'Lovejoy?' Chemise said doubtfully.
'Lovejoy?' echoed Priscilla. Philadora just looked.
I smiled. Two hours, okay? Just hop it.'
They went, and now I was on my own. A few cars revved, doors slamming, then nothing. Somebody shouted, probably Tomtom. They would scour the world for Tinker, maybe even do him in. A door slammed in the building. The place was empty.
Silence. That is to say, nobody.
No body.
Meaning me.
34
Curious how empty a place can feel. I wished I'd told the Dewhurst sisters to stay, kept Chemise for company. Except there was no way round it. Now to get Big John Sheehan on the blower, tell him the truth. I couldn't have announced the Stubbs was a dud, not to the bidders. They'd have lynched me, disbelieving swine. I'd had to blame Tinker, set the goons after him, to keep me alive. Anybody could see that. I listened. Outside, blokes were shouting, calling go left, try those trees, bring more torches. A hunt's a terrible thing. I swallowed, made the hall.
Phone, one public phone in the main hall. I peered round the corner. Nobody. Darted to it, the cartoon mouse, utterly exposed. I wanted the mob to scatter after Tinker, not stay poking the bushes in the hotel grounds. God knows where Tinker had driven the pantechnicon. I fumbled for a coin. Get Big John on the blower, tell him the tale.
And no change. I almost collapsed with fright. Those thoughtless bitches, leaving me without even a coin to phone my way out of trouble. Thoughtless. Just when you think women have finally got their act together they let you down. They should have stayed to protect me.
Ashley's office? I brightened. On the ground floor near the steps that led down to the indoor jungle of the conservatory's split-level terrarium. I'd been in once to complain. I dived along the corridor, made Ashley's posh door, slid inside.
'Ask Lovejoy,' somebody howled outside, close. Was a window open somewhere? 'Where the fuck's Lovejoy?'
'He come out with you, Sonk? Fucking well look, prat.'
A clumping somewhere inside - inside, floor shaking.
Dark, with torchlights - how'd Tomtom got so many so fast? -flashing among trees, once a glare touching my face making me duck and almost brain myself on Ashley's desk.
Phone. I grabbed the thing, knelt, cunningly didn't switch any light on, and waited for the burr of the dialling tone.
No burr.
'Hello? I said quietly, louder. 'Hello?'
Silence. I pressed buttons, hope fading. Nothing.
Maybe it needed you to pull some aerial out by the little red diode thing?
No aerial, no light. I ducked lower. Somebody was coming along the terrace, shining his torch in, yelling to Tomtom. Sonk's treble bass. I shrank to midget size. Sonk had done the Brussels truck job, 'straightening' as we (I mean they, psychopaths who kill for a living) say, two Dutch vannies who'd hijacked a container load belonging to BJS.
The torchlight flashed over the room making bizarre shadows. A basket on the floor went through a million contortions. Sonk boomed, 'The motors, Dave,' and crashed through a flowerbed.
Gone? I eeled along the carpet, opened the door, darted out into the light. I lay on the corridor floor gasping like a landed trout. They'd find me, in the building. If I switched off lights it'd be a giveaway, and in they'd storm after me. Why me? Because Sheehan would tell them to, that's why. Thank God they hadn't got bloodhounds.
Opposite was the glass wall of the conservatory. I stared at it, face on the corridor carpet. A wall of thickened glass. I'd been in to see some ugly growing fronds, old Jim Andrews telling me the Burmese jungle was the place, eat two leaves you don't get gut-rot up country. Sanctuary? Big as half a football field, filled with monstrous plants, no lights, enclosed in glass but practically impenetrable. Just the place to hide until everybody pushed off, then nip out and . . . and what? Hitchhike to my cousin Glen in Lancashire, just passing through.
Just my luck for the door to be locked, but it wasn't. I crawled through, closed it. I was frightened by a sudden whirring, terrified lest automatic lights illuminated me, tomato in a greenhouse. Only some auto sprinkler system spraying the confined forest, activated by cooler air as I'd entered.
Doors slammed. Running feet pounding, a curse, regular thudding of a heavy bloke upstairs.
