Faces in the Pool (20 page)

‘I am sorry, sir,’ a familiar female voice said to the annoyed Liverpudlian. ‘My brother forgets to take his tablets. I apologise. Would you allow me to offer you a pint?’

Dully I watched as the bloke was mollified. Nice folk in Blackpool. He told the woman it was OK, and best get him (i.e. me, like I was an imbecile) home quick. She drew me outside into the cold night air. The pavement crowds had thinned. Time for the second house in the main shows?

‘You could have got me one, Lovejoy,’ Tinker groused. ‘I’m frigging parched.’

‘Where the frigging hell were you, you idle old bastard?’

‘That will do, Lovejoy.’ She held me in a firm grasp. I looked at her with curiosity. ‘Come along.’

‘How come you are the boss?’

She said, exasperated, ‘You’re so slow, Lovejoy. Can you still not see the obvious?’

‘That bird who got topped by the sea marshes,’ Tinker said helpfully.

My head swam, because Ellen Jaynor wasn’t topped in any sea marsh. Nobody was. I wanted a lie down. Wanting order, I said, ‘Shut up, Tinker.’

‘We must take urgent steps, Lovejoy. You must decide how to bring the miscreants to justice.’

‘Look,’ I began.

She propelled me to the pavement. ‘Into the car, please. Front seat, where I can keep an eye on you.’

Her limo was pristine. I seethed with anger. She’d managed to clean her sodding motor while I burnt to death. Another great ally.

‘Got a drink, missus?’ Tinker asked. ‘My chest’s bad in night air.’

‘When I say, Tinker,’ Ellen said with asperity, ‘and not a minute sooner. In, both of you.’

‘But I got wounds. It’s always me that suffers.’

‘I shan’t tell you again. We’re all so sorry, Lovejoy.’

I almost filled up at her kind words. The car moved along the promenade.

We drove to what folk now call a trailer park, copying the American name for tin caravans, tin homes on tin wheels. They stood in miniature streets with lights and tubs of flowers. The tidiest place I ever did see. I could hear the occasional television set in the darkness.

‘Here?’ I was incredulous. They had these places near Great Yarmouth on the east coast, but this wasn’t for holidayers. This was a town and looked planted.

‘Make no noise,’ Ellen warned me. ‘People go to bed early.’

‘Where are we?’ Shouldn’t I have been in the Tower planning revenge?

‘The Fylde, Lovejoy. The others are inside.’ She spoke in that laconic way. It really narked. ‘You’re our one hope, Lovejoy.’

The night breeze felt chilly. Ellen shivered. Tinker hawked, coughing with his usual piledriver noise. So much for sound sleep in Moss House Caravan Park.

‘Others who?’ Weren’t we secret, us battlers against the dark powers?

‘You’ll see. In.’

The caravan was astonishing. Like a shoe-box on the outside, within it simply went on and on, one room after another. You could believe you were in a dinky hotel. Kitchen, sitting room, bedrooms, loo and bath, you could take to such a home. The group looked at me.

‘I see you all made it,’ I told them in my frostiest voice.

‘You should have been here before now, Lovejoy,’ said Mortimer. He didn’t even stand. What happened to respect? I thought, God, just listen to myself. I sounded ninety. ‘Whose jacket is that?’

‘I couldn’t stop to pack,’ I said with sarcasm, ‘after you left me to die.’

Determined to be nasty, I vowed to make the treacherous little punk suffer. Instead, he calmly sat next to the gorgeous Donna da Silfa.

‘I left you obvious means of escape.’

‘Don’t sulk, Lovejoy. Mortimer thought it all out.’

‘Can somebody tell me what Mrs da Silfa is doing here?’ I asked.

Everybody looked at each other. Mortimer said, ‘A possible ally.’

‘And I,’ said Leg-Breaker, sitting there as if he owned the place, ‘am on Mr Hennell’s staff. Ex-SAS, seeing you still haven’t got it.’

‘I changed sides, Lovejoy.’ Donna gazed at me with defiance.

‘From which to what?’ I sat facing them. ‘Members of Parliament change sides and say
they’re
honest.’

‘How can you be so insolent, after…’ She dried up, checked with Mortimer.

‘After you forced me to wed a murderess?’

‘Any chance of a drink?’ Tinker went and groped in the fridge. ‘There’s not much.’ He coughed over whatever sterile produce it held. He opened a bottle by clicking it on the edge of a table. If I tried that, the neck would snap and send beer everywhere.

‘Is your loyalty anything to do with the gold price?’ I asked Donna. I turned to Dr Giles Castell and his randy wife Penny. She was smiling. ‘And is
your
greed what you two got me arrested for?’

‘Now, Lovejoy,’ Penny Castell purred. ‘The roads we travelled do not matter. The fact is we are here to save the day.’

‘Whose day?’ I waited. ‘Nobody’s answered me about the gold price.’

