‘Chin up, old chap,’ he said. ‘Ah, not Jonno Rant any longer, what?’
‘No. It’s Lovejoy.’ I kept looking among passing Plod-dites for the blokes who’d done me over, didn’t see them.
Jonno was signing something when they called me back in. I stood before Grouville’s desk. The paper with its terse scribbles was gone. Grouville looked at me five full minutes in silence, I swear.
‘Lovejoy. Visitors assume that this Bailiwick is the responsibility of our Duke Sovereign - that is, our monarch. Or Parliament, the Lieutenant-Governor, the Bailiwick, the States of Deliberation, Uncle Tom Cobley and all.’ He went on in this vein. I switched off. I wish I’d a quid for every time I’ve heard the speech.
Silence descended. It fired question marks about my head.
My usual answer was called for. ‘And everybody’s wrong?’
‘Indeed. Because Guernsey is down to ...’ Again the ???? salvo.
‘You?’
‘Correct. As far as you are concerned, Lovejoy, I am the ultimate deterrent. Mr Rant has, out of a spirit of generosity, elected to employ you in the capacity in which you deceived and defrauded. Do not ask me why. I disapprove. Not, I hasten to add, of Mr Rant’s welcome presence here, or of his musical talents. But of you. You are warned. Pay your debts. Stay within the strictures of Mr Rant’s employment, and you will not incur my displeasure. Move outside them one iota, I shall lose my temper. You will be very, very sorry. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’ How the hell did this windbag precis everybody else’s words to half a blot, and take hours saying watch it?
‘Good day to you.’
Murmuring thanks to Grouville and any deity who might be tuned in up there, I left. In the corridor, Jonno Rant was making notes in a pocket book while Jimmy Ozanne was saying, ‘Willco. Roger. Pip pip’ and the like.
Jonno, my good pal Jonno, rattled through details of bookings, hitches, standbys. Jimmy was delighted. Here was a decision man, not a bumbler like me.
‘Right. Any questions, Jimmy?’ Jonno asked.
‘Authorized changes to pattern?’ Jimmy said, terse. Caught it from Grouville, likely enough.
‘Individual switches, you deal with. Pattern changes, refer to me.’
‘Roger!’Jimmy darted me a smile and strode off to some waiting battalion.
Jonno Rant turned to me. He’d started off a few inches taller. Now he seemed up in the stratosphere.
‘Which leaves you, Lovejoy.’ He wondered how much to tell me, then said, ‘You know what? I remember you welling up, when we first met at the point-to-point. You wept, staring at a couple of old biscuit tins.’ I said nothing. I don’t like people who remember things. He gestured the silence out of the way, forget it. ‘Frankly, you did me a good turn.’
‘Eh? Oh, any time I can ...’ My weak blather petered out.
‘Cut it. You brought to light a showbiz rip-off. Bamie seduced Samantha away.’ I tried to look intelligent. ‘She stole my lists of artists, the lot. I wasn’t aware of it until you happened by. I’d have lost a mint.’
He seemed to expect some comment. I said, ‘How can a producer lose money? Don’t you just sit back while they send you cheques?’
He heaved a sigh. ‘No wonder you get in messes, Lovejoy. You’re an imbecile. Here’s what will happen. I’m taking over your - my - production. In exchange for my not prosecuting, tell me everything. And tell it now.’
‘Jonno,’ I said earnestly. ‘Honest. Sincerely, I’m hiding nothing. I swear on ...’ He took his specs off and put them away. We stood there. ‘Right,’ I said weakly. ‘Place to sit, is there?’
We went to the harbour nosh bar where I’d lusted after the waitress, and I told him about my notion. He laughed at it. I was pleased. He looked so much more pleasant when he laughed, and I felt a lot safer.
By mid-afternoon, I was on the good ship Jocina. Jonno had gone to Splendid Sejour. Maybe he’d meet Dook and Florida. I wondered if he already knew Dook. If he did, I hoped he’d heed my warning and keep his mouth shut. I didn’t want things to go wrong. And what on earth was an iota?
22
t’s not a “boat” as such,’ the bloke said who kindly ferried me out to the Jocina in .a cockleshell. ‘A “boat”, in strictly nautical terms, is a submarine.’
He, in strictly nautical terms, was a Jolly Jack tar, tanned to leather. In East Anglia, where estuaries and seas intrude, I’ve learnt to avoid sailors like the plague. They’re like midwives, can talk of nothing but. I could have said, ‘Er, doesn’t some Old English Chronicle of 891 ad mention “boats” ... ?’
