A Rag, a Bone and a Hank of Hair

38

NOON NEXT DAY Kettle made a monosyllabic statement to the police. I made mine, over and over the same thing. I denied seeing anybody. I told them that I'd stood on the lonely seashore, waiting for Gluck. He never arrived.

'Why there, Lovejoy?' the police kept asking.

'No idea.'

'Why the longboat? Why sail down a disused canal?'

'Because the customer said so.' I did a routine shrug. 'I've done deals in dafter places than the seaside. And used loonier vehicles than a barge.'

'We know that, Lovejoy,' a newish CID bloke called Wendlesham said politely. 'You have a rum history. But three corpses seems excessive. Especially as they're all known to you.' A shotgun was found in the canal by police divers. I'd been shown it. I'd shrugged. It was some Belgian import. I knew it would be untraceable.

For a tenth time I went over my encounters with Wrinkle. My meeting Honor I described as a polite handshake, not a burglar's eye view of her naked seduction of Wrinkle on his workbench. I'd not seen them, I told Wendlesham piously, since I bumped into Wrinkle at Lord's, and visited his workshop at Hymie's in Spitalfields.

Wendlesham woke up at that. The plod love sports. 'Didn't know you followed cricket, Lovejoy. Who was playing?'

Whoops. 'Er, the West Indies, I think.' Silence. Wrong? His eyebrows met in a frown.

'India?' I offered hopefully. Who the hell had Wrinkle been so gloomy about? 'Australia?'

'You dozed off, I expect,' he said.

'I was after some cricket memorabilia,' I invented, wildly trying to remember the names of some ancient cricketers. A schooldays poem surfaced. 'Er, Hornby and Barlow were batting, I think.'

Strangely, they didn't press me on the point. A few extra repetitions, they let me go. I left, a prickly feeling between my shoulders. I couldn't believe it when I got on the train and not a plod in sight. What the hell had happened to Wrinkle?

The New Caledonian Market was coming off the boil when I finally got there. I caught sight of myself in a dressing glass, first antique wholesaler's on the right, and said 'God Almighty!' I looked a wreck.

'Cheap, too!' The dealer was canting to Lydia, but mistook my exclamation for admiration. Canting means to extol, prior to a sale. He mistook Lydia for gormless, which she's not, and an innocent, which she is.

'No, love.'

I stayed Lydia's hand. She was writing a cheque. Not a single vibe. The small porcelain-framed mirror 'dressing glass' was made to hang on a wall above a plain dressing table.

Find a genuine one, it will buy you a three-year holiday cruise, with cash to spend at every port of call. No kidding.

'Look, Lovejoy!' She pointed. 'It says Royal Furbil Pottery, AD 1722: She'd been crying, so I was kind. 'No, love. "Royal" as a precursor only came in about 1850.'

"Ere, what's your game?' The dealer belligerently pushed between us. 'I'm trying to earn a living—'

I'd had enough. 'Want me to date the rest of your stock, mate?' I offered. 'Announce fake or genuine to every buyer in Bermondsey?'

'Smart-arse.' He watched us leave. After a moment he called, 'You're Lovejoy, are yer?'

Then he grinned, unpleasant. 'Good luck.'

'What is it, love? Not more bad news, surely to God.'

People were already drifting away. All antiques markets start and end early, though they're tending towards normal shop hours as years pass. I'd be lucky to find the people I wanted. There were things to settle.

Bravely Lydia stifled her sob. 'There's been a terrible accident. Have you heard?' I said no. She continued, 'Tinker told me, but I have no details. That nice policeman was leaving the hospital.'

She meant Mr Saintly. 'How are they?'

'Tinker is recovering. Poor Trout.' She took advantage of the diminishing throng to blot her eyes. 'He will be lame, Lovejoy. Still, he has survived. Not like poor Dieter.' Which made me glance at her. Sobs for mad murderer Gluck, dry eyes for a dwarf savagely mangled into additional deformity?

I said it just to make sure. 'What terrible news.'

'And that horrid old bag hag has reclaimed Dieter's antique shop in Chelsea and Saffron Fields. Is it fair, Lovejoy? Dieter was such a gentleman!'

'It's okay,' I said, content now I knew who the tears really were for. Trout was right.

