The Rich And The Profane (32 page)

‘What’ve you got for three quid?’ I asked.

‘Nothing.’ A sour, craggy bloke was in charge today. Obviously a minder, no idea. ‘It’s all prime stuff.’

‘Give me any old pot.’ I hawked out my money. I drifted, pointed to a piece of Doulton. He exploded with laughter, shaking his head.

‘That saucer?’ An exquisite Japanese kakeimon, precise colours hatched over the surface. I got derision. That Lowestoft jug, then? I was asked to leave.

‘Anything,’ I suggested. ‘My missus is fuming. I broke a pot last night. She said I’ve got to get something for the landlady. That thing?’

He hefted it, saw it had no price ticket. ‘She’s not costed it yet. Four quid?’

‘Leave off, mate.’ But he wouldn’t budge, so I put the money down. ‘You’ll have me begging in the gutter. Is there a lid?’

We studied it for a while, saw nothing but the name budge underneath. Budge made cheapo fairings, pot novelties you won at fairground coconut shies. The teapot depicted a pansy-looking man wearing a purplish bonnet. One hand was the spout, very limp of wrist. The other was akimbo, very camp, for the handle. Turn it round, and the figure was now a lady wearing the same purple bonnet, but with a lily on her breast. The bonnet was the lid. I left rejoicing, with the teapot. God help him when his boss returned.

It would buy a decent second-hand car. Lily Langtry, the famed Jersey Lily, friend - more than friend - of kings and princes, was connected with Oscar Wilde. It’s among the costliest of novelty teapots. Because it looks so daft, you can get it for a kopek, unless the dealer’s done his reading, which isn’t often. The minder, sadly, had just lost his job, and I’d made a mint.

Hurtling out in joy, I almost knocked this bloke down on the pavement.

‘Sorry, wack,’ I said.

‘Not at all, Lovejoy,’ said Michaelis Singleton. He looked bleary. ‘Got you, you rotten sod. Can we get a drink?’

Just when things were looking up. I turned gladness on. ‘Michaelis! What’re you doing here? Thought you’d be getting sloshed in your cellar.’

‘Delivering a writ, Lovejoy. You’re for it. So am I.’ He croaked the words. ‘I’ve been driving about antique shops for three hours. I knew I’d catch you.’

We entered a respectable hotel near the waterfront, to watch the boats. I was getting sick of sea. The teapot warmed my pocket. Michaelis named a bottle of rare wine. The waiters loved him, hated me for wanting lime juice.

‘Nothing wrong, Michaelis, is there?’ The hotel was brimful. I liked Guernsey, but had to watch out for my night visitors. I didn’t want chucking on to the ferry, alive or dead, now that I was so near Gesso’s killer, my scam looming.

‘Wrong, Lovejoy? Not unless you count me going bankrupt. I’m dunned for everything I own.’ He sent back the glasses, chose new ones. The wine waiter was ecstatic. Michaelis sniffed the cork, dirty devil. Can you believe it?

I was really embarrassed. Pouring the wine took a year. He sipped, sat with eyes closed, finally nodded. Ecstasy spread, and the universe - Samuel Butler’s crack - was saved. ‘Where is Irma, Michaelis?’

‘Here. I traced her.’

This didn’t make sense. ‘You sure? Then where’s she hiding? I’d have heard. Mrs Crucifex and I are ...’ Careful. I couldn’t say we were in this together. Guernsey had ears.

‘You think I wouldn’t check, Lovejoy?’ He raised a hand. Competing waiters sprinted to decant. I thought, For God’s sake. Wine’s only fluid, not a religion. ‘Miss I. Dominick travelled via Weymouth. She’s here, all right.’

We paused. My thoughts were that maybe a little betrayal had crept in here. But by whom? Michaelis thought I’d betrayed him.

‘Lovejoy,’ he said bitterly. ‘You and I go back a bit. I trusted you. You get me to represent your trainee shoplifter. Then you scarper with her. I’m her bail guarantor. I’m close to getting disbarred.’

History’s fine, even when it intrudes into real life, as now with Gussy’s Mondrian mock-ups and my scam that depended on everybody’s knowledge of war loot. But Michaelis meant friendship. I sighed. History costs.

‘I told you everything, Michaelis. And I didn’t know she was here.’

A long beat, another bottle ordered with a flick of an eyelash, then, ‘Very well, Lovejoy. I need a fee, though.’ ‘Agreed!’ I cried with relief. Delaying payment’s my thing. I sent for another lime juice. Hang the expense.

‘My fee is winning tomorrow’s bet.’ In soft tones he gave the rapturous wine waiter commands about some mystique. They did the sacramental decanting. My lime was flung at me.

‘Winning?’ Not good. ‘Syndicates are already here to bet fortunes.’

