'No you're not, Carmel. You never are.'
She slammed the door.
This is average. I waited, without taking offence. She's always starting up new enterprises, but has one constant sin. It's the ephemeral world of creativity, a posh word for cadging, 'dealing'. She's made for it. I've heard her use over a dozen accents in a single evening, and that was in seclusion on her boat moored at the marina. Carmel lives for telephones, rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, to coin a song. Carmel never stops.
The door slammed open, if doors can do such a thing. She stood glaring.
'What is it?' She'd sent for me, note.
'Work, Carmel?'
Two lads howled by on a motor bike, whistling lust. Absently she made a rude gesture, kept her anger for me.
'You always interrupt, Lovejoy. I'm sick of you. You're never away from my door.'
Translation: How broke are you, Lovejoy? I pondered on how to reach her clinking clanking heart's locked coffers.
'We've not met for months, Carmel,' I said reasonably.
'So why this urgency? Because your cottage's repossessed, and your whorish fashioneer's ditched you?'
'Eh?' Being homeless was news. Visiting Carmel always paid.
She saw how startled I was. I could see her mind change.
'Come in. You've a minute, Lovejoy.'
Carmel's minutes are famous for their elasticity. Even I've managed to stretch one to a full day with minimal inventiveness, and I'm not up to much. Think how a tycoon like, say, her pal Roger Boxgrove'd do.
Two phones were ringing, one inside her gown. She answered it in French, pointing a finger to the living room door. Obediently I went through and shut the door. It went whoosh, soundproofed. I like Carmel. She and I met when she asked me for help stealing a filing cabinet from the solicitors Parlpley and Donnash's in St Edmundsbury. Her car had conked out and mine was miraculously functioning. She actually flagged me down on the A47. We loaded the stolen files piecemeal. Ungraciously, she'd played hell because I'd no car phone.
Waiting, I inspected her furniture, the display plates, the armchairs, none of it antique. Except one little carriage clock on the mantelpiece, Leroy et Fils of Paris. I went up to it, said hello.
'Got it, love?' I asked. 'Can I look?'
It felt all right, so I turned her round and opened her back. The alarm setting's face was white! Why Leroy wanted to hide it thus I don't know.
'You're beautiful,' I told the clock. 'Want to come home with me?'
'I heard, Lovejoy! Keep your thieving hands. . .’
Miserably, I sat. There was one other recent addition, I noticed, a sepia photograph of a Great War soldier in its original ebony frame. He looked desperately young, Royal Artillery badges. Carmel wafted in.
'That soldier? My ancestor. He contacts me occasionally, in spirit. He has a fund of stories.'
'Does he now.' I rose with a litany of excuses. Mysticism is rubbish. 'Imustbegoingjustremembered. . .’
'Shut it, Lovejoy.' She sat opposite, crossing her legs. I swallowed and sank, trying to look everywhere else. Carmel isn't fair. She makes it impossible for you to stare away, then blames you for gaping. 'How much for a sand job?'
Definitely no reason to leave. If I'd not called, she'd have sent Bushmen trackers out. In fact, I was probably the subject of her phone calls. Now Thekla had cut me off, Carmel had scanned her satellites. A sand job's a special sort of theft.
'Depends on where, and the guard system.'
'Is that all? What about the stripe?'
Stripe is the item(s) due to be stolen. Carmel likes to use these terms because her clients, especially the ones who finance such robberies, like to remain aloof yet are impressed by jargon.
'Think national, Lovejoy. Like Tate Gallery loans.'
A sand job's simplicity itself. Nowadays, it's all the rage. God knows why it's called a sand job, perhaps because gym plimsolls were called 'sand shoes' and robbers wore them.
In a sand job, a rich art collector, the roller, burns to possess, say, a famous Constable, Da Vinci, whatever. Smouldering with unrequited greed, he moans in disturbed slumber at the nerks in the National Gallery who won't sell it to him for threepence. Then the radio news announces that the wondrous painting is being lent to some gallery abroad. His chance! Quickly he phones his favourite thief, and orders a sand job—that is, to nick it while it's overseas, and bring it home to daddy.
Success requires two elements. First, a friend writes to the press denouncing the loan in ringing terms ('Why should our great national treasures be hawked about Europe? Will it be safe from international art theft . . . ?' Curators anxiously reply that 'all precautions have been taken . . .'). The second element is robbers good enough.