I reminded them of a few facts. Gold is the pulse of the world’s economy. Every year, India buys a third of all the world’s mined gold, and its banks hold over 23,000 tons of the pricey stuff. Worldwide, stock markets scrabble after Ghana’s gold as South Africa’s seams decline and new finds elsewhere come in. As I spoke, I saw Donna da Silfa’s eyes flash. She remembered that an English
king’s
-head sovereign – the most desirable – had been less than 800 rupees in Madras when she was younger, but one now would cost an arm and a leg. They joke in Kerala that you can’t see that lovely ancient city because of the gold merchants’ adverts. Three-quarters of the world’s gold has already been dug up. Not much left.

‘Gold,’ I ended, ‘is a mania. It will buy anything.’ I could have mentioned peerages but didn’t because I’m kind deep down. ‘And you love it, Donna. We talked of it.’

‘You’re becoming fanciful, Lovejoy,’ Dr Castell boomed. ‘We must block their wicked schemes.’

‘Can I smoke this?’ Tinker lit a monster cigar he’d looted.

‘He’ll be here soon. Dr Castell can explain, seeing as he knows Daniella.’ That was Donna da Silfa.

Does he now? I thought. ‘Who?’

‘You’ll see, Lovejoy.’

‘Who?’ I looked around. Mortimer looked exasperated, like I ought to have worked things out, the arrogant little sod.

‘Time you got me some smokes, Lovejoy,’ Tinker said, alternately glugging and fuming the air with carcinogens. ‘When you get paid.’

‘I’ll wait outside.’ I choked on the smoke. ‘Give me a shout when the gang’s all here.’

‘Please wait, Lovejoy,’ Mortimer said. And he sounded truly sad, like he had the very worst news. The others looked at the floor, and stayed silent.

‘We shall have to tell him,’ Ellen said.

‘Not me, please,’ Donna da Silfa said, tears filling her eyes.

‘Well, I can’t.’ Ellen looked at Mortimer, who shook his head.

‘You poor bugger, Lovejoy,’ Tinker said. His eyes are always rheumy but just for a nanosec I wondered if even he was near to skryking.

‘Tell me what?’ I asked.

‘Tell him, Giles,’ Penny said.

‘Please, no, Penny. You.’

‘How can I, Giles, after…?’ She halted.

‘What?’ I said again.

This was probably the first time Giles – or any man, come to that – had ever denied Penny Castell.

‘You poor sod,’ Tinker said.

In a temper I flung outside. I’d had enough. Let them get on with their stupid glances and innuendoes.

The open air was marginally more breathable. I stood in the gloaming among those tin dwellings. Greed had to be the single determinant. Hadn’t I just proved so, with my gold prattle? What else was strong enough to bring those antiques-rich Faces from their rock pools, and turn them into a murderous team?

If any crooks wanted to make a fortune, they could clean out America’s Folger Library, the world’s biggest Shakespeare hoard. Every stolen thing is saleable, whatever the Antiques Fraud Squad pretends. More difficult would be Virginia’s National Firearms Museum – you’re talking untold wealth in antiques there. A third would be Washington’s International Spy Museum. It doesn’t sound likely, but it all depends what you like…
What was I thinking?
Here I was, night-dreaming, when I was seriously up against it. Whatever Mortimer said, I hadn’t a clue what was happening on my own patch.

One thing clung to my mind.

It’s called ransom.

Not long back, two Turner paintings were nicked, clean as a whistle, from London’s mighty Tate during a loan exhibition to Germany. Art experts everywhere sobbed into their champagne. Curators were edgy, reputations plunged, and the criminal world rocked with laughter. I well remember how we (correction:
they
) threw a party 
in the George. Fabulous works of artistic genius vanished forever, sob-sob, right? Well, no. Not quite.

Because the paintings (
Light and Colour
was one,
Shade and Darkness
the other) suddenly reappeared
in the Tate Gallery
. Miraculous? Yes, produced by handing over millions to a Continental lawyer who incurred certain ‘expenses’ and had ‘information leading to the recovery of’, as euphemism has it. Now, I’ve nothing against Frankfurt lawyers. And don’t believe the rumours about Balkan mafia. The Tate hierarchy waffled their usual blandeur. They’d ‘paid in a number of directions’. Cynics said a reward would be necessary. Darker mutters mentioned ransom, a term hotly denied. One does not pay ransom to criminals, old chap, what?

Listening for the latecomer’s car, I watched a bank of lights on the wine-dark sea (sorry, I pinched that phrase from schoolboy Homer). It joined smaller dots. Presumably little boats, ferrying friends to an ocean-going yacht anchored offshore. All right for some, I thought bitterly.