Coward first and last, I said brightly, ‘Oh, good,’ clinging to the dinghy’s rim for dear life. I can swim like a fish, but didn’t want to. I’d once seen two nauticals have a terrible scrap over what a spar was, daft sods. (It’s a piece of wood, end of message. Tell all your sailing friends.)
He rowed casually, one oar over the stern, brilliant. We glided among a million - well, a hundred - much bigger craft. People called down greetings, offered drinks. I grinned. My friendly nautical yelled back half-insults, as they do.
‘You know Jocina?’ he asked me. We approached the biggest vessel. ‘Isn’t she marvellous? If we didn’t have the Duke, we’d have Jocina instead! Do you know, she maintains a whole priory? With her own funds! Of course, Prior Metivier is one of our own. Do you know anyone in Wolverhampton?’
‘No, sorry,’ I said. I know three antique dealers there, and a forger called Tulip, from skilled Dutch Old Masters he does. Better not say. ‘Ta, pal.’
‘Anything for Jocina Crucifex, Lovejoy,’ he said. I’d not mentioned my name. His kindly ferrying was neither kindly nor spontaneous. I got the feeling that Guernsey was up to something.
A set of steps led up the ship’s side. I grabbed, clung, climbed, waved. Jocina was sitting at a table, being waited on by that same lass. Prior George was there, graciously advancing to welcome me aboard. Boats, whatever, always turn out bigger once you’re on, don’t they. It had awnings, tables and chairs, doors, steps, three storeys, brass fittings. I know nautical expense when I see it.
Jocina looked beautiful. I admire that 1920s look, flared silks, drooping figure, hair looking carved, enough makeup to sink all but the strong.
‘Wotcher,’ I said in greeting. I didn’t want aggro, just kept cool.
‘Your tipple, Lovejoy?’ Metivier was comfortably at home. I heard Martin shout something from below decks. A woman answered vaguely.
‘Posh water, please.’ I sat at Jocina’s nod. The yacht started to move. Something splashed, engines throbbed. ‘We going somewhere?’
‘Just moving moorings, Lovejoy.’Jocina’s smile lit up the harbour. ‘You aren’t a sailor, I take it?’
Lights and ships and the world turned, inchwise.
‘No. I like land.’
She wore a diamond and peridot necklace, matching earrings and two bracelets - presumably in case you didn’t spot that it was all one glorious Faberge set. The Russian master was barmy over peridot. So am I. The gemstone’s lovely colour is as far as my nerve goes with green. Any greener, I literally go queasy, especially when red’s nearby. I wondered if women guess these likes and dislikes, something instinctive.
‘Glad you could come, Lovejoy,’ she said. ‘Sorry about Mrs Vidamour.’
‘Easy come, easy go.’ I shrugged. ‘I still owe her for lodging. As long as the show goes with a bang.’ I stayed serious, not wanting puns to show.
Prior George was vastly amused, detecting my lust for the exquisite Jocina.
‘Don’t take umbrage, Lovejoy. Plenty of people come under Jocina’s spell.’ He patted Jocina’s hand. ‘It’s simply my good fortune that she wishes to show kindness to one such as I!’
Not so infirm that you can’t drag my pal Gesso to his death, you rotten murdering swine. I thought this, but kept up a docile tranquillity.
‘What will you do with the proceeds?’ I asked, innocent. ‘I’ve got Jonno Rant doing the show now.
The performers’ll start rehearsals tonight, I suppose.’
‘It will be a success?’ Prior George leant forward, intent, as my water appeared. Ice, French crystal glass. The lass didn’t give me a glance.
‘Course. It’ll be big. Jonno’s famed in show business.’ Jocina interrupted impatiently, ‘The scam, dolt. Concentrate, Lovejoy, for Christ’s sake.’
‘That too, Jocina. I think we only need publicity. TV, radio, papers.’
Jocina spoke in some shushing Frenchified dialect to the prelate. He leapt to do her bidding.
‘Don’t “think”, Lovejoy.’ She watched him disappear inside. ‘I want the details. Scam, start to finish. What is it? You’ve told umpteen tales. Versions to Jimmy Ozanne, Jonno Rant, dear Florida and her stud. To me, Martin, Mrs Vidamour. Uncle Tom Cobley and all.’ Her smile made it impossible for me to remember who’d last used that phrase. Was it me?
