A Rag, a Bone and a Hank of Hair

34

I DON'T KNOW if people these days are familiar with doss houses. Different from days of yore, of course. The old phrase 'I'm so tired I could sleep on a clothesline' started there. You tied a rope between walls, draped your arms on the line, and slept like that because the floor was crammed with too many other lucky derelicts. Now, you pay a tithe for a 'semi-special' nook of partitioned sanctuary, and get breakfast for a pittance, then it's out into London's bright day. I mean raining.

Optimism's not my strong suit. I'm good at getting by, but frankly I'm scared of aggro.

Like, Gluck had won Colette's antiques firm, Saffron Fields, the land, canal. And he was a killer. If I knew all that, so must the police. Proof was a different matter. And a contract's a contract. Colette and Arthur had signed almost everything over to Gluck, nothing anybody could do.

But Gluck needed that one bit of land to dig the link canal. Which meant he needed money. Mortimer stood in the way. Give Gluck those two fields, plus Mortimer's lordship tide, Gluck would be taipan, big in the land.

I explained this to Gloria Dee at the Royal Academy in Piccadilly. No sense in holding back the cruel details. We sat on a bench.

'You, frightened?' She seemed astonished.

'Scared stiff.' I reminded her that Gluck's bloke Bern had been bludgeoned to death.

'But the police said the poor man simply fell, or surprised a robber.'

'Oh, aye. You know what to do?'

A crocodile of children came under the arch, chattering away. How come teachers look so cool? I'm frantic just babysitting Henry - my other job - and he can hardly crawl.

'You've told me what I'm to say, Lovejoy.' She didn't look scared, but then women have no need to be. 'Sir Jesson and I meet Mr Gluck. Public-spirited, Mr Gluck will tell Jesson that a major theft will soon happen, from an unnamed but important public art gallery.'

'Good. And?'

'And that Gluck has ways of rescuing the stolen art works for the nation.'

'That's when you ask your all-important question, love.' I watched her lovely mouth move as she got ready. Politicians like Sir Jesson have everything - wealth, sinecures, and lovely women like Mrs Dee.

'I ask Mr Gluck, "Why don't you simply tell the police?" And he replies—'

'That the robbers will then know he's an informer. They will exact retribution.' I was proud of the phrase, having rehearsed Gluck through it on the phone. Gloria sounded better. I couldn't help asking. 'You and Sir Jesson. Are you…?'

Her eyes widened. 'Lovejoy, I'm a married woman!'

Two ladies entering the Academy heard and turned to stare.

'You mean, er, you and he aren't—?'

'It's time this conversation ended, Lovejoy,' she said primly, gathering her handbag.

'Can I help you about art?' I asked desperately. Hardly Romeo wooing, but the best I could think of. 'Teach you how to forge an Old Master?' I threw in my last lie. 'No obligation.'

Her eyes were a lovely blue, steady as a hunter's. 'Why, Lovejoy?'

'It's all I have to offer.'

'Why would you want to help me?'

No answer to that, because women already know. She was smiling as we parted, she to Fortnum & Mason's posh restaurant, me to wait out the performance. From across the road I saw the lanky form of Sir Jesson arrive in his Rolls. The stage was set. I couldn't work out what felt wrong.

When you feel lost, antiques are the antidote. I went to Alfie's, a famed antiques place, and wandered among the stalls. I overheard dealers arguing about Chelsea porcelain.

They were on about Triangle Period pieces - the Chelsea mark was a simple triangle cut into the soft paste. Shine a strong light through the piece, you see tiny translucent spots we call 'pinholes', though they're not holes at all. Try it right now on any oldish porcelain you have in the house. You might get lucky.

Nervy as I was, I had to smile. One dealer was trying to tell the other it was a definite proof of 1745 to 1749 Chelsea. I hung about, listening. They were wrong, because modern fakers mix shredded glass into modern clay. Adjust the temperature, you can get a pretty good imitation. And you don't have to be an expert potter, because the first Chelsea wares which Nicholas Sprimont started when he sailed in from Flanders were really rotten efforts, dead clumsy. For four years, 1749 on, the mark was a raised anchor. The translucent pinholes became translucent patches, the famous 'Chelsea moons'. You can easily fake these—

'Coffee, Lovejoy?' Saintly said. 'Having a good day?'

'No. It's gruesome. Ta.' We sat at a table. When the plod offer you something, watch out. He actually forked out for biscuits, so he'd want blood.

