awarded
me an ominous headshake. "Two down, Lovejoy. How many to go?"
"I've done nowt , Ledger.
Honest."
"Don't muck me about, lad. Bodies all over my manor, you
lurking in the foreground. Make us peelers look bad. Tell."
It would do no harm to reveal all, seeing I was at risk.
"Well, I was asked for an antique by Mrs. York. Now I'm doing work for Mr.
Sykes. And Sir John."
"Any particular work, Lovejoy?"
Sarcasm really hurts a failure. I coined quickly, "Paintings
for Mr. Sykes, Chinese vases for Sir John." I added, "He saw me on
telly."
"I forgot about that. Did you get a fee?"
"No," I said glumly. "I thought Sykie'd have
..." I halted, scalp prickling. Ledger was smiling, having got what he
wanted, knowing now it was Sykie who'd started me off.
"That'll be all, Lovejoy. Bui next time Sykie's goons bend
you to their iron will, let me know, eh? Before things
happen."
I chucked the sponge in. "Right, Ledger."
"And collect that filthy tramp of yours as you go. He louses
up the place."
The police desk lot were still laughing at Ledger's crack as I
left, dragging Tinker. He stank of booze.
"What's everything all about, Lovejoy?" he wheezed as
the cold night air stabbed him to his vitals and his legs buckled. "Ledger
kept asking if you topped some geezer today."
"Nothing to do with us, Tinker." I began lumbering him
toward the Three Cups, our nearest haunt. This was all too much. Everybody
wanted my help, but it's always me finishes up babbling nervously in front of
magistrates. "Not any more. We're getting back to antiques and
normality."
"Thank Gawd, Lovejoy." The thought of moral rectitude
strengthened him to a brisk stagger past the war memorial.
"Here, Tinker," I puffed, trying to think up light
conversation to keep him compos. "What's Lammas?"
We slammed into a parked car, blundered on. "Played halfback
for Manchester United, I think. Afore you were born." I laughed and
absolved myself everything. We went into the Three Cups with unburdened hearts.
Makes you wonder if peace is oblivion.
Peace and oblivion? Next morning I was up having a bath early, as
usual when alone. Then I brewed up and read local history—not for any skulduggery reason, just interest. Blissful peace. Until
all Piccadilly trooped in, starting with a smart-suited chap who doffed his
bowler and said he hoped he hadn't disturbed my breakfast. I peered at him with
the door opened barely a crack.
"Are you a bailiff?"
He looked blank. "Certainly not."
"Debt collector? Magistrate's court?" Still blankness,
so confidently I opened the door to ask him in and he served me with a writ. He
was quite pleasant about it.
"Mrs. York. You've ruined her restaurant, Lovejoy."
"Peace," I said to him in pious thanks.
His anxious face cleared. "I'm delighted you've taken it so
well. It's rather a lot of money. If I were you I'd try to make up with her.
Lawyers are so expensive."
"I promise. When I've got a minute."
Second, a knock halfway through my first bread dip. I did my peer.
Shoot-out or shared fried bread? I went through my interrogative litany, to
responses of denial.
"Come in, then," I said, relaxing. "I've brewed
up."
"I won't, thanks. Here. " He
gave me an envelope.
Gloom time. "A writ?"
"Mrs. Ryan. Default from her estate manager's post."
"Here," I called after him. "thought you said you
weren't a solicitor?"
"I lied, Lovejoy. 'Morning."
Third try at my glaciating breakfast. I managed a swig of tea
before
my old clapper bell—I got it from a demolished toffee
shop—summoned me to do my portcullis act. Crack, squint, another catechism for
another clone.
"Who's suing me?"
This one smiled. "Only a personal-delivery letter, Lovejoy.
From Mr. Hilley."
"Who's Mr. Hilley?" Reassured, I signed for it.
"He's the gentleman whom Raymond Congreve conned with a fake
Wedgwood. A blatant fraud that you financed, Lovejoy."
"I financed? Alone? Nobody else?"
"Mrs. Margaret Dainty and Big Frank proved they weren't
implicated.
me an ominous headshake. "Two down, Lovejoy. How many to go?"
