Every Last Cent

6

GIMBERT'S AUCTION ROOMS were crowded. I was pleased, but worried Liza was in.

In prison slang, to 'chiff off' means to escape, slink away unseen, from the old word for a file or knife. Two years ago, sociologists did a survey on work defaulters. And who were the worst skivers? Answer: TV people – broadcasters, technicians. And second?

The police, that's who. The sociologists didn't test themselves, clever old idlebacks that they were.

Liza used to be a posh sociologist before she clawed her way free to be a reporter. She has special links with the plod. Liza's a stringer, meaning she hangs about hoping for a political scandal, a train explosion, or some meteor to strike before her very eyes. Every reporter's dream. She distrusts me, unfairly, because of something that wasn't my fault.

Gimbert has taken over the East Hill auctioneers and is now the biggest in East Anglia.

He's a sombre grouser of ill fame who endears himself to all by upping his auctioneer's commission every millisec.

'Auctioneers win every time, Lovejoy,' Liza said, guessing from my expression. 'Today, he's going to charge buyers and vendors.'

'Wotcher, Liza. Any news?'

'Out, Lovejoy!' Gimbert called, imperious and testy, on his high seat. 'I'm not having you saying these genuine antiques are forgeries. Out!'

'I'm going, Gimby.'

Banishment didn't altogether displease me, though I really did want to drift among the lots. In every auction, however tatty, musty dusty fortunes lurk, just waiting for me (or, less deservingly, you). Vague shapes of maybe brilliant Turners and Gainsboroughs hang on yonder cavernously dark walls. Cabinets of jewellery – currently the most prolific source of lucky finds – and grimy porcelains, all bring a different magic. My rule about auctions is that every auction contains gold. This is the reason that viewing days are like women, full of brilliant promise. Always have been, always will be.

The lads yelled delighted insults at Gimbert's command, the female dealers smiling silent jeers. I left, giving them all that backhanded wave the old Queen Mother had off to a tee, and went to stand on the pavement outside. There I annoyed Gimbert by pressing my nose against his murky window pane.

The reason I wasn't narked by this exile was that Mrs Alicia Domander was already halfway round Gimbert's load of tat and would be out soon. She always carries her dog.

It's called Peshy, and is a special breed known as a Bichon something. She and I know that, lineage apart, little Peshy is truly special. It's a kleptomaniac, the cleverest thief in the Eastern Hundreds. Who suspects a dog?

Alicia herself wasn't a bad eye, for a human klepto, meaning that a good third of what she nicked was always decent quality. Like, if Alicia Domander casually inspected Fee and Brogan's displays of earrings, gems, necklaces, at our Saturday market, she'd be sure to come away with a dozen stolen pieces hidden about her shapely person, of which three, and maybe four, would be genuine and not paste. I respect a woman whose batting average is that good. Usually 'stickers' (shoplifters, smalltime street thieves) only manage to steal one worthwhile item in twenty. It's their own fault. They don't concentrate. To a dyed-in-the-wool sticker the theft's the excitement. Alicia Domander once confessed that thieving was better than sex, which only goes to show how barmy some folk are.

'She'll not bring anything out, Lovejoy,' a familiar voice said.

My heart sank. Police, this early? 'Wotcher, Sep.'

Sep Verner had once been in the nick with me. I'd showed him how to paint like Van Gogh. To repay me and society he became a copper, CID no less. He takes bribes, to show that not all education is wasted. He's tall and languid, a better than average dresser, and hates blokes who wear earrings.

'Who's the Yank bird, renting Saffron Fields?'

'Eh? No idea, Sep.'

'Funny. Her husband gave your name to Grundy. Wants a search done on you. You should've heard us laugh.'

I eyed him. He grins friendly, but menace always does. I saw him kick a bloke nigh to death over an argument about a pop song. In another life.

'Search for what?' I said, just as Mrs Domander came briskly out, hesitated only slightly then walked on. Her expensive leather handbag was bulging. She wears the latest fashions. You never see her without a loony hat and lace gloves. She carried Peshy, who was looking smug.

'Past transgressions, Lovejoy. Come and be interviewed.'

Without a word to Mrs Domander or a gesture to the antique dealers crowding the auctioneer's windows, I entered his motor. We drove to the police station.

'This is a kindness on my part, officer,' I told Sep loudly as we disembarked. 'I only have a few minutes.'

Which was true. You can't be compelled to accompany the plod unless they arrest you.

It's a mistake to go, because they keep you there, using all sorts of coercion, kidding you that they've limitless power when they haven't. (Incidentally, never let them into your home, either, because they're hard to get rid of. These are the forces of law and order I'm talking about.)