'Who is your current lady these days? I haven't seen your apprentice lately - Lydia, is it?'

'Got none, and yes to Lydia.' I wished I'd walked out.

'Hear about that little bloke, did you?'

My hand didn't manage to lift the mug. 'What little bloke?'

'Trout, they call him.' He made great play of wanting more sugar. Cops are all overweight. 'Got himself arrested. Flew at Mr Gluck in a rage. Noticed any mental instability in Trout, have you?'

It was so innocent it was creepy. The ghost feeling came back.

'No. He's Tinker's pal, if you've got the right one.'

Saintly chuckled. 'Not many antique-dealing dwarf Tarzan-O-Grams around, Lovejoy.'

'Tinker there, was he?' I asked, casual.

'Tried to pull him off, but the little bloke was berserk. Mr Gluck stated Trout tried to stab him. Luckily Mr Gluck's cousin was in town, a bruiser. Trout rather suffered, I'm afraid.'

I swallowed. I'd warned Trout to steer clear of Gluck, stupid little sod. I didn't need this, with Gloria and Sir Jesson's set-up nosh taking place with Gluck across the road in Fortnum's, and my head spinning. Maybe Shar could spring him from clink? 'Where've you taken him?'

'Hospital, naturally.' He flashed a watch. 'They're operating.'

'Tinker too?' I croaked. No wonder Saintly had paid for coffee.

'St Thomas's Hospital,' Saintly called after me. 'You know it? On the Thames. There's a bus—'

Saintly and his bloody buses. One day somebody'd shove him under one. Now I wish I'd not thought that evil thought. Thinking's always trouble.

Hospitals scare me. It's a different world. Everybody except me seems to know where they're going. Everybody else also looks twice as fit. Doctors always glare like they're working out what illnesses I have. Nurses weigh me up, like what tubes do they have to pass and into what orifice. Not only that, I've only to walk down any hospital corridor to start to feel my right leg dragging, a rare lethal fever, double vision. And all the time those accusing stares from passing housemen, stethoscopes at the ready to diagnose my multiple fatal ailments. So I tend to shuffle along avoiding eye contact, hoping somebody will give me directions without amputating some vital bit. Hospitals are the pits.

Tinker was in a surgical ward. I found him by homing in on his cough. I halted, aghast.

One plastered leg was raised at an absurd angle up into a maze of pulleys. He was bandaged, forehead and one eye. An arm was plastered. He looked like he'd rolled under a war.

'Wotcher, Lovejoy,' he said. Thank God he was conscious.

'Gluck did it?'

'And a bruiser called Kenelley. Last night.'

'Why were you in Chelsea, Tinker?' I couldn't really get mad.

His one eye grew reproachful. 'We wus doing nuffink. I wouldn't have gone down Chelsea if you'd said not to. You know that.'

'Sorry, Tinker. I'm out of kilter.' I looked about the ward. God, it looked a killing field.

'Anything you want?'

'Fags. A bleedin' drink. Bloody nurses are stingy cows.'

The ward sister came clacking along. 'I heard that, Mr Dill. The surgeon says nothing by mouth for two more hours. And I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head…' et caring cetera.

'I'll send Lydia in.' I had to go. I was behind time. 'Saintly told me Trout went for Gluck with a knife.'

'It's balls, Lovejoy. They set out to do us over. I know the difference, wack. Here, why's Trout in a different ward?'

The sister must have had hearing like a bat.

'Your friend is still in theatre,' she said briskly. 'I'll let you know as soon as we get news.' She avoided my eyes, clipped off along the polished floor.

'I'll be back. Cheers, mate.'

'Tarra, son. Care, now. And watch the lad, eh?'

After this warning, I didn't need telling. It was Gluck's reminder, after I'd treated him with disdain last night in front of his girl and his expert with the goatee beard. Gluck would have to win now, whatever happened. But so would I. 35

THE THAMES LOOKED unchanged. I couldn't stop my hands trembling. I've no illusions.

We're a rotten species, do anything for gain. Like blam Tinker, a harmless old soak, just to threaten me. And hire some bruiser to wellnigh kill a titch like Trout.

The reason? I'd shown Gluck and his expert the true value of the antiques. Okay, they belonged to Wrinkle. Gluck didn't yet know that. But he wasn't thick. If I could stroll into a tatty workshop, show him genuine Chinese furniture worth a fortune, I could just as easily nick them. Gluck's warning spoke louder than words. The 'third person' Gluck threatened was Mortimer, or Lydia, or me. So one of us would have to be risked. As long as it wasn't me. I slipped down off the wall, still feeling sick, and walked to the South Bank. Ugliest theatres on earth.