Some things I had to leave Lydia out of. 'Look, love. You know Edwina Holleran? Small, bonny, deals in silver? You met her in her dad's silver place where—'

'She showed you her skills?' Lydia completed sweetly. 'In a dark corner of the workshop? Yes, I do remember, Lovejoy.'

''Every silver furnace is in a dark corner,' I said, narked. 'When you anneal silver you have to judge its heat by naked eye. You can only do it in darkness, see?' I grew vehement. Women always blame me. 'I wasn't doing anything. She was showing me how to turn, spin and work over.'

Her sorrow evaporated in new annoyance. 'And you were so thrilled, spinning and turning! How could I possibly forget dear Edwina!'

'Stop it. You make her sound like a bloody spider. She'll be in Camden Passage tonight.

Tell her the deal's on, okay?'

'Very well, Lovejoy.'

We separated by the church. Everything still felt wrong.

The market was folding. I'm always sad, seeing the trestles stacked under tarpaulins, hearing the barrows rattle away on the stones. It's civilization ending. Even the last vans revving up make me sorrowful. Dealers were making final come-on deals, the sort that sound a brilliant bargain and never are. From a throng of thousands, maybe a couple of hundred listless refugee customers were left. Tip: these woebegone remnants who can't bear to leave are hopeless. Lovejoy's Law: Never be the first or last to buy, but sell any time.

Not all was dross today, though, as the shadows lengthened. Mimi Welkinshaw was still trying to flog one last bargain - a pair of flatback brown-and-white pottery dogs for Victorian mantelpieces. They're ten-a-penny antiques, meaning a week's wage nowadays and ugly as sin. Every bloke with a backyard big enough turned out these King Charles's spaniels in the Black Country, no telling exactly who. A little cluster of expectant dealers goggled at Mimi's last performance. Next to her van Palace Alice was folding her awning. Beyond, Gaylord Fauntleroy loaded gunge into his motor while his one-eyed Auntie Vi sat smoking her foul pipe on their trailer steps. I could hear Hello Bates doing his familiar shout, getting only the occasional 'Sod off, Batesy.' Sir Ponsonby was popping a champagne cork, Moiya December holding the glasses. She was back on station, seeing that times - and available personnel - had changed.

'What went wrong, Lovejoy?' some lass said, strolling past.

'Eh?' I halted. It was Billia.

She stopped, furtive. A barrow dealer boxing up his fake kakeimon vases hopefully started a harangue. I drew her on.

'I thought I wasn't supposed to know you, Lovejoy!' she said.

I was at least as thunderstruck as she was. Why wasn't she in gaol? Okay, so I didn't need the phoney robbery at Dulwich Picture Gallery any longer, Gluck being dead. But at least my plans should be working somewhere, however phoney. She was only a red herring, for God's sake. Even plans I'd assumed tightly knitted were unravelling.

'Why,' I began, then halted. I could hardly expect an answer to why aren't you arrested with your bloke Dang, when I'd betrayed her dud burglary attempt to the police. 'Why did you say that, Billia?'

We drew in the shadow of trestle stacks for further incoherence.

'Me and Dang did everything you said, Lovejoy. Nobody came.'

'Great.' I thought quickly. 'It's been postponed to tonight. I'll be doing it with you.'

She looked full of doubt, untrusting cow. I'd sweated my socks off for this woman, risked my life among maniacs, and she hadn't the loyalty to catch the Dulwich bus?

People are rotten. 'Honest, Lovejoy?'

'Of course honest,' I said, narked.

'And you'll have the money to get Dang off?'

'Hand on my heart, Billia.' A bonny lass, but what a blinking pest. I got rid of her by pretending I was being beckoned by an important illegal importer. 'He's a pal of that Caravaggio conspiracy geezer,' I lied quickly. 'Sotheby's and all that. Don't be late tonight, love.'

And escaped into the dwindling market. Nothing sadder than a folding street market or a fading day. I know one forger, English watercolours, who can only work at teatime in autumn as the light dwindles. I've never yet seen him smile. It must be his soul. This attractive woman stopped me, said hello.

'Is that you?' I asked. Is there a dafter question? Nobody can say no, can they?

'Colette, Lovejoy.' Her smile was radiant. She was dressed to kill. Hair done, teeth a-dazzle, clothes guinea-an-inch. 'You approve?'

Bags under her eyes, though. A facial and new earrings can't hide heartbreak. Yet hadn't her Mortimer been saved from death? And herself from poverty? And, small point, by me? That's a woman for you.

