me a bit because I didn't want anybody trekking after us who shouldn't be doing any such thing. The usual trick in the antiques trade is to give a hyphenated name. London antiques auctioneers – and I do mean those in Bond Street
– do it, whenever they illegally pretend to sell an antique that nobody wants. They say,
'Sold to Barnshaugh-Smythies,' or some such, which tells their staff that the bidder doesn't really exist.
The restaurant had almost finished serving supper as I bowled in. I was famished.
Grumpily they agreed to dish me up some grot. Alicia joined me, saying nothing until I started to slow down. Then she spoke, full of reproach.
'You look like death warmed up, Lovejoy.'
'Had a poor day, love.'
'You think I didn't?'
'They don't give you enough spuds in these places.'
I had to fill up on gravy and bread. I felt I'd not eaten for a week. Peshy glared, supercilious because he'd been slogging away thieving while I'd been whooping it up on the Riviera.
'You haven't even asked what I lifted, Lovejoy.'
'What'd you shoulder, love?'
'A Sheffield plate jug. A fake Lalique glass. An assortment of jewellery, and the ugliest porcelain figures you ever saw.' She stared at me as I wiped the plate with my bread. I started straight away on the pudding, a thick treacle sponge and knobbly custard you could have skated on. Her eyes slowly filled.
'You didn't even phone the room to make sure I was safe, did you, Lovejoy?' No answer. 'How do you think I felt? I came swanning out of the auction rooms loaded with stuff, and you weren't there.'
There was no tea. In dud motels you only get your coffee when you've eaten your greens all up, like school dinners.
She stayed bitter. 'You don't care, Lovejoy. Peshy and me could have been collared and you wouldn't have cared.' She blotted her eyes. Peshy licked her tears. Ingrate.
I couldn't tell her. Anyway, it's women's game to get you saying sorry. Look at TV
soaps, or have I said that?
'You did well, love. It sounds good shoulder. Can I see it?'
She told me the room number and asked me for her car keys. I handed them over. I saw a couple of geezers give each other a grin as she wafted past. That narked me.
Okay, Alicia doesn't exactly look a picture of purity, but did they? Fine, people say Alicia doesn't dress clever and joke at her frothy chintzy stuff. But she was here being my friend when others weren't. I'd suddenly had enough. I rose and crossed to their table, stood looking.
'You okay, lads?' I could hardly see for rage.
'Yeah. What's it to you?'
'Detective Sergeant Henriques, City Met Div, CID.' I was making it up. If they turned out to be plod, that was my hard luck. I was past caring. 'Which one of you's the thief?'
'Eh?' They stared. One started to rise. I kicked his heels and he sat with a thump. 'We nicked nothing.'
'Car keys.' I wiggled my fingers, palm up. 'The Lincoln. Hand them over.' I didn't know what a Lincoln was. I'd heard of a motor by that name talked of on the radio driving back from Bernicka's.
'We come in an Alfa Romeo.' They said it almost together, Flash Harrys the pair of them. One pulled out his ignition keys and showed them.
'Okay.' I nodded slowly. 'Okay.'
I left, them shouting sneery comments after me, but careful like I really might have been a ploddite out for trouble.
In the gloaming I smashed the headlights of the only Alfa Romeo, a bright electric green job. For quiet, I did it through a piece of old tyre – there's always a chunk lying about in car parks; wagoneers change their burst tyres, too lazy to shift the rubbish.
Then I did the tyres by sticking a matchstick into each nipple. The posh vehicle squealed gently as it settled.
Up in the room Alicia was weeping, surrounded by her wares. I couldn't take any more glares from Peshy, so I felt round underneath his collar and pulled out a horseshoe brooch, gold and pearl, Victorian of 1884. The dog looked chastened. I started to get mad with the damned kleptomaniac mutt, but Alicia decided to ballock him herself, though not so's you'd notice, going, 'Oooh, who's a naughty little Peshy-Weshy then?'
and so on.
While she sent for his caviar and steak I had a bath, and emerged feeling definite vibes from the stolen goods she'd arranged on the coffee table for me to look at. An impressive haul.
One thing here: I don't see that me and Alicia were doing much wrong, not really. We were only lifting from auctioneers, and they're in the trade more for sleight-of-hand reasons than anything else. I think of them as estate agents, realtors, and insurance agents, who share the same warped morality. So they must take the consequences when Alicia and her slick-pawed pooch drift in for a gander at the antiques – genuine or otherwise – that they're trying to exploit. We understand fairness. They don't.
Trying to give her a convincing smile, I sat on the couch.
'Not bad, Alicia.'
God knows how she'd managed to nick the Sheffield plate coffee jug. I didn't ask, though every shoplifter I've ever known will talk about techniques till the cows come home. They're the only thieves that will. Incidentally, most are female. They do it better, and play the sympathy ploy with more
