A Rag, a Bone and a Hank of Hair

10

ME AND ARTHUR in the glade. One thinking about death, the other knowing all there was to know about it, thank you very much. He was buried in a remote wood.

Now, the law about burials in silent, leafy old East Anglia is exactly that for the rest of Great Britain, give or take a patch or two. People don't know this, but you can have yourself buried anywhere, as long as you stick to certain rules. Report the death to the Registrar General. Get the death certificated. Find a place, and that's it.

You don't have to hire a church and a priest, have grand motorcades. You can devise your own funeral service, sing whatever hymns you like, compose them yourself if you've a mind. Or stay silent. No need for posh coffins made of valuable hardwood, expensive mourners. It can be a Do It Yourself job, start to finish. In fact, it can be a festive frolic with friends. Not long since, a colonel-in-chief of the Sealed Knot - they re-enact Great Civil War battles - had his remains fired from a seventeenth-century cannon. Quite legal.

Arthur used to go scathingly on about council cemeteries, headstones on parade. It made me queasy, but he just laughed. 'Bury me under a tree on my own land,' he told me once. 'That giant mulberry, full of silk moths.'

Times out of number I'd joked back, 'It's a deal.'

Not your own land now, Arthur. Dieter Gluck now owned it. He also owned Arthur's antique dealership. And Colette too. Maybe if Arthur stood tall, he might just glimpse Saffron Fields manor where his ancestors had lived for a thousand years, maybe even see his precious mulberry tree. I couldn't recognize a mulberry either.

Nothing wears you out like sorrow. I rose, stood like a lemon doing nothing. A few birds hopped about. A robin came, looked hard at me.

'You sod off,' I told it. 'I can't do more than I do.'

It said nothing, flirted its wings and was gone. I told Arthur so-long, and left along the same path.

The glade behind me was silent as the grave - sorry, I meant pretty quiet. I stepped where Dottie and Lydia had walked.

I wondered who the bloke was who'd watched me. He'd kept still as a hunting heron.

That's countryside for you. Rotten, being in it. Anything can happen, and nobody'd be any the wiser. I felt my back prickle. I'd said the right thing to the robin, made it loud enough for a stray hunter to hear.

Glad to be back at Dottie's safe little vineyard, though. We had a glass of her Cymbeline Red, and sipped her Augustus White. English wines couldn't give you a headache if they tried, thank goodness. We said goodbye to Dottie and finally drove off towards St Edmundsbury. We were overtaken by a large limousine, which signalled us to stop on the road's hard shoulder.

Tinker got out, coughing enough to pollute the coast. He looked really smart, which for him means shaven. Lydia alighted and angrily assailed the driver.

'You drove in a dangerous manner!' she blazed. 'Overtaking at speed on a blind bend.'

'The road's straight, miss.' He was unperturbed. 'You were doing fifteen miles an hour.'

'That's no excuse for…' etc., etc.

'Wotcher, Lovejoy.' Tinker grinned foolishly. He carried a roll of blanket under his arm.

Other than that and the shave, he looked normal: soiled ex-Army greatcoat patched to extinction, battered boots, greasy mittens, beret, teeth down to corrugated brown stubs, frayed trousers that hadn't been washed for a generation. 'You all right, son?'

'Aye, Tinker. You?' I was wondering how he'd found us here.

'Oh, not so bad.' He looked askance. 'Ta for sending the motor.'

'Lydia arranged it,' I said. 'Who's this us?'

He peered into the car. 'Lovejoy says it's okay, Trout.'

And out stepped this apparition. I gaped. Even Lydia shut up.

Trout was small, yet wore a full-size shirt. He carried a rolled-up furry garment of yellow and black stripes. He wore furry slippers, and carried a plastic inflatable club of the kind you see in Christmas pantomimes. I know you're not supposed to say words like dwarf and midget in case it's fascist, but 'little' seems too limited when the bloke you're describing doesn't come up to your waist.

'Wotcher, Trout,' I said warily. 'You a pal of Tinker's?'

'Are you?' His suspicion made me smile. I felt I needed a grin. His voice was gravelly, like a heavy smoker's.

