Faces in the Pool

by Jonathan Gash

  ‘Mind if I nap? I’m bushed!’

  ‘No time, Lovejoy,’ Sandy fluted brightly. ‘We’re due at the casino.’

  Casino again? ‘What casino, exactly?’

  ‘Once a harlot,’ Mel raged, so I switched off. Time the Great Healer must do its stuff.

  ‘Butch people want you,’ Sandy carolled.

  ‘Harlot!’ Mel boomed.

  It beats me why they stay partners. They have an old house with barns for storing Art Deco and Art Nouveau furniture. They’re great on treen. Sandy speaks a bizarrely – ‘riah’ for hair, ‘eek’ for face, ‘jambs’ for legs, and the like. His exotic mannerisms are an act, and very boring. He faints when somebody wears the wrong colours. Women love his company. Mel sulks, Sandy titters. They share extortion.

  ‘We’re backing your betrothed’s plan, Lovejoy.’

  ‘D’you mean Veronica?’

  ‘No, moron. You’re funding Veronica, remember?’

  Another promise gone wrong. I’d forgotten.

  ‘Money out, money in, Lovejoy,’ he cooed. ‘We’re helping the shapeless Laura.’

  ‘Hope it doesn’t end in tears.’

  Sandy pulled off Old London Road. ‘Antiques can’t lose. Hadn’t you heard?’

  ‘You’d be insane not to go along with Laura, Lovejoy,’ Mel said.

  We drew in beside a derelict railway siding. I couldn’t wait to escape while Sandy made his entrance. An escalator comes from the car roof, Sandy swaying down it to martial music as Mel works recorded applause. ‘Yeomen of the Guard’ began. I heard Mel shout an angry, ‘Lovejoy! Come right back!’ but kept going.

  Along rusting rails stood a hotel, newly restored from the little country railway station it once was. New trees stood about, masking the roaring A12 East Anglia-to-London trunk road.

  Assuming the hotel would house the casino, I crunched along the gravel and went in. Smiling girls welcomed me. I said I wanted the casino, please.

  ‘Casino? I’m afraid there is no casino here, sir.’

  Nobody knows what reception girls do, but there are always plenty to welcome you, then they waft about doing their nails. A display notice announced Today: Convention of Ex. Disd Clns. Well, I thought, hearing ‘Beaux Gendarmes’ playing to the unattentive trees, I’d try anyway, and Mortimer had said. I wanted to get this casino business over.

  ‘Then the convention?’ The only game in town.

  ‘Consultant Suite 103, straight through, sir.’

  An excited girl came rushing through. ‘Sandy’s doing his entrance!’ she squealed, and the girls dashed away. One receptionist remained. She gave me a wry smile.

  ‘Sandy owns a third of our hotel chain, sir.’

  At the double doors I heard voices, two guttural, one a melodious Latino, and a woman’s vaguely familiar voice. I knocked and entered. There were cards on a vast mahogany table, with people seated around it. Poker, was it? I never really know. Laura looked in control, her smart lime green suit showing off her colouring.

  And an antique lay on the table.

  ‘Lovejoy!’ She gave the sweetest smile. ‘At last!’

  ‘Morning everyone.’ Tough guy me, no concessions. And something really strange happened. Walk into a gathering where they’ve been talking about you, they don’t look up. It felt weird. I suddenly knew I seriously mattered to this lot.

  ‘I propose we introduce ourselves,’ Laura said. ‘Pierrilus?’

  A stocky balding man gave a nod. ‘Pierrilus Glinsky.’ His expression warned me to watch my step.

  The antique still lay there. I stared at it. It stared back, possibly thinking, What have we here?

  ‘Hugo Hahn.’ A tall man rose and looked me full in the face. Pruned, leathery skin. Almost skeletal, he shook my hand with a firm grip. Not the silly squeezing contest the young inflict on each other, but enough to say he could match anyone. He’d asked the way to my village. He too remembered.

  The antique was still there.

  Laura went saccharine. ‘Donna?’

  The other lady smiled a minimalist smile. ‘Donna da Silfa.’

  ‘M’lady,’ I said, which earned Laura’s sharp disapproval. The lady was slender as a wand and elegant enough for putting on your mantelpiece, last seen between two lawyers at Mr Kine’s dungeons. Maybe from Gujerat, in India? Her dress was a gentle olive-coloured silk, with pearls that made my mouth water. ‘I’m hopeless with names.’

  ‘Francisco Polk,’ said a slender seated man. Glitzy jewellery, rings, a mouthful of gold teeth, Savile Row clothes. No handshake.

