The Judas Pair Read online

  A handful of travelling dealers had descended on lucky Maltan Lees. They smoked and talked noisily, moving about to disturb the general calm and occasionally calling across to each other, full of apparent good humour but in reality creating confusion. It’s called ‘circusing’, and is done to intimidate locals like us. They move from town to town, a happy band of brothers.

  I watched a while. One of the travelling dealers paused near me.

  ‘’Ere,’ he growled. ‘Are you ’ere for the paintings or not?’ I gave him my two-watt beam free of charge. ‘I said,’ he repeated ferociously, ‘are you ’ere for the paintings?’

  ‘Piss off, comrade.’ I raised my smile a watt. He rocked back and stared in astonishment at me before he recovered.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Where I come from,’ I informed him loudly, ‘you circus chaps’d starve.’

  ‘Clever dick.’

  He barged past me, tripping over my foot and ending up among assorted chairs. His pals silenced. I laughed aloud, nodding genially in their direction, and stepped towards their fallen companion.

  ‘Sorry,’ I apologized because my foot had accidentally alighted on his hand. He cursed and tried to rise, but my knee had accidentally jerked into his groin so he stayed down politely while my knuckles injured his eye. I get annoyed with people sometimes, but I think I’d been a bit worse lately. I bent down and whispered. ‘Me and my mates got done for manslaughter in Liverpool – twice – so go gently with us, whacker. We’re fragile.’

  ‘No harm meant, mate,’ he said.

  As I say, a lie works wonders. I stepped away, embarrassed because people were watching. The auctioneer had kept going to keep the peace and some fortunate chap got his missus a wardrobe for a song. It’s an ill wind.

  I settled down near the bookcases and all went gaily on. I fancy the auctioneer was rather pleased with my little diversion. I saw Adrian applaud silently and Jane nod approval. I noticed Brian Watson after another twenty minutes and knew instantly who he was.

  Some blokes have tins chameleon-like ability, don’t they? My mate in the army was typical of the sort. The rest of us had only to breathe in deep for all the grenades on earth to come hurtling our way, but Tom, a great Cheshire bloke the size of a tram, could walk on stilts for all the notice the enemy took of him. It was the same everywhere. I’ve even seen blokes come into pubs, stand next to Tom and say, ‘Anybody seen Tom?’

  Brian Watson was standing a few feet away, virtually unseen. He stood there watching, quiet, listening, and I knew instantly he was as fully aware of me as I was of him. A careful chap, the sort you had to be careful of. I instinctively felt his capabilities. A real collector. If he starved to death he’d still collect. You know the sort. No matter what setbacks come they weather them and plough on. I honestly admire their resilience. It’s a bit unnerving if you ask me, too straightforward for my liking.

  I bought a catalogue. Now, Harry and the rest were quite explicable in terms of attendance at any auction virtually no matter what was on offer. But Watson? Every piece he had was known to me, apart from some I only suspected, bought by concealed postal bid but quite in the Watson pattern. A buyer, not a seller. He very rarely sold anything, and when he did it was only to buy bigger still. A cool resilient man. Moreover, one who was now observing me with his collector’s antennae.

  All of which, I thought, as the auctioneer chattered on, raised one central question: If everybody else was here with good reason what good reason did Brian Watson have? There was nothing to interest him. I scanned the remaining lots but failed to find an answer. He was a pure flint man, never deviating into the mundaner fields of prints, pottery and portabilia, which to my dismay seemed all that was left. There was no choice but to wait and see.

  It came to lot 239, the small collection of portabilia. Watson was in character, waiting with the skill of an old hand until the bidding showed signs of ending, then he nodded gently and off we went. We, because I was in, too, all common sense to the winds. People gradually became aware of the contest. You could have heard a pin drop.

  While the bidding rose, I racked my brains wondering what the hell could be in the portabilia that could be so vital to Watson. On and on we went, him against me. Everyone else dropped out. Portabilia are small instruments made especially for carrying about. They included in this instance a sovereign-balance for testing gold coins, a common folding flintlock pistol by Lacy of Regency London’s Royal Exchange, a tin box with a tiny candle, a collapsible pipe, a folding compass, a folding sundial, a diminutive snuff horn and other minutiae. It wasn’t bad, but you couldn’t pay twice their value in open auction and keep sane. I saw Adrian hide his face in his hands as we forged inexorably on and Jane, cool Jane, shook her head in my direction with a rueful smile. Many people crossed to the cabinet to see what they’d missed. Still we drove the price upwards until my calculations caught up with me and I stopped abruptly, white-hot and practically blind from impotent rage at missing them.

