Ten Word Game (33 page)

Purser Mangot recovered his poise as colour crept back into his face. He must have been unsettled by the mortuary. “This is your statement, typed up. Sign it.”

“My statement? I can’t give evidence.”

“You already have, sufficient for our purposes. The St Petersburg authorities need it, not us.”

“Right,” I said, working things out, going back over the traces and trying to remember who’d said what to whom.

“You will be called upon to identify the painting.”

He pointed. On the wall my painting was hanging, now expertly framed. Van Gogh’s
Spinning Woman,
that I’d nicked from the Marquis of Gotham’s
mansion
.

“It’s my painting,” I said stupidly. I went close and peered. “How’d it get here?”

“You swear it’s yours?”

“Course it is.”

He was smiling, his old authority returning. “You’re under arrest, Lovejoy.”

“For what?”

“Theft of Old Masters from the Marquis of Gotham. And forgery. And complicity to steal.”

“Are you a copper, or crew?”

“I’m neither, Lovejoy. I’m David Buddy the bounty hunter. I know sod all about ships, but I know all about you.”

By then I’d got there and said his name with him, nodding.

“You looked different on TV.”

“That’s my cousin’s husband. A decoy. Otherwise crooks like you would see me coming and clear off, right?”

“Right.” I said. Well, I would.

“I’ll send for you early,” he said, shuffling his notes. “We’re going on a long journey, you and me.”

“Want to come for supper with me, Lovejoy?” June Milestone asked. “You’ve tried the Bordeaux. We could do something less fashionable. Maybe the Al Fresco? I know you like the Lido Deck. It shouldn’t get too crowded until after the late show. By then we should be quite tired. It’s been quite a day.”

She smiled at Purser Mangot, aka David Buddy, bounty hunter. Kevin and his guards were gone, Natasha with them, and Ilya staying to chat up two girls on Reception.

“Promise you won’t ask any questions,” June said, gracefully leading the way. “We have antiques to talk about. What did you think of the Exhibition in the Hermitage? Wasn’t it brilliant? I have figures from Sotheby’s recent antiques toys auction – the Great Teddy Bear Sale. You’ll be interested. And I’ve had faxes of the Ince and Mayhew furniture auction. Just think what you’ve been missing!”

About four o’clock the next morning the
Melissa
was sailing slowly among a scatter of small islands, the grey dawn turning blue. Small boats, a myriad har-bours,
coloured houses, the approach to Stockholm looked idyllic.

June wakened me and told me we had to go on deck to see a special sight.

“You’ll love it,” she said, excitement in her eyes.

We dressed and I tottered after her. At the end of the corridor Purser Mangot was waiting with two crewmen. June handed me over with, “Goodbye, Lovejoy. It’s been fun.” And left me.

“Downstairs, Lovejoy.”

Mangot led the way. The crewmen shoved me. We went down a ladder to the embarkation point. A small boat was travelling alongside flying the Swedish flag. Shaking, I got aboard, Mangot following. I kept away from him. The power boat accelerated away from
Melissa.
I saw June at the Promenade Deck railing. She blew a kiss. I turned away.

An hour later we were on a plane to London.

Back home I was allowed to return to my cottage after three days of statements, more statements, repeated statements. It only confirmed my view of lawyers – they’re people in some private gold field beset with mines, the location of which they alone are trained to avoid.

My garden was even more overgrown, my Austin Ruby dwindling audibly among rust. My cottage had a broken window – who’d done that? Nobody usually bothers – but cardboard is in everybody’s dustbin so I patched it. Water, electricity, phone, were all cut off. Council bills and final demands were fallen leaves by the door. Robins and blue-tits came shouting for nuts, cheese, crumbs. I shouted back for them to give me a frigging chance for Christ’s sake, and rummaged for some grub. Not a carrot.

At the small Co-op shop, new to the village now with serving ladies who had a computerised till, I received a frigid refusal when I tried to cadge. A lady I baby-sit for down the lane gave me half a loaf and some margarine and jam, and I filched somebody’s semi-skimmed milk from a doorstep. Well, they were church-goers and should feed the hungry. They were always on about good causes, and I was their sheep like the Good Book says. I wanted an egg because I’m quite good at cooking eggs, except they’re hard to boil and I can’t stand runny white. Same with frying, that rim of soft white round the yolk is a swine to get rid of. Another thing God got wrong.

A note in a lavender envelope persuaded me to open it.

Aye, right, I thought. I wiped the table down with some old paper and sat to eat my bread and jam. No tea, which is always death, but I had a cup of water from my garden well and put it there as if I had a full tea set. I was the height of elegance, really impressive with a clean knife and everything. All I needed now was a gorgeous lady to come in and say the words I hungered for, namely

“Anything you want, sir?”