‘My syndicate will also bid high, Lovejoy. They’re on their way now from the North.’ I remembered his family of Geordie hardliners, a real mafia. ‘You’ll have to take the cost of the bet out of the winnings, me being bankrupt.’ ‘Great idea,’ I croaked. ‘Any chance of a drink?’ Michaelis shook his head. ‘Not this, Lovejoy. Your palate’s like tarmac.’ He sent the sneering waiter for a glass of house white. It did me no good.

For the next hour I chased Victoria demented, telling her to locate Irma Dominick. I got wild when she drew blanks. I went to watch the rehearsals, astonishingly good. It was a real mixture. Nightmarish, the pop group with Vesta’s brother Mike, was tolerable, in a back-to-the-sixties way. I caught myself laughing at the comedian, then remembered I was in serious trouble. I’d promised to make sure Florida won the Gamble of the Century, Jimmy’s name for my exhibition. I’d also promised Mrs Crucifex - and she controlled the night visitors who’d kaylied me at Rosa Vidamour’s. Now I’d finally promised Michaelis and his Northern mob the same thing. Was there a way to kid all three syndicates that they’d won one and same bet? Wth a serious headache I watched the dancers at their glittering drill, Jonno exhorting, threatening, cajoling. He was a genius, right enough. The more I saw of him the more I saw, if you follow. I went backstage to find Mike. He’s a long-haired earringed six-footer who pretends he’s from Liverpool and wears a black eye patch and no shoes, very piratical. I reminded him who I was.

‘We last met when you were on your way to burgle Rotherham’s great porcelain museum, Mike. How’re plans going?’

‘Pretty good, Lovejoy. You want in?’

‘Give me a call,’ I said grandly. ‘Oh, your sister Vesta sends her regards.’

Alarm leapt. ‘She’s not here, the cow, is she?’ He was with a lovely girl dressed like a navvy in clogs. She was practising her fingering on a solid gold flute, but it was modern rubbish. Vesta would go berserk. The bonny girl wasn’t Irma.

‘Keep your hair on, Mike. No. You’re safe.’ Somebody called for stage action. ‘Oh, Mike. Seen anything of that Irma lately?’

‘No, Lovejoy. She stood me up. Is that my stage call?’ I wished him luck and left, with a growing conviction that Irma was now lurking at Prior Metivier’s house for some reason. It was all wrong.

Victoria came tiptoeing to whisper that Irma Dominick was still nowhere to be found. I nodded, sick at heart. Irma was the only one who had any explanation. All I needed, I thought bitterly, was for Big John Sheehan to hove in.

‘And there’s a message from your friend.’

‘Who?’ I said, heart leaping.

‘A Mr John Sheehan. He arrives in an hour.’ Thank you for listening, God.

‘Thanks, love,’ I said, broken. So many friends. Time to leave?

‘I knew you’d be pleased. Friends are so important, aren’t they?’

Personal history, a.k.a. friendship, costs, or have I said that?

‘Victoria?’ Drowning man, begging a straw. ‘Can I ask? You and Jonno . .. ?’

‘No!’ Her face flamed. ‘He doesn’t bother, not even with the dance girls.’ A possible consolation? My heart rose. ‘His, ah, friend is Mrs Crucifex.’ Jonno also a contender? A headache began.

I said, shattered, ‘Could you get me a drink, please?’ She looked pleased. ‘I’ve brought you one, Lovejoy. Is house white all right?’

‘Ta, love. That’s me.’

e’ve done it.’
Jimmy’s security man Stan showed me the display stands, and guessed my angst. ‘No,

Lovejoy. They’re screwed down.’

‘And—’

‘Electronic central system.’ He kept going. ‘Fail-safe generators, if that’s your worry. No fuse, no ruse.’

Jimmy Ozanne beamed as we went round the exhibition area. He was especially gratified when I accidentally stepped over the guide ropes and a siren gave an angry squawk, stifled by a pocket zapper.

Splendid Sejour truly was the place. They’d thought of everything.

‘Unless you tell me otherwise?’

‘No, Stan. Fine, fine.’

He suddenly shouted at some assistant who’d lit a fag. The man jumped a mile. So did I. ‘Now, Lovejoy. This is your exhibition area. What crooks must I expect?’

‘Somebody will steal one exhibit, Stan. Not all, not several. One. It won’t be an outside job. The thief will be one of you, a true Guernesiais. Somebody among the bidders.’ To their shocked faces I went on, ‘Not riff-raff, either.’

Stan took this in silence. He was a tall assured man. He dangled three electronic bleepers, red diodes showing they were on the ball, everybody watch out. Guards material. He and Jimmy exchanged glances.

‘That true, old boy?’ Jimmy asked. He signed Victoria to step inside and close the door to exclude infidels. ‘Guernsey has no crime.’

‘I heard that.’

‘Can’t you say who it’ll be, Lovejoy?’