"I've done nowt , Ledger.
Honest."
"Don't muck me about, lad. Bodies all over my manor, you
lurking in the foreground. Make us peelers look bad. Tell."
It would do no harm to reveal all, seeing I was at risk.
"Well, I was asked for an antique by Mrs. York. Now I'm doing work for Mr.
Sykes. And Sir John."
"Any particular work, Lovejoy?"
Sarcasm really hurts a failure. I coined quickly, "Paintings
for Mr. Sykes, Chinese vases for Sir John." I added, "He saw me on
telly."
"I forgot about that. Did you get a fee?"
"No," I said glumly. "I thought Sykie'd have
..." I halted, scalp prickling. Ledger was smiling, having got what he
wanted, knowing now it was Sykie who'd started me off.
"That'll be all, Lovejoy. Bui next time Sykie's goons bend
you to their iron will, let me know, eh? Before things
happen."
I chucked the sponge in. "Right, Ledger."
"And collect that filthy tramp of yours as you go. He louses
up the place."
The police desk lot were still laughing at Ledger's crack as I
left, dragging Tinker. He stank of booze.
"What's everything all about, Lovejoy?" he wheezed as
the cold night air stabbed him to his vitals and his legs buckled. "Ledger
kept asking if you topped some geezer today."
"Nothing to do with us, Tinker." I began lumbering him
toward the Three Cups, our nearest haunt. This was all too much. Everybody
wanted my help, but it's always me finishes up babbling nervously in front of
magistrates. "Not any more. We're getting back to antiques and
normality."
"Thank Gawd, Lovejoy." The thought of moral rectitude
strengthened him to a brisk stagger past the war memorial.
"Here, Tinker," I puffed, trying to think up light
conversation to keep him compos. "What's Lammas?"
We slammed into a parked car, blundered on. "Played halfback
for Manchester United, I think. Afore you were born." I laughed and
absolved myself everything. We went into the Three Cups with unburdened hearts.
Makes you wonder if peace is oblivion.
Peace and oblivion? Next morning I was up having a bath early, as
usual when alone. Then I brewed up and read local history—not for any skulduggery reason, just interest. Blissful peace. Until
all Piccadilly trooped in, starting with a smart-suited chap who doffed his
bowler and said he hoped he hadn't disturbed my breakfast. I peered at him with
the door opened barely a crack.
"Are you a bailiff?"
He looked blank. "Certainly not."
"Debt collector? Magistrate's court?" Still blankness,
so confidently I opened the door to ask him in and he served me with a writ. He
was quite pleasant about it.
"Mrs. York. You've ruined her restaurant, Lovejoy."
"Peace," I said to him in pious thanks.
His anxious face cleared. "I'm delighted you've taken it so
well. It's rather a lot of money. If I were you I'd try to make up with her.
Lawyers are so expensive."
"I promise. When I've got a minute."
Second, a knock halfway through my first bread dip. I did my peer.
Shoot-out or shared fried bread? I went through my interrogative litany, to
responses of denial.
"Come in, then," I said, relaxing. "I've brewed
up."
"I won't, thanks. Here. " He
gave me an envelope.
Gloom time. "A writ?"
"Mrs. Ryan. Default from her estate manager's post."
"Here," I called after him. "thought you said you
weren't a solicitor?"
"I lied, Lovejoy. 'Morning."
Third try at my glaciating breakfast. I managed a swig of tea
before
my old clapper bell—I got it from a demolished toffee
shop—summoned me to do my portcullis act. Crack, squint, another catechism for
another clone.
"Who's suing me?"
This one smiled. "Only a personal-delivery letter, Lovejoy.
From Mr. Hilley."
"Who's Mr. Hilley?" Reassured, I signed for it.
"He's the gentleman whom Raymond Congreve conned with a fake
Wedgwood. A blatant fraud that you financed, Lovejoy."
"I financed? Alone? Nobody else?"
"Mrs. Margaret Dainty and Big Frank proved they weren't
implicated.
Similar Books
