Every Last Cent

17

BERNICKA WAS FURIOUS when I said she had to do the burglary with me.

'Why?' she demanded, in her grotty studio with that naming horse statue. It was worse than ever. 'You were going to do it on your own.'

'Look, love.' I smiled with great sorrow. 'Who knows Il Maestro? You.'

A woman can't resist being told that she excels in understanding love. She calmed.

'That's true.'

'How else could you have created this great, er, thing?'

'You're right.'

'How could I possibly detect the hand of the Master,' I said reasonably, 'in what I steal, unless you're there to give me proof?' I acted more sadness. 'I'm good at antiques, Bernicka, but we're talking of Leonardo's very own work. And he,' I concluded, my voice breaking with emotion, 'needs you, Bernicka.'

I tried to gaze adoringly up at the shambolic heap of gunge she'd splattered together, but couldn't manage it. She patted my shoulder.

'There, there. I understand.' Her eyes filled with tears. 'I didn't know you were so sensitive, Lovejoy. I'll come.'

Gone eleven o'clock, we hit the road in her motor and reached Tolleshunt D'Arcy just about midnight.

A great crime writer I used to know lived right in the village. We were friends, Marjorie A and me, despite her mangy blinking dog. Her husband was a sponging duckegg, tried to finish her uncompleted novels after she passed away, total failures of course. The house near the war memorial belonged now to Sir Jasper Haux. It has an enormous walled garden. I got Bernicka to park on a country road where manic anglers do night fishing, a mile from the village centre.

'You know what to do, Bernicka?'

'No.' She was nervous now she actually had to do something. She'd complained all the way, what am I doing here, I should be at home in bed.

'Wait forty minutes. I'll walk there, burgle the Haux mansion, find the Master's drawing.

You come driving slowly past, and give me a lift, okay?'

Her face shone like a green ghost's in the dashboard lights.

'Do I have to, Lovejoy?'

'Yes,' I said, cruel. 'Are you beginning to doubt your love for Leonardo?'

Honestly, women drive me spare. Here was I trying to help her, at enormous risk to life and limb, not to mention the plod, and she starts dithering. I filled up, overcome at the sacrifices I was making.

'What if the village bobby catches me, Lovejoy?' Then quickly added, 'I mean, catches you.'

This is typical: when they want to prove how daring and brave they are in the cause of True Lerve, you've to do it for them. If you're caught, you're on your own. There was a girl climbed Everest a few years back single-handed, with no help except skilled climbers and a camera crew. They made a TV documentary – carefully avoiding mention of twenty-seven tourists already at the summit.

'The cover story, doowerlink, keeps you in the clear. I phoned you for a lift.' I smiled with admiration. 'I think this is a truly courageous romantic thing you're doing, Bernicka.' I said intently, 'I only wish I was as worthy of love.' And walked bravely into the night.

Twenty minutes later I was outside the village pub. It's supposed to close by eleven, but keeps going. I caught Cedric Cobbold just downing his umpteenth gin. He came straight away with his Elk. The three of us stood in the car park. Elk slobbers and scares the daylights out of me, whom it adores. I keep patting it, hoping I'll get my hand back. It rumbles. No more to be said, except that it likes tripe. I can't honestly see the point of him, but wisely keep such thoughts to myself.

'Got it here, Lovejoy.' It was in a velveteen case. 'You won't be disappointed. Leonardo used very dilute sanguine whole—'

'Ta, Cedric. Great.' I'd no time to discuss techniques.

'Money first, Lovejoy.' The old soak wouldn't let go. I gave him a roll of notes – well, a few strips of newspaper in one genuine note, but he'd only done ten minutes' work, for God's sake. Make the price match the job.

'Get gone, Cedric. The mark'll be along any minute.'

I left him quickly, crossed the road and nipped over the huge Haux wall. It came on to drizzle then, of course, so I had to crouch down covering the precious fake so it didn't get wet. I heard car doors slam, folk calling cheery goodnights, heard a couple pause under the branches of a London plane tree. For a second I wondered what on earth such a big tree was doing in East Anglia – shouldn't it be in London? Then I heard the couple's mutters. One familiar voice said, 'Did they recognize us?' The bloke replied,

'No. We were lucky. It was only old Cedric and that crook Lovejoy.' The female voice worried, 'Are you sure?' 'Positive. Can I see you tomorrow? Take the Bures road, in case Paul's back early. I'll take the coast road.' And so on, while I stayed hunched, rain trickling down my nape and blotting itself on my one shirt.

They left after a few sighs and mmmhs. I'm not proud of eavesdropping this way, but whose fault was that? People foist their private hangups on me all the blinking time, then I get blamed. That word crook stung, though, rotten swine. Paul, though, gave me a clue. I remembered the woman's voice. It was Jenny, Paul the birdman's wife, who was having a torrid affair with Aspirin, he of the drunken handstands. Except I know Aspirin's voice, and I'd never heard this new, cultured, decisive voice before.

