Every Last Cent

7

NOBODY HAS WORRIES like me. Mine drift behind like a vapour you're never free of.

In the early hours of the following night I was in a motor car with Olive Makins, parked on the edge of Riverside Park by the boating pond. After making smiles we nodded off.

Olive's a buxom lass on her fifteenth fiancé (she never weds), and says this time she'll stick by him until death do them part, or at least until Easter Sunday. More importantly, she's secretary of the local auctioneers' group. She knows her worth, does Olive. Her betrothed Victor is a hard-working antiques valuer. Incidentally, never, never ever, trust valuers. The law won't protect you if they guess wrong about your house or anything else.

My leg had gone gangrenous. Olive was no lightweight. She'd crushed my thigh between her shoulder and the handbrake – don't ask for details. I groaned at the pins and needles. She burst out laughing.

'Honestly, Lovejoy! You're as bad as that Yank.' She snuggled closer, heavier still. The windows were misted. My leg thrombosed.

'What Yank?'

'He almost went comatose on me! You men!'

'What Yank?' I pretended to be offended. Women love jealousy.

'Now, now, Lovejoy.' She fluttered her false eyelashes. I could feel the gale. Like being in a wind tunnel. 'He'll go back to the US when he's done the scam. You've no need to worry.'

'Who is he?' I put on my feeble I'm-all-envy.

'He's very big – I mean powerful.' She tittered. The motor shook but managed to stay upright. 'He's an insurance syndicate.'

'Now, Olive!' I chided, as gangrene crept upwards. My waist, I swear, went numb. 'You know everything about dealers in the Eastern Hundreds!'

'No, honest, Lovejoy. His investors keep themselves to themselves. You get kneecapped just for asking their telephone numbers.'

Mercifully the stress of thinking made her budge. She reached for her handbag, switched on the courtesy light and started trowelling on lipstick, mascara, moisturizer, powder. The air thickened. I wheezed. She munched her lips like they do. It always fascinates me. I keep wondering if makeup hurts. They say it doesn't.

'There was that prior, wasn't there? He was one. You knew him.'

'Look, daaarling. That bitch from Leeds who topped her husband was one. I met that ponce from Norway who inherited half their bleeding country. There's that Belgian royal who always has his hand in the till. And his ex-wife lodging at Saffron Fields. Them's the lot.'

'Shhh, Olive.' This time I was serious. Nobody stirred out in the dark, but you can never tell. 'They say her husband Taylor is decent.'

'Him? Weak as water. Doesn't even have the nerve to make his bitch do her bed work.

You can always tell. He's another who came sniffing round.'

'He fell for you, Olive. Like me.'

'Him? Cold as a fish, lovey.' She clicked her handbag, turned smiling at me in the gloaming. 'Still, he dined me, gave me a diamond pendant. See it? Not bad for two photocopies and a list of addresses!'

'Of what?' I heard her snort of derision. I'd been too blunt. 'You could charm any man with a bus ticket, dwoorlink.'

'Do you really mean that, Lovejoy?' she purred.

'Course. Hang on, love.'

I hauled the pendant jewel from her cleavage, no mean feat. I squinted at it against the glim. I sensed something, only by guess in the bad light, but I wasn't wrong. If the American bloke at Saffron Fields had used Olive, then he was a cheapskate. And here I was doing exactly the same thing.

'This is a diamond, love, but the torn trade calls these Light Brown Rejects.'

The torn trade means jewellery, from Cockney rhyming slang: tomfoolery, jewellery. In fury she switched on the interior light, revealing our clandestine meeting to the universe. I shrank in my seat.

'Not real?' she shrieked, as secret as Radio One.

I hadn't a loupe with me, but did the trick of squeezing together two fingers and a thumb to magnify sight in one eye. The diamond was stuffed with brown debris. Still genuine, but hardly worth a train fare. Diamonds are graded according to purity, flaws, size, other factors. It was my chance to maybe learn a bit more about Taylor and Susanne Eggers.

'This thing should be for industry.' I let go, and smiled my most sympathetic smile.

