Spend Game (5 page)

The road to Peldon seems downhill, through woods and receding fields. After a dozen miles the sea glistens and the estuary’s before you. Mersea Island’s a mile off, with the Strood road straight as a die across sea marshes then climbing the island’s dark green shore. It floods with each tide. When that happens you follow the marker posts, but it’s safer to wait for low water. Peldon’s the village this side.

Bill and Jean Hassall had married, to general astonishment, only a month before. They’d been lovers and antiques-dealer partners for six years. Patrick shrilly called them obscene exhibitionists, then insisted on choosing Jean’s wedding outfit. He drove us all crackers, phoning everybody at all hours asking if beige clashes with yellow, stuff like that. We’d all gone. A boring business, enlivened only by Big Frank trying to do a deal with the vicar for his sixteenth-century reredos.

Their bungalow stands back from the narrow rutted lane. Bill keeps geese and chickens. Jean does folksy handloom weaving, using invented patterns she says look Gothic. Bill’s car was missing when I bowled up. He usually leaves it by the gate. Just my luck to find them out. Timothy sprinted up, barking furiously, then halted sheepishly when he recognized me. He rolled over on his back.

‘Look,’ I said as I passed, ‘Let’s come to some arrangement. You don’t scratch my belly, and I’ll not scratch yours. Okay?’

He followed me round the back, wagging happily. Why these animals are always so pleased at me I don’t know. Jean was in, clacking away at her loom. I knocked on the open window.

‘Is that supposed to be medieval?’

‘Lovejoy.’ Her eyes were wet. ‘Did you –’

‘I heard.’

‘He decorated our bungalow,’ she said, weeping steadily.

‘Your woofs a mile out,’ I couldn’t resist telling her. ‘Early English weaving’s characterized by –’

She gave me a half-incredulous laugh and shook her head. ‘Come in, Lovejoy. You’re good for the soul.’

Timothy hurtled ahead of me into the little kitchen, obviously delighted at the digression.

‘Bill’s gone into town. Inspector Maslow phoned.’ She mechanically started to fill a kettle.

‘Did Leckie call here last night, Jean?’

She paused, looking tearfully at me. The kettle overflowed but she took no notice for a moment.

‘No.’ She suddenly became careful, slow in her actions. I watched, thinking, oho. The match, the stove, the coffee bit. ‘How did you find out, Lovejoy?’ she asked quietly.

I almost said find out what, but turned it into a shrug just in time. I stirred Timothy absently with my foot to gain a second. My mind blared,
What the hell’s going on around here?
Suddenly I felt completely out of touch with everything.

‘Oh, just two and two,’ I said casually.

‘Do the rest know?’

‘Well, no.’
Know what?

‘It was my fault, not Leckie’s.’ Jean stared out of the kitchen window, swirling a spoon round and round in the same cup, her eyes fixed on nowhere. ‘Bill has no idea, Lovejoy. Please.’

I nodded, avoiding her by playing with Timothy. Now it was Jean and Leckie, as well as Leckie and Val. Gawd, I thought, Leckie put it about. Nearly as bad as me.

‘We broke it off a dozen times,’ she went on absently. ‘I think Bill occasionally suspected. You know how Leckie was – self-sufficient, independent. He never really needed me, not really. I don’t know why he bothered. Now this.’ Jean wept steadily, stirring away.

I gave her a minute, then interrupted. ‘The auction. You saw him at the auction?’

‘Yes, but not like that.’ She sniffed and dabbed her face. ‘Only with the others. We left before him.’

‘Why did Maslow phone you?’

‘Our address was in Leckie’s car.’

Which all seemed fair enough and quite tidy. Now, Bill Hassan’s a cheerful pleasant sort of chap. He wasn’t the sort to do Leckie in because of Leckie and Jean. At least, so I thought. Anyway, the point didn’t arise because Bill hadn’t known. Jean said so, and women are famous for being pretty shrewd about this sort of thing.

‘Where did Leckie leave his stuff?’

She swung round, ready to accuse me of greed the same way Val had. Then she paused, tilted her head quizzically.

‘You clever bastard, Lovejoy. You didn’t know.’ She examined me some more. ‘So I gave myself away. Lovejoy, it – it
was
accidental?’

‘What else?’ I rolled Timothy about. He was in ecstasy. Dogs never seem to worry like us.

‘Leckie takes – took his stuff with him. Isn’t it to some place in town?’

The problem seemed clear, yet more obscure. Leckie had loaded his items from yesterday’s auction. They’d now vanished. Then Leckie got done, with precision, by two hard lads who’d searched his car and found nothing. Apparently, he’d been late leaving Medham.

