The Grace in Older Women (41 page)

'It can only have been Tinker,’ I bawled in rage. 'The bastard. He
said he'd check the van .

The room emptied of Tomtom and Cav, following by the money bloc.
Mayhem they knew well, but when it was about to be sprayed around by BJS, who
dealt out punishment in a wanton manner irrespective of blame, they didn't want
to know. Corinth gave me a backward look, speculative and suspicious.

They melted, leaving me with Chemise and the Dewhursts.

'Pals,' I said, voice shaking. Time you got going. Take the money,
the chits, lists, the lot. I'll see you . . .' I passed a hand in front of my
eyes '. . . at the Welcome Sailor.'

'Lovejoy?' Chemise said doubtfully.

'Lovejoy?' echoed Priscilla. Philadora just looked.

I smiled. Two hours, okay? Just hop it.'

They went, and now I was on my own. A few cars revved, doors
slamming, then nothing. Somebody shouted, probably Tomtom. They would scour the
world for Tinker, maybe even do him in. A door slammed in the building. The
place was empty.

Silence. That is to say, nobody.

No body.

Meaning me.

34

Curious how empty a place can feel. I wished I'd told the Dewhurst
sisters to stay, kept Chemise for company. Except there was no way round it.
Now to get Big John Sheehan on the blower, tell him the truth. I couldn't have
announced the Stubbs was a dud, not to the bidders. They'd have lynched me,
disbelieving swine. I'd had to blame Tinker, set the goons after him, to keep
me alive. Anybody could see that. I listened. Outside, blokes were shouting,
calling go left, try those trees, bring more torches. A hunt's a terrible
thing. I swallowed, made the hall.

Phone, one public phone in the main hall. I peered round the
corner. Nobody. Darted to it, the cartoon mouse, utterly exposed. I wanted the
mob to scatter after Tinker, not stay poking the bushes in the hotel grounds.
God knows where Tinker had driven the pantechnicon. I fumbled for a coin. Get
Big John on the blower, tell him the tale.

And no change. I almost collapsed with fright. Those thoughtless
bitches, leaving me without even a coin to phone my way out of trouble.
Thoughtless. Just when you think women have finally got their act together they
let you down. They should have stayed to protect me.

Ashley's office? I brightened. On the ground floor near the steps
that led down to the indoor jungle of the conservatory's split-level terrarium.
I'd been in once to complain. I dived along the corridor, made Ashley's posh
door, slid inside.

'Ask Lovejoy,' somebody howled outside, close. Was a window open
somewhere? 'Where the fuck's Lovejoy?'

'He come out with you, Sonk? Fucking well look, prat.'

A clumping somewhere inside - inside, floor shaking.

Dark, with torchlights - how'd Tomtom got so many so fast?
-flashing among trees, once a glare touching my face making me duck and almost
brain myself on Ashley's desk.

Phone. I grabbed the thing, knelt, cunningly didn't switch any
light on, and waited for the burr of the dialling tone.

No burr.

'Hello? I said quietly, louder. 'Hello?'

Silence. I pressed buttons, hope fading. Nothing.

Maybe it needed you to pull some aerial out by the little red
diode thing?

No aerial, no light. I ducked lower. Somebody was coming along the
terrace, shining his torch in, yelling to Tomtom. Sonk's treble bass. I shrank
to midget size. Sonk had done the Brussels truck job, 'straightening' as we (I
mean they, psychopaths who kill for a living) say, two Dutch vannies who'd
hijacked a container load belonging to BJS.

The torchlight flashed over the room making bizarre shadows. A
basket on the floor went through a million contortions. Sonk boomed, 'The
motors, Dave,' and crashed through a flowerbed.

Gone? I eeled along the carpet, opened the door, darted out into
the light. I lay on the corridor floor gasping like a landed trout. They'd find
me, in the building. If I switched off lights it'd be a giveaway, and in they'd
storm after me. Why me? Because Sheehan would tell them to, that's why. Thank
God they hadn't got bloodhounds.