It was a wet little universe in there. The steps black iron, slippery with permanent drizzle making your face and hands clammy. It felt horrible. When I'd been in before it had been daylight. I hadn't taken much notice, just bored stiff. Now I wished I'd paid attention to doors, exits, tools, weapons.
Struggling with my feeble memory, I recalled the layout. Outside, an expanse of lawn, a distant lake, gravel paths, bushes, a summer-house. Somebody's flashlight swept over the grass. I heard shouts, stayed on the steps hanging head down. Movement gives your position away, not stillness. Freeze, you're a shadow. Move, you're enemy.
The torches receded. I swarmed down. The steps were spiral, wetter nearer the bottom. I should have counted. Anyway I was scared, wanting to get away from that door up there. It's where they'd come through after me. When the exhibitors and staff returned, I'd blithely invent some crazy tale - dozed off, cracked my head on the slippery steps, anything. Or maybe I'd hear them return, nip out and nick some clothes . . .
Except. . . Jesus, I sighed, weary, there seemed a hell of a lot of excepts in my plan. First thing, the exhibitors would want their exhibits. And I'd sold those. The second thing they'd want would be me. They'd simply join the hunters.
Go into the thickest jungle, that was military training, wasn't it? Was it? My old grandad used to say, stay away from thickets, just keep low. But that was the Great War. Or was it when you had a horse? I was suddenly conscious of the conservatory's terrific heat. Tropical, the air thick as slush. Already I was running with sweat, my clothes sogging from that water mist. Whoever'd built this place had been barmy.
Down I eeled to the runny floor. Tiled paving, Ashley boringly explained that they were non-slip so elderly residents would stay firm of foot. I felt my way.
Many plants were on trestles, banks of them along the glass walls. The air was filled with giant tendrils, fronds, trailing vinery, hanging pods, succulent fleshy branches with spatulate leaves. But I wanted the floor crowded too. One aisle between the trestle tables had duckboards. Plant pots stood on these with stacks of trays and sacks of gunge. I crouched to search for a nook where I could lodge maybe until daylight.
Light came through the glass walls up above, washing the dark of the conservatory. It wasn't convincing, that gloaming, because mercifully tinted glass cut it down. Thank heavens. If it had been clear glass, this place would have been quite easy to suss for miscreants. As it was, the darkened glass neutralized the corridor's light. It was the best place. Surely I'd be safe? The hoods couldn't fire the plants to smoke me out. Like all goons, they were addicted to flash gear, style shoes, custom suits. I've seen bruisers looking like bulbous pears argue for hours about fashion collars. They wouldn't have the heart to search in here. Would they? Spoil their tennis and strides.
Feet shook the corridor. Somebody calling, 'Not here, Tomt,' and Tomtom shouting check that nosh place, did Love joy come on wheels . . .Getting scared, his boss, Sheehan, on the way and like to turn his cold Ulster blues on whoever made the worst report.
Nobody came. Doors opening, slamming. Because the conservatory was all glass, were they assuming it was the last place on earth anybody would lurk? Torches shone, but I was down among the pots. Moisture and humus set me gagging but not enough to make me stroll out for a breath of fresh air, that was for sure.
Urgent talk, 'Do it again,' in angry yells, Sonk shouted about a cellar, another yelling, That bird, frigging hell,' Sonk booming to check who she was . . .
Bird? Juliana? Or Chemise? I almost stood up in relief. If Chemise was here too, there was a witness.
'Bar that end door, Sonk,' a goon shouted, too close. A lumbering shade passed along the glass wall. A safety door c
lanked, some metal bar sliding into place, then feet pounding past. Quiet.
Alone. I sat on the wet paving. A count of a slow hundred, then the corridor lights went out. No sound, just a gush of dark blacking out the moderate gloom. Still a faint wash of grey from the sky, and a trace, if you imagined hard, of reflected light, then that too drained away.
Shouts in the building still, but lessening as the search beat further afield. Once there was a faint ruckus, quickly stifled as the mistake was discovered. Somebody ran past. A car engine started up, tyres spitting gravel as the car tore away. Tomtom grasping at straws?
