The Sleepers of Erin

by Jonathan Gash

  ‘Why can’t whatever’s there be fetched here for me to suss out?’

  ‘Why do you suppose it’s only one thing, Lovejoy?’

  ‘Mrs Heindrick hinted,’ I said, wondering if that was true.

  ‘Very lax of us all, my dear,’ Kurt said without admonition. ‘But especially Joxer.’

  Lena shrugged, an attractive business. She had dressed for the interview in a neat black dress with only a late Georgian alexandrite brooch for ornamentation. Plain matching belts go in and out of fashion, but she wore one, the right touch of disdain towards those birds who need to conform to prevailing styles. I could have eaten her. Kurt was as clinical as ever, stencilled in a Savile Row jacket and city trousers. It was as Joxer said. Clearly she was in control, Kurt the mere business end of the team.

  ‘You will be given your ticket and an allowance on the journey, Lovejoy.’ Kurt came near to cracking a joke by adding, ‘Performing our task will keep you out of mischief, no?’

  ‘Only possibly, Kurt,’ Lena smiled.

  Kurt chuckled at that, his flabby jowl undulating. I watched, fascinated. Why didn’t his starched collar sever his jugular? But I got the joke. ‘Only possibly’ meant a rip, a scam, a lift, something illegal anyway. And I knew it was in Kilfinney, wherever that was. My one concealed trump card.

  Then Lena shook me by catching my hand as I reached the nth time for the proffered plate. It had one cake left, but that was Lena’s fault. Posh cakes are only little and don’t fill you.

  She said, ‘One thing, Lovejoy. Sister Morrison?’

  ‘You mean outpatients?’ It was a good thought. That sombre-eyed lass would go berserk if I failed to make the appointment.

  ‘No. Your relationship with her.’

  ‘Nothing I can do about that. It wasn’t my fault she ballocked me most of the time. Why?’

  She smiled then and let me reach the grub. ‘Only that she has called twice at your cottage.’

  ‘She did?’ I said blankly. ‘Probably to confirm my clinic appointment, something like that.’

  Kurt interposed, on cue. ‘The fewer encumbrances the better, Lovejoy, while you’re working for us.’

  I stood then but kept my temper out of respect for the delectable antiques all around. Nobody tells me who can call at my cottage and who not.

  ‘Who says I’m working for you?’

  Kurt chuckled. Lena looked me up and down with amused insolence. ‘Me,’ she said softly. ‘Kurak will call for you at midnight, four days from now.’

  ‘Not me, mate,’ I told her, and left.

  They saw me crunch down the avenued drive. Kurt must have given some signal because Kurak stayed leaning against the Rolls and watched me go.

  I got a lift from a school football bus, coming back from a match. They’d lost six-nil. If I’d half the sense I was born with I’d have recognized the omen, but not this numbskull. Within seconds of being dropped on North Hill I was in the Marquis of Granby pub phoning the hospital to bleep Sister Morrison and claiming it was an emergency.

  Chapter 8

  Sister Morrison was not keen on coming off duty straight into a pub so we met by the post office. She came driving up in grand style, and I darted across the pavement once I was sure she was the woman at the wheel. The town’s traffic always builds up a little in the early evening but she coped calmly. All that surgical training, I supposed. She didn’t even tut as the rain started again before we made the road out to my village.

  ‘Did I get you in trouble, Sister?’

  ‘I was just coming off duty anyway.’

  It had been an awkward phone conversation nevertheless, with me stuttering that I was only phoning to check my next appointment and her saying it was all right and she would explain the details while giving me a lift. I looked at her as she drove, profile in repose and coat collar turned up to catch the tendrils of hair as they came out beneath her knitted hat.

  ‘Sorry I wasn’t in, erm, when you called.’

  ‘That’s all right. I only called on the off chance.’

  That couldn’t be true. She must have got my address from the records and actually asked the way to my cottage once she reached the village. We have no real road signs, and numbers are unknown. Some off chance.

  She was making me nervous. I’m not used to serenity, never having experienced that condition myself.

  ‘Which part of Ireland are you from, Sister?’

  ‘Sinead.’ Only she almost pronounced it Shinneighed.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  She fell about laughing, with momentary difficulty controlling the wheel. ‘Stupid man. It’s my name. I mean stop calling me Sister. You’re not in hospital any more.’

