Paid and Loving Eyes l-16 Page 5

  “Who was the woman asking at the post office?”

  “Told you, Lovejoy. That whore.”

  It wasn’t right. Tinker’s very strait-laced. He didn’t call people whores, unless… What was it Jodie’d said? About Diana being not quite the sort of woman a gentleman like Troude would allow in the Nouvello? To me, Diana’d come over as a bonny bird simply having sly sex with some magnate who couldn’t risk scandal. What more natural than to use Gazza’s lovemobile, driven by that pillar of virtue Lovejoy? Surveys say seventy-two per cent of us are hard at illicit love affairs, surveys say. I wonder how they missed the remaining twenty-eight per cent. To work.

  “Something’s niggling, Tinker.” I fetched him another three pints, lined them up on the table. “Sandy showed up yesterday in Ladyham—”

  “He would, bleeding queer,” Tinker snorted. “Never out of that frigging Frog centre since it opened. Put up a tithe of the gelt, he did. Like your tart.”

  My headaches usually come on pretty gradually, unless they get help. I pressed my temple to slow things down. Tinker was rabbiting on.

  “Wait, Tinker.” Tart and bint are simply females in his vocabulary, but a whore was a whore was a… “You mean Almira?”

  “Aye. Know how they got the land? Did the old dole shuffle from that poxy club, Mentle Marina.” He growled. I raised a finger just in time. He spat phlegm noisily into a drained glass, gave a pub-shaking cough, and recovered, wiping his eyes on his shredding sleeve. “It only worked because that poofter’s pal’s some rich Continental git.”

  Too much. Both temples were pulsing now. I was a nerk between two throbs… My mind finally clicked into gear. Sandy’s earrings. Princess, between two frogs. I tried to recall Troude’s comment. He was observing that I hadn’t got Sandy’s joke. One, Troude. Number Two… Who was Number Two?

  “Almira? She financed the place?”

  “Her and that frigging pansy. They got a kitty up for some Frog. Has his bleedin’ nails done at the barber’s, just like a poxy tart. Don’t know what the frigging world’s coming to, Lovejoy.” He spat expertly on to the carpet before I could restrain him. “Her lawjaw’s got four houses. Did you know?”

  “Who?” Now quite lost.

  “Always at frigging Ladyham, him. Says he once rode for England.” He snorted in derision, which from Tinker is a pubclearing operation that nearly blew me off my stool.

  “Rowed, like boat?”

  “No. Rode, Lovejoy. Frigging horse!” He cackled, wagging his head. A couple of brown pegs trying to pass as teeth littered his gummy grin. “How can you ride a horse for England? That’s not proper racing, like the Grand National. What a berk! Him in Parliament. He’s never there. What we pay him for, eh?”

  It would take more than a casual chat to disentangle Tinker’s rumours. I gave up. Almira’s husband an MP, and a banking company lawyer to boot?

  “Antiques, Tinker.” I tried to get back on the rails.

  “Oh, aye.” He grimaced. “Sorry, Lovejoy. Baff’s dead.”

  Silence for the departed, mostly to absorb shock. It was like a blow on the temple. I honestly couldn’t see for a second. My vision slowly cleared.

  Baff’s a talkative, friendly sort of bloke. No more than twenty-‘ five. A refugee from the army—some regiment giving up its colours after half a millennium. Baff settled locally with a bird called Sherry down the estuaries. Nice bloke. I like, liked, him a lot. He hadn’t a clue about the porcelain and jewellery he tried to sell, of course. An average antique dealer, mostly by theft. Tell you how he stole in a minute.

  “What happened?”

  “Got done over last evening. Some yobbos. He was working a seaside ice-cream stall. They did him for the takings.”

  Dully, the facts clunked in. Baff died on the way to hospital. The spoilers vanished in the crowds. The Plod were questioning some youths, but nobody was charged yet. Fat chance, in a thirty-acre seashore all caravans and holiday-makers.

  “Watch it. Your tart, Lovejoy.”

  Almira was alighting from her motor. She’s so splendid-looking that folk slow down to watch—blokes to lust, women to tot up the cost of her clothes.

  Alacrity called. “Tinker. Find Steve Yelbard. You know, the glassie. And Phoebe. Donk should know, if anybody.”

  “Dunno, Lovejoy.” I slipped him a couple of notes, so he could keep supping ale, his only source of calories. “The Portland Vase final? That Phoebe’s a snotty cow. That bugger Yelbard’s worse —he’s honest.” He spoke with the gloom of the antiques barker, to whom honesty’s the ultimate cheat.

