Every Last Cent

20

THAT NIGHT I slept badly. Actually I'm not big on sleep. I think sleep's a trick. God made night so we'd wear ourselves out worrying, then gave us days to be exhausted in.

My mind was in turmoil. I felt something frightening coming.

In all this was Mortimer. I had to protect him at all costs, never mind why. The lad was an innocent, hardly out of the egg. He didn't know that inexplicables ruled in antiques.

It was the antiques trade's fault.

Antiques is an army of scroungers hunting for dross. In short, antiques is chaos in search of a wardrobe. See, I've no illusions. At the upper end, however, stands the antiques raj, that eclectic club of hoods who control everything. If the International Court of Justice grouses about looted heritage, you can bet that justice will fade before the ink is dry. And why? Simply because the antiques raj will make sure that art and antiques don't move out of their hands. The corollary is this: what you see in museums, galleries, or famed auction rooms is merely the residue that the members of the raj can't be bothered with and allows to remain untouched. For a fee, of course.

The money Unis passed me in the Welcome Sailor was a fortune. I stared at the notes.

I could eat for years, get some shoes without holes in, socks, fit myself out in Willie Griffs. And a hat! I'd always wanted a hat, look like a gent. Gloves I tend to lose, but with so much gelt what's a lost glove?

Sandy, I knew, had society connections, the sort that only fashionably weird individuals have these days. He sold them antiques. Many were ultra rich. In fact, there'd often been rumours that Sandy was a raj bloke, but I didn't believe it. They're unseen, and Sandy thrived on attention.

There was no doubt, though. I was now firmly yoked to somebody's plough.

Everywhere I went, dealers were working for Susanne Eggers. Directly or indirectly.

Like Ferd, with auctioneers arriving in posh motors itching to do deals. And his missus Norma, warning me off now that she was in ladyland – riff-raff lovers need no longer apply, so get thee gone, ye varlet. Never mind that I'd been Ferd's only pal while he was mental, and kept Norma in groceries and emotion. And Olive Makins, secretary of the local auctioneers, was used – forgive the word – by Mr Eggers et al. to sweet-talk auction lists out of her.

Also, the matter of my forged portraits. Not long since it was hard to give them. Now they were in demand. They were clear fakes, yet dealers were scouring the kingdom for them. Worse, Mortimer had begun lobbing the stone of honesty into the tranquil pond of fraud, threatening me.

So here was me, sitting on my let-down divan in my cold, bare-flagged cottage with a bundle of bunce like I'd never seen. Handed through some pub's back door by a street wino. I was retained by some American consul geezer. Foolishly, I'd blundered off to ask Cromwell, because he was the only ex-diplomat I knew. My logic always finishes up bizarre. Just as it had, in fact, when I went to see Quaker and Maud. I'd thought I was boxing clever, but finished up being talked into a risky tryst with Maud, learning nothing from Quaker, then stupidly agreeing to meet Brigadier Hedge. Only dedicated duds like Hesk, the would-be faker of Georgian art, were left out.

There was a huge scam on. The public would suffer, of course. They always do.

Whatever genuine antiques they possessed would be collared, fiddled, stolen, and they'd end up with barely a farthing. I woke with a splitting headache, took half an aspirin because I hadn't any more, drank some water, and went to the village shop with my wealth.

At nine o'clock I made a hearty breakfast – cereal, eggs, those veggie sausages that give you heartburn, fried tomatoes, a stack of bread, tea. I diced some Lancashire cheese for the bluetits and the robin, and put an egg, cracked, by the cottage door for the hedgehog. Mother Nature, a scrounging harridan, could share my affluence.

'To labour, folk,' I told them, took a ton of the money, hid the rest and caught the bus.

Ginny and Ox were already out working the Liveridge estate when I arrived. I'd spent a mint on Visbee's taxi, guessing where they'd be this morning. Visbee reckons he has a brilliant sense of direction, but hasn't. He bets on a mobile phone while trying to chat up some housewife not his own. I spotted Ginny's motor near the livery stables and told Visbee to let them finish their con.