Please disabuse yourself of the old-fashioned Bulldog Drummond footpad-and-gumshoe image. Times are new. East Anglia's robbers, craftsmen all, don't immediately hit the ferry to Holland and jauntily steal the stripe and bring it to the roller. Not nowadays, for hoods everywhere are eager to rob on command, for a price. So if, say, the stripe is a Birmingham Gallery sculpture being lent to Bergen in Norway, Scandinavia's art thieves are telephoned (at their terribly secret Copenhagen number) and a fee arranged for them to do it. If Glasgow is loaning stripe to Paris's Louvre, then you dial the oh-so-secret Brussels number for a French sand job.
'The stripe's incidental,' I said.
Carmel's eyes widened. T never thought I'd hear you run down antiques.'
T mean the stripe is a constant. The only variables are where, and security.'
'A sand job's normally outside my creativity.'
'Oh, aye,' I said, cynicism showing. She wasn't normally this reticent. Carmel has brokered several Continental thefts, and done well out of them, meaning forty per cent from the insurers.
'No, seriously, Lovejoy.'
Then the penny dropped. 'Turners? You're going to tish that Turner robbery?' To tish is to steal something in exactly the same manner as some famous antiques robbery, a copy theft.
'Who knows?' Offhand.
But I knew, and rejoiced. This was mighty stuff, for the notorious Frankfurt sand job had already entered antiques legend.
The Tate Gallery lent two masterpieces, each worth un-imagined sums, to Frankfurt's Schirn Kunsthalle Gallery. Two hoods lurked inside until the alarms were being cut from manual to auto, their chance window. They bagged a guard, snaffled his keys, nicked the paintings, and legged it. As makeweight, they took a Caspar David Friedrich (not worth a Turner, but who can sneeze at an extra two million?) The sand job's hallmark: The hoods know where the stripe is.
'The Frankfurt job, Carmel. You're going to copy it. Tell me where, and I'll give you a guide price.'
My heart thumped with excitement. If it seemed safe enough, I might even watch the experts actually do the lift. It might be the only time in my life I'd ever get to hold, just for one blissfilled moment, some Old Master.
'Later, Lovejoy. You'll have to be honest.'
Carmel never trusts me. I went all hurt. It beats me why women want my company. I ripped my eyes from her legs and reached the door.
'Was that true about my cottage, Carmel?' I'd best stay away if the bailiffs were in.
'You were hardly out of the gate, Lovejoy.' She shook her head. 'I said it'd end in tears. That Thekla.'
'If you decide to go ahead, tell me, eh?'
She smiled, a lovely business ending in a slightly askew pursing of her luscious mouth. I decided to forget temptation for a bit.
'Where, Lovejoy? You've no phone, nor a home to hang it in.' She laughed. I shut the door on her final hilarity. 'Lovejoy and high fashion!'
It rained, heavy and worrying. I piked into the town centre, thinking to try Lydia, recently back from a trainee course. She's my apprentice. It was time she unlearnt the expertise she'd have assimilated from the trade's professors. My mind was going, a sand job? Locally financed? Now, if I was to embark on such a thing, which robbery would I go for? And where? I'd no
home, but antiques were always one lovely big promise.
6
It was dusk when I reached the centre, drenched. There was only one free place open, the chapel reading room. I'd have gone into the theatre foyer, but I'd have been stopped at the main doors and barred for scruffiness. It wouldn't have happened in Will Shakespeare's day. Gloomy with self-pity, I opted for shelter.
The town has chapels and chapels. We have a score or so still extant. Others are gone, or apologetic. The bells of St. Mary's, Minehead, ring silently now, being computer controlled. Such 'progress' is daft—a mute bell is simply a non-bell. This chapel was an antique, the only sort that matter. I stood in the dry, feeling pleased. Tradition's barmy, but good while it lasts.
Light came from a couple of electric lamps. A book stood open on a lectern. I checked that it wasn't a Gutenberg or anything worth nicking, though that thought honestly hadn't crossed my mind.
A voice made me jump. 'Do you search, brother?'
'No, Jessica. It's only me, Lovejoy.'
The chapel filled with overwhelming perfume. I almost swooned. While Jessica lives, the perfume industry is safe. Jessica lives on/under/with her son-in-law—opinions vary—on the estuaries. She is rich. To become even richer she exploits every angle, not to say curve. She emerged from the shadows. Mascara, rouge, false eyelashes that knock you askew if you get close, lipstick thick enough to plough, long earrings, sheathed in silver lame covered in Christian symbols. She was gorgeous, but not very holy.