Eat before a scrap, is the Royal Navy's dictum. The Duke of Wellington's advice was to pee whenever you could. I did both. Time to scrap.

'How did it go?' I asked Billia at the National Gallery, Trafalgar Square. I was astonished to see her. Why hadn't Dulwich's perfect security systems arrested her? Now I'd have to go through with the charade.

'It went well, Lovejoy.' She handed me a sheaf of notes. 'You got one name wrong. It was by Pinxit.'

A headache came on. 'Gent in a brown velvet frock coat, brilliant white satin undercoat?'

'That's it.'

'You ignorant cow. Thomas Hudson wrote Pinxit after his signature. It means painted it.

Latin.'

'Oh. You missed a Reynolds, Lovejoy. In the foyer. Margaret Morris.'

'That's a modern copy.' Now my headache was crippling me lopsided. 'The eyes are out of line, different sizes, like from two different women. Reynolds didn't make those mistakes. What's this?'

'You said do sketches of the exits and alarms.'

'Oh, aye. Great.' I'd forgotten. I scanned them looking as furtive as possible. 'Well done.' And they were remarkably good, a professional job. 'You could go into the suss business, love.'

'Thank you, Lovejoy.' She asked about money.

'Eh?' To buy off Bang's betting syndicate. 'Tomorrow morning,' I said with deep honesty. 'I mean that most sincerely.'

Her eyes filled. 'Thank you, sweetheart.' We were into emotion. 'I promise, Lovejoy, I'll do anything for you, when Dang's out of this scrape. And I do mean anything.'

My throat constricted. All me paid attention.

'The robbery's tonight. You and Dang walk up to the main entrance of Dulwich Picture Gallery.' I found it on the sketch, beautifully to scale. 'Just like it's still daylight. Dress like two workmen, overalls and that.' As long as they were conspicuous.

She was doubtful. 'Have we to hide?'

'No.' I invented my way through a folder. The words came out. 'That would be a giveaway. Carry a bag of tools. Wear overalls with an electricity logo. Midnight.'

'Midnight.' Carefully she repeated the details. 'From which direction do we approach, Lovejoy?'

'From the pond.'

'That side's awfully well lit, Lovejoy.'

'That's allowed for,' I told her. Her painstaking attention to detail was getting me narked. There wasn't going to be any Dulwich robbery, for heaven's sake. 'Once you're in the shadows, my insiders will lower the paintings to you.'

'There are no shadows round the building, Lovejoy.'

I sighed. She was a bloody nuisance.

'There will be,' I said knowingly. 'At midnight.'

'Who are the insiders? And how do we get the paintings away?'

Had she no imagination, for God's sake? As for helpers, I'd just made them up.

'Two false police vans will come to the front of the building,' I invented impatiently. It was the best I could think up on the spur. 'Okay? Load up and drive off.'

'Where to, Lovejoy?'

Jesus, but I was worn out. Coldly I stared her down until she coloured and started to apologize.

'Who's lost sleep to help you?' I demanded. 'Who's spent a fortune phoning, er, Amsterdam, just to pay off those Cockney fight-fixers?' I waxed indignant, thinking what a martyr I was and what ungrateful bastards friends were.

'I'm so sorry, Lovejoy. I didn't mean—'

'It's all right,' I said, broken, a real sob in my voice. 'All I need is honesty.'

She promised. I said fine, and went to find a friend.

Judith Falconer's the world's most desirable radio reporter. Her station doesn't rival the BBC, being a decaying mansion outside London. I've hungered for her some years, with no luck. Every time I've drawn breath to suggest she takes me on holiday to Monet's Giverny and ravages my poor defenceless body she just makes casual conversation.

She was waiting as arranged facing Eros, gorgeous as usual. We did the usual coffee fencing then got down to it.

'Want a scoop, outside broadcast? Judith, you can be the saviour of the nation.' Okay, so I'd promised Lisa. But was she here? No.

Judith was unfazed. 'Do you know how much an outside broadcast costs?'

'A titchy dictaphone will do. The only thing is, you don't air it until next morning.'

Her lovely brown eyes held me. 'What do you get out of this, Lovejoy?'

'Nothing,' I said, no acting needed. 'But if you'd come to Giverny with me, no obligation, I'd be glad.' She said nothing.