  The antique on the table was curious about me. I was curious back, having never seen a Baccarat ‘sulphide’ paperweight. These delectable rarities are the ugliest dusty red, except this contained a pewter-coloured hunting scene, a hound, hunter, tree and a stag. I prefer multi-cane ‘carpet ground’ weights because they are so happy. Hunts always make me feel like the prey, never the hounds.

  A hugely fat black man darted me a sharp look and returned to his cards. He smoked a thick cigar.

  ‘Hans Delius.’ He spoke through smoke. ‘Can we trust you?’

  I tried to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Most of the time.’ Failure. Only the prune-skinned Hugo Hahn cracked a wry grin, his teeth pearly white.

  The last man completed the set. ‘Rico Rousseau.’

  My mind reeled from the names, all of which I instantly forgot. Rico was bony, blue-grey eyes showing a startling clarity from a darkish face. His accent owed something to French, but what did I know? Donna da Silfa, though, stayed in the eye. You couldn’t mislay her in a Wembley match.

  Laura was beaming. ‘Do sit down, Lovejoy, while I go over your antiques brilliance.’

  I was getting used to obeying her. The players picked up their cards, and showed no interest in Laura’s eulogy. She explained I could divvy genuine antiques, and even produced forgeries of my own. I looked at the antique. It was still staring back.

  Mistrust was in the air, and I’d brought in ninety per cent of it. Laura listed a selection of my exploits. Cruelly, she went into detail over my prison spells. I thought her unfair, but didn’t dare say so. Any one of them could have dusted me over. I would even have been glad to hear Sandy and Mel arrive.

  ‘So you see, Donna and gentlemen, he’s our scheme’s perfect assistant.’

  ‘What scheme?’ I asked.

  Laura went on, ‘The scheme’s tickety-boo and foolproof.’

  ‘Er, excuse me. What scheme?’

  ‘Will he go along with us?’ Rico folded his cards and looked round the table. I felt narked at them for talking over me. They do that in hospitals while you’re wrapped helpless as a tuppenny rabbit. Yet I seemed to be significant. Was it the same plan as Laura’s – to recover her missing husband – or different?

  ‘It depends,’ I shot in.

  ‘Of course he will,’ Laura insisted.

  Only Lady Donna spared me a look. She was so lovely. People have daft notions about older women. Magazine articles preach that youth is everything. I know different. A woman is a woman, and that’s it. Donna da Silfa was older, fair enough, but she retained her elegance and poise. She was worth a dozen younger birds any day. Well, six.

  ‘Lovejoy?’ she said.

  Into the protracted silence I said, ‘Any antique dealer would jump at your offer. Me, I have a record. I don’t have a team. I have one part-time apprentice I owe a year’s wages to, and my only barker is a wino who sleeps in St Peter’s churchyard.’

  ‘Go on, Lovejoy,’ said the lady. I began to love her.

  ‘Two and two make four,’ I said. ‘But which four?’ I kept going. ‘Dealers won’t touch your scheme if they know I’m in on it. And they’ll all know before the day’s out.’

  ‘Who won the last hand?’ Hugo asked.

  The antique was still on the table.

  ‘Me.’ Rico showed his cards. Everybody nodded. He slipped the precious paperweight into his pocket. I gaped. They had been playing cards for an antique worth a f
ortune?

  Also on the table was a fake. Now I stared. Ivory, with a Chinese fighting cock in silver piqué work. The giveaway was its shape – the outline of a Queen Anne flintlock pistol lock plate with a scrolled M and an L. Wrong, so very wrong. Only one bloke turned out fakes like that, Fiffo in Birmingham. Clues were crammed in it.

  ‘Whose deal?’ fat Hans Delius growled, puffing smoke. ‘For the Chinese antique this time.’

  ‘It’s not antique,’ I said. ‘It’s fake.’

  This earned several nods. Oddly no anger.

  ‘Then my silver Georgian beaker,’ the balding Glinsky decided, obviously bored. ‘You all know it. My great-great-grandpa’s.’

  They all nodded agreement. ‘Doesn’t hold much San Mig beer,’ Delius said. Chuckle chuckle. Laura and Donna watched me.

  ‘Fifteenth hand,’ flashy Francisco Polk grumbled in his American twang. ‘I’ve lost every one.’

  ‘Look, Laura,’ I cleared my throat. ‘If you’re stuck, I’ll join.’

  ‘Are you sure, Lovejoy?’

  ‘For a friend. Well, for greed.’ It was hard, hard.