'Heard you were in charge, Jessica. That's why I dropped in.' I hadn't and it wasn't, but showing interest in Jessica never hurts. She was Carmel's friend. 'Got religion?'
'Hasn't everyone, Lovejoy?' No answer to that, except some Augustinian complexity. She drew close. I gasped for oxygen. 'I'm glad you've left that horrid Thekla. She's no good for you.'
East Anglia wins the gossip stakes hands down.
'You're being beaten to the buy, Lovejoy?'
'Lies, love,' I lied.
'Has some new divvy hailed in? People say so.'
'They say too frigging much.' I was narked.
'Language,' she chided, cool. 'You're in church. So you'll do Carmel's sand job?' She drew scabbard-length violet nails along my neck. My middle went funny. She smiled; diamante dots shimmered on each white tooth. 'Welcome aboard, Lovejoy.'
Ever had that feeling that you're so baffled that you feel like giving up? I once knew this bloke, Cedric. Look at him, you'd say he was staid, middle-aged, humdrum. A collector of glass paperweights, he owned a rare paperweight from the French firm of Baccarat, in Alsace. A simple ball, it held a green glass snake on white glass lace. Tip: If you come across one, steal/beg/borrow/buy it; whatever the price, you'll end up violently rich. I'd tried to buy it, but lacked money. Well, this woman Hilary came up to me at the village dramatic society play, and gave me a letter for Cedric. I'm only the doorman and sweeper-up, stand in the darkness waiting to switch on the lights at the end.
We went outside so she could sniff tears dry. I stood there like a spare tool.
'Can't you give it him yourself, Hilary?'
She'd broken down. I shushed her, in case the audience got distracted from Noel Coward. T must stop seeing Cedric, Lovejoy. My husband, the children . . .'
My admiration for Cedric soared. From a mere run-of-the-mill aging bloke, Cedric became the Scarlet Pimpernel. I mean, Hilary was a real looker. I would have been after her myself, if she'd had any antiques. That's what I mean. I never quite know what's going on. The feeling was never so strong as in Jessica's church.
'Aye,' I said. 'Carmel's asked. 'I'm not sure.'
God, but she was overpowering. The scent, her closeness, the still church. Sanctuary must be like this, without the sense of impending doom.
'Carmel and I . . .' I shook my head disparagingly. Reluctance about Carmel pleased Jessica.
'I'm glad, Lovejoy. Is it true you're going on Aureole's chain gang? I should have thought that you'd have enough ... to do.'
'Stop that, Jessica,' I said weakly, through quickening breath. 'We're in church.'
'Sacrament, darling,' she said huskily. 'That's all love is. You taught me that.'
I'd only come in from the rain. I was anxious to stay unravished while I decided, but found my hands fumbling to undo us both in the aisle.
'Shagging in church is unlucky,' a bloke said.
We jumped apart, my heart thudding alarm. Jessica was equal to it, and quickly stepped past me. It's easy for women. Their frocks just drop into place, but is anything more obvious than a bloke suddenly deformed?
'Welcome, brother,' she cooed, sweet as honey, 'to sacred harmony. I frantically tried to conceal my incipient lust.
The newcomer was vaguely familiar. Youngish, down-at-heel, leather bomber jacket, oily lank hair, six foot, mouth agape, pointed winkle-picker shoes that went out with the dodo. He was muscular, though. An iron pumper, always in and out of poses. He moved aside. I realised that he was keeping the altar in view, and recognised him.
'Wotcher, Tubb,' I said. 'Still training?'
'Lovejoy.' He came, warily rounded Jessica. 'Carmel's put me on the sand job. Sorry I'm late.'
Late? I'd not spoken to him for months. 'You?’
He went indignant. 'What's wrong with me, Lovejoy?'
Jessica's sanctity evaporated. She looked annoyed.
Tubb's Carmel's helper,' I explained, wishing I'd not come, and that I'd not got a helper like Tubb for a robbery. 'He's just out of gaol.'
Tubb was released a day late. His sentence had ended on a Friday. The most superstitious bloke on earth, he'd clung screaming to the bars, until the prison governor wearily agreed to let him stay an extra day. Ancient lore says that Friday starts are bad luck, like not facing an altar. Here in East Anglia some old people still creak out backwards after Evensong. I'd not heard the superstition about not making love in church. If it's a real superstition, it's a rotten one.