She's boss, so Ox can be ignored. Except, fraudsters need somebody who looks the part, don't they? Ginny is executive pretty and computer smart, twenty-five, smiles like an angel. Ox is thick, but tall, elegant, can make a cheap suit look Jermyn Street. He says nothing. Ginny rings your doorbell and stands there exuding charm. The con trick (soon to your door!) is this: Ginny smilingly offers you a free security check. She'll show you printed cards, credentials, has a security ID pinned to her ample bosom, and offers you letters from dignitaries. You, in all this charade, are the householder soon to be done out of every trinket, your furniture, porcelain, your savings books and credit cards.

Both Ox and Ginny carry gadgets. They're actually micro-camcorders that photograph your locks, windows, doors, and anything worth stealing. Needless to say, there is actually a real security firm should you check up – it's only her cousin Ditch, to whom she is very, very close. He has an electrical shop near Ipswich. The actual burglar is a violinist called Felly, works from darkest Hammersmith. He sells the stolen goods along the M18 motorway, like everybody else. I'm not in favour of Ginny's con trick, incidentally. But needs must when the devil's hard at it. I like to know what antiques they've stolen, keep abreast of what's safe.

'Wotcher, Ginny.' I flagged them down as they left the avenue.

She brightened. 'Hello, Lovejoy. So early, this bright dawn?'

'It's eleven o'clock, love. Where's Sandy?'

Her face clouded. 'Slumming, Lovejoy?'

'Desperate to unravel the plot, love.'

She examined my expression, let it go and alighted. 'Ox, drive to St Edmundsbury. We'll follow.'

'Which way is St Edmundsbury?' he asked, synapses clanging.

'Try the St Edmundsbury road,' she suggested.

And off he drove, we trundling behind in Visbee's motor. I asked her about Sandy. She could be trusted, for Sandy had done her down in a way I daren't repeat. It was foul, sinister, and marked Ginny's mind with permanent grief. Luckily, a woman never forgives. My sort of ally.

'If I tell you, Lovejoy, will it be bad for him?'

'Very bad.'

She smiled. 'Brilliant! Sandy's doing one of his morning showtimes. A hired audience and Eastern Hundreds TV, hoping to break in to Look Eastward.'

'Who's financing?'

She nodded at the pertinent question. 'You're right to ask, Lovejoy. That evil queen won't spend tuppence. Some American. You're bound to've heard of them.' She meant because of Saffron Fields and Mortimer.

'Sandy's got one of my Geoffreye Parlayne portraits.'

'How come?'

Her question cheered me up.

'Dunno. If you find one for me I'll be your best friend.'

She smiled. 'I can do more than that, Lovejoy. We've got one. It's there.' She nodded to indicate the boot of Ox's limo up ahead. 'Felly handed it back last night.' She laughed.

'It was the only thing he couldn't sell up the motorway because it was spav. You can have it for a favour or two. Ox'll hand it to Tinker.'

Spav means rubbish, tat so dud nobody would even give it house room. Stung, I found myself arguing heatedly that it wasn't as bad as all that.

'I know,' she surprised me by saying. 'She has a lovely face. But she's that ghost, isn't she?'

Which was where I came in. I think.

The village hall stood a few miles from St Edmundsbury. Cars and an excessive number of motorbikes filled its car park. Inside, gusts of laughter. Three massive pantechnicons filled with cables and TV crud darkened the double doorway. Sandy can't sing, can't keep time, doesn't dance, can't tell a joke, yet believes that he is God's gift to the world of entertainment. I went in alone. Two goons accosted me.

Ticket?'

'Sandy told me to stand here and wait for his signal.'

Sandy was on the stage. Lights hurt my eyes. He looked whitewashed. He was dressed in a showgirl's feathers, glittering bodice, plumed head-dress, silver train, high heels, his face set in a ghastly rictus under panto makeup. I always feel sad for him.

He was dancing, singing, waving, in complete disregard of the efforts of musicians in the wings. The audience was howling, laughing. Some two hundred, cheering him on.