  ‘Good.’ The whole room relaxed. Why did I think they hadn’t been playing cards at all? ‘I shall take Lovejoy in hand.’

  ‘Perhaps I should.’ Hugo Hahn’s casual was as phoney as my casual.

  ‘No.’ Lady Donna put in. Those eyes would look truly alluring over Honiton lace. ‘I shall.’ She smiled at Laura. ‘You devote yourselves to mysterious legal things.’

  As if on cue I heard Sandy coming screeching down the corridor, Mel booming commands and the receptionists laughing.

  Laura was bright with annoyance. ‘If you insist, dear.’

  The deal was done. What deal, though? I hoped somebody on my side – Lydia, Mortimer – knew.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  dollop broker: one who stores illegal antiques for another

  When I emerged, edging past Sandy’s exulting entourage, the train was steaming, two footplate men stoking up. A familiar motor waited nearby: Ellen Jaynor, lately friend to Arthur Goldhorn. I stood watching the men on the tender. Ignorance was my own fault. What sort of bloke doesn’t know he has a son growing up a few miles away in Saffron Fields? Cinders scrunched.

  ‘Lovejoy, had news.’ Ellen sounded apologetic.

  ‘Ever since you came, all news has been bad.’

  ‘Look. I’m free. I can give you a lift.’

  Presumably another journey. I’d lost track. Had she been weeping? We walked to her motor.

  ‘The Beeches. Mr Smethirst died twenty minutes ago.’

  The doctor, Mortimer said, judged Smethie would get better. My old friend had been right, saying he didn’t have long. Had Terminal’s men been knitting in some corner caff?

  ‘Right.’ The windscreen fogged about then so I closed my eyes. Paltry and now Smethie. Did Mortimer know?

  ‘If there is anything I can do, Lovejoy. Laura is on your side.’

  ‘Ellen,’ I said, ‘shut the fuck up.’

  Normally I don’t speak like that. Things were getting on top of me.

  ‘You must find Laura’s husband. He’ll be attracted to the antiques, but you’re the bait.’ She was pale. ‘It’s a matter of life and death.’

  ‘Old Smethie and Paltry already know that. Where do I search?’

  ‘Ted hunts antiques. You’re the one to find him.’

  ‘Will he be alone?’

  Her lips set the colour of purple porphyry. ‘He’d better not be.’

  She drove me home and said my journey would begin eight o’clock sharp. I felt like saying, ‘Trust me – I’m lying.’ Old jokes are the best.

  Breaking in, I pulled my divan down. I don’t know how long I stared into space, but evening shadows were sliding along the walls when I came to. I drank water from the kettle, and sat outside. I’d given up all thoughts of hiding from Tasker, Terminal, anyone.

  The thing is, people don’t matter these days. Watch any film, and folk get shot all over the place. The audience simply chuckles and noshes popcorn. Somebody gets beheaded, the world says tut-tut. I’m told not to visit some old geezer, and can’t be bothered so I go and… Except I hadn’t heeded a blinking word Smethie said. I was reaching in my pocket when a stout bloke came puffing through my undergrowth.

  ‘You’re back, Lovejoy!’ Hennell waddled over and sat beside me with a gasp. ‘East Anglia isn’t supposed to be hilly.’ He fanned himself with his hat. ‘You’ve heard? Sad business.’

  ‘His daughter, Miss Farnacott, hired Terminal’s guards. Bastards.’

  He seemed as down as I was. ‘The hospital’s fuses failed. Coincidence?’ I didn’t speak. ‘People on blood transfusions, heaven knows what, yet the machines gave up.’

  ‘Hospitals have fail-safes.’

  ‘Those went, too.’ He treated the world to his idiotic beam. Lucky old world. ‘Sabotage.’

  ‘How come you know all about it?’

  He said, ‘I’m Terminal.’

  Long silence. I said, ‘Eh?’

  ‘Terminal’s my company. Mine. We failed.’

  ‘You’re Terminal?’ I almost ran for it, except he looked the least threatening bloke I’d ever seen.

  ‘Our first ever failure, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Did you really kill that bloke in Asia Minor?’

  ‘No gossip. This means I must seriously take up the cudgels, what?’

  ‘And batter who?’

  ‘Mr Smethirst’s enemies, Lovejoy.’ His eyes roamed my brambles. ‘Terminal doesn’t accept failure. You,’ he said directly, ‘have an ally. Me.’

  ‘Some ally. You let them kill Smethie.’

