Firefly Gadroon (2 page)

‘Anybody start me off?’ I called brightly, gavelling merrily like the overconfident idiot I am. ‘A few pence to start?’

Tinker was drawing breath when the bird cheeped into action. ‘Ten pounds,’ she said, to my horror, and we were off.

That’s how the frightening trouble began. There was no way I could have stopped the evil that started then. And none of it was my fault. Honestly. Hand on my heart.

I’d be completely harmless if only people would leave me alone.

The crowd of bidders usually divides as soon as it’s all over. Some throng the tea bar at the back of the dank warehouse and slurp Gimbert’s horrible liquid, moaning about the prices of antiques. The rest surge into the Ship and sob in their beer, full of tales about missing a genuine Stradivarius (going for a couple of quid, of course) by a whisker last week. As I feared, the big Yank collared me as I climbed down from the rostrum.

‘Excuse me, sir.’

‘Eh?’

The rotund weatherbeaten face of an outdoor man gazed reproachfully down at me. He was the size of a bus.

‘You missed seeing my bid, sir. For Lord Nelson’s father’s letter. I’ve come a long way—’

I glanced about. Most of the mob had drifted – well, sprinted – pubwards so it was safe to speak. ‘Look, mate. Nothing personal. But Nelson’s dad snuffed it two years before that letter’s date. And it began, “Dear Horatio”. Wrong. He was called “Horace” by his own family.’

‘You mean . . . ?’

‘Forged? Aye. Go to the Rectory in Burnham Thorpe and have a butcher’s – I mean a look – at his dad’s handwriting. He got little Horace to witness the various wedding certificates sometimes. Always look at originals.’

His gaze cleared. ‘I’m indebted—’

I had to be off. ‘No charge, mate.’

He was eyeing me thoughtfully. ‘If I may—’

But I shot out. The girl had vanished in the scrum. I was blazing. I collared Bedwell, miserable as sin among the tea-drinkers. He’s a long thin nicotine-stained bloke. Funny shape, really. Miffs are usually sort of George III-shaped and sleek as a butcher’s dog. Good living.

‘Where is she, Welly?’ I tapped his arm.

He grinned and nudged me suggestively. ‘Always after skirt,’ he cackled. Then he saw my face and went uneasy. ‘Gawd knows, Lovejoy. Took that little basket and went.’

I groaned and bulleted into the yard. There’s a side door into the tavern, but nobody’s allowed to use it. Dolly intercepted me. Luckily she had her umbrella up against the drizzle or she’d have clouted me with it.

‘Lovejoy! I knew you’d try to sneak off—’

‘Oh, er, there you are, love,’ I tried, grinning weakly.

‘Don’t give me that!’ She stood there in a rage, shapely and expensively suited. Blonde hair in that costly new
scruffy style. I glanced nervously about in case other dealers were witnessing my discomfiture. ‘You’ve made me wait hours in this filthy hole!’

‘Er, look, angel—’

‘No. You look, Lovejoy.’ She blocked my way. I danced with exasperation. I had to reach Tinker, get him to find the bird who’d got my beautiful antique bamboo cage. ‘I’m thoroughly sick of your high-handed—’

‘See you later, love.’ I tried to shift her gently but she struggled and stayed put.

‘That’s just the point, Lovejoy! You won’t see me at all. Do you seriously put me second to a cartload of junk?’

I stared, flabbergasted. Sometimes I just don’t understand women. She actually meant antiques.

‘ ’Course,’ I told her, puzzled.

Her aghast eyes opened wider. She gasped. ‘Why, you utter
swine
—’ I saw her matching handbag swing but deflected it and she staggered. I held her up while her legs steadied.

‘Listen, chuckie,’ I said carefully. You have to be patient. ‘Antiques are everything. Cheap or priceless, they’re all that matters on earth. Do you follow?’ Her horrified eyes unglazed but she was still stunned at all this. ‘And
everybody
comes second. Not just you. Even me.’ I straightened her up, gave her a quick peck to show I almost forgave her.

She recovered enough to start fuming again. ‘Of all the . . .’

‘Meet you tomorrow, love.’ I let go and darted past

This door leads to the back of the saloon bar. A chorus of insults rose from the solid wall of barflies as I emerged.

‘Here he is, lads! Our auctioneer!’

Tinker was already halfway into his first pint. I honestly don’t know how he does it. He never stops from noon to
midnight. I gave him the bent eye while Lily the barmaid scolded me for coming in the wrong way.

‘Typical, Lovejoy.’ She pushed me under the bar flap into the smoky bar to get me out of her way.

‘Don’t serve him, love,’ the dealers shouted.

I’d nicked a bottle of brown ale on my way through so I didn’t mind whether she did or not. Tinker’s horrible aroma magically thinned the throng about us.

