The Lies of Fair Ladies (19 page)

She drew breath as we started up North Hill. "Don't," I
said quickly to forestall her saying but that was illegal. "It's done
everywhere. All you need is to identify yourself to the dollop broker and he'll
surrender your goods—"

"Your
stolen
goods,
Lovejoy," she reprimanded primly.

"Until they get to Japan, or some other country where the
statute of limitations is short. Then it's all legit. Out come your stolen
Monets, Rembrandts, and you invest in Switzerland's holier-than-thou banking
system, with the other mafiosi."

"I've never heard the like."

"You did it yourself, love," I pointed out quietly.
"Today. You bought a bubby pot, a very valuable item, from an unsuspecting
teacher for a fifth of the value it realized at auction."

"But that was legal, and fair, Lovejoy." She gave the
woman's too-patient smile.

She was proud of that, but somebody had to tell her. "Will
you send him the balance?"

"Of course not!" she cried indignantly, swerving in the
traffic at the fork. "You're talking of hiding, well, stolen goods!
Crime's ill-gotten gains!"

"If you say so."

Truce time. We arrived at the restaurant in the friendly silence
armistice brings. But to me there's not all that much difference. I mean, on
the one hand a bloke thieves some precious work of art and stashes it away in a
dollop broker's shed or wherever, maybe gets caught, does his time. He then
comes out and shifts it overseas and sells on the open market, possibly even at
a famous multinational auctioneer's. And retires to blondes and a casino. On
the other, you give a person a pittance, hoof it with his antique and keep the
profit. The only difference is that one defrauds you of all the antique's
value, and the other denies most of it. It's the sort of scandal everybody
dreams of, you and me, kings and presidents. Oh, and antique dealers.

We dined, had a lovely candle-lit supper, becoming friendly and
apologetic as the hours turned quiet and the town edged into slumber. She
dropped me off at the cottage, and I went in to find my own brand of hell
waiting.

At first I thought there was only one man waiting for me.

He was sitting on my chair. Bulky shadows behind the door told me
he was well gooned.

Del Vervain's show is a scatty prattle-and-tune radio thing.
Really boring, but so popular for so long that everybody knows his voice. It's
interviews with the flighty and mighty. He does a written-out patter of
mind-bendingly dull boyish wit. Every so often he ushers a new guest on, who
grovels to set up Del's next punch line. He occasionally slips into the
vernacular, you-and-me friendly, changes accents admirably. The standing joke
is that Del's jokes are utter dross, lines deliberately wrong. Del tops them
with infantile slickness. The audience is milked of every handclap. You've
probably heard it. It's really crud.

"Lovejoy. Sit down." That magic accent.

I didn't, hoping a run was on the cards. In the corner of my eye a
shadow stepped a yard. I stayed where I was.

"You recognize me, I'm sure." Del Vervain seemed about
to make a quirky remark, then remembered I was the only audience. Odd to see
him real, so familiar from the tabloid supplements. But threatening.

"Yes." I cleared my throat, tried it without falsetto.
"Yes. You're on the wireless. Heaven With Vervain.”

"Bright, bright." Somebody snickered behind me.
"You know my wife, Joan."

Flat statement, denial out of the question. "Yes."

"You've been fucking her ragged, Lovejoy."

Put that bluntly, my breath went away. "Well, I, er—"

"She's going to take you away from . . . all this." A
casual look brought a roomful of snickers, snuff-snuff-snuff.

"Nothing definite's been arranged. Honest."

"No air tickets? No grand Rolls booked in Monaco? No marriage
ceremony? No media notified? The banks?"

"She's talked of a, er, flight. But the rest is news to
me."

"Honest?" He leant forward, smiling eyes questing over
my face as if in wonderment. "Do you mean honest, Lovejoy?"
Snuff-snuff-snuff. Two goons? Three?

"Well, yes.” My squeaky throat had gone again.