  ‘As did you, Lovejoy. Remember that.’ Maybe he had feelings after all? He gave a shrill whistle without needing fingers. I admired him for that. ‘Oh, Lovejoy. Do you remember any details about the people whose cars killed Paltry?’

  ‘I have their numbers written down.’

  ‘Let me have them, old sport. Starting point, what, what?’

  ‘I’ll find it. I never throw anything away.’

  ‘Leave a message marked Terminal with any hotel shroff, old boy.’

  Yet more out-moded slang. What was I getting into? A shroff is old colonial for anybody on the till. ‘Right, Mr Hennell.’ I watched him go. If he was Terminal & Co, I was safe, right? Except old Smethie hadn’t been.

  Veronica came from the back garden. She always looks timid.

  ‘Your brambles tore my tights, Lovejoy.’ She stood. ‘I waited. He might have jumped to the wrong conclusions.’

  Which were? I didn’t say it. ‘I’m too down for visitors, love.’

  ‘My husband is really cross, Lovejoy.’

  My robin came onto the bough of a small apple tree. It has this knack of bouncing up and down while its head stays exactly on the same coordinates. Does that trick help hunting? I’d ask Mortimer. He’d know. Nature teaches us things.

  ‘He thinks I should be making a fortune,’ she said despondently. ‘He got me a council cleaning job.’

  So? The robin dropped like a stone and yanked a worm from the grass, leaning back. Normally I’d have rushed inside for cheese, Lovejoy to the rescue. Except I had no rescues left in me.

  ‘My husband likes everything in order, Lovejoy. Knives in the cutlery drawer, labels on bottles. He dockets every penny. I suffocate.’

  ‘Mmmh.’ Could doctors tell if somebody was suffocated before the hospital electrics failed?

  The robin flew into the hedge, its prey dangling.

  ‘I envy you, Lovejoy.’ She sounded wistful. ‘Men can do exactly what they want, and don’t give a fig for anybody else. I wish I could be like that, just not care about other people.’

  Other people see truths.

  ‘I suppose it’s a man thing. It’s us women who are put upon.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Tell Paltry and Smethie that.

  She stooped and peered. ‘Are you all right, Lovejoy? Have I upset you?’ She looked about. ‘Shoul
d I stay and cook something? Perhaps we’ll cheer up. Have you got anything in?’

  ‘Mmmh.’ I hadn’t. I’m lying, trust me. ‘Come to bed, Veronica.’

  Next morning something was pushed under the door. I heard a lady’s voice murmur. A motor dopplered to silence. Birds were already tweeting, the light grey. I turned on my side. Veronica looked at me along the pillow.

  ‘Should I see, Lovejoy?’ She blushed and said, ‘I mean the post.’

  All news being bad news, I wanted her to leave it where it was, but women answer phones, fill pots, make beds. What would the plod do if they caught Smethie’s killer? Fine him ten pence, then give him a free ride home? Since Laura came, I’d got allies, but things had become calamitous. Veronica would have to fight Lydia to a standstill, and no woman had ever yet defeated Lydia. ’Course, women land me in more trouble. It’s just life. There couldn’t possibly be a connection, could there? Veronica returned to the divan clutching a dainty embossed envelope.

  ‘It’s from a lady, Lovejoy. Foreign. Rich. Does she collect antiques?’

  ‘Not really, just sits elegantly by while friends gamble for rare antiques.’

  ‘I’ll make your breakfast. You have no eggs, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Mmmh.’

  She did that screech with which women signal that it’s cold, and grabbed her clothes. ‘You’ve no bathroom.’

  I already knew that, so I said, ‘I know. There’s a bucket near the well.’

  She moaned. ‘If we make a packet – you divvying, me charming the punters – there’s a reliable builder down Stanway.’

  Reliable builder? The old joke: It took over five hundred years to erect the Great Wall of China – but we’ve all had trouble with builders, har-har. Veronica had only joined me ten hours ago, and already she was babbling insanity. I opened the envelope. Inside, an ornate card.

  ‘Oh, hell,’ I told Veronica. ‘The tax man cometh.’

  Her eyes filled. ‘Lovejoy, you poor thing.’

  Lies rushed in to help. ‘This is what comes of kindness, Veronica. My poorly great-aunt’s in an old folks’ home in South Gotham. I’ve had to sell my Staffordshire slipware dish. You remember it?’ I grew so sad about my noble sacrifice my lip actually trembled. ‘Twenty inches wide, brown with ochre-coloured squiggles.’ I almost filled up. ‘My sacrifice was worth it.’