'Beautiful, love.' She'd probably dressed up for me. It was her sign that we were going to resume where we'd left off. I warmed to her. 'You look good enough to eat.

Congrats.'

'Yes.' Bravely she forced a smile. 'When we signed everything over to Dieter there was a legal who-goes-last clause.' Her lovely lip trembled. 'I now realize that Dieter, poor lamb, intended to make sure he alone was left. He was driven to it, of course. He'd been awfully deprived as a child.'

'Him and Honor,' I said, cruelly, but wanting to know.

'That bitch is well dead,' Colette said with venom. 'Dieter was easily led. Handsome men with ambition, falling into the hands of some evil old crone like her,' et unbelievable cetera.

A rag, a bone, and a hank of hair? Maybe - plus a fearsome power of self-delusion.

'Moiya December's consoling herself, I see.'

The pretty lass was sprawled on the bonnet of Sir Ponsonby's motor, eating cherries in what can only be called an erotic manner while the world held its breath.

'She's another whore,' Colette said.

'Look, love. Sign Saffron Fields over to Mortimer before the day's out,' I begged. 'I'd hate for things to go askew at this stage.'

'It's already done,' she said. 'Through Arthur's old lawyer.'

Relief swept over me. 'Deo gratias. Love, you seen Sorbo?'

'He was here,' she said. A ripple of laughs made me look. Mimi had sold her gruesome dogs. She was taking the money, walking across for a last word with Auntie Vi. 'Keep in touch, Lovejoy.'

Not for me after all. Forlorn hope. Colette was already moving on. I mean, Dieter Gluck was a crazed killer, yet he'd had Lydia, Colette, Honor, Moiya all panting after him. Is life fair? I wandered to the three remaining stalls still on the go, when Sorbo touched my arm. He still wore his ancient frock coat, was fat as a duck.

'Lovejoy? He wants you. In Fauntleroy's trailer.'

'Who, Sorbo?' It could only be one of two.

'Saintly. Sorry, Lovejoy.'

Sorry is the traitor word. I went in, lamb to the slaughter, through Auntie Ws carcinogenic cloud. Sorbo stood back. I passed Fauntleroy, his attire gaudier than ever.

First time I'd ever seen him looking pale. He was watching me on the pavement.

Saintly's driver waved Auntie Vi and Fauntleroy away. Fine time to discover the truth, I thought bitterly. Always stupid until it's too late. 39

SAINTLY LOOKED PARTICULARLY dapper today. Some folk are smarmy. I tend to envy them because it looks cool.

'What, sir?' I said.

'Door, please.'

I shut it. He was sipping sherry from a fair-sized glass square-foot goblet. Some duckegg had clumsily engraved a two-budded English rose on it. This was the Jacobite emblem, the two buds being the Old and Young Pretenders. The goblet was modern pressed glass, yet an innocent buyer might believe some dealer's persuasive patter and buy the pathetic fake. Fauntleroy routinely sold such monstrosities.

'Remain standing, Lovejoy.'

As if with great reluctance he sighed, put his dud glass down.

'What am I here for?' Suddenly I couldn't do speech properly. Yet surely I was safe, the Bermondsey market still wrapping up out there? Except you can have one too many maniacs.

'To realize the truth, Lovejoy.' He bent forward, stared into me. 'Jesus, you already have! I'd never have believed it!' Satisfied, he nodded in self-congratulation.

'You are Gluck's principal backer, Mr Saintly.'

Best I could do. I didn't want to say the rest, in case it hurried him into doing something I'd regret. Yet I was still safe, in Bermondsey's daylight. All he could do was arrest me, right?

Saintly agreed, 'I did contribute money, plus influence.'

'I don't see why.'

'That's because you're a member of the fucking ignorant public.' It was a sudden snarl.

He rose, strode at me, clouted me sideways. 'I'm paid a pittance, Lovejoy. To take responsibility for filth like you. What do I get for it? A paltry pension and a tinfoil gong.

I had a decent thing going. Dieter and me go back years. It was me brought him in.

Then you came along, you absurd bastard.'

My mouth was bleeding. I righted myself, more trembly than I should have been. Odd, because I'd been knocked silly before and felt better than this.

'As far as I'm concerned you can get on with it,' I said shakily. 'Please let me go.'

'And you "won't say anything", is that it?'