Sadder still, I knew they were only there because they'd been paid. Not even extras got from some film company register, just anybody who wanted a free beer. Mel was seated by the door, glowering. I didn't blame him.

As Sandy did an inept vah-vah-vah-voom, the crowd helpfully calling the drumbeats, Mel said sourly, 'You were supposed to come yesterday, Lovejoy. Money works when all else fails, it seems.'

'I find that.'

In the screaming crowd, I saw Olive Makins, trying to look beside herself with glee.

There was a hullabaloo when Sandy's attire lit up with multicoloured lights. The musicians despairingly tried to keep pace. He was in raptures.

'Has she come, then?' I asked Mel quietly.

'Who?' He gazed at me blankly, then his brow cleared. 'No. Not today.'

Odd, that. If Susanne Eggers wasn't financing the entire scam, then who was? The Yank consul surely couldn't, wouldn't, risk such an obvious scandal. I couldn't think of anybody else. The Countess? I didn't know anybody else so heavy. Except Mel had been momentarily puzzled when I'd assumed it was a bird, not a bloke.

'What's this show in aid of, Mel?'

'Sandy wants to be a chat cat. Y'know? The TV Antiques Trailshow. This will impress TV

producers. He'd give his all for it. Has, in fact.'

Yet more bitterness. They keep leaving each other. Last time, Mel fled to Sark, the little Channel Isle, but returned in a sulk when Sandy threatened to try to buy the island from the Dame of Sark herself. They are the shrewdest, sharpest antiques dealers in the known world. Except for Big John, I suddenly remembered with a snap of my fingers.

Big John is an Ulsterman. The saying is Ulster for soldiers, and John epitomizes it.

Enough nous to start a war and win. I did him a couple of favours time since, but you can't always count on his memory. He believes he's hard done by if something happens and he doesn't get a percentage. Despite this I like him, though he puts the fear of God in me. He had the clout to start a scam this size.

'Are they here?' I asked, meaning TV producers.

Mel definitely paled. 'Leave it out, Lovejoy.'

For the first time since I'd known him his Cockney accent came through. I was surprised. He always cracked on he was Welsh.

The audience was what folk these days call camp. Pink garb, feathers, T-shirted, many crew cuts, alchemic gothic studs and emblems. They didn't look the kind to tempt Antiques Trailshow producers. I said I'd wait outside as Sandy started a striptease to the audience's howls. As I turned I saw somebody else also singularly out of place. He caught my eye and glanced away, reddening.

Timothy Giverill and his wife are your dyed-in-the-wool sober suits. Sunday church, councillors both. To cap it all, Timothy is in insurance. He has the insurance shop next to Bea Willing's Tea Shoppe on North Hill, facing that Antiques Antics that Peter Myer ran for Sandy. The shop little Polly told me the plod had taken over for surveillance. A clue?

The Giverills too were also ectopic, and stood out like sun in a pit.

Outside, two drivers chatted to a couple of TV technicians. Don't know why, but TV

units always bring supernumaries. I have a theory that they need numbers for supportive psychotherapy, seeing they've no real job. The more turn up, the more convincing the charade.

'Wotcher,' I said idly. 'A right do in there, eh?'

'That poof goes on, dunnee?' one said. He smoked, his head clamped between earphones, wires trailing.

'You on that Antiques Trailshow, then?' I asked, gormless. 'He's going to present it, they say.'

One barked a laugh, lit a new fag from old. 'Him? Never. Camp's okay, but idiocy's not.'

They cackled. I drifted, and saw Timothy Giverill following me.

'Lovejoy?' I'd never seen anybody so worried. 'I'm glad to see you here for the meeting.

I don't mind telling you, I'm at my wit's end.' He gazed at me with bottled eyes, his Clarke Gable tash quivering. 'Who'd have thought my world would crash this way?

Insurance seemed so safe. And where will this Sotheby-Christie business end?'

'Who knows, Timothy?' Not me, that's for certain. What meeting?

He looked helpless. 'Four others are coming from the Midlands.'

'Well, as long as something happens.' What the hell were we on about?