“Wotcher, love. You’re just in time for tea.”

She put two shopping bags of provisions down on the flagged floor, looking round.

“You make a pretty picture, Lovejoy.”

“I maintain standards. My gran told me to.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.” She shed her coat, was unable to find a place to hang it, finally draped it on the divan bed. I’d pulled it down ready to sleep alone. “I called in the village shop to ask where you lived. They said you’d just been in trying to, ah, shop. I bought these, because I owe you. Think repayment.”

Nobody ever owes me. I sometimes wished they did, but they never do. Wisely I didn’t say these words, though they’re part of my grievance litany.

“What’ll you have?”

“Sorry, Ivy. I’ve just finished. Couldn’t eat another thing.”

“You’ve never tried my cooking, very Russian. I am magnificent. Sit there.” She tried the stove, the phone, the water taps, grimaced and went out saying she’d be back. I lay down, worn out, and slept.

Long later she woke me. The place looked neat. Two blokes were in the garden. I detected food, fried this and steaming that. The table was laid. They’d rigged up some kind of trestle table out there, their
stove hissing flames from propane gas. Ivy was
decorative
in a floral pinafore. She called thanks and they left, grinning, in a van that was more logos than
vehicle
.

“The proposition is this, Lovejoy,” she said, combing my hair. I wondered if that’s what Russian women do. She’d combed my hair after we’d made smiles in the cabin on the
Melissa
. Was it a custom? “You dine with me, then ravish me. Or, if you’re far too exhausted, I shall ravish you with techniques I am re-learning. That’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.”

Beggars can’t, can they?

She slept beside me, and I thought, is she the one?

Years ago I invented the Ten Word Game. It’s
simple
: put any problem into ten words. No extras. You can describe the Olympics, America, or the whole
universe
, in ten words. It shows you what’s what.

You can also describe the perfect woman. I’m not saying it’s easy, just that it teaches you. It makes you see things about a person you never suspected, and it can scare you. It can explain death.

I wanted to play it now, and get an answer. Was she the one?

Ivy slept soundly. I often think life must be easy for women, because they’ve got it all. They can, with
virtually
a flick of a wrist, soar a man to heaven in a way he remembers all his life, put themselves right up there on a pedestal along with the Virgin Mary or Mae West or any gorgeous starlette. Or they can charm a bloke with a fluttering eyelash, false or not, and synthesise a shape that stays in your memory for ever and ever.

Was she the one? I could see myself wanting her to stay for life. I would ask her when she woke.

Then I wondered what had roused me. I’d imagined I’d heard an engine, and somebody trying the door. Like I say, I’ve not much time for sleep, unless it’s in that umbra time after making smiles, when a man has to be allowed moments to climb back to life. I
imagined
– heard? – some familiar voice say quietly, “Lovejoy? I’ve come to…” And cut to silence. Then some woman’s footfalls receding.

Ivy moved, coughed slightly, raised herself to look. I drew breath to propose. No time like the present.

“Ivy, love?” I said, ready to go for it.

“Lovejoy, darling.” She stretched, one of the
loveliest
sights, looking flour-dusted from slumber. She hunched closer. “That was my goodbye.”

Goodbye? “Er, right.”

She took my response in. Our heads were like bookends on the pillow.

“I’m returning to St Petersburg.”

“Okay.”

“I have to, darling.”

“Course you have.”

“Billy took up with Kevin so completely that I had no proper life. Kevin being an emigre, they hatched the plan to loot St Petersburg even more than the Arch-Looter himself.”

No wonder Billy condoned my friendship with Ivy. “The Arch-Looter?”

“Boris Berezevsky, among other pseudonyms, was Kevin’s relative. Poor Russia came unstitched in the Great Mob War of 1993. It lasted two years and Berezevsky led the looting. Everything went, even street lamps carted away for sale. It was dreadful. Kevin arranged the shipments. They always get off scot free, don’t they?”

“Do they?” I never do, and I don’t loot anything.

“And Billy being in the police…”

“Then why go back?” was the best I could manage. “They’ve collared Kevin for killing Billy in the garden after I stopped their theft. It’s finished.”

“And poor Henry Semper.”

I didn’t want to think about Henry because of my guilt, or how Kevin had done it. That Ilya copper guessed poison, but they were still looking for the body. My fault. I could have turned back that night and…

“You don’t understand what Russia’s gone through. I can at least lend a hand, show tourists a better side of the loveliest country.”

What chance had I, against love for a whole country, including Pushkin and that lot?

“Victor thinks the same.” She went quiet, then said, “We shall go together.”