'We were in nick together,' Tinker explained. 'Trout is a Tarzan-O-Gram. It's a joke, see? Him not being big. Get it? They give him that shirt at the nick. Couldn't send him out in his Tarzan clobber. He got done for burglary dressed like an Ape Man.'

'I heard,' I said politely. 'Saltbridge Manor, that Cotman painting?'

Trout scuffed the ground. 'I'd have got away but for a gamekeeper.'

'Only bad luck,' Tinker said eagerly. 'I thought Trout could come with us, until he finds his feet. He's tough, can do all sorts.'

'Look.' I wanted to say no. It's fashionable to be kind to ex-cons, suss out their innermost problems and prove that nothing's their fault. But a titch like Trout, even not dressed as Tarzan, would stand out like a searchlight in a pit. Besides, Trout was famous for doing Olivers. An Oliver is a method of burglary named after Oliver Twist.

You prise open a fanlight and let in some child who unlocks the door for your team of burglars to nip in and strip the place of antiques. It's made a recent return to the crime scene, on account of hidden electronics spoiling things. Trout was ideal for Olivers.

The trouble was, Trout was ultra-famous. Magistrates everywhere had felt pity and let the little chap off with cautions. The whole trade knew about the scam in London's Ealing, where he'd knifed some dealer who'd cheated him out of a half share in that theft from a Düsseldorf museum. The victim hadn't lived to tell the tale, dying in the ambulance. So was it wise taking on somebody who might gut me for being slow with the wages?

Lydia solved my dilemma. 'Oh, certainly, Tinker! Lovejoy will be positively delighted! Mr Trout's expertise will be most welcome!'

Thank you, Lydia.

So it was that, grieving for Arthur, worried sick about Colette, frantic to solve Dosh Callaghan's gem mystery, I now had a dwarf Tarzan, a beautiful lady apprentice hooked on transparent honesty, and my trusted barker who could be relied upon to be at least as corrupt as me. Guess who was going to be any help.

We stopped at a child's outfitters north of LongMelford, and kitted Trout out on Lydia's charge card. She was thrilled, cooing about textures and insisting on two new sets of everything, seeing if this colour went with the universe. I grumbled we'd be here all frigging day. She got mad and scolded me outside.

Fuming on the pavement outside a bakery - they sold me some flour cakes, keep the wolf from the door - I saw a partial answer. The old flintstone church dwarfed (sorry) the village. I beckoned Tinker. We crossed and knocked at the presbytery door. Vicars are always in, having no job.

'Good day, reverend,' I said, gulping the last of my grub. Tinker had already engulfed his. 'My name is Lovejoy. Might I ask about burials, please?'

'Do come in.' He was an elderly, grave man with wisps of silvery hair fungating from everywhere. Nostrils, ears, collar rim, cuffs, he looked bulging with minute tendrils spreading beyond his confines. 'A close relative, was it?'

'Yes,' I said sadly, pointing to Tinker. 'It's my, er, uncle, Mr Dill. He wants a rural burial.

Is that allowed?'

Everything's allowed these days, so they can only say yes.

'Yes!' he cried, all keen. 'Do sit down.' His housekeeper made us tea. She looked askance at Tinker.

'Uncle doesn't speak much,' I told Reverend Watkinson, giving Tinker the bent eye.

'He's always seemed eccentric. He is a poet,' I invented, the only occupation Tinker could respectably have with his rubbishy appearance. 'Lives in Bercolta.'

'Very good.' The cleric rubbed his hands. 'No possibility of an early demise, I trust?'

'No,' I said. The vicar had the grace to look disappointed. 'But you can't plan too soon, can you? Uncle wants to be buried in a woodland glade.' I waited. Reverend Watkinson wasn't surprised, just nodded and sipped his tea. 'He'd heard of one such interment locally, you see.'