Opposite was the glass wall of the conservatory. I stared at it,
face on the corridor carpet. A wall of thickened glass. I'd been in to see some
ugly growing fronds, old Jim Andrews telling me the Burmese jungle was the
place, eat two leaves you don't get gut-rot up country. Sanctuary? Big as half
a football field, filled with monstrous plants, no lights, enclosed in glass
but practically impenetrable. Just the place to hide until everybody pushed
off, then nip out and . . . and what? Hitchhike to my cousin Glen in
Lancashire, just passing through.

Just my luck for the door to be locked, but it wasn't. I crawled
through, closed it. I was frightened by a sudden whirring, terrified lest
automatic lights illuminated me, tomato in a greenhouse. Only some auto
sprinkler system spraying the confined forest, activated by cooler air as I'd
entered.

Doors slammed. Running feet pounding, a curse, regular thudding of
a heavy bloke upstairs.

It was a wet little universe in there. The steps black iron,
slippery with permanent drizzle making your face and hands clammy. It felt
horrible. When I'd been in before it had been daylight. I hadn't taken much
notice, just bored stiff. Now I wished I'd paid attention to doors, exits,
tools, weapons.

Struggling with my feeble memory, I recalled the layout. Outside,
an expanse of lawn, a distant lake, gravel paths, bushes, a summer-house.
Somebody's flashlight swept over the grass. I heard shouts, stayed on the steps
hanging head down. Movement gives your position away, not stillness. Freeze,
you're a shadow. Move, you're enemy.

The torches receded. I swarmed down. The steps were spiral, wetter
nearer the bottom. I should have counted. Anyway I was scared, wanting to get
away from that door up there. It's where they'd come through after me. When the
exhibitors and staff returned, I'd blithely invent some crazy tale - dozed off,
cracked my head on the slippery steps, anything. Or maybe I'd hear them return,
nip out and nick some clothes . . .

Except. . . Jesus, I sighed, weary, there seemed a hell of a lot
of excepts in my plan. First thing, the exhibitors would want their exhibits.
And I'd sold those. The second thing they'd want would be me. They'd simply
join the hunters.

Go into the thickest jungle, that was military training, wasn't
it? Was it? My old grandad used to say, stay away from thickets, just keep low.
But that was the Great War. Or was it when you had a horse? I was suddenly
conscious of the conservatory's terrific heat. Tropical, the air thick as
slush. Already I was running with sweat, my clothes sogging from that water
mist. Whoever'd built this place had been barmy.

Down I eeled to the runny floor. Tiled paving, Ashley boringly
explained that they were non-slip so elderly residents would stay firm of foot.
I felt my way.

Many plants were on trestles, banks of them along the glass walls.
The air was filled with giant tendrils, fronds, trailing vinery, hanging pods,
succulent fleshy branches with spatulate leaves. But I wanted the floor crowded
too. One aisle between the trestle tables had duckboards. Plant pots stood on
these with stacks of trays and sacks of gunge. I crouched to search for a nook
where I could lodge maybe until daylight.

Light came through the glass walls up above, washing the dark of
the conservatory. It wasn't convincing, that gloaming, because mercifully
tinted glass cut it down. Thank heavens. If it had been clear glass, this place
would have been quite easy to suss for miscreants. As it was, the darkened
glass neutralized the corridor's light. It was the best place. Surely I'd be
safe? The hoods couldn't fire the plants to smoke me out. Like all goons, they
were addicted to flash gear, style shoes, custom suits. I've seen bruisers
looking like bulbous pears argue for hours about fashion collars. They wouldn't
have the heart to search in here. Would they? Spoil their tennis and strides.

Feet shook the corridor. Somebody calling, 'Not here, Tomt,' and
Tomtom shouting check that nosh place, did Love joy come on wheels . . .Getting
scared, his boss, Sheehan, on the way and like to turn his cold Ulster blues on
whoever made the worst report.

Nobody came. Doors opening, slamming. Because the conservatory was
all glass, were they assuming it was the last place on earth anybody would
lurk? Torches shone, but I was down among the pots. Moisture and humus set me
gagging but not enough to make me stroll out for a breath of fresh air, that
was for sure.

Urgent talk, 'Do it again,' in angry yells, Sonk shouted about a
cellar, another yelling, That bird, frigging hell,' Sonk booming to check who
she was . . .