‘Who was she, Tinker?’ I breathed the words so the hubbub covered my interest.

‘The bird with the big knockers?’ He shook his head. ‘She’s new round here, Lovejoy. I didn’t know whether to keep bidding or not—’

‘Shut it,’ I growled. She’d been so determined I’d knocked the precious One Eighty down to her, amid almost total silence. Dealers love a dedicated collector, especially a luscious bird intent on spending a fortune for a worthless wickerwork box. I was furious because it wasn’t worthless at all. I’d hoped to get it for a song and make a month’s profit. Instead I was broke again and the girl had vanished.

‘Pint, Lil.’ Tinker hardly muttered the words but Lily slammed a pint over. Tinker’s ability to get served is legendary. I paid, this being my role in our partnership.

‘Then why the hell aren’t you out finding her, you idle berk?’ I spat the insult at him, but kept smiling. Disagreements mustn’t be obvious in our way of life, especially among friends.

‘I am.’ Tinker grinned a gummy grin. ‘Lemuel’s following her.’

I subsided at that and swilled my ale while he chuckled at my discomfiture. Lemuel’s an old derelict who still wears his soldier’s medals on his filthy old coat. He sleeps in our parks and church doorways and looks and pongs even worse than Tinker, which is going it somewhat. He
has a nifty line in conning our wide-eyed and innocent social services ladies for every shekel they possess. Luckily for the nation’s balance of payments, Lemuel recycles this colossal drain on sterling through the merry brewers of East Anglia and the sordid portals of our betting shops. He hasn’t picked a winner since he was eight.

‘Taking it up regular, Lovejoy?’ Devlin’s beloved voice boomed in my ear, getting a few laughs at my expense. Nobody hates auctioneers like a dealer.

‘Maybe.’ I gave the world my sunniest beam. ‘You got a job yet, Devvo?’ A laugh or two my side this time.

‘I’ve a bone to pick with you, Lovejoy.’ He loomed closer. He’s a big bloke and never has less than two tame goons hovering behind his elbows. They follow his Rolls everywhere in a family saloon. They were there now, I saw with delight. It’s at times like this that I’m fond of idiocy. It gives you something to hate. ‘That Russian niello silver pendant. You didn’t see my bid.’

‘You bid late,’ I said evenly. ‘I’d already gavelled.’

‘You bastard. You nelsonned it.’ He meant I’d looked away deliberately – after Nelson’s trick at Copenhagen – another illegal trick auctioneers sometimes use. The place had gone quiet suddenly. People started spacing out round us. Devlin became poisonously hearty. It’s the way every berk of his sort gets. He prodded my chest.

‘Don’t do that, please,’ I asked patiently.

‘Gentlemen . . .’ Lily pleaded into the sudden silence. ‘I came especially for that pendant, Lovejoy.’ Another prod. Thicker silence.

I sighed and put my bottle down regretfully. I’ve never really seen that whisky-in-the-face thing they do in cowboy pictures. Maybe one day. Helen moved, white-faced, as if to stand by me but Tinker drifted absently across to block her way, thank God. I didn’t want her getting hurt.

‘Ooooh! There’s going to be
blood
everywhere!’ That squeal could only be Patrick, our quaint – not to say decidedly odd – colleague in from the arcade. He had his latest widow in tow to buy him pink gins from now till closing time. I saw one of Devlin’s goons turn ominously to face the main saloon. The other Neanderthal was grinning, standing beside his master with a hand fumbling in his pocket for his brass knuckles. You can’t help smiling. Imagine chucking your weight about for a living. I despair of us sometimes. Where I come from, nerks like him would starve.

Good old Devlin dug my sternum again. ‘I reckon you owe me a few quid, Lovejoy.’

‘Don’t do that, please,’ I said again. ‘Last warning, lads.’

The Neanderthal mimicked me in a falsetto. ‘Don’t do that, please.’ He laughed. ‘Shivering, Jimmie?’ A Glaswegian, if I wasn’t mistaken. He reached out to prod me so I kneed him and broke his nose with my forehead as he doubled with a shrill gasp. He rocked blindly back, clutching himself, blood spattered across his cheeks and mouth. You can’t blame him. It doesn’t half hurt.

‘You were saying, Devvo?’ I said, but he’d backed away. His other goon glanced doubtfully from Devlin to me and then to his groaning mate. ‘Look, girls,’ I said, still pleasant. ‘No fuss, eh? The auction’s over with. And everybody knows you’re too stupid to handle antique Russian silver, Devvo.’

I was honestly trying to cool it but for some reason he went berserk and took a swing at me. A table went over and some glasses nearby smashed. I snapped his left middle finger to stop him. It’s easily done, but you must make sure to bend it rapidly back and upwards away from the palm – keep the finger in line with the forearm or it won’t break, and you’ll be left just holding the enemy’s hand politely
and feeling a fool. Devvo’s face drained and he froze with the sudden pain.