  ‘Going . . . going . . . gone. Watson. Now to lot two-forty,’ the pleased auctioneer intoned.

  I went outside to wait for Watson and partly to avoid the others.

  Jane followed me out. ‘Better now, Lovejoy?’ She had style, this woman with the smile that meant all sorts of business.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s it all about?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  We crossed the road and sat near the window in the café opposite the auction room. She ordered tea and faced me across the daffodils.

  ‘Aren’t you making a fool of yourself?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re like a child without its toffee-apple.’ She irritated me with her bloody calm dispassionate air and I said so. ‘I heard about Sheila,’ she went on. ‘Do you think it’s what she’d want you to be doing, going to pieces like this?’

  ‘I’m not going to pieces.’ I wouldn’t give in to this smarmy woman who couldn’t mind her own business.

  ‘You look like it, Lovejoy.’ She should have been a teacher. ‘We’re all worried about you, everybody. Your business’ll go downhill next. Look at you. You haven’t shaved you’re . . . soiled-looking.’

  That really hurt because I’m not like that. I looked away in a temper because she was right.

  ‘Somebody killed her – the same character who killed Eric Field.’

  Another of her famous appraisals came my way. ‘Are you serious?’

  I gave her an appraisal back. ‘You know I am.’

  ‘By God, Lovejoy,’ she breathed. ‘What are you up to? You’re not seriously thinking –’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You don’t think Watson –’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ The tea came. ‘He’s a Durs collector, a clever one. I’ve eliminated most of the rest one way and another. It could be a dealer of course, or somebody I don’t know about, but I must try to follow the leads I’ve got.’

  ‘Was he at the Field sale you’ve been on about?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He may have nothing to do with it.’

  ‘And again,’ I said coldly, ‘he may.’

  For the next few minutes, Jane quizzed me. I told her the whole story including the turnkey bit while she listened intently.

  ‘Have you anything practical to go on?’ she demanded. ‘So you found a posh screwdriver – big deal.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said after a minute. ‘There is something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘God knows.’ A few people drifted out of the doors across the way. It would end in five minutes. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night for worrying – the answer’s been given me, here in my mind, and for the life of me I can’t think what makes me think so. I’d know who it is, but the bits of my mind won’t connect.’

  ‘From Seddon’s?’

  ‘I feel helpless. I just can’t think.’

  ‘Give it up, Lovejoy.’ She was less forbidding than I remembered. ‘It’ll ruin you.’
/>   ‘I might.’ And I almost believed me, except that Watson came out of the auctioneer’s that instant. I was up and out into the road darting between cars before I knew where I was.

  He waited, casually looking through the window at a set of old seaside lantern slides that had gone dirt cheap – there’s quite a market for them nowadays. It was decimalization that did it.

  ‘Mr Watson.’ We stood together, me somewhat breathless and aggressive, him a little reserved.

  ‘Mr Lovejoy.’

  ‘Right.’

  He smiled hesitantly. ‘I admired your, er, act with the circus crowd.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Could I ask –’ I nodded and he went on, ‘Er, if you, er, were very keen to have that group of portabilia?’

  ‘No,’ I snapped.

  ‘I thought not. May I ask then why you bid?’

  ‘Never mind me, comrade,’ I said roughly. ‘Why did you?’

  He was astonished. ‘Me? They belonged to my father.’

  ‘Eh?’ I was saying as Jane strolled up.

  ‘My brother put them up for sale,’ he explained, ‘somewhat against my wishes. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Well done, Lovejoy,’ Jane said sarcastically.

  ‘Keep out of it,’ I said. ‘Why did you go to the Field sale?’

  His memory clicked away for a moment, then his brow cleared. ‘After that collector was killed, you mean? Oh, the odd item.’

  ‘Never mind what you actually bought. What attracted you there?’

  He glanced from Jane to me, but it was no use messing about at this stage.

  ‘He gets like this periodically.’ Jane’s casual excuse didn’t calm me.