Being scooped by TV is the radio reporter's greatest fear. Her eyes sparkled.

'Can I trust you, Lovejoy?'

The world was low on trust today, I said. She smiled, said okay. Nothing about Giverny, selfish cow. See what I mean? Help others, you get nothing back.

We parted amicably. I walked round the Tate until the vibrations from the paintings made me feel queasy. I phoned Saintly, told him about the forthcoming robbery tonight at an unnamed art gallery.

'I'll phone you about ten o'clock tonight,' I said blithely. 'By then, I'll have sussed out who's doing it and where.'

'Is this on the level, Lovejoy?'

'Straight up,' I said. 'If nothing happens, you can arrest me. Incidentally, don't make too much noise or they might get away. And don't arrest a reporter called Judith who'll be describing events from the bushes.'

Lovely feeling, being honest to the police. I'd never done it before. I felt holy. In spite of my new-found piety I didn't call into St Paul's for a quick prayer as I went past. No sense in risking the She Wolfs ghost at this late stage. I rang St Thomas's Hospital.

Tinker was stable. They wouldn't give me any news about Trout. I insisted I was his brother, but they were adamant. It betokened bad.

The trains were running on time. I made it to East Anglia, got a lift from an old lady who'd just come from the dentist. She gave me a cheery monologue on the most reliable adhesive for dental plates, should I ever reach false teeth. I said ta. She told me she collected antique hat pins. Don't laugh. You can buy handfuls for a farthing at any boot fair - today, that is. Tomorrow, nobody knows. If I'd spare change, I'd buy up every old hat pin in sight. For less than an afternoon's wages you could have a massive display - ivory, Edwardian silver, Victorian, early plastics (soaring, unbelievably rare), unique porcelain-headed hat pins made in craft potteries. We'd just got talking when she dropped me off at Best River Outcomes, Ltd. I was sorry to see her go. 'Come to tea, Saturday, Lovejoy,' she offered roguishly. 'I'll have my new teeth in.'

'It's a date, Tranquillity.' I waved her off. Her collection sounded worth something.

She'd described several original Art Deco pins.

Alone, I surveyed the canal. After London the stillness was unnerving. The boatyard was soporific, the water motionless. It looked painted by a stoned artist. Three longboats lay canted on the bank, to voyage no more. Others rotted in the yard pool, one down at the stern. A moorhen chugged out of a half-submerged window. Only one longboat looked worthy. No wonder developers like Talleyton and Gluck had itchy fingers. It was an investor's dream - a pittance now, for a fortune tomorrow.

A half-hearted hammer struck metal. 'Wotcher, Kettle,' I called.

'That you?' a voice quavered.

'Can you be more specific?'

'Hello, Lovejoy.' The old bargee emerged with his little grandson Jack.

'Can I take my pick of these longboats?'

He hid his astonishment. 'Jack, show Lovejoy the engine.'

'This way, Lovejoy.'

Little Jack took my hand as if I were senile. He's six. At the non-sinking boat he held up his arms. I lifted him aboard, clambered after. Old Kettle sat on a bollard and lit his pipe while Jack showed me starter, forward, reverse. I heard him out and said ta.

'I want to go to Saffron Fields, Kettle. Tonight.'

He spat, tamped his pipe and wiped the stubber on his trouser leg. 'Not allowed night journeys on a canal, Lovejoy.'

'But I'm a crook,' I said, narked.

'The canal's blocked up,' Jack said. 'It tried to reach the sea but doesn't.'

I looked at him. 'Don't be a nosey little sod, you.'

'Lovejoy swore, Grampa.'

'There's three locks, Chelmer style,' Kettle said. He used to make barge ware from sheet tin. I helped him to paint his jugs, kettles, tin vases, in the old style. We sold well to tourists, but he lost heart as his longboats failed. 'The last lock's our terminus.' He spat, eyed me. 'It's two fields from the sea estuary.'

'Why're you telling me this?' I asked, indignant. 'Think I'm going to smuggle a barge load out of the country, onto some blacked-out ship like they used to do in olden days?'

'Course not, Lovejoy,' Kettle said evenly.

Four o'clock in the afternoon I went back to my cottage to nosh on bread and fried tomatoes, have a sleep. It would be a long night. 36

ABOUT SEVEN I rang Gluck from the phone box by the chapel. It seemed impossible that he wouldn't hear my blood rushing in my ears.

'The news of a gallery theft breaks soon. The eastern promise is set up.'

'Where and when?'