'When're we off, Lovejoy?'
‘I haven't said I'd do it yet.'
'Another time, Lovejoy.' Jessica swept off.
Sadly I watched her go. With her makeup and dress sense she could outvamp those fashioneers any day of the week. Which jolted my memory. I was supposed to be in the Quay nosh house, then meeting Aureole.
'See you, Jess,' Tubb said after her. Odd, because it's her private nickname. I'd thought he didn't know her. 'Carmel says to stick with you, Lovejoy.'
'Then no loony superstitions, okay?'
My mind settled a jigsaw piece in place. Carmel needed me and nobody else for her sand job. I was still the only divvy for leagues around.
'How much time've we got, Tubb?'
'Some days.'
Then I'd time for a free meal. I dithered for a split second. Aureole represented grub plus the Berkley Horse, but being a link in her sex chain was a definite minus. I like to choose where to lose, so to speak. On the other hand there was the mystery pickpocket Orla Maltravers Featherstonehaugh, of London's Mayfair, who stole nothing but who promised supper. On the other other hand, I had given Aureole my word of honour. On the other other other hand, had I really meant it? Orla won.
'See you anon, Tubb. My auntie's in hospital.'
Tubb accompanied me. I stepped into the Trinity Street dark. 'Don't talk to her if she's in one of them cubicles, Lovejoy. It's bad luck.'
'It is?'
'Witness, wish, or will through glass opposites what you say!' He was eager to guide me. 'Look at her through glass'll bring evil. Take care.'
'Er, right, Tubb.' I moved away from the barmy sod. Just my luck to have Tubb foisted on my promising job.
He called after me, 'And stay away from them green hospital gowns, okay?'
'Right, right.'
Okay, so green's unlucky. Has anyone ever seen a green nightdress? I knew this bird once who wouldn't go out wearing green, though the colour suited her. Tubb carries superstition too far. It was his downfall. He was burgling a mansion in Lincolnshire. His mate
was chewing a hawthorn twig while jemmying the window—country folk call hawthorn 'bread and cheese'; children like the taste. Only when Tubb had shone his flashlight had he seen the twig. Superstition struck, for hawthorn indoors signifies calamity. Tubb let out a shriek, roused the household. Police caught him less than a mile off lamming along a hedgerow, which to this nerk proved how unlucky hawthorn is. Bonkers.
'Don't step on cracks, Lovejoy!' floated after me in the gloaming.
Like a fool I actually found myself trying to see the flagstones in the lamplight. It only goes to show, daftness is catching. I should have remembered that, and stayed safe. But I didn't so I wasn't. I started down East Hill past the town hall clock, with Saint Helena and the True Cross, and Boadicea glowering. Symbols. Tubb'd say they were unlucky, but he's cracked.
Lightning flashed, silhouetting the building against blackness. The rain descended. Maybe Tubb was right. The downpour stopped me reaching the Quay. I judged the traffic and dashed across to the Bay and Say pub, arriving like a drowned rat.
'Wotcher, Lovejoy.'
Sadly Sorrowing was in. He got me a drink, a record.
'Ta, Sadly. What's the occasion?'
'Sold ten this week, Lovejoy. Great, eh?'
Sadly Sorrowing makes fake Regency writing bureaus. They're not bad, but he makes too few to eke a living. He's called Sadly Sorrowing after a greeting card rhyme he made up. London firms wouldn't buy it, so he had six thousand printed—to be rare collector's items, you understand. He sends them out on every possible occasion, to get rid. So if you get married, win the lottery, lose a leg or have twins, you get a Sincerest Condolences card with his famous couplet that begins, 'Sadly sorrowing sinners slowly soaring . . .' We all joke, 'No, Sadly—we'll wait for the film.'
I told tourists they were Lord Fauntleroy's.'
'Great.' I gave up. Ten was his max. 'Here, Sadly. You know Brad, eh?'
'Brad the boat builder? Wivenhoe? I live near him.'
'He ashore, or out sailing?'
'In this storm?' The rain was slashing at the pub windows. 'He'll be out tomorrow down the Blackwater.'
Good news. Tomorrow, I'd not be poor, with Brad's help. Tinker came in with Roadie. I stood them some ale with the remnant of Thekla's largesse.
The Possessions of a Lady Page 5