Bird? Juliana? Or Chemise? I almost stood up in relief. If Chemise
was here too, there was a witness.

'Bar that end door, Sonk,' a goon shouted, too close. A lumbering
shade passed along the glass wall. A safety door clanked, some metal bar
sliding into place, then feet pounding past. Quiet.

Alone. I sat on the wet paving. A count of a slow hundred, then
the corridor lights went out. No sound, just a gush of dark blacking out the
moderate gloom. Still a faint wash of grey from the sky, and a trace, if you
imagined hard, of reflected light, then that too drained away.

Shouts in the building still, but lessening as the search beat
further afield. Once there was a faint ruckus, quickly stifled as the mistake
was discovered. Somebody ran past. A car engine started up, tyres spitting
gravel as the car tore away. Tomtom grasping at straws?

Drenched with the air spray, I sat back in relief among the sculptured
plants with their dripping leaves and thick muggy un-breathable air. I was
safe. Any minute now they'd hoof out to scour the countryside. Then Big John
Sheehan would arrive, before or after the exhibitors returned filled with
jollity, with the hotel staff, residents, the barmy Battishalls and I'd be able
to escape . . .

A hand grabbed my wrist and he said quietly, 'Lovejoy?'

For a second I didn't think, almost said hello, wet in here isn't
it. Then I squawked and struggled but I was held by that firm grasp and fell
onto my shoulder, scraping my face, peering, trying to see. I knew who it was.

'Mr. Geake?' Relief dampened me further. 'Shhhh!' I said like a
fool. They might have left somebody in the hall!'

'They're away.' He must have been in here all the time. 'Thirteen,
I counted. Not enough to search a building this size.'

Reassurance overwhelmed me. A mere instant ago I'd been scared
witless. Now I was in the hands of this ex-policeman. Who'd saved me once
before, a real pal. I could have wept.

'Thank God. You're sure?'

'Positive. Listen.'

We listened, me straining, imagining I could hear somebody
creeping . . . But he was a trained man, alert, clever. What rank had he been,
inspector? A match for those goons any day of the week. I smiled. If he said it
was safe, it was safe.

'You're right. They've gone. Can we go, then?'

'Ah, no, Lovejoy. Not now.'

He was right. 'Better safe than sorry, eh?' I chuckled.

'That's right.' After a beat he asked, 'Why did you knock that job
lot down to Father Jay, Lovejoy?'

'Eh?' Surely he wasn't narked at that? 'Saving you money, Mr. Geake.
It was dross. You can pick up better job lots any day of the week. Get you
some, if you like.'

'No, Lovejoy. I do not like.'

'Don't get narked, Mr. Geake.' Had to be pleasant to him, he'd
come to save me, right? But who was the antiques man here, him or me? 'There
couldn't have been anything in it.'

'There was, sadly.' He really did sound sad.

'What?' I wanted to get out of here now. Like a drowned rat, worn
out from being scared, I wanted some air far away from this quiet intent
bloke's hangups. I was still grateful, mind, just warier.

'Letters.'

'Oh, sure, but poor quality fakes.' I chuckled, except my chuckle
wasn't working quite as well as usual. 'I've even forgotten who sent them in.
Look, why don't I do a few for you? I know blokes who'll do anything from the
Declaration of Independence to the Old Testament.'

'No, Lovejoy. Those.' He sighed. 'They said the wrong thing, you
see. Purported to be about an illegitimate child born hereabouts during the
war.'

'Eh?' I felt cold, in this enervating torrid zone. 'Don't worry, Mr.
Geake. Letter forgers spray suggestion like that around all the time. Like,
titled Victorian ladies having affairs, social scandals, politicians becoming
homosexual, spies, film stars . . .' I tried to sound happy when I wasn't.
'It's a standard ploy, see? God, half the published letters about the royal
family are duff, neffie, anything to make, fake, a sale! It's what people want
to believe. Ask any London tabloid how many they've had this week, supposed
letters about presidents, kings, tsars. It's practically the national pastime!'

Why was my voice shrill, when I was trying to whisper?