The Grace in Older Women

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The Grace in Older Women Page 24

by Jonathan Gash


  It would be auctioned during the exhibition. Tinker and Chemise, off their own bat, had fixed it for two days' time. I warned them not to get uppity, but I was at a loose end, now that I knew that Reverend Jay Smith, beloved of Juliana, had done for Tryer.

  Time for the Fenstone meeting? I felt like looking into his killer's eyes-while well protected, of course, by Dame Millicent, Mr. Geake, Juliana. I'd take Chemise.

  As I went to shout my usual 'Where've I left that motor?' to Chemise, who had forgotten to remind me, I saw a nervous bloke by the hotel steps. He'd been listening to old Jim Andrews. He followed me, a thin, edgy individual. A poor clerk who'd pressed every worn thread to go posh for an interview.

  ‘Lovejoy?' he stuttered. I was pleased, because I do too.

  A pause, then I tumbled. 'Daddy? Gold modeller?'

  His brow cleared. 'Fred A'Court. I hope my Lana wasn't impertinent. It's been hard for her. I got your message.'

  You've brought another forgery?'

  Shy, he held out a folded tissue. I unwrapped it. A filigree brooch, nearly the right weight. 'Lead?' Its interlaced golden strands were pitted, as if for small gemstones.

  'My own alloy. The relative density - '

  Oh aye.' I cut him short. Techniques are only as good as the finished fake. 'Looks good.'

  it's a fake golden butterfly, Spanish treasure fleet off Florida, 1715.' He went red. I use magazine pictures.'

  'Look, Fred.' I gave it back, it's high time somebody did a flock. You're good enough.' You have to encourage talent. 'A flock is a gradual release of antiques, fakes, whatever, supposedly from a single source. Like, the Santa Cruz treasure ship. She sank off Pembrokeshire in 1679 with two hundred chests of gold. Mark your butterfly. Cast From Original Found In Ocean. It'll get everybody thinking, What original? They'll think, Some sod's found another Spanish galleon. Can you do more? When we get a few tickles -enquiries from dealers - we can sell scores of gold forgeries.'

  He was looking anxious. 'A black market, Lovejoy?'

  'Governments create black markets, Fred. Not us.'

  'Okay, then, Lovejoy,' he said, doubtful. 'Help me to load this dressing table, will you?' And exit smiling.

  29

  'Wotcher, F’rouk. Lend me somebody to unload? '

  Behind his nosh bar was a narrow alley, the sort you always get behind every eating place. I often wonder why. Do they choose the place, or does the place choose them?

  He stirred two idlers to action. They were disgruntled at having to leave contemplation of the racing results, but did the job. They wanted to simply drop the dressing table with a crash. I stopped them. Farouk smiled apology.

  'Relatives,' he sighed. ‘Why are obligations one-way?'

  He sounded like me. I was starting to like Farouk. 'Mmmh. Not a scratch, note.' I got ready for the difficult bit. 'Er, mind me asking, mate, but why didn't you do the job yourself? You knew its case.' A case is the layout of a place, alarms, patrols, of a theft.

  He didn't smile. 'I knew the man who'd delivered the piece, three years ago when money was freer. I drove the van for him. But I wouldn't go there now.'

  'So?'

  ‘I had trouble. A policeman Lovejoy.' He waved at a diner. 'I planned a caff in Fenstone. He did everything but torch the place to prevent me.'

  And I knew. That limp, the familiar face that wasn't. I'd known all along. 'Geake, William Geake?'

  'Yes. He's retired, an invalid. Some accident.'

  'Poor chap.' I paused. 'Heard of my exhibition?'

  'Forgeries? I'll be there, Lovejoy.' His smile faded. The dresser was standing forlorn. 'You don't mean this is fake?'

  'Good one, F'rouk, but duff. Send it in the exhibition if you like. See Tinker.' I got in and fired the engine. ‘Same fee, though.'

  He shouted persuasions, how could I demand antiques prices when I'd nicked a fake? I didn't stay. A deal is a deal.

  William Geake had been a peeler, then. Now reminded, I could place him. Not uniformed branch. Accident, invalided out of the Force, retired to a village, involved in church activities. Lucky for Farouk, unlucky for Fenstone.

  They kept me waiting an hour. She came with that dismissive assertiveness they're trained to use when the public interrupts tea. Her file slammed impatiently on the desk.

  'What now, Lovejoy?'

  'My exhibition, at the Dragonsdale Hotel?'

  'Yes.' Her wintry smile invited applause, as if she'd sherlocked it out of tight-lipped townsfolk.