  ‘It’s my habit,’ Watson replied with dignity, ‘to do so. It’s also my right.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Jane chipped in.

  I looked about. People had gathered round. The windows of the auction rooms were full of faces, staring. Cars were slowing to see what the rumpus was about. My old aunts would have called it a ‘pavement scene’.

  ‘You’re among friends, Lovejoy,’ Jane said kindly, and explained to Watson, ‘He’s not like this normally. He’s been under a strain lately, a bereavement, you know.’ Murmurs of sympathy arose from a couple of old dears in the throng who quickly transmuted compassion into reminiscences of similar events in their own past. ‘Just like our Nelly’s cousin when her Harry was took,’ etc, etc.

  ‘Will he be all right?’ Watson was asking anxiously of Jane. That more than anything shook me – when people talk over you as if you’re not really there, you really might have vanished.

  ‘His car’s near here somewhere. Over there.’

  Watson and Jane frogmarched me to the Braithwaite. Rage shook me into a sweat, rage at Jane’s smooth assumption of power and Watson’s obvious concern. If I’d cast him in the role of murderer, why didn’t the bastard behave like one?

  ‘You’d better come to my sister’s – it’s a few miles.’ They discussed me while I trembled like a startled horse. My face was in my hands. I could hear their voices but not what was said, so sick did I feel from the stink of the leather upholstery and the extraordinary vertigo which took hold. Jane took my keys and we drove out of Maltan Lees in the wake of Watson’s old white Traveller.

  There’s nothing much to say about the rest of that day except that I stayed at Watson’s sister’s house in a room the size of a matchbox full of toys. Children came to stare at me as I was given aspirin tablets and milk to swallow – heaven knows why – and finally I dozed until dawn. Watson, my erstwhile villain, slept on a settee, Jane drove home in my old crate saying she’d come back for me in the morning. When I woke I found one of the children had laid a toy rabbit on my bed for company, a nasty sight in the sunrise of a nervous breakdown. Still, thank God, it wasn’t a hedgehog.

  I can’t remember much except Watson’s kindness, his sister’s concern and Jane smiling too quickly at everything that was said as we departed.

  ‘I feel a bloody fool,’ were my parting words, epitaph for a crusader. Amid a chorus of denials and invitations to return soon Jane ferried me away. I couldn’t even remember what the house was like.

  On the way back, Jane, a smart, alert driver, told me she’d been summoned into Geoffrey’s police station to explain what she’d done with me because the cottage was raided again during the night. Our vigilant bobby, understandably narked by his ruined sleep, told her in aggrieved tones how he’d wakened to the sound of the alarm and arrived before entry was effected. The would-be intruder fled unseen.

  I received the news with utter calm and stared at the ceiling.

  Chapter 13

  WEEKS OF FEEDING my robin and watching weather, occasionally getting the odd visitor. Twice, I found myself embarking on gardening expeditions armed with rusty shears and suchlike, but my heart’s never in it. After all, grass does no harm growing and birds and bushes don’t need mowing anyway so there’s not a lot you can do in a garden. Somewhere I’d cleared a patch for growing vegetables years ago but it had reverted to jungle like the herbaceous border did and I couldn’t find exactly where it was. I abandoned the attempt, taking the wise view that if vegetables had wanted to grow there they’d have done so whatever assistance they’d been given by me. There’s a chap, Brownlow, in a bungalow not far from me who’s never out of his garden. It beats me what he finds to do. Maybe he’s got a blonde in the shrubbery.

  Ever been stuck at home? You get up and make breakfast, put the radio on and wash up. Then you mill about doing odd jobs like cleaning and washing, and that’s the end of it. What housewives keep moaning about heaven only knows, because I was up at seven-thirty and finished easily by ten after which the rest of the day was waiting there – in my case, for nothing. Margaret called at first with provisions, and Jane dropped in with Adrian. The itinerant dealer Jimmo called. Tinker came after the first day, but within a week all the visits had dwindled. I was pretty glad because I was in no mood to talk and they were embarrassed. People are, where a nervous breakdown’s concerned. It’s posh and gallant to break your leg, and brave to have appendicitis, but a nervous breakdown’s a plain embarrassment best avoided. You’re better off with the plague. Maybe people think a breakdown’s a sign of lack of moral fibre, that you ought to be pulling yourself together, putting your shoulder to that wheel, etcetera. It taught me one lesson at least, that any form of ‘weakness’ is highly suspect. I wish I knew why.