‘No. The thief might have a friend as decoy.’

They saw the sense of that. I told Jimmy to announce that a legal guarantee of umpteen million zlotniks was signed, sealed and banked. It wasn’t, but the truth had failed poor Gesso, and it must be made to pay. They had four more TV appearances scheduled for Jonno in the afternoon. Already air waves were carrying chat shows about the combined variety show and The Greatest Gamble On Earth. Its capital letters were growing apace. Some billing. I was pleased that church dignitaries were hand-wringing about falling moral standards. Nothing promotes crime so much as moral outrage.

‘Lovejoy’s right, Stan,’ Jimmy said. ‘Live and learn, what?’

Live and leam’s an old motto, except that folk abbreviate it. ‘Live and learn -
die and forget,'
I completed for Jimmy. None of us smiled.

‘Lovejoy, please?’ Victoria shook her hair away to peer out. ‘There are now two dozen urgent messages.’

‘Any from a Miss Irma Dominick?’

‘None of the faxes, telephone calls, care-ofs. The rest aren’t open.’

Jimmy made me sign an inspection sheet, time, place, date, before I could leave for Victoria’s production office.

God, it stank of fag smoke. Jonno was on the blower yelling insults. He still wore his long slicker, as if his faithful pinto was outside champing at the bit. I was glad to see him, but in the nick of time remembered that he might be one of Jocina’s famous three. I was unprepared when he slammed the receiver down.

‘Lovejoy, I sacked your pal,’ he said. ‘Stage call ten minutes, Victoria.’

‘Maureen?’ I asked in shock, as Victoria shot off.

‘No. Nightmarish. I’m flying in a group from Aberdeen.’ ‘Oh, right.’ I thought I saw one of Big John Sheehan’s blokes walk past the window. ‘Er, look, Jonno. I’ve to attend to these messages. OK if me and Victoria do it somewhere else? Only—’

We made it, among rehearsing dancers, a fairground area and marauding toddlers in sandpits. We examined the messages in the safety of Cambridge Park. They were all dull, apart from Big John’s. It said he was teaming up with Michaelis Singleton. I handed them back to her. She was aghast.

‘We must answer them all immediately, Lovejoy!’ she cried. ‘Bidders from Berlin, Marseilles—’

‘No interest to me, love.’ I looked at Guernsey’s trees. Trees fascinate me. They’re in one place for good, yet they wave about, always busy. Autumnal shedding, burgeoning buds. I like them. Same as birds, really. I reckon you could get a lot of consolation and even love from trees and birds if you stood still.

‘Yes, I think that,’ she said gently. Whoops, talking thoughts aloud. ‘Lovejoy? You took desperate risks to bring Jonno’s show and set up the exhibition to help Prior Metiv-ier’s priory. Why don’t you bother about urgent calls?’

I said nothing, watching the trees.

‘It would be like Jonno setting up a West End show, then not caring.’

A little lad was trying to fly a kite. It reminded me. I’d watched a kiddie fly one somewhere long ago. Me?

‘I had a mate once, Victoria. He had this ambition. A massive roadside caff. Actually got one. You know what? He ordered all traditional things, beef, burgers, made it grand - and nobody came. You know why? The weather temperature went up, from 19°C to 20°C. He went bankrupt.’ I looked at her across my shoulder, leaning forward, elbows on my knees.

‘Well, I do sympathize, Lovejoy—’

‘You don’t see, love. Everybody else knew that that one degree up to 20°C stops East Anglian folk eating meat, beef, pork, burgers. They change their foods. It’s common knowledge.’ She was still doubtful. ‘Like, every woman knows that Good Queen Bess had a thirteen-inch waist -what’s that, thirty-two centimetres is it? Achieving it is the problem.’

‘Thir
teen
... ?’ she gasped, then concentrated. ‘Are you actually speaking of the exhibition, Lovejoy?’

‘Aye, love.’ I tried to smile. ‘Cope with the messages. Tell Jimmy and Stan I’ll need a security van at four o’clock tomorrow morning, OK? Give me your mobile phones numbers.’

She watched me stand and stretch. I bussed her so-long. She looked so forlorn, clutching her sheaf of vital messages.

‘Lovejoy? Where will you be?’ She coloured, went for it. ‘If you have nowhere to stay tonight, you can, ah, stay ...’ I started towards St Peter Port. ‘Ta-ra, love. Another times. Thanks for all you’ve done.’

‘Not at all, Lovejoy,’ floated after me down the slope.

She
was forlorn? She should have been in my shoes. From the stern rail of the Weymouth ferry, I watched Guernsey recede. I spent the whole journey thinking of the antiques I’d found restored so badly in the Guernsey antique shops, especially Rita’s. Couldn’t get them out of my mind, as a matter of fact.

Back in East Anglia by late afternoon, I went to see Desdemona.