‘Well, comrade?’ I was saying affably to the third nerk when the crowd abruptly lost interest and filtered away back to the booze. Sure enough, there he stood in the doorway, shrewdly sussing the scene out, the Old Bill we all know and love. Neat, polite, smoking a respectable pipe, thoroughly detestable.

‘You again, Lovejoy?’

‘Thank heaven you’ve come, Inspector!’ I cried with relief, hoping I wasn’t overacting, because Maslow’s a suspicious old sod. ‘I’ve just separated these two.’

‘Oh?’ Sarcasm with it, I observed, and a uniformed constable in the doorway behind him.

‘Some disagreement over an antique, Inspector, I believe,’ I said smoothly, staring right into his piggy eyes with my clear innocent gaze. ‘This man set upon Mr Devlin—’

Maslow asked, ‘True, Lily?’ She reddened and frantically started to polish a glass.

‘Aye, Mr Maslow,’ Tinker croaked. ‘I seed it all, just like Lovejoy says.’ With his record that took courage.

Maslow swung on Tinker and pointed his pipe. ‘Silence from you, Dill.’

‘Perhaps I can help, Inspector.’ Helen lit a cigarette, head back and casual. ‘Lovejoy merely went to try to help Mr Devlin.’

‘Are you positive, miss?’ He sounded disappointed but kept his eyes on me. I blinked, all innocence.

She shrugged eloquently. ‘Difficult to see clearly. It’s so crowded.’

‘Very well.’ He jerked a thumb at Devvo’s goons. ‘Outside, you two.’

‘Here, boss,’ the uninjured nerk complained to Devlin in a panic. ‘He’s taking us in.’

‘Be quiet.’ Devlin was still clutching his swelling hand, pale as Belleek porcelain. ‘I’ll follow you down.’

Maslow turned to give me a long low stare as the heavies went out. He leant closer. ‘One day, Lovejoy,’ he breathed. ‘One day.’

I went all offended. ‘Surely, Inspector, you don’t think—’

Maslow slammed out. Patrick shrilled, ‘Ooooh! That
Lovejoy
! Isn’t he absolutely
awful
?’

A relieved babble began. Devlin left for hospital a moment later, the constable delightedly piloting the Rolls. From the pub window I watched them go.

‘Hear that, Tinker?’ I demanded indignantly. ‘Maslow didn’t believe me.’

‘Yon grouser’s a swine,’ Tinker agreed. Grouser’s slang for an aggressive CID man.

‘All clear, Lovejoy?’ Lemuel ferreted between us and clawed my bottle out of my hand. His eyes swivelled nervously as he downed it in one.

‘One day I’ll get a bloody drink in here,’ I grumbled, ordering replacements.

Lemuel wiped his mouth on his tattered sleeve.

‘That’s an omen,’ he croaked excitedly. ‘Blood Drinker, tomorrow’s two o’clock race at—’ It was becoming one of those days. I put my fist under Lemuel’s nose. ‘Ah,’ he said, hastily remembering. ‘That bint. I found her, Tinker.’

I glanced about, making sure we weren’t being overheard, and met Helen’s eyes along the bar. She raised her eyebrows in mute interrogation. Don Musgrave and his two barkers were with her. Don’s antique pewter and English glass, and does a beano among tourists on North Hill. He’s been after Helen for four years, but he’s the kind of bumbling bear type of bloke that only makes women smile. Anyway, he hates cigarettes and Helen even smokes in bed. I gave her a brief nod of thanks and turned back
towards the yeasty pong of my two sleuths. Owing women makes me edgy. They tend to cash in.

‘Any chance of a bleedin’ drink?’ Lemuel croaked. ‘I had to run like a frigging two-year-old.’

Irritably I shoved my latest pint at the old rogue. He absorbed it like an amoeba.

‘She’s a souper,’ he said at last, wheezing and coughing froth at me. I tried not to inhale but being anaerobic’s hard.

‘Eh?’ That couldn’t be right.

‘Straight up.’ Lemuel nudged Tinker for support. ‘I was right, Tinker.’

‘Souper?’ I couldn’t believe it. Anybody less like your actual starry-eyed social worker was hard to imagine than that luscious leg-crosser. She’d seemed hard as nails.

‘I got money from her for my auntie’s bad back.’

‘Which auntie?’ I demanded suspiciously, knowing him. He grinned through anaemic gums.

‘Got none.’ He and Tinker fell about cackling at this evidence that the Chancellor too can be conned with the best of them. I banged Lemuel’s back to stop the old lunatic from choking. All this hilarity was getting me down. Tinker spotted my exasperation as Lemuel’s cyanosis faded into his normal puce.