Cars drove away. They all sounded run-of-the-mill motors, no sibilant Rolls Royces whispering homeward. I was tempted to stand up amid the foliage and peer, but dared not take the risk. I heard the pub doors lock, the chains across the forecourt clank in place. The village silenced. I stayed put, listening for Bernicka's car, feeling really down, wondering what I was doing. The scent of food had made me so hungry I went dizzy. I grew bitter. The landlord would be whaling into the remains of the pub grub while his missus readied for bed. To them that hath shall be given, but not me.

A car approached at walking speed, changing gear every throb. It could only be Bernicka, devil driver. Its cogs ground maddeningly. Unbelievably it notched into an even lower gear, stalled, took three goes to restart, and crawled nearer. I sighed. One cliffhanger after another. I heard the door open.

'Lovejoy?' Bernicka called loudly. 'Are you there?'

Secret as an invasion. A wonder she didn't sound the horn. I creaked erect and clambered over the wall, huddling my precious forgery, and ran to her car as if the bailiffs were after me.

'Off, Fangio.'

She drove off almost at jogging speed. On the way to her studio I told her how I'd burgled Sir Jasper Haux's mansion ('Those drainpipes; his library on the fifth floor, see?'

etc, etc) and lied how I did over the electronic protection units ('They're the new Eight-Nine-Nine model –used by the SAS ...').

'Is that it?' She stared apprehensively at my velveteen parcel.

'Yes, Bernicka. Keep your eyes on the road.' I've often noticed that women turn to look at you if you speak to them while they're driving. Blokes don't. Dunno why. 'I was very, very scared, love. I did it for you, doowerlink.'

'Oh, Lovejoy! You're so brave! Leonardo's own hand!'

She filled up. I almost did, too, because burgling the Haux manor house would have been really risky if I really had done it. I might have been arrested, put in a dungeon for years. I remained manly and bold.

'It's all right, Bernicka.' I gazed soulfully at her profile. 'You know I'd do anything for you, doowerlink, honestly. . .'

She got us a take-away meal at Bluebell's roadside caff by the main Aiz. I wolfed most of hers as well to help her finish it. Then I stayed at her place the rest of the night while she ogled the Leonardo drawing Cedric Cobbold had done for me. I was too worn out to stay gaping at his work, though it looked pretty good, nearly better than mine.

Maybe, I thought grudgingly, I'd pay him in full next time.

After all that, I reached my cottage worn out and slumped on my unfinished wall. The village children were skipping up the lane on the way to join the school bus. They were singing the little girls' ancient skipping-rope chant: Fair is foolish, short is loud, Long is lazy, black is proud, Fat is merry, lean is sad, Pale is pettish, red is bad.

It predicts their eventual lovers. Elizabeth, seven, is their leader and knows everything.

'You didn't come home last night, Lovejoy,' she said in condemnation. 'Dirty stop-out!'

Little Marie came to rifle my pockets. She's five.

'I got tired,' I improvised. 'And stopped at a friend's.'

'You sleep on Mrs Newcastle,' Jane explaining to the rest.

'No.' Elizabeth was annoyed at being contradicted. 'He sleeps on Mrs Vullamy. Her legs go in the air. I seed through his window.'

Christ, I thought. Little Marie glared. 'You've no toffees, Lovejoy. And no money!'

Everybody knows my business except me. Wearily I searched and found her a coin in the lining. She confiscated it without a word of gratitude.

'What am I?' I demanded. 'In your song.'

Elizabeth snorted. 'Untidy.'

Little Marie said, 'You're hopeless. My mum says.'

They went off up the lane trailing their skipping ropes. Little Marie walked backwards to shout, 'You're not in the song, Lovejoy, coz you're poor.'

'Charming,' I called bitterly. I like them, the pests.

'There's a new auntie hiding in your cottage, Lovejoy.'

Elizabeth too had a parting shot. 'She's got horrible shoes. And her frock's crap.'

Was this a godsend of an alibi? I went in, stiff as a plank. The woman was seated on my stool, handbag on her knees, prim and primed for action.

'Wotcher, missus.'

'How do you do?'

Her frock didn't look that bad, and I quite liked her shoes. Gloves, neat skirt, the right side of forty. Mind you, women can't have a wrong side of forty.

'The children said you were my auntie.' I wanted her to shift over so I could sprawl on my divan and sleep. I've only one mug, so tea was out.

'It's what I told them, Lovejoy.' She sounded schoolmarmish, no-nonsense-from-you.

'Infants harbour wrong conclusions.'

'Indeed.' I hoped they hadn't blabbed about Mrs Vullamy's aerial legs.

'I called to ask you how I can conceal an object.' She avoided an exchange of glances, addressing the middle distance. 'I want antique dealers not to see it.'