I decided not to wait for Bill. There was an antiques fair at the King George in town. Everybody would be there sussing out the exhibits, and so would I. Timothy accompanied me reproachfully to my crate. Jean waved me off from her window. I heard the clack-clack of her handloom begin. Some consolation.

As I pulled away I had a sudden curious thought. Forget for a moment the problem of where Leckie had
been.
The mystery then changed into: Where was Leckie
going
? That narrow lane where Sue and I snog leads hardly anywhere, maybe a farm or two. In fact, it’s one of these purposeless loop roads the ancient Britons were expert at creating, which is why I invariably choose it for seeing Sue and other birds.

I swung left on to the town road, the estuary behind me, now worried sick. Did Leckie know where I’d be snogging busily in the rain last night? Maybe he did, and came haring that way because the hard lads were after him.

I felt ill. If so, Leckie had been racing to find me. For help. And I’d sat there safely out of the rain contentedly rutting and watching him get done. Not good enough, Lovejoy. Nil out of ten, and no star for effort.

‘Do better next time.’ I gave myself the stern order in the clattering car. Only there would be no next time for Leckie. I normally feel quite proud of myself, even if nothing happens to justify the feeling. This time I drove miserably on, feeling a louse, I tried eating my reserve pasty which I keep in a cardboard box under the seat, but threw most out of the window. I felt I didn’t deserve it.

T
INKER WAS IN
the sixth pub I tried. By then I was hot and irritable. He was surrounded by a clique of mournful barkers each sourly trying to avoid buying the next round and whining in unison about the lack of antiques. Finding them’s supposed to be their job. They live on commission, which ranges from a single pint to ten per cent of the purchase price. Tinker, the filthy old devil, was swilling and whining with the rest but I knew his instinct was still there, his brain still tuned for the slightest stray hint of an antique. I’d been screaming for a Regency model of any local East Anglian church, but he’d not come up with one. And I had a beautiful delicious buyer – actually an irascible retired colonel, but you know what I mean. These models are often done in real stone, complete with gargoyles and real stained glass, real slate and real lead. And when I say ‘often’, you’ll realize by now that term’s relative. Cost? Oh, nowadays, you’d have to sell your house and car to bid for a good one. Points to look for: named modellists (especially those who
dated
their creations); named churches; whether the model is of a church now destroyed and (last but certainly not least) the model’s provenance – that
is, who’s had it all this time. Remember you’re not looking for something tiny – one will cover the average coffee table, doll’s house scale. Exquisite things.

‘Tinker. Your wally’s in,’ somebody called, meaning me. A wally is a barker’s dealer. I’m good to Tinker. I’m always a mile behind with my payment but I never default. Other dealers ‘slice’ their barkers’ commissions all the time. That’s why I’m poor and other dealers aren’t. Honesty’s a real drag.

I gave Tinker the bent eye and he carried his pint over.

‘Just having me dinner, Lovejoy. No dinkie yet.’ For dinkie read antique and authentic scale model.

‘Sod it. Sit down.’ Normally I’d have gone over and joined them. I made sure nobody could overhear. ‘Concentrate. About Leckie, women, and me.’

‘Eh?’

‘Did Leckie know about Sue?’

Tinker’s stubby face opened in a cadaverous toothy grin. ‘One day you’ll catch it, Lovejoy. Everybody knows you’re a randy swine.’ I held my breath as his cackle wafted over me in a foetid alcoholic spray. ‘Sure he did.’

‘Did he know
where
?’

‘Not from me, Lovejoy.’ He began to get my drift and became wary. ‘But they call it .your loop. That by-road you park in.’ This seemed suddenly hilarious to him and he couldn’t resist falling about some more. ‘Lovejoy’s loop. Leap’s more like it, eh?’

‘Very witty, Tinker,’ I gave back gravely. ‘So, Leckie knew where Sue and I go?’

He sank back into his whining position. ‘I told nobody, Lovejoy. Honest. It weren’t me.’

‘Calm down,’ I said testily. ‘I’ve a job for you – find Leckie’s stuff.’

He stared puzzled. ‘It’s all at Val’s. I shifted your stuff. His is –’

‘No, lad.’ I let the fact sink in. His face unscrewed suddenly.

‘Hey! You’re right! From the auction –’

‘Shut up, you burke,’ I hissed, throttling him with a hand. He wheezed as I let go. The barkers were listening hard, pretending to chat still; they go all casual, the only time in their lives they seem off-hand.