'Honest. I'll help you to do the Dulwich job. Gluck's dead.'

'I can't understand why Wendlesham let you go, Lovejoy.' He seemed reflective, an academic discussing haiku poetics. 'Clearly, it was you who somehow killed Dieter.'

'I never touched him or his two pals.'

'Three pals,' he jeered. 'Don't forget Bern.' '

'Was that Sorbo's doing?' It just came out in astonishment.

'Me and Gluck shared the honours. Sorbo's a nonentity, just does as he's told. Can you imagine? A bruiser like Bern getting fond of an ageing trollop like Colette? He tried reasoning with Dieter and me, after I'd ordered him to dust you over the night you traced Colette to St Anne's churchyard.' Saintly fetched out Sorbo's Nock weapon.

Simultaneously, I saw the empty maroon bag. It had held Sorbo's antique Nock double-barrelled flintlock. I should have realized the beautiful antique was what made me feel odd. Sorbo's presence outside should have tipped me off. The bag was squashed flat beneath Saintly's drinking glass. Which meant the spherical lead bullets and powder flask had come into use.

Look at one of these exquisite weapons in the Tower of London's Armories - lately shifted to Leeds - and you can't help thinking, how pretty! No wonder Gluck had been hooked on Regency flintlocks. Brown, with a subdued matt shine, six-inch barrels set side by side, the loveliest engravings ever done. A miracle of engineering. Never mind that Samuel Nock must have been insanely jealous of his famed uncle, the great Henry Nock. He did all right for himself in Regent Street, becoming Gunmaker-in-Ordinary to all the monarchs. I found myself smiling, extending a trembling hand. I moved carefully. Both flints were fully cocked. One touch on the triggers and—

'No, Lovejoy.' Saintly watched me, so pleased. 'I've never seen you do it before - your divvy trick. Just look at you. Shaking like a leaf, sweat trickling off you. No wonder Dieter said you were essential.'

'What happens now?' I asked, wiping my clammy face with a sleeve.

'I sail into the Mediterranean with Moiya, for as long as she serves me as I wish. Sir Ponsonby and Sorbo do Wrinkle's place over when things cool down.'

'Things?' I asked hoarsely. 'What things?'

'The one thing left.' He smiled. 'You. I'm afraid this terminates your contract with, well, everybody. I've already dictated Sorbo's statement. He actually has it in his pocket, to hand to me after we enact this charade.'

'You rotten sod.'

'He will testify that he's just sold you this flintlock. You've made no secret of your desire for it these past years. My tale is, you came in here and threatened me with it. We struggled. It went off. You perished.'

'Please don't,' I cried out, backing away, hands outstretched. 'I'll do anything—'

And the world suddenly spoke. I really do mean the whole world thundered, like the voice of God.

'Mr Saintly,' a voice boomed. The trailer resonated. 'This is the police. Put down your weapon and come out.'

Crockery rattled. It was like an earth tremor. Saintly looked stunned.

'Who, Lovejoy?' he asked quietly. 'You're wired, aren't you?'

'Eh? Me? No!' I yelled. 'I don't know what fucking wired means! Honest to God! I only ever do as I'm told for God's sake—'

'Lovejoy's ignorant, Mr Saintly,' the heavens thundered. I felt the vibes of every syllable.

'Step out. Lay your weapon aside.'

'It's you, Lovejoy,' Saintly said, extending the flintlock. The twin muzzles looked Chunnel-sized.

'No!' I shouted. 'Please! I know nowt—'

He pressed the triggers. I saw his fingers whiten. Both flints slammed forward onto their steels. Sparks flew.

Nothing.

Nothing. I tottered to the door, opened it onto a still world. Individuals were standing frozen all about the market, listening, watching. It was Eisenstein's Nevsky. Sir Ponsonby stood among uniformed policemen with Moiya.

Sorbo was handcuffed near a police car. Sturffie was there, silent among a cluster of others, including Palace Alice, Gaylord and Auntie Vi.

And Lydia, with the portly gent I'd seen before, who'd followed us everywhere. No bowler hat this time, just country tweeds and plus-fours. I wondered how often he'd changed his guises while he trailed me around. He had a small microphone. When he spoke it made me jump.

'It's over, Mr Saintly. Show yourself.'

I went down the steps and walked away through the silent market. I'd felt shame before, but not like this.