a woman never forgives. My sort of ally.
'If I tell you, Lovejoy, will it be bad for him?'
'Very bad.'
She smiled. 'Brilliant! Sandy's doing one of his morning showtimes. A hired audience and Eastern Hundreds TV, hoping to break in to Look Eastward.'
'Who's financing?'
She nodded at the pertinent question. 'You're right to ask, Lovejoy. That evil queen won't spend tuppence. Some American. You're bound to've heard of them.' She meant because of Saffron Fields and Mortimer.
'Sandy's got one of my Geoffreye Parlayne portraits.'
'How come?'
Her question cheered me up.
'Dunno. If you find one for me I'll be your best friend.'
She smiled. 'I can do more than that, Lovejoy. We've got one. It's there.' She nodded to indicate the boot of Ox's limo up ahead. 'Felly handed it back last night.' She laughed.
'It was the only thing he couldn't sell up the motorway because it was spav. You can have it for a favour or two. Ox'll hand it to Tinker.'
Spav means rubbish, tat so dud nobody would even give it house room. Stung, I found myself arguing heatedly that it wasn't as bad as all that.
'I know,' she surprised me by saying. 'She has a lovely face. But she's that ghost, isn't she?'
Which was where I came in. I think.
The village hall stood a few miles from St Edmundsbury. Cars and an excessive number of motorbikes filled its car park. Inside, gusts of laughter. Three massive pantechnicons filled with cables and TV crud darkened the double doorway. Sandy can't sing, can't keep time, doesn't dance, can't tell a joke, yet believes that he is God's gift to the world of entertainment. I went in alone. Two goons accosted me.
Ticket?'
'Sandy told me to stand here and wait for his signal.'
Sandy was on the stage. Lights hurt my eyes. He looked whitewashed. He was dressed in a showgirl's feathers, glittering bodice, plumed head-dress, silver train, high heels, his face set in a ghastly rictus under panto makeup. I always feel sad for him.
He was dancing, singing, waving, in complete disregard of the efforts of musicians in the wings. The audience was howling, laughing. Some two hundred, cheering him on.
Sadder still, I knew they were only there because they'd been paid. Not even extras got from some film company register, just anybody who wanted a free beer. Mel was seated by the door, glowering. I didn't blame
