A Rag, a Bone and a Hank of Hair

15

THE GUN SHOOT. I managed to reach Caprice by telephonic sorcery and demanded why I wasn't being wined and dined around about the county, dwaahling. She swore inelegantly at having had to make her own toast this cruel dawn.

'I've got you in tomorrow's shoot, Lovejoy,' she told me between bursts of invective.

She went to a posh finishing school, so can swear like a longshoreman. 'Clovis will kit you out. Don't you dare be freaking late or I'll see you never breathe East Anglian air again. Clovis is mad on punctuality. Eight o'clock for pre-shoot breakfast. The awards night's a full fig affair, remember.'

The rest of her prattle didn't matter, relating as it did to celebrities, Who Would Be On Our Table, and last night's terrible deeds backstage. I'd no intention of going to her crummy do. Dieter Gluck had found some murder-worthy link among London's street markets, antiques, and the dark brooding countryside of East Anglia. I was tracking him.

On to Portobello Road, every hunter's favourite.

The Portobello runs so close and parallel to its next street that you wonder why they bothered to make two. Kensington Park Road, the B415, does a decent job of zooming from Notting Hill Gate, where there's a Tube, nearly to Ladbroke Grove, where there's another Tube if you're worn out. You can't possibly get exhausted, because the length of Portobello Road is bliss, aka antiques. Some are rum, and the folk are rummer still.

Westbourne Park Road completes the T. What with three Tube stations, one at every extremity, and the buses plying through, it's a wonder that you meet people who've never been there. I looked at the grandly named Westway - the weary old A40 trying to pretend it's a real motorway. The place was all on the go. Incidentally, be prepared for a plod of several hours. Stalls extend all the way to the flyover, usurping practically every nook to Golborne Road and beyond. By the time this ink's dry the market might well have spread to Birmingham (joke) or vanished (j).

It wasn't easy deciding who to chat up first. I chose Deeloriss - her spelling; she started out Dolores. She did prison time once for stalking a Dieppe dealer who'd sold her a fake 1795 cabinet. She got arrested at Dover for stabbing him. Deeloriss would understand hatred, if anybody would.

The market's usually thronged at weekends. Once, it was only Saturdays, under the Westway flyover. Now, though, there's so much money screaming for an antique to protect its cold soul from nasty old inflation that antiques stretch through the week.

Deeloriss looks so charitable, not at all like a knifer. Wears only black and white, with hair to match. I've even seen her with her cheeks done in chequerboard harlequin squares, putting the fear of God in me. Today she was demure, regretfully shaking her head winsomely at a foreign robed gent. I saw her wrap something. He paid, pressed her hand meaningfully, and went.

'Wotcher, Deel. Good girl, pull it off?'

'Wotcher, Lovejoy.' She gazed after the man laconically. 'I'd have had to pull more than a deal off with some of these customers. It's getting more like a slave auction every day.'

'How's Pierre?' Pierre was her Dieppe knifee, so to speak. They married when she got out of clink and he got out of hospital.

'Swine took off with some Scotch bitch.' She smiled beatifically at customers who paused, interested in her corner cupboards. They moved on. Her smile vanished.

'What happened to the fake cabinet, Deel?' I ahemed, casual. 'It was pretty well made, I heard.'

'You made it, you bastard,' she said. I gulped, backed away a step. 'Those feet were swept out lovely. You must have used tons of heartwood.'

'Er, aye, love.' The so-called French foot, on furniture made in the fifteen years astride 1800, is bonny to carve. It's best faked with the outward swoop brought straight from the bottom corner of the cabinet. Okay, so housewives won't thank you when they keep tripping up over each elegant projection, but is that too big a price for loveliness? Until now, I'd assumed Deeloriss hadn't known it was one of my creations. 'I'll buy it back, eh?'

'The swine took it with him.' She patted a passing child on the head. Its parents smiled, I smiled, Deeloriss smiled. We were nauseating.

'Pity.' I wanted something to defraud Gluck with. 'Seen Colette?'