  ‘Gaelic?’

  ‘Ten out of ten.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to visit Dublin. A booksellerprinter there owes me.’

  ‘Don’t go scrapping till your arm’s mended.’

  There’s nothing you can do when a woman’s got the upper hand, especially when that woman has washed your bum twice a day lately. I fell silent. Sisters clearly had more ways of shutting you up than mere nurses. She must have felt concerned because she resumed, ‘In the west of Ireland we have traditional names. It’s only recently easterners have moved into the market.’

  She shot a glance at me and changed up for the long pull on the hill above the brook which marks our town boundary. Beam lights of an oncoming car lit her face and brought my reflection into the windscreen. Our reflected gazes met.

  ‘Erm, we’ll go to the White Hart, if that’s okay.’

  ‘Me in my old coat?’

  Nursing staff aren’t allowed in public houses wearing uniform. I knew that. Sinead had on a navy blue topcoat. I can’t see these things matter much, but women find disadvantage in practically anything.

  ‘Bear right at the fork.’ My cottage had been abused enough lately by visitors. Anyway, as we ran together through the rain into the tavern porch I thought she looked bonny.

  The pub crowd naturally gave her a cautious scan when we pushed in, all except Patrick who let out a shrill whoop and trilled a roguish yoohoo. The usual weird mixture of dealers and barkers were busily slurping booze, pretending the antiques game was going just perfect. Tinker saw us and reeled across, ponging to high heaven and filthy as ever, greeting Sister Morrison with such familiarity everybody stared. He showed every sign of joining us till I gave him the bent eye and a quid.

  ‘I thought we wuz broke, Lovejoy,’ the stupid old soak croaked.

  ‘Er, my reserve.’

  ‘Mr Dill.’ Sinead had her handbag open as we crammed into the nook furthest from the fire. ‘Lovejoy can’t carry the glasses. His arm. Would you please oblige?’

  Tinker scarpered to the bar with her money while I tried to recover my poise, and still I went red. The hubbub battered our ears. Sister Morrison saw me sussing out the crowded, smoke-filled bar and leaned forwards, her eyes glowing with interest.

  ‘Who are they all? Everybody knows you.’

  A faint scent wafted the smoke aside for an instant. ‘Well. Yon, er, eccentric bloke with the silver gloves and red bolero’s Patrick. He’s a dealer, not as daft as he pretends.’

  ‘And his lady-friend?’

  ‘Lily. She’s married, but loves Patrick. She deals in William IV furniture, when Patrick leaves her the odd farthing for herself.’

  That set me off chatting about them all. The elegant Helen, raising her eyebrows at the sight of me bringing in a class bird. Old bowler-hatted Alfred, the Regency prints and mezzotint man, battling with his moustache to get to his pint (‘His wife’s too fierce for him ever to go home,’ I explained). Brad the cheerful extrovert flintlock weapon specialist. Big Frank from Suffolk, currently halfway through his second pint, his fifth wife and the latest Sotheby’s silver catalogue. Poor Denny Havershall, desperately trying to sell a Cotman forgery to the morose Wilkie from Witham – hard going, because Wilkie had faked it in the first place. And Denny’s wife Beth had just produced he
r second little girl last week. Then there was the blonde Marion (mostly Roman pottery and early Islam ware) suggesting to the wealthier Jason from East Hill that they make a go of a partnership. Tarantulas make similar arrangements.

  ‘He’s a cold fish,’ Sinead observed.

  Which surprised me, so I had another look. Marion was working her eyes and cleavage overtime, ignoring the table’s beer puddles despite her splendid Aran woollie. Jason’s ex-army, and our one inherently wealthy dealer. He has a big place overlooking the Blackwater estuary. Telling Sinead that reminded me of the Heindricks, which reminded me of the spot that I was in, which reminded me I needed to know why Sinead had been seeking me.

  Tinker came with the drinks, all agog with urgency. The goon had brought Sinead a pint as well, but in a handle-mug, this being his idea of gentility.

  ‘Here, Lovejoy. The Old Bill’s out for you.’

  ‘George?’ He’s our village bobby. Whatever it was, I’d manage him.

  ‘No. Ledger. But no paper.’