He smiled tentatively. 'With you here we've a chance, especially with antiques.'

Me the arbiter of fair play? 'Always look on the bright side, Timothy.'

I felt sickened the way his expression cleared. 'Thank you, Lovejoy. Florence and I always liked you, despite your insurance trick on my company.'

'Here,' I said, narked. 'That wasn't my fault.'

'Say no more,' he said, smiling, and went back inside to Sandy's riot.

The insurance trick was one of my lucky moments. I'd found an old lady weeping at the Norwich bus stop. She'd had her bag stolen, containing hairdressing implements with which she eked out her pension undetected by marauding taxmen. She'd hoped to get her old husband a seventieth birthday present, and look what had happened.

'Two lads simply took it off me,' she'd sobbed.

'Good heavens,' I said. 'Leave it to me.'

Using the emergency number, I phoned East Anglia's finest, who told me to sod off – it was our Eastern Hundreds Crime Squad's snooker finals, when crime doesn't get a look in. So I phoned Bright Hawk Star Insurance from a phone box.

To Timothy – our first encounter – I explained. 'Two robbers knocked on her door and simply grabbed the brooch.'

I swore it was a genuine Edwardian bow-and-swag design (meaning all fragile loops and things) with lots of miniature rose-cut diamonds.

'Relatively cheap, really. It could have been frightfully valuable.' I kept cool. 'Typical early twentieth century. Incidentally,' and I lowered my voice, 'I happen to know she hasn't got long to live.'

To help, I described the imaginary brooch. Tip: Edwardian jewellery always looks slender, with lacy or bow-and-swag shape. Jewellers back then loved lots of small gemstones instead of one great rock. Remember that the style isn't the bonny later diamond cut. 'I recall it particularly because it was my great granny's.'

'No,' the old lady put in helpfully. 'It was my father's side ...' I hissed to silence the old crab.

Timothy started his insurer's resistance. I slipped in the casual threat that I was a by-liner for The Times. Mr Giverill promised a settlement cheque on receipt of a statement.

I posted one off. The following month, learning who I was, he tried to get me arrested.

I eeled out by threats of wrong publicity. Luckily, his Florence thought what I'd done was sweet. The old lady's still doing her hairdressing. That was how I encountered the Giverills.

You get the point? My rescue of the old lady was fair. Timothy Giverill saw it as doing down Ordered Society, though much later he asked for advice about an antique swing-topped table Florence wanted to sell.

What were they doing here, fish out of water? I wandered among the cars and motorbikes as Sandy's performance reached a tuneless crescendo. Lot of costly motors.

Plush leather, wooden dashboards, a couple with chauffeurs who frostily wound the windows up when I approached. No limos of the sort I'd seen at the Martello tower, and none with diplomatic plates.

Funny expression Timothy had used. What was it, Who'd have thought my world would crash this way? There was another: the Christie-Sotheby business. Had he really said that? Timothy had never done anything else except insurance, and they're all zombified.

You never meet a happy one, like farmers. And his gripe, Insurance seemed so safe.

They make money out of everything, don't they?

'Time they ended, eh?' I said to one limo driver.

'Two more hours. It'll be sodding dark.'

He spoke in disgust. I thought, hell fire. I had to meet Quaker's Maud for a genteel snog, perhaps, or a heartrending tears-and-jam butty out in the sticks. Holy people, Henrietta for instance, think my attitude's reprehensible. But holiness doesn't know that life is basically any port in a storm, and being without a woman is a truly terrible storm.

What can you do? I'd been deprived since Olive's feats in her motor. I thought, aha.

A quick search of the adjacent tennis courts and I found a frayed ball in the undergrowth. I borrowed a penknife from a driver, and slit the ball into hemispheres.

'My girlfriend's car,' I explained to his knowing grin.

Olive Makin's motor I knew well. I shoved the half ball flat over the lock, driver's side, and let it resume its shape. Couple of goes, the lock sprung. I got in and lay down to kip on the rear seat. I thought of switching the radio on but that would have meant scraping the wires. I wanted at least one week without a split nail.

Sleep came easily.