The Grace in Older Women (34 page)

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.'