  Thankfully, I nodded relief at this news that Ledger held no arrest warrant. ‘Ta, Tinker.’

  ‘And Harry’s bought that collection of pot tennis balls from Dragonsdale.’

  ‘Hell fire,’ I cursed. Harry has a stall in the town antiques arcade. I’d been hoping for them, a genuine mahogany-cased set of four.

  ‘Pottery? But that’s impossible.’

  ‘He means carpet bowls,’ I explained as Tinker dived back towards the bar. ‘Queen Victoria’s favourite indoor game. They fetch about fifteen quid apiece, but a cased set’s damned hard to find. A full set is three lots of four, with a little white “jack” the size of a golf ball. You play like lawn bowls.’

  ‘You’re upset,’ she interrupted in wonderment. ‘Over a pottery ball?’

  ‘They’re very rare now, especially in mint condition. These had a luscious blue circle-and-petal design.’

  ‘You should buy things when you see them,’ she was preaching, when my red face beaconed through to her and she dried. ‘Sorry, Lovejoy. Are you really broke?’

  ‘It’s being in your lousy hospital,’ I groused. ‘I missed all sorts of chances.’ Discomfiture gave me the courage to ask outright what was burning in my mind. ‘Look. Why did you come to the cottage?’

  ‘Not here,’ she said quickly.

  I drew breath to say why the hell not when our little party ended.

  Marcia ruined everything by coming to aghast us all. She rushed in excited and dishevelled, choking on the news that there had been a fire. Joxer’s work shed in the Priory ruins had burned down after a small explosion had occurred. People were saying it was one of Joxer’s gas bottles, that kind of thing. Some of the amateur dramatics men in the Priory parish hall, painting new sets in a desperate race to meet their dress-rehearsal deadline, heard the sound and rushed out to investigate. They made heroic attempts to beat the flames down, but without much hope. Then the fire brigade had arrived and had a go. The Priory ruins were, well, ruined anyway and the new church hall was safe, so what? Marcia had looked everywhere for Joxer to tell him, but he was nowhere around.

  Nobody seemed to have been hurt. Sinead relaxed at that. It was probably her nursing instinct which made her so tense at Marcia’s babbled news. Talk resumed. We all made clucking noises and some kind soul gave her a port-and-lemon. Then we all forgot it. Except me.

  I sat for a long time looking at the table as the taproom babble went on and on, over and over Marcia’s account. Patrick dramatically fainted, with Lily, his acolyte, frantically trying to bring him round with smelling-salts from his mauve handbag. After a long time I realized Sinead had taken my hand. I wasn’t scared, not really scared, but a hint is a hint is a hint. All Heindrick had said was, ‘Very lax of us all,’ and poor Joxer gets his old shed blammed. I could only think of my grotty little cottage. It looked like the Heindricks had a divvie after all.

  Sinead shook me gently.

  ‘Are you all right, Lovejoy?’ she was asking, and I came to. Her grey-blue eyes were anxious. I looked into them, thinking, well, all living is risk, isn’t it?

  ‘Yes, fine, thanks,’ I said. ‘Look, Shinny. About Ireland . . .’

  Chapter 9

  Things went from bad to evil that night. It seemed to end on an increasingly worse note every few minutes. First, Sister Morrison dropped me off outside my cottage about an hour afterwards. We talked in her car, mainly about Mrs Heindrick, even though I was dog-tired.

  ‘That’s what I wanted to tell you, Lovejoy. She’s up to no good. She’s been on the phone asking about your condition.’

  That narked me. ‘She could have asked me.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I disclosed nothing, and the doctors won’t.’

  One thing struck me. ‘Why were you reluctant to tell me this in the tavern?’

  ‘That cold fish.’

  ‘Jason?’

  ‘Yes. Mrs Heindrick’s friend.’

  Again that disturbing chill touched my neck. ‘Friend? Are you sure?’

  ‘I saw them both leaving my cousin’s place together the day after you were discharged from my ward.’

  ‘Cousin? Er . . .’

  ‘Joe. Joe Casey. He’s like you, an antique dealer.’

  Odd, that. I’d always thought I knew everybody in East Anglia. Now there were all these unexpected cousins and friends of friends. Worse, friends of enemies.