'Dawn. All one shipment.' I made myself sound shakier than I was. 'I can get the lot to your manor. You'll get a legit bill of sale.'

'Wait.' He spoke to somebody, muffled. I didn't catch a word. 'Legit?'

'Above board. I deliver the antiques. You're allowed thirty days to pay.'

'It sounds good.' Yet he sounded wary. I thought, Dear God, must I lead everybody by the nose? Any dealer'd jump at it. I could see I'd have to make difficulties, to make him bite harder. I looked outside. The light was fading.

'There's a problem, Gluck. The eastern promise just arrived offshore.'

'Offshore where?'

Hooked him. 'Can't you guess? It'll all soon be on your land. But there's a risk.'

'I don't like risks.' His speech became guttural. He hated risks.

What the hell did I say now? There was no risk. With Billia and Dang under arrest soon, Judith the broadcaster observantly recording every detail in Dulwich's dark ditches, with Wrinkle and Honor fornicating among Jack the Ripper's ghosts in Spitalfields, every menace was safely neutralized. There wasn't even a risk for me, an all-time first. My brilliant planning had finally triumphed.

'The risk is I might need to get a van from somewhere.'

'Silence.' He actually said that, like a schoolmaster. 'It will be dark. You will have the excess items covered. No vam.

Okay, I was to see it didn't rain. 'Right, Mr Gluck. When you have all the antiques, you will leave the lad and the rest of us alone?' He said of course. 'Where do we meet?'

'The end lock, in three hours.' He sniggered. 'I shall be strolling on my canal path, looking for trespassers.'

Don't sniggers sound unpleasant? I was wet with sweat. I went to get the longboat from Kettle.

'Going far, captain?'

'Avast me hearties.' Normally I'd ignore repartee because I'm no good at it, but as I clambered aboard I had a crazy impulse to ask the old man to come too.

'You all right, son?' He passed me the heavy iron key. 'Don't lose it.'

The engine started first time. The best thing about these old canal longboats is they stay put. Until you engage gear there's no motion, because a canal isn't a river. No current, no parking problems. You want to stop, just glide to the bank and switch off.

Best holiday in the world, a canal longboat. Every mile there's steps up to some tavern for your dinner. And canals pierce our towns and cities. Go up canal stairs, you're astonishingly in the middle of, say, Birmingham, Manchester, with glittery shops.

Hell, but a canal's quiet in the country. And black. Apart from the muted thump of the engine, nothing. Fields invisible, trees looking at you thinking who's this interloper. It's like night unmasks countryside's hidden menace. I had a torch, shone it all about.

Nobody. Something splashed ahead. I hate night splashes. I hate daytime splashes too.

In fact, I'd go so far as to say that all splashes are bad news.

Longboats on canals, some old law, are restricted to four miles an hour, the walking speed of a barge horse, so all engines are governed. Two miles from the boatyard, I passed a pub and chugged under a disused bridge. I knew the bridge. Only cows use it, crossing between pastures.

By then I'd remembered how to steer. The tiller's just a stick. Move it slowly.

Remember that the barge weighs tons and has no brakes.

I came to the first lockgate, cut the engine. A canal lock's a place for lovers. Maybe that's why night travel's against the law?

'Night travel's against the law,' somebody told me a yard away.

I screeched in fright, almost dropped the huge lock key.

'You stupid sod!' I shouted. 'Scared me witless!'

There was an angler on the bank. It wasn't Clatter. I shone my light. He was encased in oilskins. Rod, folding stool, wicker baskets, keep net, and a small green tent. Maniac, at this hour.

'Night barges spoil fishing,' he groused. No lovers, only mad anglers. I ignored him.

A canal lock is basically a box of water, doors at each end. This box was empty. Open the uphill door, it fills and you can sail into the box. Close the uphill and undo the lower door, and out you sail. Into more empty darkness.

In five minutes I was missing the bad-tempered loon angler. A car went along a distant road, bouncing jauntily behind its cone of light. Lovers off, I thought bitterly, to heavy breathing among the bulrushes, selfish sods.

The second lock came and went. I began to glimpse seashore lights through trees and heard the long moan of a distant ship. Under another bridge. Nobody. Then the straight overgrown stretch, so long my torchlight wouldn't reach to the end. Trees closed in, the waterway becoming silted. Logs, branches, scraped my longboat's tin hull. Twice I felt the longboat tug on the canal bed. I was near the canal's sealed extremity.