'This way, Lovejoy.' He walked ahead, entered a bare room. Somebody followed me in.

I stood there like a prat. 'This the same man?' he asked.

'He's the one.' Taylor Eggers, still in garden gear.

'You still got it, Lovejoy?' Sep went conversational. 'Just give it back and this gent won't press charges.'

'Got what?' I asked, blank.

'His painting, the one you nicked.'

My eyes closed as headache struck. How could I nick an antique from Saffron Fields manor, when I hadn't, and my supposed offspring Mortimer was .. .?

'Knock it off, Lovejoy. You were seen hanging around. It happens to be Mrs Eggers's ancestor. Show him, sir.'

The Yank brought out several papers, unfolded them. Receipt for an ancient portrait, shippers, customs stamps, import duty waivers, the lot.

'Better proof of honesty than the last opium shipment,' I joked feebly.

'Ha ha,' Sep said gravely. 'Where'd you cran it?'

A cran is a place where you leave stolen stuff. It can be a grand London auctioneer's warehouse, a remote godown amid tangled thickets, or simply a hollow brick in a disused garage. Mine is a tombstone corner in St Peter's churchyard on North Hill.

'Sorry, Sep. Never seen it. Sure, I went to Saffron Fields, to see ...'

Oops. I petered out. I had a barmy job for the lovely Susanne Eggers, assemble several phoney divvies to suss out some antiques. This American bloke with the homely attire and greying hair, looking unflappable, was Mr Eggers. Presumably we were on the same side, but in which battle? And these Yanks thought Mortimer the village nut?

This is what I meant about families. Great invention, but they're chains of trouble.

'To see ...?' Sep prompted.

'Er, if I could get a job, Sep.' I shrugged, almost caught a nod from Mr Eggers. 'No luck, though.'

'Will you be bringing charges, Mr Eggers, sir?' Sep asked. I stared. Humility and the plod just don't go.

'You've been great, Sergeant,' Eggers said. 'I'll consult my lawyers. Thank you.'

We watched him leave. Sep exhaled a foul breath, truly naff. Paprika? Must be in the Police Training Manual; first get bad breath.

He clicked sundry controls. Tape deck off. No record of this next bit of chat.

'Bunce, Lovejoy.' He said it quietly. 'If you find the Eggers's missing portrait, I want a cut.'

'Money, Sep? I've got none.'

'Like me.' He gave a cadaver's grin. Yellow teeth. 'I need some. I'll be frank, Lovejoy.

Got a bird in my sights. Married, though. Officer's daughter.'

'Birds are private. Can't help you.'

'You can.' We waited, some longer than others. He looked his old self, shifty, on the cadge. 'She's class. Her hubby's in antiques. Lame, though. I know I could get her – if I'd bunce enough.'

He wanted wealth, to lure an antique dealer's wife? Who doesn't? It never happens in real life. If I ever get a wadge, some bird dissects it from me. If some bonny woman happens along, I'm always broke. It's how life is.

'Why ask me, Sep?'

'This American woman's well connected. She's the ex of the American consul. He's called Sommon, official residence in Norwich.'

Yet Mr Sommon still frolics with his ex-wife, aka Mrs Susanne Eggers, currently leasing Saffron Fields with her new husband, the benign portrait-hunting Taylor Eggers?

'Find the portrait, Lovejoy. It could mean big gelt.' He must have noticed my mistrust, so added the robber baron's time-honoured incentive. 'You'd be doing me a big favour, Lovejoy. Fiddle it for me, I'd see you right.'

Unlikely. Hoods help police, sure, but police only help themselves.

'Okay,' I said, with what sincere honesty I could. 'You'll keep it fair, eh?'

'Honest,' he said, and let me go.

An hour later I traced Mrs Alicia Dormander. She was having tea by the fountain. She'd already sold her thefts, to my disappointment. She stood me tea and a wad. A real lady.

I honestly like her. The cosmetics on her face are always so thick that her face cracks when she smiles. Rouge, mascara, lipstick, foundation, it becomes a mass of craquelure, like an Old Master. You have to admire class.

'Look, love,' I said. 'Let me see your next lot before you sell it, okay? I'm running on empty.'

'How many times must I tell you, Lovejoy? There's only one deal — do a countrywide sweep with me. We'd clean up.'

'Whatcher mean, love?'

Her dog had its own plate and bowl on the table. It smirked.

