PearlHanger 09 (25 page)

"Is there nowhere?"

"Let me think." She stood on the stairs, swaying. I didn't know if it was booze or a trance. "My friend has a caravan out on the point."

"By the martello tower?"

"Yes. It's empty for a week. She told me yesterday that the people renting it can't come. Will that do?"

She was in no fit state to drive me down so after a few innuendos about settling the rent in kind I walked the cobbled wharf following the curved line of shore lamps toward the old tower's red marker beacon. They light them for foolish aircraft. I reached it in an hour.

The caravan smelled musty and sounded hollow, but it had a gas stove, a shoebox-sized fridge containing essential grub, and electric light. I made the bed, smiling at Bea's alcoholic suggestiveness, promising to "bring your milk as soon as the harbor starts moving, darling." I went to the door and stood looking out into the dark freshness. I'd made it. Refuge. Bea wouldn't tell. Cardew and Seth were the only two others in the know, and they needed a spiritualist to broadcast even a burp. I was safe, on my own at last.

The night was tranquil. That was the word. Tranquil. You wouldn't think that an innocent scene could be anything but serene, could you? Yet it had all happened within a few miles. I walked round, stared out some more. Walked round again. I whistled a tune. "Scarborough Fayre," by some mischance.

The sea shushed to and fro less than twenty yards off. The old tower had been erected on the end of a spit of reinforced sand projecting from . . . Uneasily I strolled out and prodded with my toe. Sand. Projecting from the shore. There's quite a lot of hazy illumination along the coast. By it I could see where I was. My lonely caravan refuge, its cheerful

electric light shining, was quite definitely situated between the salt water and the seashore. I stopped whistling.

Now, I'm honestly not superstitious. That's ridiculous. And I'm the last bloke in the world to get spooked. So I wasn't at all worried. Of course not. I don't lose my cool. Oh, I admit I sat on the sand and looked at the damned place more closely. Nothing wrong with that, is there? I'd got to live here, after all.

"Are you the refuge I really want, Cockalorum?" I asked it aloud, and sat throwing pebbles at the sea.

Out there, a sound grew. It was centered on a light. One, then two lights. A red. A green. Then a third, whitish yellow. A small boat. The lights aligned, separated. The sound was louder. A boat engine, coming closer. I threw a pebble. Another. Plop.

Well, it was either scarper or wait. And I was too tired to do any more running. If it was Donna, just too bad. Mi- chaela was unlikely. Big John was probable. Barney, irate at yet another nocturnal visit from me to Bea, was a possibility. Lydia was six to four against, say. Margaret no chance. Helen . . .

I used up a handful of pebbles. Plop. Plop. Nowhere to go, and bats of memory haunting my mind.

The boat grated on the shingle, its engine coughing. "Hello, Lovejoy."

"Wotcher, Vanessa."

She leaped and splashed expertly, standing there holding the rope. "I'd an idea it was you. Everybody's talking of the auction at the pub. Billy saw the caravan lights. Nobody's supposed to use it this week."

"Word travels fast."

"We all know Beatrice's friend owns it." She scuffed shingle with one shoe. "You sound all in, Lovejoy."

"I'm okay." A pause.

"Are you sure you really want to stay here?"

"It's the last place on earth." I tried to sound carefree. It came out as a kind of whine. I'm pathetic.

"Well, then. My place isn't palatial, but you're more than welcome, Lovejoy."

"Ta, love." I got up, brushed the sand off, and climbed into her boat.

The caravan looked lonely and vulnerable there on the sloping shingle. Vanessa went to douse the lights and pushed us off.

We puttered slowly away from the tower's red light. Looking at Vanessa's hair, blowing red and green in the boat's lamps, I couldn't help thinking. Tom her dad still longed for his gamekeeper's job along the riverside estate. Now Big John owned it; he needed an experienced keeper. If I went in with Big John's scam—only if, mind—then I could swing jobs for the two of them. Sheehan wouldn't have a clue about freshwater pearling . . .

Moon showed from behind a cloud. Vanessa's hair silvered.

. . . And supervision was minimal. I could control the output of forgeries. Plus a percentage cut from Tom and Herbie. Tinker would be especially keen. Risky, of course, because you didn't cross Big John without incurring considerable displeasure. But the bastard owed me, didn't he?

I'd have to stay on the right side of my rescuer, though, until I'd got it all organized. I smiled at Vanessa in the iridescent moonlight, hoping I'd done my teeth so they showed clean and that my lip didn't bleed again.

"Penny for your thoughts, Lovejoy," she said quietly.

I cleared my throat. "Just thinking how lovely you look," I said. "Isn't moonlight romantic?"

232 .