‘His Medham pickings,’ Tinker whispered, as if he’d thought of them and not me. ‘They weren’t in Val’s cellar. Where are they, Lovejoy?’

I gave him a sour grin. ‘Off you go.’ I could see the penny drop.

‘Oh. How soon, Lovejoy? Next week?’ he asked hopefully. My smile dimmed his expression.

‘By tonight, Tinker. Come to the cottage. No phoning.’

‘Lovejoy.’ He flicked the quid I gave him out of sight like a frog does a gnat. ‘Why’s Maslow sniffing about?’

‘We tell him nowt,’ I said curtly.

‘And Val’s all burned up about you,’ he warned.

I shrugged and left Tinker to saunter back to his cronies while I set out to walk over to the King George by the cattle market. That didn’t mean Tinker was being idle. If anything could be sniffed out between now and midnight about Leckie’s secret cran Tinker would find it. More important still, he’d make it seem he wasn’t actually looking for anything in particular. That was vital. I didn’t want those two heavies coming after me, but I badly needed to find Leckie’s stuff before they got their hands on it. After all, you don’t
go killing somebody for
cheap
antiques, do you? Only for valuable, pricey items. And things hadn’t been going too well for me lately. I was uncomfortably near the breadline. I was mad at myself for having missed spotting the stuff he’d bought. In fact, I couldn’t quite understand it because I’m what’s known in antiques as a ‘divvie’. Put me near a genuine antique and I gong like a fire bell. And the more brilliant the antique, the more I gong. Sometimes I can’t hear people speaking for the beautiful clanging of my hidden bell. So I was shaken by all this in more ways than one. If there had been anything at all at Medham yesterday I ought to have sussed it out just by standing there looking daft. As it was I’d only felt a few minor chimes. Leckie couldn’t have got blotted for mere junk, could he? Vaguely possible, but a hell of a mistake for somebody to make. I could hear street music up ahead, and went between the narrow gabled houses towards the sound.

The other thing which intrigued me was that the two heavies had not even glanced about in the lane, nor shone a light. Therefore, they didn’t know it was Lovejoy’s famous loop. But Tinker said all our local dealers
did
know, which suggested that the pair weren’t locals. Anyhow, I hadn’t recognized them. Nor would I, in the dark. They had lacked the feel of familiar figures, which was good enough for me, but I was sure they were men. Could Fergus have been one?

Our brass band was playing tipsily in the old coachyard of the King George as I walked in. People milled about. I like Sunday antique fairs because only the nicest kinds of people are about. The cold thought clanged somewhat as I went in through the arid saloon bar – only the nicest kinds of people plus two. And if
Tinker managed to find Leckie’s escritoire, old leather bag and book, those two horrible purposeful killers would come knocking on my door, sure as God built trees.

I waved to a few other dealers, beaming like an ape. There’s nothing so unprofitable as gloom in our game. Margaret was there, inevitably at the porcelains. She was wearing a new green dress, simple and fetching. That’s why I like older women. They never make mistakes the way younger ones do. She beckoned me across. I pushed into the smoke, elbowing the noisy crowd and giving out big hellos everywhere.

‘Brought your chequebook, Lovejoy?’ Sven cracked.

‘Mine’s empty. I fetched yours instead, Sven.’

A laugh all round. Margaret pointed with her eyes. One porcelain leapt into clear view and suddenly I could hardly breathe. Bustelli’s porcelains are always on too shallow a base which is uninterestingly level. His cavaliers and ladies, though, are superb. He modelled them mostly from the Italian stage, gestures and all. After he died in 1763 – he barely reached middle age – the Nymphenburg factory in Bavaria was never the same. The most valuable of his porcelains is the Coffee-Drinkers, a Turkish chap swigging with his bird, all rococo. And this was such a piece, genuine, by the master. I could feel the blood drain from my face.

‘No,’ I said, pretending away. It took all my strength. ‘Did you think it was Bustelli?’ I chuckled a shrill badly acted chuckle at her folly.

‘Well . . .’ Margaret hesitated, knowing me.

The thirty or so stalls were set out around the rectangular dance hall, mostly draped trestle tables pushed as far back as they would go. It costs a few quid
to rent one for the day. An antiques fair usually brings more dealers than collectors. Today we were here in force. This particular stall was a real miscellany of stuff; Victorian fob-watches, spoons, playing-cards, old embroidery samplers and pottery. And in the middle this luscious piece of Bustelli. You never see his Coffee-Drinkers without their background of delicate scroll-work, invariably beautifully done. It was Nodge’s stall, the ‘thin’ dealer I mentioned.