  'It's in premises owned by the town's senior magistrate, don't forget. Law and order rule!'

  'Presented as a public-spirited exhibition that warns buyers against today's forgers, Lovejoy? We know that angle.'

  There were wall photos, former plod. 'Geake here, Maud?'

  A millisec's delay. 'Why do you ask?' Like drawing blood.

  'Mmmh?' I was casual. 'Wasn't there some accident?'

  'Car crash, line of duty.' She decided to go casual too. 'I wasn't here then. A good serving officer.'

  'Oh.' I snapped my fingers. 'Clean forgot. Anything I should watch out for? Stolen silver, shipments?'

  'I'll deliver a list within the hour. Incidentally, Holly Heanley's in council care.'

  'Don't tell me. Tell her dad. And keep her out of my hair.'

  'She's waiting in your car, Lovejoy. Giving my police yard a bad name.' She smiled a sleet-filled smile.

  Holly was in my passenger seat. 'Where's the frigging radio in this crap heap, Lovejoy?'

  'Waiting to be invented, love.'

  Narked, I drove to the law courts, found Den and introduced Holly to him like I was Beau Nash.

  'Den, she's a pest. Can't you chain her up?'

  He'd brewed up in his alcove, shared his tea like a gent. 'How do some parents manage to get their daughters settled, behave?' He looked tired.

  'Den. William Geake. Remember him?'

  He was surprised. 'Geake?' Peeler hurt in a motor wrap.

  Why didn't I remember this? A wrap is a smash-up where the car is totalled. 'Mmmh. What the hell do I do with Holly? She's a nuisance.'

  'If you ever find out let me know. I just thank God she's stopped hanging about the Magistracy. I'd rather her be with you. You're barmy, but not sick.'

  'Cheers, Den. Your tea's rotten.'

  In the motor, Holly was still sulking, but eyeing up youthful miscreants parading in and out of the courts.

  'Battishall, Holly?' I hadn't asked about her cryptic remark.

  Teenage smugness is annoying. I knew how Den felt, wanting to give her a clout knowing it would be wrong.

  'He paid me, Lovejoy. Always after me, couldn't get enough.' Triumph, I saw, is what she was feeling. 'He used to blub like a kid. I made him beg.' She laughed, harsh, a nutmeg grater. Scorn, pride, disgust all came into it. 'Great magistrate, Lovejoy. You know what he does?' She looked with wonderment. 'He sends people to gaol! He kneels and cries afterwards, says he's sorry.'

  Jesus. 'You still see him?'

  ‘Nar, Lovejoy. He's disgusting. Still tries it. I make him pay, then nothing.' She did her laugh, the thrill of money for inflicting punishment. What happened to childhood?

  'Why did you stop?'

  'He made me.' She sounded bitter. 'Caught me shagging His Honour in a lane.' She glared, eyes hot.

  'He interrupted you?' I felt ill. Past misdemeanors crowded in, the knock on the windscreen, footsteps, police sirens while the lads fought in the lay-by over a vanload. Christ.

  'No. Too sly. He told me off later. Said he'd have me put away.' She filled with contempt. 'Didn't say a word to His Honour, oh no.'

  Streetwalker crudities poured out of her. This was no baffled child. Holly's language was milder than Tonietta's, but curiously more offensive. Who'd caught them?

  'Did he say why he was there?' And explained when she frowned, i presume you were in Battishall's motor, lantern hours? Only nightwalkers - poachers, twitchers - prowl after dusk.'

  'Must have stood watching in the dark. Ugh!
' She shivered. 'Give me the fucking creeps, them do.'

  Like a fool I misunderstood, hadn't the nerve to ask her outright who it was. And her dad Den worked at the law courts, after all.

  'Where did you meet Mr. Battishall, Holly?'

  That laugh, screech of an outraged barn owl. 'You're thick, Lovejoy, you know that? Dad had me put in care for staying out all hours. The Magistracy's where I met Ashley. He kept me for a serious talk.' She minced the word, mouth a prow.

  I sighed. 'Where else?' But something had to be done with the lass, for God's sake. You can't just write people off. 'Listen, Holly. I'm in trouble. Serious.'

  'With the law, Lovejoy?' she breathed. 'Same as me?'

  'Aye.' I invented, 'Er, they'll put me in soon, Maudie said. So I'm going to do a scam. Will you help?'

  'I knew it, Lovejoy! You're always doing things, you.' She'd come alive, almost squirming. 'Will it be dangerous?'