'Poor mare.'

Deeloriss lit a cigarette in an Edwardian amber-and-ivory fagholder. It's a recurring thought of mine that women might - only might, note - feel a little frisson of delight when some calamity overtakes a lady friend. Deel seemed less than heartbroken at Colette's misfortune.

'I thought I glimpsed her in Bermondsey. It was only some bag lady.'

'Don't tart about, Lovejoy. You know what's happened.'

'Sorry.' I pretended to be shamefaced, her shrewdness catching me out. 'I just don't know who to ask.'

She flicked ash with a woman's sharp grace. 'Serves the snooty bitch right. Stuck-up mare, her and her ancient tide. Well, she got her come-uppance with that Gluck. Out on her ear, not two coppers to rub together.'

'Why is she still his doormat?'

That made her smile. 'When a woman goes overboard for a man, Lovejoy, she's got to keep on. To walk away admits that everybody else was right and she wrong.'

'It mystifies me.' I fiddled with a steel-soled panel plane. Just a carpenter's bench tool made of gunmetal. They are worth a new car, these Norris 50 series implements, especially when you see a variant style - a differently sited screw adjustment or suchlike. Two blokes at Needham Market made the prices soar, sharing toolmakers'

history with collectors everywhere. Deeloriss took it back, put it on her stand.

'You can't afford it, Lovejoy.'

'Women often say that they've been stupid. It's their thing.'

'You might have something there, Lovejoy. Most women would have given up after all this time. Maybe it's her Arthur, and she's grief-hugging?'

'Deel, love.' I hesitated. 'Heard of any decent scams?'

She eyed me. 'Astronomy forgeries have hit the barrows lately. Ever since that new Ophiuchus zodiac came in. Somebody out your way worked a scam before the news broke, don't know how. He used two elderly ladies. Going?'

'Er, ta, Deel, got to be off. Ta-ra.'

She called something after me, smiling, but I didn't pause. The new zodiac scam had been mine. The Ophiuchus constellation hadn't then smashed the headlines, giving everybody who watches their star signs a fright if they're born between 30 November and 17 December. My getting there first had been pure luck. If luck was a talent, I needed it now.

Hello Bates was still near the Chepstow corner. He hailed me.

'Shout "Hello Bates", Lovejoy!'

It's his greeting and farewell. Consequently nobody ever forgets Hello Bates. I hate what Hello does - strips wooden furniture, cabinets, Davenport chests, by immersing the furniture in sodium hydroxide solution then hosing it down. Vandalism technology.

'Hello Bates!' We both shouted it like a password, people all about grinning and shaking their heads. He beckoned me over to his booth for a coffee. He had several decent pieces of Victorian furniture in - pole screens, sewing work-boxes, ink standishes.

'Heard you're looking for a decent scam, Lovejoy.' I wasn't surprised. Words have fleet wings on the Portobello. 'Everything's paintings lately. Them Russians—'

'No, Batesy.' I'd recently been involved in war loot in Guernsey.

'That Munch picture The Scream? he suggested. 'Grammy's done a couple, very decent.

He'll be in today, Talbot Road.'

'Paintings are getting the screws on.' It was true. Old Masters received more attention than the national debt. 'That American two hundred million dollar job at the Isabella Stuart Gallery in Boston set everything alight.'

We considered the world's unfairness, sipping his horrible liquid. He makes it with coffee essence from a bottle. The things I do for friends.

'That Munch, though, shows it can still be done,' Hello persuaded earnestly. 'All Norway came unglued. Gluck would fall for it like.'

'Here, nark it, Batesy.' I was really irritated. Did the universe know of my hopes for Gluck?

He was off into reverie. 'Brilliant robbery, that Scream. Ninety seconds. Wire cutters, a ladder, window open, off in a motor, beautiful.'

Bravely I finished my coffee. The street was filling with gazers. Time I too went wandering.

'No, but ta. Too many ifs.'