  “Get on with it.” I made for the door, preparing a smile of welcome for Almira.

  “Ere, Lovejoy!” Tinker was rolling in the aisles. One of his jokes loomed. Wearily I waited in the doorway for the hilarity. “I’ll bet you give her a better ride than her nags!”

  And he literally fell off his stool. I eyed him gravely as he recovered, cackling helplessly, blotting his eyes as he climbed back up. A couple of blokes down the bar looked at each other uncomprehendingly.

  “Very droll, Tinker,” I said sombrely, and left to the tender mercy of Almira.

  She was there, glowering on the pavement. I started with surprise and rushed to embrace her with thankful exclamations.

  “Doowerlink!” I cried, giving her a buss. “You’re there! Where did you get to? I left the note saying definitely ten-fifteen at the war memorial! I was absolutely frantic —”

  It’s the one way to cast doubt into a woman’s mind, hint that she’s mislaid some vital message.

  “Ten-fifteen?” she asked, mistrustful.

  “Yes, love!” I was so impatient. “We’ve missed our chance, doorlung! The holiday I was planning!” I sighed. “The last places on the flight went at twenty-to. Oh, hell!” I took her hands, gazed sorrowfully at her. She looked about guiltily, tried to recover her fingers from my vice-like grip.

  “Not here, Lovejoy.” She was trying to look casual for appearance’s sake.

  “They couldn’t hold the seats. It was a charter flight.”

  She was looking hard, seeing pure truth shining nobly from my eyes.

  “You’ve been planning a holiday, Lovejoy? For us?”

  I went all soulful. “It’s little enough, Almira. I mean, you take me out to lovely meals. And that weekend on the coast.” I looked away, biting my lip. “This was all I could afford.”

  “Oh, Lovejoy.” She started to look guilty. I was pleased, making headway. “I’m so sorry. Was it very dear? Only—”

  “No, love.” I went proud. I wanted to treat you.”

  “A lovely idea!” she said mistily. “Where did you leave it?”

  “Eh?” People were pushing past on the pavement. I kept having to move aside for prams and pushchairs.

  “The note.”

  “Oh, by the window. Propped up, where…” Where it could easily blow away, so ending the lies necessary on the subject.

  She drove me to my cottage. Where my ancient Austin Ruby waited, glamorously restored and out of hock. I was overjoyed. Suddenly frightened, too, for who could afford to settle an expert car restorer’s six-month bill? Overjoyed, yes, but aware of how deeply I now was in Troude’s scam. And its enormity.

  “Is this old car yours, Lovejoy? I didn’t know you had one.”

  “Neither did I, love.” I said weakly. We went inside and made smiles. I couldn’t help thinking of Baff Bavington.

  CHAPTER SIX

  « ^ »

  Women talk in the pluperfect vindictive, as the old crack has it. All the same, there’s not much wrong with malice—as long as the arrow falls short if it’s aimed at me. Why it’s such a constant for birds, heaven alone knows. They relish the stuff.

  “Who gave you that car, Lovejoy?” Women never let go, but I’ve already told you that.

  “Eh? Oh, had it years, love.”

  She padded about the room shivering, moaning about draughts. Finally zoomed back, freezing, complained I’d pinched her warm bit
and trying to manoeuvre me out of it.

  “Whose bed is it?” I demanded. Frigging nerve.

  “I’ve never seen your motor before.” All suspicion.

  “The Ruby? It got cindered. Thought I’d seen the last of it.”

  “Restored by loving hands, I see.” Rich women see a lot. “Who paid? Another woman? Seeing your electricity’s off, and the phone.” She lifted her head from the pillow. “And seeing you were going to take me on holiday, Lovejoy.”

  See what I mean, about women never trusting people? She’d be on about this for months. Luckily we’d not last that long.

  “Some bloke forked out. Part of an antiques deal.”

  Shrewd Lovejoy’s quicksilver brain was equal to the task. I took her delectable body in my loving embrace, and raised her head so our eyes locked. I said, most sincerely, “There is no other woman, dwoorlink.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “How could there be? To prove it, we’re going to a superb new place for supper tonight. The Nouvello Troude at Ladyham!”

  Her relaxed body went a fraction unrelaxed. “Ladyham?”