It’s true. Art movements are dishonest. The famous Waverley Report yaks on about export controls. Like, say you have bought the fabled Clive of India Flask – an exalted item everybody knows is worth millions. You intend to take it to your hot native clime, and ask the UK Government for an export licence. Instantly, politicians grumble about the nation’s treasures being lost. Museums begin begging for money to match the market price. You let the various museums scratch around for some months – then blithely announce you’ve no intention of taking the item overseas at all.

To the criminal mind, this scheme offers massive chances for deception. Not accusing anybody, but in East Anglia there’s a woman in a faded university who collects data on such possibilities. She lives in Royston, near where that old mill…

My mind went, Hang on. Why wasn’t I back in the warm fug listening to their dud explanations? I
never
do things according to reason. I only ever go by instinct, possibly wild and random, then think, Good heavens, how come I worked that out?

The sea lights separated. I stamped a bit like you do when you are frozen. The smaller vessels, two lights only, must still be ferrying friends out to the splendid
ocean-going
yacht party. Plenty of friends when you’re loaded. Like that English noble multimillionaire. Sir Benjamin of Maunsel, still youngish as I scrawl, looked into his family history and learnt that his umpteenth great-grannie had been a close lady friend of King George the Fourth. An earlier grannie had cavorted with King Charlie Two. An interesting snippet thrown up by history. Except the snippet hit the headlines, and suddenly 20,000 heirs came zooming in. (If your ancestors are called Slade, good luck.)

And I thought of Hugo Hahn’s speech at the wedding nosh. And tried to guess who we might be waiting for.

The jokes in his woody speech kept echoing in my skull. I’d been daft as a brush all along, missing the obvious.
Toast
, he’d said, and
last
, and everybody had laughed. His speech, in fact, was all farewell.

The night breeze freshened. I shivered in my stolen jacket. The original owner would be even colder, poor chap.

Float, Hugo Hahn had quipped, in that terrible historical phrase: ‘floating the idea of the final solution’. No wonder I was shivering, because finally I knew what they were doing. ‘How’ problems could remain unsolved. Forget the worrying bits, like how did Dr Castell and Penny know the Faces. That College? I felt a twinge of sorrow, or was it only pity? I’ve seen a gillion scams tried, and one way or another they crashed. Or they ended in ugly deaths in alleyways. That is their fate.

Tasker, best of friends and worst of enemies, warns, ‘The only foolproof scam
is the next.
’ Like politics, that art of making a dog’s dinner of perfection.

It was Hugo Hahn, so he’d have to kill me. And the beautiful Donna was his double-agent envoy. Daniella, Veronica, Ellen, Laura, I didn’t know what to think. Mortimer was innocent, surely? I badly needed help. What were they so reluctant to tell me in the caravan? The trouble was, waiting for Morgyn the Mighty to stride over the horizon is comic-book stuff. I’d have to go on my own. I could honestly say that I wasn’t thinking that I could snaffle those delicious antiques, no. It didn’t enter my mind. OK, I could have phoned friends if I’d had a mobile thing, and I might have called out Tinker and maybe Mortimer on some pretence. But they’d hold me back.

Of course, I didn’t march off and get a taxi to the police. To arrest diplomats? Instead, I slunk like a nightstealer down to the sea.

The beach, maybe four furlongs from North Pier, was all activity with hardly any lights. High tide, of course, making loading easier. Eight or nine vannies were
unloading two giant pantechnicons by the glim of hand torches. I heard one call, ‘Last-but-one load, wack.’ One of the giant lorries closed its rear doors and was driven off.

Two small craft nosed to the shingle, their painters looped over staves driven into the shore, the men plodding back to help carry loads from the last wagon. I walked down to the boats. Both engines still muttered in neutral. I shoved one off and boarded the other. A good hundred yards off the beach, I heard the first shouts and looked back. One bloke ran helplessly into the waves after me. The rest stood there gaping. I towed the other boat. Nobody could follow because I’d nicked both boats.

The engine was the familiar kind I knew from Mersea Island. I aimed steadily at the great yacht thing, so brightly lit out on the dark sea. What, a mile off?

The beach seemed static, the vannies baffled at my theft of the boats. No spare boats, so I felt momentarily safe. Unless they got a power boat from somewhere, I’d at least have time to get close to the big vessel and see what the hell. Easy to steer with a tiller – point this way or that, the craft moved in the opposite direction. Simple.

Slowly puttering towards the looming yacht, I was aghast at the size of the damned thing. She was the
Maeonia
. God, she swelled into a giant as I butted my way to stand off from her to seaward. She was lit all over, portholes and gangway visible, and a set of chained steps with a miniature gantry ready to haul up furniture and other heavy antiques.

My breath was rapid but not from the cold. They would have left an armed guard on board. And I could guess who that was. The big boss, the leader of the pack.

I cut the engine of my towed craft and cast it adrift. If it was Hahn, I had some daft idea I might be able to jump overboard and swim for it, with any luck. My own boat I tied to the bottom of the gangway, its engine still on the go in neutral, and climbed up on deck.