  I’d heard of breakdowns before, of course. Half my difficulty was that I didn’t know what they actually were or where they came from, let alone what went on, yet there I was with all my anxieties gone, all my worries vanished, all interests evaporated. It would have been rather disturbing, if I’d been capable of being disturbed, that is. As it was, I was utterly serene – dirty, unwashed, filthy, unshaven, unfed and unkempt, but serene. Calm as a pond I was, uncaring. Worst of all, grief about Sheila had disappeared. Margaret came on a second then a third visit and discreetly left money on the mantelpiece, saying I was to be sure to remember to pay it back when I had the chance. I mumbled vacantly. Finally, everyone had stopped coming. The letters lay in a heap by the door.

  As days went into weeks I found myself stirring, not physically but something inside me. It really was an awakening. Instinctively, my switched-off mind must have realized there was no point in trying to hurry things along, and had stayed resting. My recovery was underway before I realized. The first event I can really recall is making myself some food: sausages and stale bread. Then I started feeding the birds again, sitting with them for a short while as usual although I’d earlier automatically shunned their company as too intrusive, making too many demands on me.

  About three days after starting eating I took conscious positive steps. I shaved. The next day I shaved and washed, then after that I bathed and got fresh clothes out. It was about sixteen days before I was presentable. The cottage was reasonable, and I started going down to the launderette. For some reas
on it was important to set myself a mental limit and stick rigidly to it, no matter how gormless that scheme actually was. Therefore, for four consecutive days, I walked the garden’s borders ten times every afternoon and counted all my trees and bushes assiduously after doing the washing-up about nine o’clock, and for those four days I took my clothes, clean and soiled alike, to the launderette and washed them. Naturally, I ran into practical difficulties such as coins for the slots, not knowing when the wretched machines were going to start or stop, what to do with that cup of powder and other details like losing socks. By the fourth day I was becoming quite intrigued at the system – you put in eight socks with your things and get out only five socks and one you’ve never seen before. Next day’s the same. Unless you’re careful you can finish up with an entirely different set of miscellaneous gear and all your own socks presumably transmuted into energy. I cut my losses on the fifth day and merely watched other sockless people’s machines on the go.

  My interest in antiques like everything else had suddenly vanished. Auctions had presumably taken place, the phone had carried on unanswered and Lovejoy was temporarily indisposed. Now, as I mended and consciousness returned, I took up a catalogue and read it in small stages during the course of an entire evening while the telly was on. It was an odd sensation, reading at a distance, as it were, with details registering in the right places yet my own self somehow observing the whole process with caution and not a little distrust. Anyhow, I acted it out, feeling a flicker of interest here and there but suppressing it in case it got out of hand. It must have been the right thing to do because the very next day I was answering letters and making decisions, about half speed. Injured animals go and lie quiet, don’t they? Maybe that’s what my mind had done.

  The fourth week I faced the world again.

  I began life by attending a sale in Colchester and after two more days another, this time in Bury St Edmunds. As a starter, the tokens I’d bought in darkest East Anglia – easy material whose value you can always gauge by an hour’s careful checking – were launched out in a coin mart we have not far away, and they went for a good profit. I was pleased, and pleased because I was pleased. The cottage hadn’t been assaulted while I was out. Cheered and feeling full of emotions that were no longer lying dormant, I whistled and sang and forayed into the garden for some flowers to put in a vase. I was unsuccessful, though, not because there weren’t any but because you can’t really go hacking plants’ heads off just because you feel a bit bouncy. I seriously thought of planting one into a pot and bringing it inside the cottage but decided against that as well. There’s no breeze inside a house like there is in a garden, is there, and plants might really depend on being pushed about by the wind, not being able to stretch themselves like we can. Also, you have to think of the proper sunshine outside instead of no real light indoors. And rain. And company. I don’t know much about them, not like Major Lister would, for instance, but it stands to reason you’re best not trying to dabble in what you don’t understand. People do damage when they want things. If people didn’t want things hardly anything would go wrong with anybody’s life. All bad’s desire.