Hello looked downcast. 'I'll help if you're stuck, Lovejoy. Here,' he called after, as I started towards the Portobello Silver Galleries. 'Gaylord Fauntleroy's been asking after you. Try him. Say "Hello Bates", Lovejoy!'

'Hello Bates,' I called back, feeling a nerk.

Daft as a brush he might be, yet Hello had managed one amazing thing. With no knowledge of antiques worth a light, monumental laziness, nothing more than a porcelain bath and a hosepipe, Hello not only made a living but had me and hundreds of others shouting his name. A lesson in there somewhere.

Gaylord Fauntleroy? At least it was somebody asking for me instead of me simply blundering. I ploughed on among the arcades. I deliberately avoided mention of Dieter Gluck, just chatted, drifted, listening, listening. All the time my mind was shrieking how to do Gluck down. Surely it wasn't much to ask? Two more dealers said Gaylord wanted me. I'm good at ignoring genuine offers of help, useless at providing any.

Getting nowhere, I turned left after Denbigh Terrace, leaving the corner pub behind me. And there in all its shabby glory was Gaylord Fauntleroy's gaudy caravan, him beside it arguing with a traffic warden.

Gaylord isn't as exotic as he sounds. Okay, he is highly mannered, and given to shrill denunciations when there's an audience. He loves malicious gossip. But I know he funds a hospice ward in the Midlands. He takes his ancient Auntie Vi everywhere with him, hence the trailer, when he could have dumped her. If we were all so exotic the world wouldn't be in such a mess.

'It's my calves, officer!' Gaylord was screaming, doubled with pain. 'They're agony! I missed my mint tea yesterday!'

People all about were grinning, enjoying Gaylord's show.

'Yes, sir,' the warden intoned. 'Please move your vehicle.'

'How can I?' Gaylord appealing to the heavens. He wears the robes of an Orthodox priest, biretta as well, with trailing capacious sleeves. His pink sandals have Aladdin toes like you see in pantomimes. He carries a diamante-studded wand that plays tunes and lights up, and dances to demonstrate any antique that he thinks worthy of such tribute. He has a degree in fine art from the Courtauld, teaches somewhere. It must be quite a course. He is one of these blokes who look normal-sized, until you realise that he's simply huge. Like the Woolwich Rotunda building.

'Lovejoy! He's here, officer! My mother's doctor! In the nick of time!'

'Eh?' I recoiled from the traffic warden's glare.

'Is that right, sir?'

I hate it when they take out their notebooks. They remind me of magistrates. Dressed as I was in my usual threadbare jacket, frayed shirt, trousers that had seen better days, years, I couldn't pass as anybody's physician.

'Er, she thinks I'm her brain surgeon,' I said, smiling. I thought quickly. Social workers are scruffy. 'I'm her social worker. What's the trouble?'

'Not allowed to park here, even if he does have a barmy old coot inside.'

'I'll see to it, officer. They'll be gone in five minutes.'

He pocketed his book and stalked off. I glared at Gaylord. He did a pirouette of balletic joy. People all about were catcalling at his antics. So this was my offer of help? I needed action and vengeance - no delete that. I'm honestly not one for vendettas.

'Come in, Lovejoy! Wait for me, oh people!' He opened the caravan door and waved goodbye to the world.

These trailer things amaze me. From the outside they look made for luggage. Inside, they expand to the horizon, rooms in every direction. This held Auntie Vi, still with her eye patch, still smoking a clay pipe, rocking by a radio. She wears a shawl, clogs, black garb.

'Lovejoy, you reprobate! About time!'

'Still pretending you're straight out of Silas Marner, Vi?' I believe she's got the vision of an owl, part of her act. I coughed. 'Put that pipe out for God's sake. I can't see through this blinking fug. I'm still coughing from Puntasia's crud.'

She beamed. 'You know, Gaylord, I like this beast. Have a glass.'

'More than I got from Hello Bates, or from Deeloriss.' Or any other sympathetic dealer I'd talked with so far. What good's sympathy?

'They offered you ideas for a good scam, though?' Her one eye judged me candidly.