  'Very.' With luck I'd think of something. If not, I'd warn Den. 'There's a risk, love. One thing, though. Leave off blackmailing Battishall until it's over with, okay?'

  'Right, Lovejoy.' She laid a hand on my leg. I shifted it quickly. I was in enough trouble. 'You can get me at home.'

  'Eh? Oh, right. I'll be in touch.'

  She alighted, peered in at the window. 'How soon, Lovejoy?'

  'Forty-eight hours, Holly. Be ready.' I drove off, resigned. God knows what I'd do for the child-as-was. I don't have prescriptions for the world. I only live here, as crooks say.

  They told me at the Arcade that Carmen was in the Fleece. I caught him almost before he was sloshed.

  'Carmen!' I greeted. 'Missed you at the audition.'

  'Out driving.' Carmen's our local celebrity. He never looks at you.

  He claims to have invented carjacking. This game's prevalent, but as little as two years ago it was rare. You collide with another vehicle, day or night doesn't matter. You then rush up to the victim car, create a hullaballoo by smashing windows, yelling, whatever, while robbing the motorist of his valuables. Yobbos carjack for wages, antiques, boxes of jewellery. Carjackers are called hit-and-hoppits. That's it.

  'Just thought I'd ask, Carmen.' (Car . . . men, get it? He has this team of drivers and hoods.) I like him because he doesn't hurt folk.

  He'll even call off a jacking if he sees kiddies in the mark's motor. Even on hot days, Carmen wears a thick sheepskin, leather outside. I hate to think what weapons he's hiding.

  'Lovejoy, a moment. If you will permit me, Carmen?'

  'Hello, Montgomery.' Even to myself I sounded wary. Corinth had entered, eyebrows questioning. The lads all switched to maximum lust. She was made way for at the bar stools, the quicker to get her legs on display.

  'I have a replica of a motor.' Mainwaring, ever the gent, smiled for approval. 'An electric Oldsmobile. They were around a lot, once.' He harmmphed, amused. 'Before we opted for pollution!'

  'Who made it?' An electric motor car won the USA's first recorded motor race a century ago, beating the petrol-drivens.

  'Bought in.' Montgomery smirked, knowing but not telling. 'Corinth wants it in the exhibition, not outside with the dross.'

  'Got any more? Anything similar?'

  'Maybe.' He did that double brush of his moustache. 'Litterbin's fetching Corinth's Angkor Wat loot over - nudge, nudge, Lovejoy, what? We shall chop it. Made by Miss Corinth's own factory. Original umber.'

  Cambodia's a lesson in what not to buy, if you want to stay legal. Lately realizing that it had some of the world's great antique treasures, Cambodia issued another appeal for people to stop looting. This plea is always a signal for international dealers to start a looting frenzy. Cambodia's new Constitution even states stern penalties for treasure traffickers. It's no good. Every dealer in Europe knows how to reach traffickers - two phone calls, and you're through to the Munich dealers who'll promise, and bring you, a seven-hundred-year-old temple carving, a Buddha's head, a whole temple in container loads (via Thailand, Indonesia then Holland). Cambodia's fighting a losing battle. Angkor Wat's very size, 100 square kilometres, limits security. There are scores of other sites. Western dealers have been in raptures about the sacred royal Khmer Empire's sites ever since the Tokyo conference pledged money, aid, protection. It's a laugh, though a tragic one. Such pious gatherings only serve to publicize the treasures' availability. My prediction: Angkor Wat will whittle down to zilch, like Rome, Venice, Yucatan, in two decades. Fini.

  'Original burnt umber? You sure, Montgomery?'

  There's been a terrible row between the French and India about Cambodian antiques. Indian restorers 'restored' some of Angkor Wat's temples by cleaning the stonework, changing the colour from a lovely umber to bright sandy hues. The French went berserk, accusing India's restorers of ruination. India said sandy was the original colour. See? International co-operation is a contradiction in terms. But Montgomery's news was good. One phone call to London, the East Coast Express would be heaving with chequebook dealers by morning. The railways ought to send me a turkey every Christmas.

  'Include them, and you can bring your motor inside.' This was news to me. Corinth never had, hasn't, will never have, a factory of fakers. Mainwaring and Corinth must be diddling Litterbin out of much. I wouldn't mind getting cheated by Corinth, as long as it was in my line of duty.

  'A wise move, Lovejoy!' He drifted. Me and Carmen watched.

  'What goes on there, Lovejoy? Him and Corinth.'

  'He loves her. She exploits him. Tit for tat, Carmen?'