No more lights now, just the skyglow from a town miles up the coast. A faint yellow sheen reflected on a cloud as the Hook of Holland ferry headed inshore. But space and time are a coast's deceivers. What looks like a mile can be a few paces or a league, and a short friendly path can be an endless quagmire. Give me streets every time.

The keel grounded. I reversed the engine, managed to slowly back away. Ahead, my beam revealed only tangled foliage with maybe a hint of a solid structure somewhere within. I'd reached the last lock, where ancient builders had finally lost to the railways.

No need to moor the longboat. I struggled ashore into a mass of brambles, branches nearly poking my eyes out. No footpath. I just had to flounder. The lock wasn't even completed, its seaward gate bricked up, like everyone had wearily thought oh what the hell. Beyond, a small copse and the dark closed fields between the canal and the estuary. The tide was in. I could hear it. I stood on the mound watching a river cruiser's lights about a mile away. I could hear music, screams of laughter. It turned south, following the coast, lights and noise receding. Lucky folk.

Three hours, was it, since I'd spoken to Gluck? I let the torch lead the way directly to the sea. I was there in no time. I know an old poacher who counts his steps, reckons he never gets lost.

The hard was rimmed with sea. The tide now covered the mud flats, a few boats bobbing in the bay. One or two wore lights, thank God, but nobody was about. The cottages further along looked in bed, with a couple of lamps as reminders.

No cars. No sign of Gluck. Had there been some mistake, me misjudging the time?

Maybe I ought to have listened to the traffic news for congestion on the London road.

One niggle: I'd rung Gluck on his mobile phone. Maybe he was already in East Anglia. I looked about, saw nobody. I walked slowly along the foreshore by the line of hawthorns. And back.

About here, was it? I stood looking at the waves. Strange to think the sea covered that lonely dead pilot in his plane under the mudflats only a few strides away. I shone my light, just making sure no ghostly figure was rising from the waters. I noticed that a pram, a small rowboat, and a nearby river coracle were no longer moving. The tide must be on the ebb. A cutter too was listing idly, ready to flop over like a dog for a kip until the next tide.

'Lovejoy.'

'Hello, Gluck.' He must have approached from the bushes. Where was his car? And his bruiser? I wanted him here mob-handed, all in one bag.

'Where are my antiques?'

He ought not to sound so amused, holding in a laugh.

When people do that it's always at my expense. He should be worried sick, sensing treachery. I suddenly felt alone, but had to go along with it and say my prepared line.

'I've got them, Gluck. Where you'll never find them.' My plan was simple - tell him that Wrinkle's collection was stashed in our town's crummy Antiques Arcade. Anybody tried to rob it, the lads would descend like the Keystone Kops.

'Really, Lovejoy?' He clicked a cigarette lighter, lit a fag, inhaled, still suppressing chuckles. He had something in his other hand. It glinted in my beam. Gunmetal blue.

He palmed it, smiling. 'Only a two-two, but hollow-drilled nose rounds. Well? Where are they?'

When I said nothing, he tutted. 'You wouldn't betray me, would you? The arrangement is you provide me with the oriental antiques you showed me. I write a promissory note to pay for them.' He looked about, really enjoying playing his part. 'Yet you have no antiques.'

'You've checked the longboat?' I knew he would have. Was that angler his new bruiser, Kenelley, the one who'd done Trout and Tinker?

'Of course. It is empty. We watched you arrive, Lovejoy.'

We is plural. I didn't like the thought of being followed in the gloaming.

'I've already hidden the antiques, Gluck.'

'Dear me.' He wasn't at all distressed. 'What's your price?'

Stick to your plan you can't go wrong. I kept telling myself that.

'Tomorrow, you sign over the manor house and Saffron Fields to Mortimer, Colette's son. In exchange you get the antiques.'

'And Dulwich? I'm counting on that.'

'It's all in hand. Agreed?'

He finally laughed. It was like a dam bursting. He rolled in the aisles, fell about. I watched, astonished. He cackled, guffawed, blotted his eyes, bellowed.

'No, Lovejoy,' he said, choking.

What was wrong? 'No what?'

'No deal. No deception. You have no antiques.'

Yet some of Wrinkle's were genuine, and Wrinkle's fakes would deceive any dealer. A fortune by any other name, for heaven's sake.

'I admit some of the pieces are—'

'Tell him,' Gluck gasped, wheezing.

A woman stepped from the tree-lined darkness. I thought, eh?