  “You know it?” I smiled, still most sincerely. “I expect you wealthy landowners dine there all the time.”

  “Nouvello? No, darling. I’ve never been. But Ladyham’s rather a way, isn’t it? When there are so many places nearer.” She burrowed beneath the sheet, ready for a new smile. I felt myself weaken. “Let’s go to Barlfen. It’s on the waterside.”

  “I’d like to try the Nouvello. I’ve heard it’s really posh.”

  “Can I persuade you, Lovejoy?”

  I was determined to get her to Ladyham, the lying cow. She co-owned the massive new leisure centre, whose boss, Troude, had just hired me. She and Sandy had partly financed it. Yet she’s never been?

  “Can I, darling?” Her mouth was everywhere, her hands crawling up my belly.

  “Right,” I said weakly. Being ridiculous is my lifestyle. “Barlfen. Sevenish okay?” Pathetic.

  The Ruby was lively as a cricket. They’d done a good job at Sugden’s garage. I called on Suggie. He came grinning to meet me. His two apprentices were overjoyed to see my Ruby, God knows why. They always say they’re sick of it.

  “Nice old crate, Lovejoy.” Suggie’s always wiping his oily mitts on his overalls.

  “Ta for doing it, Suggie.” I tapped its bonnet. “What’s the fastest I can do?”

  The apprentices laughed out loud. They were itching to undo it again, start afresh on the damned thing. Barmy. Imagine mending engines all day long.

  “Eject if you hit fifteen mph, Lovejoy. Downhill.”

  “Ha, ha,” I said gravely. “The bill get settled, Suggie?”

  “All done.” He was over the moon. “Thankful to get cash in hand these days, with that bloody tax.”

  “Great, great.” No receipt, no trace of payment. “Who collected it?” I asked casually. “Only, the bloke left a letter on the driving seat.”

  Suggie’s grin faded into wariness. “Best post it to him, Lovejoy.”

  Kicking myself, I beamed, nodded. “Why didn’t I think of that? Cheers, lads.” I should have thought up a better story.

  Just to show them, I notched a good twenty mph leaving their lane, but cut down to my usual sixteen when the Ruby started wheezing. The clatter still came from under the rear wheels, but elegance has to be paid for. I drove with pride into Sandy and Mel’s gravelly forecourt. The Ruby trundled to a halt, silenced thankfully.

  Mel was packing a big estate car. Cases on the roof, the interior stuffed with gear. Pot plants too, I saw with dismay. Oh dear.

  “Wotcher, Mel. Going on a sweep?”

  A sweep is a swift scouring of the countryside for antiques. Whether you use fifty technicians like the BBC in its Antiques Roadshow, or a series of village halls like Sotheby’s, or even if it’s just yourself, it’s basically foraging and returning loaded with antiques, the joy of mankind. But this was no quick trip. My heart sank. Had Sandy and Mel fought again?

  He paused, strapping the cover over the heaped roof rack.

  “No, Lovejoy. Leaving.”

  Sandy and Mel are constants in the antiques game. I mean, they’re forever quarrelling, parting in tears and temper. Then it’s the big reconciliation and they resume dealing—shrewd, money-mad, but knowledgeable. They have a knack. Their latest success was finding a collection of wrought-iron German snuffboxes. Don’t laugh. These were only half an inch tall, but were gold-inlaid, damascened, and genuine eighteenth century—if they’re genuine eighteenth century. You know what I mean. Sandy and Mel’s nine boxes were brilliant, original, and authentic. Their like in one handful will probably never be seen again. I nearly cried when some undeserving Yank bought them for a fortune. I eyed Mel. The less exotic of the pair, unsmiling, always cross. I was unhappy, seriously.

  “Leaving leaving, Mel? Or just leaving?”

  “Leaving squared, Lovejoy.” He tested the strap, stepped back. “That’s everything.”

  He looked at me. Sorrow began to creep about. This looked truly grim. I’d seen the scene a hundred times, but never quite like this. The long silence made it worse.

  “Mel?” I said, nervous.

  He gazed about. “Just look at it, Lovejoy. Converted school-house, a barn. Not bad, decoratively first rate. Three hundred years old, sound as a bell. Stock at valuation.”

  A notice board announced it was for sale. My spirits hit my boots. This was real. Mel and Sandy, splitting? Like Tom and Jerry going separate ways. Unthinkable.

  “Why, Mel?”

  He knew I wasn’t asking the price, and smiled deep woe. “Sandy’s gone in over his head, Lovejoy. You know how he is. Anything different.”