Ivy and Victor? We rose, and I thanked her for the nosh and making smiles. I walked her through the brambles to the broken gate. She kissed me. Little Elizabeth with Olly from down the lane came by just then and went, “Ooooh, Lovejoy!” and went pink. I wagged a finger at her. “Don’t tell on me!” and she said, “I promise!” but didn’t spit and cross her heart so I knew Radio Elizabeth would broadcast round the village within minutes.

Ivy had summoned a car on her cell phone by then. I waved her off. She looked back through the rear
window
until the car went beyond the hedgerows. I went in and started to stack up the messages and letters,
discarding
the red final-demand notices. They’d already done their worst. Two were from magistrates.

“Alone at last?” Delia Oakley said, knocking on the jamb.

“Not now.”

“Need help with those?”

“I can guess most contents. These are summonses,
those others superfluous.”

“Four or five look personal. One’s from me.”

“Saying what?”

She tut-tutted. “The cream of the correspondence is usually inside the envelope. Isn’t that Goldsmith’s crack?”

“Almost.”

“I’ve leased a shop on North Hill next to the tea shop.”

“You and Fern?”

She avoided my eye. “Our partnership dissolved. I’m hoping to be your assistant.”

“To learn the antiques trade?”

“There’s a flat above the premises. Deal, Lovejoy?”

Somebody once said, “Small-small fee deal?” I winced at the memory.

“I work alone, love. And I can’t pay.”

She smiled. “Bargain at the price. You can lodge with me until you get straight.”

I was surprised she said that. The cottage was tidier than it had ever been.

If you’re unsure, postpone. If you’re absolutely sure, postpone absolutely. It’s my rule. She was bonny and appealing, yet I didn’t know how I now stood with local dealers. I needed to see them first.

“Right. I’ll be down tonight, then.”

She came and put her arms round me. “I’m so pleased, Lovejoy. Eight o’clock?”

“Ta, love.”

I waved her off in her Toyota as a motor came up from Seven Arches. It must have gone past while Delia was here, because there is no way through beyond the river. Cynthia Bannerman alighted. I stood aside and she went in. I like the way women assume they’ve a right to go anywhere, which of course they have. I followed.

“Josh has spoken to Mr Sheehan, Lovejoy.” For a
second I wondered who she meant, then remembered that was Big John’s surname, Sheehan. He ran the Mighty Sheehans of Ulster Import-Export business, a euphemism for charging anybody for whatever he wanted for whatever he said he supplied.

“He spoke to Big John?” I went weak. “What have I to do?”

“Nothing, Lovejoy. Josh straightened things out. They hit it off.”

If Sheehan said everything was okay, it had better be. Off the hook! I sighed with relief.

“As long as you do a few services for Josh. And me.”

“Right. What services?”

She looked about. “No perjury, nothing nasty. Just occasional consultations about antiques. The first, this coming Thursday. I’ll send my car. Be ready at ten.”

“Right.” Gelt by association?

Turning on her heel, she walked to her waiting motor. Some women can move as if the ground is making all the effort of gliding them while they just stay still. I guess it’s breeding or something.

That left me thinking of Ivy. I’d been head over heels. Now I’d be heartbroken for life. Or until at least eight o’clock tonight on North Hill, and
thereafter
Thursday morning. I heard a tapping on the unbroken pane.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I called in a temper, and went to the door with the birds’ crumbs. “Oh. Wotcher.”

“Lovejoy?” Lauren was standing there.

She wore a summery dress and high heels and looked totally different from the dowdy assistant on the ship. She carried a small suitcase.

“Lauren!” I tried to sound really eager. “How, er, great.”

“I came to help.” She set her case down, her eyes round the cottage. “After the way I behaved.”

“After…?” I couldn’t remember her doing anything wrong. It was me.

It came out with a rush in prepared phrases. “I was overbearing. You got into trouble helping me. I’ve come to repay you.” She glanced around. “I shall stay. I don’t necessarily mean … you know? But it would be irresponsible of me to leave a payment unmet. When do we resume your work?”

“Er, immediately. Always best to get back in the saddle … ” An unfortunate metaphor. “Quickest is wisest.”

“Indeed it is, Lovejoy.” She took a breath, sizing up tasks ahead. “I am no shirker, Lovejoy. Whatever the task, I shall apply myself to the uttermost. You’ll see.”

“Er, good.” I glanced out. “I need to catch the bus. See you later?”

She gave me her keys. “Use my car. Why is it so dark in here?”

I explained about the electricity, water, gas, phone. She nodded. “I shall see to those. I have funds.”

“Ta, love. I’ll be back about, er … Sorry about the state of the place.”

“I like a challenge, Lovejoy.”

Thank God for that. I bussed her quickly and left. As I turned right at the chapel and headed for the
distant
town I saw Margaret Dainty’s motor coming into the village.

I kept going, trying to fit the mess into the Ten Word Game, so I could say I’d won something for a change.