'You're a fool, Lovejoy.' Honor was calm as a pond. 'I told you I'd combed the world for a real opportunity. Dieter jumped at me.' She gave an ugly giggle. 'I mean my deal -

among other things.'

'You're in with Gluck,' I said dully. 'What does Wrinkle think?'

'He's not going to think any more, Lovejoy.' No regret in her querulous voice. 'He was so fucking boring.'

Wrinkle, past tense? Which meant my thinking days were also already over. Gluck sobered, took my torch.

'Come, Lovejoy.' The outrage was that he sounded kindly, a sadistic teacher's benevolence. 'It won't hurt. We'll do it properly. No hard feelings?'

Honor nagged, 'We should have brought the auto down the side road. Those shitty fields.'

I quaked. 'Look, Dieter,' I said, my voice trembling. 'I've some antiques worth a mint, if only—'

'No, Lovejoy,' he said with regret. 'No more ifs.'

We left the shore. I gave a desperate glance at the receding tide, the sluggish boats, the tilting dinghies. No ghost rose from the sea to rescue me, Mortimer's only helper.

Gluck gestured me to turn round. I felt something cold click on my wrists. Handcuffs?

'Walk on,' he purred. They say that to horses. 37

WE CUT OVER ploughed ground. Like a fool I lost my bearings from lurching to my knees. Every time I stumbled Gluck did his laugh. I realized he was quite mad. He'd slipped a rope under the handcuffs, thought it was a huge joke to yank me sideways, bring me down every few yards.

Away from the sea the night grew darker, the shushing of the waves quieter. I could only hear my laboured breathing, Gluck's lunatic cackling, and Honor's perennial grumbling about the chill. I hadn't a notion where we were going. A car in the distance, some selfish sod off to the boozer.

We came on the canal all of a sudden. No path, no lock gate. Just a cold breath on my face, as you feel near waterways. Yet what could Gluck do to me? Saintly knew that Gluck and I were enemies. If anything befell me, Gluck would catch it. And he couldn't have an alibi. I began to hope.

'Onto the bank, Lovejoy.'

Was there a farm cottage near the second bridge? That's where we seemed to be.

Honor came behind me. She had the frigging nerve to clutch my arm and pull herself up. Gluck shone the light at my longboat, still and silent. Somebody must have moved it, right? Hope surged. Who? Could it be Sorbo, my one remaining trusty pal? If so, how come Dieter Gluck knew it would be waiting at this exact spot? The instant the light clicked out, I glimpsed a coracle among the floating weeds, maybe ten paces off. For a frantic second I had visions of making a heroic bound for freedom, swimming underwater, hiding among the bulrushes.

'Escape, Lovejoy?' Gluck gloated. 'I think not.' His gun clicked. Why do they do that?

'Dive in if you like. I'd shoot you when you surfaced. Nobody would hear. Get him aboard, Honor.'

Honor went across the gangplank first. I followed, wobbling perilously.

'About time,' Hymie's voice said from the cabin. 'Hello, Lovejoy.'

'Hello, Hymie,' I said, pathetically still hoping.

'Let's do it and get the fuck ahta here,' Hymie said. 'This country's the pits for cold and damp.'

Hope can't be trusted. 'Kill me, Hymie?' I quavered, scared stiff. 'You think that will be the end of it? Kill me, you'll be in clover? Dream on.'

'That's enough, Lovejoy.'

Gluck must have clubbed me, for I felt a shudder, went onto my knees. I tried to keep talking. A small door tapped its brass bolt on my temple, joining the fun.

'You're no more Honor's brother than I am, Hymie,' I said to the deck. Torchlight flickered more madness before my eyes. 'Are you Gluck's supposed cousin, the bruiser Tinker called Kenelley? Gluck and Honor will let you kill me, then they'll top you. They'll make it look like we fought each other. Can't you see the frigging obvious?' , A movement behind told me Gluck was readying another swing. I hunched, took a stunning blow to the side of my jaw. A torch shone, blinding me.

'Fewer shares see, Hymie?' I mumbled into the light coming from below.

Hymie stood in the longboat's main well, between two bunks. The cabin had shelves, a little shower, an oven, stove, a fridge. These irrelevant facts my idiotic brain noted down, for use in the Great Beyond.

'What's he saying, Honor?' Hymie asked.

'You're next, Honor,' I added, brain functioning at last. 'Where d'you think the lovely young Moiya December is? She's busy laying down an alibi for Dieter, her boyfriend.'

Honor kicked my side savagely. 'Do it, Dieter. Or give me the fucking gun.'