'You suss out the viewings.' She smiled. Her mask crizzled. 'Tell me which antiques are genuine. Me and Peshy do the rest. Fifty fifty.'

'Lend us a few zlotniks, eh? I saw you coming out of Gimbert's.'

'The money's for Peshy's grooming session, isn't it, Peshy-Weshy?'

She clasped the smug little wart to her cleavage. I watched with envy.

'Okay,' I said, broken. I come second to a dog the size of a hamster. 'It's a deal. I'll say when, and where, right?'

'Travel expenses as we go, Lovejoy?'

I was so dejected I even agreed to that.

Rio Dauntless can lie his way into history books. He's famous. He's a bloke with squid eyes, hunched from stooping as he collects money for good causes. He adopts shabby gentility.

'Dress up, or too grubby,' he once warned me in all seriousness, 'they'll give you snot all. They think you're either rich or Fagin, see? Get it just right, and you'll have to open a bank account.'

He was a composer once, trained at Oxford's famed school of music. Except he wasn't, because he's been everywhere, done everything, and done none. Rio Dauntless was born a liar.

'Don't say liar, Lovejoy,' he rebuked me once. 'Say fibber. The difference is criminality.

A fib's innocent, like you, like me. A liar is a criminal.'

'Like you, like me?' I'd asked. He only shrugged.

I found him collecting in the station caff. It's self-service. There he was, going from table to table, holding an official-looking collecting tin. He has a plastic identity-tag on a blue ribbon. He's quite small, looks dour yet quite spruce. I listened to his spiel.

'Good day. Please forgive the intrusion. I'm collecting for flowers, to mark the road accident last year on the northbound carriageway of the trunk road intersection. I want to lay a wreath. Poor girl. I'm only asking for your smallest coin. Just one. It was at the flyover, a foreign pantechnicon. If you do not wish to contribute, God bless you.'

It's at this point that Rio smiles and sadly moves away – only to be called back. People force coins into his tin. He demurs, then graciously gives way. Women usually take him at his word, one coin, but blokes are extra generous, because all small-car family men hate lorries. Astonishingly, they remember the tragic accident, even though it never happened. There simply is no trunk road intersection. Nor a flyover, no northbound carriageway. Rio says people like a fable.

'Excuse me, sir,' he asked me, grovelling up. 'Please forgive the intrusion. I'm collecting

... Oh, Christ. It's you, Lovejoy.'

'I heard about the tragedy,' I said loudly, not to let him down. 'Here you are, my man.'

I dropped a non-existent farthing in his tin. One good myth deserves another. I left then, to sit by the gaming machines. He emerged and joined me.

'Odd how many remember non-existent accidents. They get worked up. The women ask what flowers I'll get. It's hard keeping track. I told one old dear Altsromeria. She said get carnations, symbol of peace. Whatcher want, Lovejoy?'

'Who's these Yanks at Saffron Fields, then?'

'Her?' He gave a laugh, except his laughs only sound, never show. That's because he's in character. 'She's a psychic. Does tarot cards, the future.'

'What's she up to? Wants me to—'

'Get some actors? I heard. She was wed to that American consul Sommon from Anchor Key in Norwich. Her current husband is—'

'Got all that, Rio. She's after some portrait.'

'Dunno.' He searched his mind for scraps. 'The consul's a big London investor. They divorced three years back.'

Could that be? 'Yanks make their millions in New York and Los Angeles. That's why they're all millionaires.'

'He insures antiques. She recruits investors for him.'

'An antiques club?'

They were common enough. I'd not heard of a local one starting up, not at this level.

Usually they're small fry, everybody chipping in a shilling a week and hoping to get a cheap Rembrandt.

'Last I heard, Bernicka was seeing her. Trying to communicate with Leonardo da Vinci.'

Bernicka is enough to make a saint groan. I groaned.

'Nobody else?'

He looked askance. Like I said, squid eyes, trying to find a rock. He was an enemy to me once, hoping for neutrality. Finally, out it came.

'Remember Vestry?'

'Aye. Topped himself.' One of our local tragedies.

He came to a decision. 'Suicide. I'd look into his death, if I were you.'

'Sep Verner. Wasn't he Soco?'

'Scene of the Crime Officer? Yep. Don't say I said, eh?'

'Now, would I?' I said evenly.

'Is that it?'

I said ta, and thumbed a lift to town. Consistent rumours, then, but not much else. I'd been tempted to tap Rio for a few zlotniks, except it didn't seem proper, him collecting for flowers for that terrible accident... I caught myself. It's hard not to be dragged in when the lie – sorry, fib – is that good. I ought to have remembered that, too.