‘I’m not sure yet how much to tell.’
Her low voice was all but silence on legs. ‘You do as I say here, or you do nothing. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’ I’d struck some nerve. Did all her beaux get the verbals from this glorious supernova? ‘Was it you had me done over?’
‘Of course ...’ she trailed the meaning. I waited for that important negative. It didn’t come. ‘... it was, Lovejoy. Who did you think?’
‘I got hauled in by Grouville.’
‘Isn’t he nice?’ she cooed, sipping. I tried to look away from her lips, failed. ‘I was pleased you said nothing of significance. Good.’
‘I don’t know who’s on your side, do I?’
‘Of course you do, silly man! You are.’ She laughed. It had been worth waiting for. I went weak. I can’t understand why women don’t simply have everything on earth. Women like Jocina Crucifex would only have to ask and we’d hand everything over, simple as that. ‘That’s all that matters, darling. When this is over, Lovejoy, I want you to join my establishment.’
Her lashes lowered. The ship’s lights had come on in the dusk. We were still moving, but so slowly you’d hardly notice.
‘Will you, Lovejoy?’
‘What about Mr Crucifex? And ...’ I didn’t want to get kicked into the briny. It was now frankly gloaming, St Peter Port a-glitter. Out at sea low ships’ lights strung the horizon.
‘My friends?’ she teased, laughing. ‘I simply use Summer for business, Lovejoy. And Prince is a joke, a lagniappe.’ Did she mean Prince Prince, or was I missing something? ‘Could he be anything else, Lovejoy? I ask you!’
She was so delighted by the idea of Prince being a threat that she had to have a cigarette fetched and fired by kulaks. She dosed herself with pink gin.
‘Seriously, darling,’ she resumed, pressing my arm confidingly. ‘A lady of my rank deserves - needs! - a lapdog. Who is better qualified?’
‘No.’ I meant yes - me. That mental correction dealt misery to my plan. Three husbands, I’d heard of this elegant courtesan. I’d assumed Martin, Prior George and Summer. Now there were four, Prince in there. Walt Jethou’d be number five any minute. It was getting like the ‘One Green Bottle’ nursery song. Grouville to make up the half-dozen, then? She was getting out of hand.
‘No more jealousy, Lovejoy!’ She heard Metivier returning, said quickly, ‘After it’s done, come to me. We’ll go away.’ She greeted the cleric with a dazzling smile. ‘Done, George?’
‘The TV cameras will be here after supper. Newspapers, photographers and radio first.’
Marie Metivier emerged in a lavender cocktail dress. I tried speaking to her as Underwood the hotelier, with his bird in a frothy pastel pink frock, arrived. Marie’s was like a spray of ground glass, pretty.
‘You’re to run a gambling competition, Lovejoy,’ Marie accused. ‘You lied to me about hating gambling.’
‘Not exactly—’
‘Don’t ever approach me, speak to or contact me again. I hate you.’
‘Where did you get it from, love?’ I asked, trying my whisper out.
‘What?’ For a millisec she was almost thrown, but recovered. Steel in this lass’s spine.
‘You had a windfall, settled your brother’s gambling debts. And such formidable debts. The bare-fisters, the racing—’
She drew away, looking. ‘Who are you?’ she said. The others were busy having a laugh with Underwood.
I felt so sad. Women never get over hatreds, so I’d had it now with Marie Metivier for good. ‘I’m only me, love. Not sure about that lot over there, though.’
She moved towards her brother, glaciation back in place as she greeted Martin. You can always tell when people are special to each other, but I was really surprised to see her lightly touch Martin’s arm. Was this why Jocina disliked Marie? Meanwhile I learnt with relief that my theft of the decanter didn’t rankle with Underwood. He told me they’d increased his hotel’s security.
‘Some visitors, Lovejoy!’ His eyes twinkled. I grinned.
‘Bet your security’s still not good enough, Mr Underwood. Like me to prove it?’
‘Mark and Phyllis, please, Lovejoy.’
The whole of Guernsey clearly being in on my pathetic subterfuges, we settled down to talk about his experiences. I told him I was sorry to have misled two of his recent guests.
He frowned. ‘I don’t think we’ve had two singles in,
Phyllis, have we?’ His frothy pink girl was the receptionist. She said no, only that couple who’d made a mistake. They’d gone to somewhere down by the harbour. We were all so happy and at ease. Floodlights came on. A television crew arrived, started laying cables and pinching booze. Radio interrogators - very much the Cinderellas - poked microphones at us, tried to make me reveal the Great Gismo (their term). I laughed, said aha! I estimated the raffle prize’s value at over three million, fast rising.