  'Right. I've got a load of antique toys, mechanicals, car mascots, little pot houses. Not much to look at, but I want rid. From a good genuine antique business.' He sounded aggrieved.

  'Carjacked and genuine?' Stolen stuff would have my exhibition impounded in a flash by Maudie Laud. 'Can't do it. Maud's Plod in every bush.'

  'How'll I shift it?' he demanded, as if I was to blame.

  Take it to the M18 service station, Saturday night, nine o'clock.' I gave him the name of an Ulster lass, Nuala, who comes across with her dad. It's a secret non-secret non-market, if you follow. You can actually place an order for a yet-to-be stolen antique, then simply turn up, pay up, and drive off with it all on the same day. (For legal reasons I can't name it, but it isn't a million miles from Hawksmoor.) 'Say I sent you.'

  He bought drinks, but one pint makes me waterlogged. 'Okay, Lovejoy. Tit for tat. Your Geake's a wobbler. My lads hated the bastard. He chased a carjacker, doing a ton. Topped some poor bleeder, a wrapper.'

  Which being translated meant William Geake was a weirdo.

  Chasing a carjacker one night, he crashed at 100 m.p.h, killed some innocent, car a write-off.

  'But these things happen, Carmen.'

  He looked straight at me, an all-time first. 'Lovejoy. There was no carjacker.' He allowed a second for it to sink in. 'He told the Plod a tale. I'm sorry he recovered. He should have died, not the padre.'

  'What padre?' I was lost. Geake pursued a non-existent carjacking priest?

  'Some old git, God rest him.' Carmen was losing interest.

  'Amen,' I said. 'Cheers, Carmen.'

  Geake. Ex-policeman of this parish. Chased a mirage, and killed somebody in the process?

  30

  The hotel was in uproar. I was worried about the cost of so many blokes. I didn't dare ask about Tinker's IOUs. They were all busy unloading, shouting, carrying furniture, paintings, pots. Illicit labourers, unrecorded by the Inland Revenue, are freely (not free-ly) available in East Anglia. In Lincolnshire alone there's 20,000 known gangmasters. One call brings an army, ready to slog for pay on the hoof.

  In a second I was surrounded by dealers and vannies, all holding out chits, chops, papers. I signed every one unread, to buy breath. Tinker was a hundred yards off, waving they were all okay. In three seconds I paid out more bribes than India's Redline bus contractors of New Delhi, and they hold the galaxy record.

  This is exciting, Lovejoy!' Miss Priscilla and Miss Philadora were thrilled, actually ap
plauding when they stepped out of the motor. 'And such a worthy cause!'

  The Americans were having tea on the lawn with Roberta and Ashley. A lovely picture. Old Jim Andrews was watching. I hung back. The Dewhursts fluttered ahead.

  'You're Lovejoy. Anzacs, gunner, Western Desert, right?'

  'No, Jim. Lovejoy, antique dealer.'

  Today he looked old. I smelled whisky. 'Could have sworn,' he muttered, then focused. 'See that end van? Not been unloaded properly. Wouldn't last a day under fire. Rabble!'

  Four pantechnicons stood nearby. One had its tail locked and chained, ready to go. The others stood tail down, furniture, paintings, clocks, packing cases, being unloaded.

  'It has, Jim,' I explained. 'The driver's locked it.'

  'Ignoramus.' He shook with vehemence. 'Should be put on a charge! That's what's wrong with this country! Backsliders!'

  We were far enough away for his senile quaver to be lost in the open air. He pointed with his stick. I had to prop the daft old coot up.

  'Measure a vehicle's capacity! There was one foot width times height times length missing from its contents.'

  ‘They took out less than its volume?' I was doubtful. If he really was barmy it meant nothing. If correct, though, it asked what was huge in surface area, but thin. A big oil painting?

  ‘Its interior is lopsided!' He pointed triumphantly. 'One wall's a foot thicker!' He became sly. 'We'll create a diversion, set something on fire, maybe the truck itself, during which - '

  'Er, good idea, Jim.' I'd seen too many burning vehicles lately. 'Tell you what. I'll suss things out. You keep watch.'

  He winked. 'Good, son. Recce before guns.'

  God, I thought, agreeing to his lunacy and going to join the rest. I'll soon be as daft as him. I was frantic about William Geake. Juliana was on the steps, scurrying with her list. Chemise saw me, waved with a smile. Tinker grinned from the verandah with a jug and glass, in clover, calling instructions. Sundry aged folk wandered.

 

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