The light stilled. A roar almost took my head off. I saw a hole appear in Hymie's left eye. Something moist sounded, like a hideous gulp. He tried to speak, quite as if starting to explain something terribly complicated. He even raised his hand, the one with the flashlight so it shone up, making a gruesome All Hallows E'en mask of his face.

He rocked back. The light dowsed. I heard nothing, all sounds gone.

A gnat shrilled near me in Honor's voice, 'Do Lovejoy, then let's get the fuck out.'

'Why?' I croaked, sounding like a bassoon. 'I can be useful. I'll say, sign anything. My friends—'

Honor shrieked at that. Gluck's mad laughter shook the boat.

'Who particularly, Lovejoy? Name any ten. Name one!'

I struggled to think. Gaylord? Dosh Callaghan, who'd sent me on this wildgoose chase?

Sorbo? Like the rest of East Anglia, like London, they were all abed or swilling the last pints down their undeserving gullets while I suffered.

Bitterly I cursed the coast, its miserable selfish swinish inhabitants—

'Don't do that.' The quiet words took me by surprise. It seemed to come from the canal bridge, maybe twenty paces off. 'You're all under arrest.'

Saintly? I almost cried with relief, strove to stand. I cried, 'Yes, I surrender! I—'

'Do it, for fuck's sake!' Honor shouted. 'It's not the police! They can't do a fucking thing!'

Gluck shoved me to one side with a yell. His gun thumped the night, its momentary glare blinding me. I fell into the longboat cabin, the steps scraping my chin. Two more shots made me cower. A barmy image had me kicking the starter into action, steaming away from this fusilade, but I stayed true, curled under the bulwark, whimpering promises, begging for mercy. I'd no idea how long it went on, who fired, how many shots. I felt crazed. Somebody tumbled nearby and seemed to be trying to croak a message. There came a heavy slithery splash, took a long time about it.

Then nothing. I was scared to open my eyes. Who'd won?

'Lovejoy?'

Familiar? Familiar had meant lethal tonight. I opened my eyes. A dead face was inches away. I screeched, tried to kick the horrible blooded mess from me.

'It's all right, Lovejoy.' Mortimer? 'You're safe.'

I was still blubbering and puking. Mr. Hartson hauled me upright.

'Pull yourself together, man,' he said with disgust. 'You're not hurt, for God's sake. I had to do it. They shot at Mortimer.'

'Sorry.' My hands came free. I tried to be firm, stout of heart. 'I, ah, hope I distracted them enough for you.'

'Survey the canal, please, Mr Hartson,' Mortimer said. 'Take Jasper.'

Mr Hartson nodded and simply seemed to evaporate. Two flashlights lay on the deck.

Mortimer held another. He was calm, decisive. Who the hell did he take after? I wondered, narked. Certainly not me. But it had been me being murdered, and I'm not at my best then. Honor wasn't to be seen. Hymie and Gluck were dead on board, the latter curled impossibly by the stern. I tried not to look. I remembered that horrid long slow splash. Honor?

'What do we do, Mort?' I asked humbly.

'Check the shots have produced no response.' He surveyed the boat. 'You go to the hard. Wait there until dawn. Ask everybody who arrives or passes in the morning if they've seen anybody asking for you answering to Mr Gluck's description. They'll say no.'

I was lost. 'What if they say yes?'

His weary sigh sounded just like mine when I'm dealing with an idiot.

'They shall say no, Lovejoy.' Born in the north, I've never got the hang of shall and will, so took him on trust. 'Return to where you left this longboat, at the canal's end. By then, police and hullabaloo will be occurring. You act astonished, say you'd arranged to meet Gluck last night.'

Mr Hartson materialized. I wish he'd got a bloody bell round his neck.

'Nothing, Mortimer,' he said.

'You were the angler!' I said, the penny dropping.

'Angler?' they both said together.

'Must have imagined it.' By then I'd have believed anything and anyone. Even me.

'Look,' I said, chastened. 'Thank you. If it hadn't been—'

'Go now, Lovejoy,' Mr Hartson said. 'Take your torch. Proceed by way of the canal.

Goodnight.'

'Er, goodnight,' I said formally. Like leaving a tavern instead of a bloodbath.

Jasper scornfully watched me disembark. I could tell he still thought me pathetic. I patted him. One thing, though. I've always believed in country folk. True friends, always there when you need a helping hand. I've always loved and admired every single one. Countryside, too.