'For Dieter Gluck?'

I said bitterly, 'Next time we're at war, I'll recruit the antiques trade as spies. We'd win in a week.'

'Don't be cross, Lovejoy. They're your friends.'

'Then why didn't they let me know when Arthur got done?'

'They thought you'd know.' She belched noisily. I leant away from the rum fumes.

'Being Colette's shagger.'

'I'm here now. Much good I'm doing.'

'Don't feel sorry for yourself, you prat. It's Arthur who's got murdered.'

'I'm racking my brains, Vi.' I was aware Gaylord was standing in silence. 'I've had hints about gold brick cons, none very convincing. I can't think of anything. I don't know this Dieter bloke. I've got my apprentice lass Lydia sussing him out. And Trout and Tinker.

Sorbo's willing, so that's five. I'm hoping they'll come up with something.'

'You're thick, Lovejoy. What've you considered?'

'Everything from robbing the Prado to selling Gluck the Copenhagen Mermaid. They've all been done. Selling Tower Bridge, the Mona Lisa, the Holy Grail, Rembrandts, you name it.'

'He doesn't know, Auntie,' Gaylord said, so quietly I almost didn't hear.

'Hush, Gaylord. Go on, Lovejoy.'

'I've even thought of rigging some of the scams I've already done. That Guernsey thing.

That Scotch clan auction, the Welsh valleys with those poor mental cases, Roman gold, East Anglian witchcraft. Even that new Impressionist painter I created in Hong Kong.

This Gluck has me stumped.'

'Try Chinese antiques, Lovejoy. They're your best bet.'

'Only good forger of Chinese antiques is Wrinkle, and he's gone to earth. It's the cricket season, and Wrinkle lives for the game.'

'You went and got yourself arrested. Inspector Saintly, wa'n't it?'

Thank you, Radio Antiques. 'Aye. Got off with a warning. And that Bern scares me witless. I contacted Colette, but he booted me.'

'You're right, Gaylord. He hasn't a clue.' Auntie Vi looked at me. I got narked.

'I'm off. Play your queer games without me. Ta-ra.'

I'd actually risen when she said, 'You visited Arthur's grave. Did you see the lad?'

Which stopped me. Some lad sang at the interment, that vicar said. I hadn't stared at the figure in the foliage. It could as easily have been a motionless youth as an adult. I hadn't felt threatened, just spooked.

'Who is he?'

'Their son. His name's Mortimer.'

They hadn't a son. 'Colette's and Arthur's?'

She replied drily, 'We presume so, Lovejoy. Do you know different?'

'No, no.' I repeated this in the interests of veracity. 'Where is he?'

'Haunting the markets, but in a different way from Colette. You never see him, but you couldn't miss Colette. Sight, smell.'

'Son?' I said. 'As in reproducing?'

'My godson, you see,' Auntie Vi shocked me by saying. 'I stood for him. Gaylord's his godfather.' Her eye glared defiance and accusation. 'We're not much, Lovejoy, but we're all the team Mortimer has.'

'Named after some flintlock gunmaker, Lovejoy,' Gaylord said. 'The name was Colette's idea. Never said who the father was, though.'

Henry Walklate Mortimer was one of the truly great gunsmiths of olden days. He ranks with Nock, Manton, Wogden, Wilkinson, Durs Egg. I know their names as well as my own. I felt my eyes water, Vi's horrible pipe.

'Wish you'd dock that frigging tobacco, Vi. It's corroding my lungs.'

'Tell him, Auntie,' Gaylord said.

'There's one bait Dieter Gluck can't resist, Lovejoy.'

'What is it?' I looked, one to the other.

Auntie Vi puffed smoke like a blanket signal.

'He's a snob,' she said. 'A complete and utter snob.'

There came a knock on the door. A voice I knew outside said that if Lovejoy was in there he should come out, please, to be arrested. I opened the door, and walked to the waiting police motor with Mr Saintly. Never there when you want one, and always there when you don't, the plod.