'Well, it's becoming quite a fashion. I deplore it. There seems to be a definite trend away from the church funeral nowadays. Several organizations exist to promote burials in forests, beside rivers and coastal estuaries, on farms. The Natural Death Centre in London issues an information pack, I do believe.' His eyes twinkled at Tinker. 'A poet such as yourself, Mr Dill, will perhaps want to consult Green Undertakings of Watchet in Somerset, since that village is such a famous poetic landmark!' He huffled with amusement. I smiled along. Maybe I should have given Tinker a different trade.

Somerset's poetic landmarks?

The vicar stared reflectively at the ceiling. 'There are wildlife trusts, as in Harrogate, that can find you a woodland. And artists who manufacture biodegradable coffins, societies that will plant certain trees the deceased admired. There's even a superstore in Walthamstow. And a West Country females-only funeral business called Martha's Funerals.'

'Didn't you officiate at one locally?' I prompted. This solemn old rector was a super salesman.

'Yes. A Mr Arthur Goldhorn. Buried in woodland, poor chap. Lord of the Manor, Saffron Fields. He and his wife went into a scandalous antiques business, in Chelsea. Lost everything to a foreign gentleman, most uncooperative.' He sighed, wagged his head.

'Refused to allow the burial on the manor. Only four attended. I thought it degrading.

No hymns, except one sung by a callow youth. I feel that Mr Goldhorn deserved a church funeral.'

'Was it legal?'

'Of course! Our own GP certified death. No undertakers.' Reverend Watkinson polished his spectacles. 'You see, in church funerals there is propriety, Lovejoy. Casual services go against the grain.'

We left assuring him of our future custom, he assuring us of his willingness to do his stuff when the time came. Trout and Lydia emerged from the outfitter's. Tinker helped them into the motor with the boxes.

'You look dynamite, Trout,' I said. 'Smart.'

'Here,' Tinker said as Lydia rocketed us off at a giddy ten mph. 'Know what? Lovejoy's just fixed to have me buried in some forest.'

Lydia's eyes got me in the rear-view mirror.

'Just a joke,' I said. 'Look. Who knows a bloke called Dieter Gluck?'

'Me,' Trout said unexpectedly, with venom. 'He got my pal Failsafe done for loitering outside that shop Gluck pinched in Chelsea.'

Well, that was hardly evil. I knew Failsafe, a meek bloke who functions as a racing tipster (Saturdays) and antiques thief (Sundays). He has bad feet, pays chiropodists a fortune, gets no better. His trick is to suss out places to rob.

'Anything really bad?'

'Isn't that enough?' Trout's gravelly bass boomed indignantly. 'You should have seen Failsafe's feet when he come out! Like two plates of warts.'

I said queasily, 'I mean something truly rotten.'

'No,' Trout said.

Tinker and Lydia also said no. Then Trout did it again.

'Except he kills people.'

We clung on in silence while Lydia regained control of the motor. I eventually managed,

'Erm, kills, Trout?'

'As in dead.' Trout was preening his jacket. 'Miss Lydia, would a salmon scarf go with this?'

We eventually reached town in safety, saying nothing further except some colours don't go with blue and suchlike. I suggested we catch the train to London, where I had an old friend to find, meaning Colette.

In the station buffet I finally remembered to ask Tinker how come he'd happened along those narrow Suffolk lanes and found us.

'I phoned Lydia. Her answer-phone said you'd gone to Carting's Farm.'

Thank you yet again, Lydia. Now the entire world knew my secret movements. I watched her bring three teas on a tray, Tinker's drink a pint of ale. Before the train came in, he'd conned Lydia into buying him two more jars by spectacular fits of coughing.

'Ta, Miss Lydia,' he said soulfully wiping spittle. 'It keeps my tubes clear.'

'Not at all, Tinker.' She gave me a scathing glance. 'We must care for our gallant old soldiers.'

That was because I kept telling her not to buy him more beer, since it was a clear con.

She meant I was heartless.

The London express came screeching in. We boarded. People looked at Trout, but he was happy in his new clobber and didn't mind. I kept cursing myself for not actually realizing that the oldish woman ferreting among the dross in the New Caledonian antiques market must actually have been Colette Goldhorn herself, not merely somebody who'd reminded me of her.

Odd thing, but none of us asked Trout about who killed whom, or why, or where. It was as if we knew.