22
IT WAS A different office. I prefer uniformed plod these days. Once, I used to think they were the worst of a myriad evils. Now, I think maybe they're the least, though you've still to watch them.
'Eh?' I asked Sep Verner.
He showed his teeth. He believes it looks like smiling, but so far he hasn't learned how.
When he was in clink and I was showing him how to paint like Vincent – I told you about that – he was a quiet, withdrawn geezer on remand. We all make mistakes. I believed he was human, or at least lifelike, capable of emotion and everything. I was well wrong. He shook my hand, I remember, when I got sprung, and told me ta for helping him through. A blink of an eye, and there he was a rising star in the plod's firmament.
'This fatal accident in which you were involved, Lovejoy.'
'What accident?'
No lie to tell him my head hurt. I'd no mirror at the cottage, but knew I must look frayed at the edges. I had a bump on my noggin, though I'd bathed as usual in my tin bath and got blood and mud off.
He sat in his chair, rocking and swinging. I'm sure he copies American gangster films.
He's prognathous, teeth like that cowcatcher device that Babbage invented for the front of railway engines. I'll bet he got called names by his pals at school. Is there anything worse than the cruelty of children?
'What was that about children?' he asked sharply, his chair slamming down. He leaned forward, fingers linked. Whoops. Must have spoken my thoughts. I'm always doing that.
'Sorry,' I said. 'I'm still woozy from the accident.'
'What accident?' he asked softly.
'That's what I asked.'
He flicked open a slender file. My name. I must have started a new one, for legal goings-on instead of the usual messes.
'Last night, Lovejoy.' He stared beyond me, gave some newcomer the nod. 'You were injured. Two people were killed. An antique dealer, one Mrs Olive Makins, was injured along with three other drivers. You were an eye witness.'
'Olive Makins? I know her. Is she all right?'
'Fine. Just grazes.'
'Thank heavens,' I said piously. 'She's the auctioneers' secretary.'
'We know.' No grin now. 'Which raises the question what you were doing so late thumbing lifts on the trunk road.'
'Trying to get home, I suppose.' I furrowed my brow, trying to help him against the odds. 'I remember some event in a village hall. Was it Beccles?'
'How did you get to the main road?'
'I don't remember. All I can see is ...' I did the same patter, tyres, vehicles braking, me down the embankment.
'Then this truck driver was saying there'd been an accident. From Liverpool,' I added helpfully.
The newcomer spoke. 'You're not pulling the wool over my eyes, Lovejoy,' she said, coming round the desk. My heart sank.
Sep Verner made way as Petra Deighnson seated herself and gazed at me unsmiling.
Petra, incidentally, means rock in Latin.
Deighnson missed her vocation. She could have been human given half a chance. No, I mean it, could have been a real functioning Homo sapiens with friends and a life to lead. Don't misunderstand. She looks the part, is always well turned-out. Smart, my generation would say, suited, good legs and high heels, only one item of jewellery and that a spanker with an ultramarine – my favourite gem –at its centre. High Victorian, it's what posher antique dealers call en tremblant, meaning shivery, always on the go. It's one of the few brooches you can tell a mile off.
It had all the marks of pricey craftsmanship; not flat, but different planes of the brooch standing proud. Class. This, I knew just from looking, would be as superb when you turned it over as it looked from the front. Only one gem, set in fragile leaves made of diamonds in silver and platinum. It made my mouth drool. I'd never seen her wear any other jewellery. Blouse, neat white gloves, jacket and skirt matching, she looked you-shall-go-to-the-ball. She's known for it. I daresay the lads at the nick have a score of spiteful names for her. They say she'll go far. I don't doubt it. When first we met she was a lowly come-here-do-that. Now, she's the one they stand up for. Always wears white gloves, but not for what you think. I've actually seen her hands, and they're beautiful. No split nails for our Petra.
'Do be seated, Lovejoy.'
She has a pleasant face, lovely eyes. I couldn't imagine her doing the three-minute basic police training, Kevlar vests and guns. Petra seems remote as monarchy. Rumour puts her at Oxford reading classics, pure maths, divinity. Whatever, she's hard to fool and harder still to oppose. She looks the sort of plod that fashionable actresses are always trying to emulate in those tiresome TV mayhem-and- murder episodes. I was once being questioned when somebody rang her up and asked if she'd be willing to let some TV actress come and see her work. She'd replied, 'Don't be silly,' and rang off, continuing the questions without breaking step.
That's Petra Deighnson, vicar's daughter from Northampton. Oh, and big ranker in the Serious Fraud Office. She used to be in the local plod, but saw the light of promotion in the galaxy and jumped ship. The SFO has nicknames – Seriously Flawed Office among variants – but you dursn't utter them in dear Petra's hearing. Local dealers call it the Silly Failure Orifice. The SFO's useless, despite our Petra. It rattles sabres at robber barons like Robert Maxwell, then lets them get away scotage free while the rest of us sit seething and the tabloid newspapers thunder Why Are They Allowed? It's the little bloke who gets done, for forgetting half a groat on his tax return, or the old woman who