  Sinead went on, ‘Joe doesn’t trust her, that’s for sure. He did a few small jobs for the Heindricks. They were so bitchy about his work, checked every little detail.’

  Well, if they were paying a workman they would naturally want good value. But I was thinking, Casey? Joe Casey? The name sounded oddly familiar.

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘Yes. Now. He even had to start work for them twice when it was dark. I ask you. He told me about it and we had a good laugh.’

  And still it seemed unimportant, though I was to learn different before the night was through. I said thanks for the warning, and we made our rather stilted goodnights. Puzzled, I watched the red tail-lights flicker as she drove off along the hedged lane. Too many problems and too knackered a brain to cope for the minute, so I went in thinking it was time I had a quiet night. Things would seem clearer in the dawn.

  He came for me about two, keeping on knocking even though I was yelling I was coming, for heaven’s sake. There were headlights outside from a car reversing to face the lane slope.

  ‘Who is it?’ I called, pulling the bolt.

  ‘Police.’

  ‘Come off it, George.’ I peered blearily into the gloom. Our village bobby stood there, at least as embarrassed as I was. ‘You’re not proper police.’

  He drew himself up at that insult. ‘You’re to help us with our enquiries, Lovejoy. Get dressed.’

  ‘I’ve just come out of dock, George. How the hell could I have pinched, forged or stolen any antiques? And you’ve Mrs Heindrick’s alibi for that cloth job.’

  ‘Murder investigation,’ he said.

  That shook me. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Get him out here,’ another copper called wearily from the car, stationary now. ‘Ledger’ll be going berserk.’

  George wouldn’t say any more so I dressed awkwardly and was whisked into town by a dozily irritable constable in a posh police saloon. So many things about the whole business had bewildered me that it was only one more mind-duller when the motor cruised the wrong way down Priory Street and pulled up at the narrow iron gate leading to the ruins. The bobby parked illegally and led me through the old graveyard with the aid of his torch. Ever been in that state of mind where you can fully understand everything that’s going on, yet you know you’re not really taking any of it in or even believing what you see with your very eyes? Well, that was me when up ahead through the spectral yew trees we heard voices and caught sight of the great ruined arches washed by shifting torchlights. I knew, but didn’t gather quite what everybody was on about.

  ‘This way, sir. Mind your head.’<
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  The lights blended into a brilliant glow as we came into the main flooring opposite the sanctuary area. A generator whirred, steadied, and floodlights hit from three directions. I’d never seen so many of the Old Bill not in a procession. Ledger was talking with two other plainclothes blokes and jerked his chin at me to follow among the mounds and gravestones.

  ‘You took your time, Smethurst,’ he grumbled to the constable.

  ‘My fault,’ I said, more to nark Ledger than from pleasantry.

  ‘Know what, Derby? Every bloody thing’s Lovejoy’s fault. Torch.’ One of his tame nerks snickered, and beamed his flash. Ledger led us through the nettles towards another island of floodlight where Joxer’s shed had once stood. Now the scene was a shambles of charred bricks and stench. An angry uniformed copper approached. He was covered in ash. Sweat glistened on his stained face.

  ‘Sir. These fire-johnnies are buggering us about.’

  ‘Stop them, Lynley.’

  A yellow-helmeted fireman came up, sweatier and even angrier. The six others at the scene wore white helmets. Presumably he was the gaffer.

  ‘Sergeant Ledger! My duty is to excavate and neutralize all fire—’

  Ledger spat on an innocent floodlit nettle. ‘Your duty is to make it safe here for my men.’

  ‘Then that means—’

  ‘Standing by until we tell you.’

  The furious fireman tried to overbear but Ledger wouldn’t give way, and stepped down to where Joxer’s floor once was. I had difficulty seeing even where the bench had been. Ledger scuffed the debris and balanced on a piece of corrugated metal, part of Joxer’s fallen roofing. Ash clouded in the beams up to our knees. The white glare and the abruptly stencilled shadows made it a mad lunar picture.

  ‘Tell him, Derby.’

  Derby intoned, ‘Antique dealer and fabricator known locally as Joxer, height—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  Derby shrugged, skipped some. ‘Found dead in his burning workshop. Cause of death yet to be reported, but—’

  ‘Skull fracture,’ Ledger cut in. ‘Our quack says it might have been falling brick.’