'They're the ones sold at multiple stores, dwoorlink.'

'The bastard!' she breathed. 'After all I did!'

'I'm sure he appreciated ...'

'For two auctioneers' boxes and a list of dealers?' She was in floods of tears. 'He said it was a priceless effing diamond that the Queen once wore ...'

And so on. I couldn't wait to get away fast enough, now I'd found out what I wanted. I know I sound horrible, but I'd a million excuses, most of them honestly nearly almost quite good. I tried to make it easier for Olive by telling her the tale.

'Listen, dwoorlink. What time is it?'

She told me some ungodly hour, still wailing.

'Look,' I said, all sudden brainwave. 'There's just time to get hold of Diamond Pease.

He'll still be there! Quick, love! Go, go!'

'Who? What for?'

'He might change it for us. Into a valuable stone!' Some hopes.

She struggled upright and switched on the ignition, enthusiasm returning.

'Who's Diamond Pease?'

How the hell should I know? I thought, narked. I'd just made him up.

'Works in Hatton Garden, London's diamond district. An old pal. Might not be able to do anything, but at least we can ask, right?'

'Right! Right!'

We careered from the rural scene, me eager as Olive to reach civilization – that is, the town centre miles from the woods and fields I detest. As she dropped me at the war memorial I kissed her long and passionately, thanking her for a wonderful tryst. I asked to keep the pendant. She said okay. I promised I'd throttle the Yank with it if I bumped into him. Wish I'd not said that now, but what can you do?

Olive had given me enough to be going on with.

'See you soon,' I promised as she gunned away.

She called something that I wish now I'd heard, but I was already limping off down the road, my leg rediscovering circulation.

Who had the power to manipulate police, the judiciary and all the local antiques dealers including auctioneers, plus the local hoods? Nobody, that's who. Meaning no one person. But there is one mob – note the term – that has. It is mightier than the sum of its parts.

It's called the raj.

Some people call it the tally, the old word for counting, as if they're a benign club of elderly gents, all quill pens and ledgers.

Wrong.

They say the raj began when Raffles was rollicking round the Far East. Or maybe in Hong Kong or India back in the days of the Raj proper when pirates – loyal and freebooters alike – rioted over the globe trying to keep one horizon ahead of a vengeful Royal Navy. Me, I believe the raj began in the horrendous slums of Seven Dials or London's evil Arches, or St Giles Parish where starving folk had to steal for bread.

Dealers speak of it with bated breath. I'd never met, as far as I know, anybody in the raj. There's supposed to be from nine to fourteen of the blighters. Who they are nobody knows. There was talk that Big John Sheehan was in. And that Willie Lott had tried to gain entry, and been rejected. I gulped. I was terrified of Sheehan.

Olive was supposed to be in the know. Now, I wasn't so sure.

The raj frightens me, like everything unknown. They're said to top, as in eliminate, three or four antique dealers each year, and to be involved with arms handlers, drug lords, and political taipans you don't mess with. They control some of the great auction houses but from without. That is to say, they charge each auction a fee to simply allow it to go ahead, especially if it's going to change, say, the price of Impressionist paintings or early New England walnut furniture or Hepplewhite items.

I put Olive's pendant in my pocket and forgot about it.

For peace of mind, I paused to watch the Women's Institute making cakes. They're good at it. Occasionally I help out, shifting tables, lugging chairs. They give me edibles that have been damaged in transit, and a cuppa. I sat on the grass watching and thinking. I'd seen Susanne Eggers and Consul Sommon leaving my cottage. Ex-spouses, who'd left evidence of passion.

I reflected. Are we really the people we say we are?

We're a rotten species. Yet every so often something restores your faith, makes you think we're not so bad after all. Like the great Cash Dispenser Bonanza. True story, incidentally:

It happened just before the Millennium celebrations. A bloke rushed into a pub calling,

'Free money! Free money!'

Folk thought, hello, old George has been at the ale again, and continued chatting, drinking.

Except it was true.