"'Honest' is a word you seem to use rather a lot,
Lovejoy." He clicked on a hand recorder. It whittered and a snatch of my
conversation came on, scratchy, but definitely me. I seemed to say
"honest" every second word. It was me in Woody's, fixing up a chop on
an item in Wittwoode's Auction.

"I’m an honest bloke."

He smiled then, with relish. Sickeningly I knew what was going to
happen. He reached some letters off the table. They'd been opened.

"Here," I said indignantly. "Those are my—"

"Air tickets, Lovejoy. New lease, apartment in Monte Carlo.
Bank accounts in your name. One account in joint names, you and . . . guess
who?"

I groaned. The stupid, stupid cow had jumped the gun. Monte Carlo?
I live here, for God's sake.

"I was going to talk her out of it," I whimpered.
"Honest."

"There you go again, Lovejoy. All honesty, no reality. I
gather you're famous for it."

"It's a mistake. I wasn't ever going away with her.
Honest—er, truly."

He stuffed the letters into a pocket, dropped an embossed envelope
on the table. Two nerks came into the light where I could see how very big they
were. Their noses were crushed, their foreheads corrugated iron. Vervain went
out as they started on me. First time he's left anywhere without an exit line,
I bet.

They belted me silly.

Sometime later the phone rang. I dragged myself to it. Joan's
voice came on, breathless with secrecy and urgency and, I daresay,
confidentiality.

"Lovejoy? Darling? I want to warn you. Del is absolutely
furious
. We must go tonight. Be at
Stansted Airport in three hours ..."

I went to soak my face. Little bruising on the features, though my
ribs creaked and my skin was sore as hell. They must have punched me
unconscious, because somebody had stolen four hours from the clock. I could
hardly move my right thigh, swollen to a tree trunk. It stung every time I
moved. The fancy envelope contained an invitation from Mr. & Mrs. T. E.
Vervain to nosh at their Windsor home, days hence. My mind was in its ? mode.
It required no reasons.

Another hour later, the answer phone bleeped to tell the county it
was recording. A man's voice, old and querulous. "Is there a Lovejoy
there, please? I have need to dispose of my son's antiques business. I wish to
obtain guidance—for a fee, of course. Please ring Mr. Fairclough, South Corn
Mart, Norwich, any time between— "

Fairclough?

I reached for my one glowing neurone and flicked it to snore.

Seventeen

There's something wryly humorous about being beaten up—when you
see it on that inert cinema screen. When it's real, well, no. It hurts like
hell. Quite as bad, the shame makes you vomit and shiver even when you're over
the worst. In fact, you're never sure which is the worst. Bruises mend, after
all. Skin heals over. But the degradation lingers, festers, a core of hatred
that never ever leaves. Like, foxhunting must seem like poetry in motion—to the
hunters. To the fox it's less than a giggle. I'll bet foxes never forget.

That morning I didn't answer the phone. I ignored sustained
knocking. My curtains stayed drawn. Ignored the post girl's shower of
catchpenny missives. Hermit Lovejoy. It was all of noon before I surfaced. I
must say, superficially I looked pretty good. Not a mark, just a faint graze or
two on the knuckles. I left the cottage—at a careful strolling pace, definitely
not wincing at each step—as some bloody airport phoned, frantic about flight
reservations. The messages could have a nice uninterrupted chat amongst
themselves.

Delia welcomed me at St. Peter's Church at the top of North Hill.
That is, he was waiting to cross at the traffic lights near the linen shop and
ignored me. People like Delia have this strange skill of directional
non-greeting, to call attention to one specific person even in a crowd. Before
I'd realized, I was strolling slo-o-o-wly, thigh hurting like hell, up the
alley to the theater coffee shop. The military figure in smart Savile Row
clobber marched briskly ahead. Nobody goes there for midday nosh so there are
crannies for people to meet.

"Bad, old bean?"

Delia hadn't glanced at me, but he knew all right. There must be
something in Eton that tunes pupils in to the plights of others. Maybe so they
can mostly ignore them, I shouldn't wonder.

"Wish I’d gone to Eton. Like Captain Hook." I rummaged
in my useless labyrinthine memory. "Were you a contemporary of James Bond?
Tarzan?"