To my surprise, Jonno Rant came aboard during the evening. We had supper on deck, where TV people could film us noshing and being glamorously tipsy. Jonno was good value. He had a million anecdotes about show business, theatre mistakes, flops and successes, performers’ egomanias. He had everybody in stitches. Turn him to a camera, though, and he was an instant pro. He mentioned two names that made even the cameramen blink, so famous were the stars he was flying in. The women all went Ooooh! I was really proud.
‘Glad you’re on my team, Jonno,’ I said as they moved to do another interview against the backdrop of Castle Cornet for some mainland TV unit.
He was amused. ‘Wrong, Lovejoy. You’re on mine.’
That gave me a laugh. It shouldn’t have, but I’ve always been dim. I went up to the control deck. Marie and Martin were there talking quietly. I interrupted, asking brightly if these were the boat’s controls. Martin rather sulkily said yes. He reluctantly showed me the starter and controls. I said how interesting. He gritted his teeth. I ogled Marie.
‘Must be nice sleeping on a lovely, er, cruiser,’ I hinted. ‘Do you ever let visitors stay aboard? I’d like to try it one day.’ Ponderous hint.
It failed. ‘There’s a security guard, Lovejoy. And crew.’
‘Oh, good,’ I said. ‘This is a terrific evening, one way and another.’
Truly, I was sorry it ended. I left about eleven. Gussy had read the note I’d left on her dashboard and was waiting by the Station Marina. Not quite as posh as Jocina’s boat pool, but pride mustn’t interrupt when laying a false trail. We drove north.
‘Does Guernsey need to be so blinking dark?’ We’d stopped close by a small seaside village.
‘It’s not dark at all,’ she said. ‘There’s the sky. Lights. My headlamps.’
It was pitch black. I peered, guessing directions. ‘Where’s the ship?’
‘Don’t worry. It’s there.’
We alighted. Several houses stood there, lights mercifully still on in a couple of windows. I could hear a television. Wind was cold on my face.
‘Will it be big enough?’ I asked, nervous. Risking Gussy on the ocean wide was a small price to pay, but to risk m
e was absurd.
‘He’s an experienced sailor, Lovejoy.’ She always seemed angry when I was sensible.
A voice said in the darkness, ‘You came, then.’ I jumped, clutched Gussy.
She laughed. The selfish cow thought it a joke. ‘Hello, Boris. This is Lovejoy.’
We said hello. He sounded dour. ‘She’s ready. This way.’ He led us down a small path, shining a torch for us. The harbour was small, hardly room to swing a cat. His yacht was shorter, squatter than the Jocina.
‘Is he going to drive it himself?’ I asked Gussy nervously as we boarded.
‘Yes, I sail her alone,’ said Boris. ‘Always.’
Gussy said, ‘Get on with you, Lovejoy. Safe as houses.’
‘I know, I know!’
We set out, Gussy proudly pointing out landmarks. I could hardly see a damned thing. The church of St Sampson’s lay to the south. We pulled out into a vast black ocean, to the left Vale Casde - unseen, darkness all about - and to the north Bordeaux Harbour coming into view -a lie; darkness all about—
‘Bordeaux?’ I yelped in terror.
‘Not the French Bordeaux, silly. Our Bordeaux. We’ll pass the Channel Islands Yacht Club. It has its own marina!’ And minutes later, triumphantly pointing, ‘Over there! See?’ Answer, no, darkness.
Gussy sat admiring the black world. I huddled in the cabin. Boris was steering. Why do these yachtsmen peer out when there’s nothing to see? A screen swirled a green line. Another thing blipped and belched. The boat sounded on life support, in need of intensive therapy. Boris smoked incessantly, pungent cigarettes that, oddly, gave little explosive flashes now and then. They reminded me of something, couldn’t for the life of me remember what.
I grew nervous. ‘Aren’t we a bit far from Guernsey?’
‘Yes.’ Boris looked surprised, shouted Gussy. ‘You said La Grosse?’
‘La Grosse,’ she confirmed. She’d come alive, thrilled to be out.
‘Where’s La Grosse?’ I should have asked earlier.
‘Alderney, of course,’ she said pleasantly. ‘It’s on the map.’
The Rich And The Profane Page 23