Across the dark street, nine o'clock at night, a bank's cash machine inexplicably started giving out twice what you asked for, and debiting your account with half. The crowd flowed across the road to examine this curious phenomenon. Jubilation!

Within seconds an orderly queue formed. One bloke even took charge, calling out,

'Three goes only, please. Then return to the back of the queue. Keep in line. Please don't obstruct the pavement...' And would you believe, a police motor cruised by. The bobby asked was everything in order. 'Yes, thanks, constable,' the line replied, party hats at rakish angles, blowing razzers and laughing merrily. 'Happy New Year,' the bobbies said, driving off. The revellers replied, 'Thanks, lads, and the same to you!'

There was no riot. No shoving, no weapons, just people taking their turn with lots of,

'No, please go ahead, mate. I've already had a go,' and all that. There, in rain-sodden northern England, order ruled until the machine gasped out its last note, when the crowd returned to their wassailing.

Okay, people in effect robbed the bank. But the point is valid: people's good manners withstood the severest test of all, which is unbridled greed gratified free of charge.

Hearing of the incident warmed the cockles of my heart.

When you are feeling down, though, your sourest convictions are sometimes confirmed.

Like Rita. She's a legend in the Eastern Hundreds. Rita was a restless lady. I knew her distantly. She was alluring, evidently very rich. I'd have loved her given half a chance.

She got through four husbands, accumulating investments. The trouble was, every penny was in her baby granddaughter's name.

Came the day when the world's watch collectors were stunned by the announcement that a Supercomplication was on sale. Rita snapped into action, announced that she was going to buy it for her baby granddaughter. We talked of nothing else for weeks.

Antique dealers even applauded her as she swanned round. Rita was going for the Big One!

The Supercomplication?

Back in 1933, a firm called Patek Philippe in Switzerland made watches. Nothing new.

Two American watch collectors were rivals. Henry Graves ran a bank, Mr Packard –that one – made cars. Being American, they were multimillionaires. Obligingly the Swiss watchmakers set to, turning out ever more intricate and complicated watches to please the two friends. Until 1933, when the Henry Graves Supercomplication hit the road. It was almost impossibly refined: handcrafted, gold, nearly a thousand parts, it eclipsed all timepieces. It even gauged the wind, tides, moons. Clearly the last word. The rival Yanks called time, as it were.

This brilliant instrument was Rita's focus. She would buy the 1933 Patek Supercomplication for her baby granddaughter, who would be set up for life! Everybody loved Rita's devotion! The baby's trust funds were mobilized. Came the day when Rita embarked for the exciting Sotheby's sale amid an adoring crowd. I went to see her off on the London train, calling 'Good luck, love!' like the rest of the duckeggs. Jessica from Trinity Street's Antiques Nookery lit candles for Rita's success in Lion Walk church.

Rita reached London with her sack of money.

And kept going. And vanished.

That was the last anybody saw of Rita or the money. She never bid at the auction. She now lives with swarthy youths in Marbella, or on some Greek island, or Bali.

Rumours vary. Jessica angrily sticks pins in a Rita doll every Lady Day. I organized a whip-round for her granddaughter, who is six now. Her parents run a garden centre out on the Ipswich road, struggling to make ends meet.

The lesson is that we're a rotten species.

Antiques make crooks of us all. Is it the notion of something for nothing? My erstwhile lady Maya, who sells antique cosmetic potions in the Arcade, says it's the terror of thinking that some worthless trinket – maybe an ordinary dress ring discovered on pantomime fripperies, or that ugly brooch from Auntie Mabel's bequest – will suddenly turn out to be a priceless heirloom. We argue about this. She says it's the risk of nearly having chucked out Grampa's valuable old rocking chair, or given Auntie Edith's dull old clip-on to some jumble sale, that makes everybody desperate. Calamity breathtakingly avoided, and the relief that cascade of money finally brings, is the cause of the joys and murders. 'It's like sexual love,' Maya says repeatedly. 'Bliss, ecstasy, triumph, disaster.'

Maybe she's right. I dunno.

Vestry was the last antique dealer to die in odd circumstances. Rio Dauntless had reminded me.