Delia smiled. A waiter brought him coffee, none for me. He
unfolded his Financial Times and absently started to read.

"Is it true you bounders literally used Shelley as a
football?" Eton has this particular Wall Game. Nobody's scored since 1912.

The counter was vacated before he spoke. He hadn't risen to my
jibes about Eton. "Rum friends you have, Lovejoy. You might have warned me
about the snake."

Burglars have to take their chances, but I was ashamed.

"I did hint, Delia."

"Put the fear of God in me, old boy." He looked
unruffled. I wondered if he wore his bowler hat on a job. "When I depart,
Lovejoy, you'll find a folder under the table by the door. Only imitation
leather, I'm afraid, these days."

"Oh, aye." His faint headshake made me refrain from
looking. Had he accomplices, then? "What impressions?"

He read on a minute, tutting at some Share Index perfidy.
"Rum thing, all those tiresome underwater photographs, Lovejoy. Some old
boat. Amazing hobbies, people, what? He's taking too low a price on his market
garden. By a mile." Tut tut tut.

He must mean Rye. "And T.G.M.?"

"You've got the lot, old fruit. Scan your folder."

Photocopies of all Veil's clients' records? I gulped at the price
Delia'd charge. Class tells, on an invoice.

"Money, Delia."

He told me the bill. I would have gulped again, but I couldn't.
Delia's sort are deceptively casual. Default would leave me permanently
damaged, with plenty of reproach that I lacked principles. No anger, though. A
sigh or two, then on to the next job. Delia knew I knew this.

"Right," I said heartily. "Ta, Delia. I'll leave
the money with Sandy in two hours. That okay?"

"Fine. If he's closed, drop it through his letter box."

"But what . . . ?" If you can't get in, I was going to
say, like an idiot. I rose with a whimper, having to push myself up with fists
on the table.

"Er, Delia. I’m sorry I was narked about Eton. Jealousy.''

"Don't give it another thought, old boy." He smiled in
reminiscence. "We play a Wall Game, sort of rugby. I scored a hat trick. I
was pretty famous."

"Great. Wish I’d been there. Cheers."

"Chin chin, Lovejoy. I advertise in the Personals, you need
anything."

Honor indeed. "Ta, Delia."

The folder was under the table. I collected it and left, feeling
ashamed. Delia was class. So what, he pretended he'd been to Eton. I'll bet
Eton wished he had.

"Mayor Carstairs?" I phoned from the bus station among
throngs. Everybody seemed to be noshing enormous flat hamburgers. The place
stank of fried onions. What did you call a mayor, for God's sake?
"Lovejoy. Er, I need to contact Mrs. Carstairs urgently—"

"You need to contact me urgently, Lovejoy." In the
permafrost, another angry bloke. I sighed. What is everybody always so narked
about? I mean, have they nothing else to do? "We have to discuss the
degree of interaction which you and Mrs. Carstairs have established—"

Well, once an administrator. "I'll call, sir," I intoned
gravely, trying to disentangle my legs from some corgi yapping in pursuit of
its minder, a little girl of six laughing her head off. "I too see the
necessity for analytical interim negotiation—"

"Are you being frivolous, Lovejoy?"

The frigging hound was back, barking deliriously. "Her next
antiques lesson is vital. Starts in half an hour."

"Very well. I'll motor phone her. Where is this
lecture?"

"I've arranged transport, sir. So if Mrs. Carstairs could be
at the post office in twenty minutes . . ." Et phony cetera.

She came in a tearing hurry, eagerly hoping she wasn't late. I
warmed, then quelled the feeling. I'd been as good as warned off Luna, and we
hadn't yet made a single smile.

'I had to stop off for a notebook, Lovejoy! You should have
said!
I tried to catch you at the
cottage, but you'd gone!" That explained all that knocking. "I'm so
looking forward to the lecture, Lovejoy. Should I have brought a lens thing?
Only, the chemist's shuts for lunch and—"