'I don't understand.'

The way women present themselves to the world is admirable. Blokes aren't worth looking at. Not exactly poor, she'd get a mention in Elizabeth's skipping song any day.

Weighty wedding ring, earrings pricey, but some jeweller had made a terrible mistake with her pendant, a blue topaz set in oval gold. Still, it wasn't pale lavender, which would have been dearer but worse.

'It's a painting of a lady,' she explained. 'Done by Geoffreye Parlayne.' She took my aghast silence for awe and smiled. 'It is rare and valuable.'

'Oh, good,' I bleated faintly. 'Can I lie down, please? I've had a hard night.'

'Please don't dissemble, Lovejoy. I heard what the children said about you and Darla Vullamy.'

'Never heard of the lady,' I gave back, sagging onto my divan.

People have a right to anonymity. I know I'm in the minority in thinking this. Nowadays, every model having a one-nighter with some film star thinks it the height of propriety to hurtle for tomorrow's headlines and tell, sell every gasp of pillow passion. I regard it as a modern ailment, like Value Added Tax and vile clergy, and hope it might pass.

'She's my neighbour,' the lady said, doing the thin lips.

'I trust I might meet her one day,' I returned politely, thinking what frigging painting by Geoffreye Parlayne? Because that renowned Cromwellian soldier-cum-artist, 1599 to 1658, is actually me. He didn't exist. Still doesn't. I'm the forger who coined the name and stuck it on a dreadful daub I did one drunken month. I called it A Portrait of Lady Parlayne. The picture, almost a spillage, was astonishingly bought at Selpman and Coater's auction by a London dealer. I dined out, and in, until I got with Eve, who runs a fingernail shop (honest, there is such a thing. Eve sells gruesomely false fingernails).

After a week of Eve I was broke. When I'm desperate I forge yet another version of his Lady Parlayne. I've done four. The point is there's no such geezer as Geoffreye Parlayne, Cromwell's warrior artist. It's only me in a bad spell. My career can be logged by troughs and depressions, the nadir marked by portraits of Lady Hypatia Parlayne.

Never, never ever, buy art by Parlayne. He's the Dauber Who Never Was. All his paintings are forgeries done by me and skilfully aged to look Old Mastery.

Which is why I gazed at her bonny features and pondered.

You think folk are honest? Think again.

True story, to convince skeptics. Once upon a time, a bloke died. The eccentric millionaire Mr Digweed, sad to relate, passed away in a tent erected in his living room.

He actually left his fortune to Jesus Christ. A proper will, legal to the hilt. Hearing this, we might just smile and think what a charming old geezer. After all, the English are known eccentrics. Nary a ripple on the pond of life, right?

Not a bit of it.

Claims flooded in – from Jesus Christ! Within days, the Home Office was knee deep in letters claiming Digweed's gelt. Letters from whom? From JC, no less, duly signed and witnessed. They poured in by recorded delivery, with Address of Sender solemnly filled in, giving bank accounts where the money should be forwarded. The HO is still wondering what on earth.

I don't read the Church Times or the Vatican's daily newspaper, so maybe a Second Coming has occurred and I missed it.

My point is, logically there could be only one truthsayer, maximum. And most bookmakers would give odds on all those Jesus Christs being duds. (Incidentally, if you're the real genuine Claimant, the correct Home Office form of application is 319(0), and good luck. But I suppose you'd already know that.) Stark truth? We're all on the make, crooks, the sinful lot of us. I honestly don't mean you – just me and everybody else. We're bad hats.

Hence me, exhausted on my creaky divan, wondering what the hell.

She told me gravely, 'I am Mrs Thomasina Quayle. I approach you because you are, I believe, the most evasive of the local dealers.'

Evasive? Daft, I found myself wondering how little Marie would fit that into her skipping chant, Lovejoy's evasive or some such. I was just tired out.

'Who d'you want to evade?'

'Buyers, dealers, auctioneers. And,' she added prettily, 'thieves.'

'They're usually the ones I hunt down.'

'No flippancy, if you please.' From her handbag she withdrew a purse, gave me a thin wad of notes bound in bank paper. 'This is for the first month.'

'Where's the painting?'

'It is already in your shed.' She meant my workshop, but was too proud to say it. 'I shall expect a written report concerning its preservation from marauders each Sunday noon.'

'Why this malarkey?' I asked, reason struggling to the surface. 'Sotheby's, your bank, some dealers, they all have impregnable vaults. I don't.'

'Can they be trusted, Lovejoy?'

Another headacher. She had a point. 'Not by me,' I said grudgingly.

'There we are, then.' She rose, poetry in motion. I thought, I measure time by how a body sways, then wondered who'd said that. He must have known Thomasina Quayle.

She left then, and like a pillock I rolled over to sleep, my silence implying acceptance of the dumbest con trick I'd ever fallen for.