  “I saw him at the Nouvello.”

  “Mmmh.” The non-word spoke volumes of mistrust, almost fear. He tossed me a bunch of keys. “He doesn’t know I’ve gone, Lovejoy. Give him those.”

  His anguish was all the worse for being quietly veiled. I mean, I don’t understand how two blokes and all that. But love’s a pretty rare plant. In this life there’s nowt else—except antiques and they’re the same thing anyway. I don’t know what I’m trying to say, except I was upset. You can’t really believe the Sandys and Mels of this world, not really. Like, they’ve parted every four or five days, tantrums and sulks, as long as I’ve known them. But when any partners finally separate, there’s a terrible dearth. Almost as if two such transparent phoneys were really among the few genuines in the whole Eastern Hundreds.

  “Mel, look,” I hated this. “How about you phone Sandy and maybe meet him in the Marquis of Granby?” It always worked before.

  He was already firing the engine. I felt cold. “No, Lovejoy. It’s over.”

  He had sunglasses on. We’d not had any sun all week. For a minute he said nothing, while I tried to think of some magic phrase to cure all this. I get desperate when things suffer.

  He said, “You were kind, Lovejoy. So many aren’t, you know. True kindness leaves no place for gratitude.” He glanced around the barnyard. “It’s only a small token. You’ll do their gambado anyway. It’s your nature. But advice from a friend, if I may?”

  “What?”

  “For once, just this once, don’t help, Lovejoy. Not anyone. Friend or foe. Or you too’ll finish up baffled.” He meant don’t do what Troude wanted, now Sandy was his backer. “I’m at my auntie’s in Carlisle.” He hesitated, then smiled that terrible smile. “Can you take another word of advice?”

  “Yes?”

  He indicated the steps up to the small office he and Sandy shared. “Steal the Kirkpatrick. It’s the best piece left.”

  “Steal?” I yelled indignantly after him as he drove out. “Steal? I’ve never stolen a single thing in my life! I’d not stoop so low…”

  Gone. I heard the motor slow by the dairy, turn near the Congregational chapel. Its sound dwindled. Nothing. I looked at the forecourt. The jardinieres were gone. The lovely Roman terracotta in the window was gone. I
was furious about what Mel’d said. For Christ’s sake! Cracking a malicious joke like that. Surely it was a joke? A sad attempt at humour as he’d driven out for the last time, to conceal his heartache? As long as he didn’t really mean it. I mean, what sort of a rat would rob his friends?

  The forecourt was empty, except for me. Nobody about. I looked at the bunch of keys he’d given me. At the steps. At the For Sale notice. And thought. Kirkpatrick?

  Cornwall Kirkpatrick was a stoneware potter. American, Illinois. He decorated his jugs and whatnot with cutting satire—snakes as politicians, with biting inscriptions saying how horrible they were. His fantasy urns and geographical pigs (I kid you not) make you sleepless, give you bad dreams. Skilful, but alarming. And very, very pricey. So rare, they’d buy a good month’s holiday any day of the week. I always sell them—give some other poor blighter the nightmares instead.

  But to steal? From friends? That’s the action of a real gargoyle, a despicable cad.

  Only to test the door handle, I went up the steps. That meant I had to try the keys, open the door. And have a quick look round, see the Kirkpatrick was still there. Only for security and all that, because you can’t be too careful. I found it in my hand, Mel’s Kirkpatrick jug. Criminal to leave it. I mean, clearly it needed looking after, right? I decided I’d better take it home. Not stealing. No, honest. Not genuinely stealing. Only, somebody had to care for it, right? So I wrapped it up and hid it in the Ruby’s boot, just so it wouldn’t get stolen. There are thieves everywhere these days.

  Baff’s house was on the way, so I drove there, more by instinct than anything else, wondering how much I’d get for the Kirkpatrick jug. Only 1870s, but packed with potential. I felt truly heartbroken over Sandy and Mel, but notched an exhilarating twenty-two on the bypass, in a lucky wind. Omen?

  Baff Bavington’s a breakdown man. He’s a lazy devil, is Baff. My brother used to say that lazy people aren’t lazy—they’re merely clever. Breakdowning is a way of nicking antiques from unsuspecting ladies who live alone. You can do it to elderly couples, too, but Baff never did—after one incident when some old geezer turned out to be a dead-shot colonel with a twelve-bore.