Drenched with the air spray, I sat back in relief among the sculptured plants with their dripping leaves and thick muggy un-breathable air. I was safe. Any minute now they'd hoof out to scour the countryside. Then Big John Sheehan would arrive, before or after the exhibitors returned filled with jollity, with the hotel staff, residents, the barmy Battishalls and I'd be able to escape . . .
A hand grabbed my wrist and he said quietly, 'Lovejoy?'
For a second I didn't think, almost said hello, wet in here isn't it. Then I squawked and struggled but I was held by that firm grasp and fell onto my shoulder, scraping my face, peering, trying to see. I knew who it was.
'Mr. Geake?' Relief dampened me further. 'Shhhh!' I said like a fool. They might have left somebody in the hall!'
'They're away.' He must have been in here all the time. 'Thirteen, I counted. Not enough to search a building this size.'
Reassurance overwhelmed me. A mere instant ago I'd been scared witless. Now I was in the hands of this ex-policeman. Who'd saved me once before, a real pal. I could have wept.
'Thank God. You're sure?'
'Positive. Listen.'
We listened, me straining, imagining I could hear somebody creeping . . . But he was a trained man, alert, clever. What rank had he been, inspector? A match for those goons any day of the week. I smiled. If he said it was safe, it was safe.
'You're right. They've gone. Can we go, then?'
'Ah, no, Lovejoy. Not now.'
He was right. 'Better safe than sorry, eh?' I chuckled.
'That's right.' After a beat he asked, 'Why did you knock that job lot down to Father Jay, Lovejoy?'
'Eh?' Surely he wasn't narked at that? 'Saving you money, Mr. Geake. It was dross. You can pick up better job lots any day of the week. Get you some, if you like.'
'No, Lovejoy. I do not like.'
'Don't get narked, Mr. Geake.' Had to be pleasant to him, he'd come to save me, right? But who was the antiques man here, him or me? 'There couldn't have been anything in it.'
'There was, sadly.' He really did sound sad.
'What?' I wanted to get out of here now. Like a drowned rat, worn out from being scared, I wanted some air far away from this quiet intent bloke's hangups. I was still grateful, mind, just warier.
'Letters.'
'Oh, sure, but poor quality fakes.' I chuckled, except my chuckle wasn't working quite as well as usual. 'I've even forgotten who sent them in. Look, why don't I do a few for you? I know blokes who'll do anything from the Declaration of Independence to the Old Testament.'
'No, Lovejoy. Those.' He sighed. 'They said the wrong thing, you see. Purported to be about an illegitimate child born hereabouts during the war.'
'Eh?' I felt cold, in this enervating torrid zone. 'Don't worry, Mr. Geake. Letter forgers spray suggestion like that around all the time. Like, titled Victorian ladies having affairs, social scandals, politicians becoming homosexual, spies, film stars . . .' I tried to sound happy when I wasn't. 'It's a standard ploy, see? God, half the published letters about the royal family are duff, neffie, anything to make, fake, a sale! It's what people want to believe. Ask any London tabloid how many they've had this week, supposed letters about presidents, kings, tsars. It's practically the national pastime!'
Why was my voice shrill, when I was trying to whisper?
'Was it those letters from . . . that Camelot bloke, became President of the USA? I remember now. Cityman talked me into it, his faked letters.' I chuckled. 'I think he's Tinker's pal.' Had there been some supposed letters from randy old King Teddy too? 'Look, Mr. Geake, if you wanted to sell them to the Americans at the George, I'll get you something really worthwhile in that line, okay? Who're you interested in? Can't just be that randy Yank politician, can it?' I tried to stand, but he kept his grip on my wrist.
'No, Lovejoy. Your interest in the American visitors is too close for your own good.'
'You mean Mahleen?' I'd done as I was told by everybody on earth.
'The fake letters. I wanted them destroyed, Lovejoy. It's a service I have done these many years.'
'Buying fake letters from antique shops just to burn?'
'I think you know, Lovejoy.' He was whispering in a monotone. 'The magic man himself was briefly stationed in East Anglia during the war. Torpedo craft. It was inevitable, to father a child on some barmaid. Happened a million times, troops everywhere. But past sins are disasters - for some. And opportunities for others.' Sins? Opportunities? 'I don't know what you're on about.' 'Oh, but you do, Lovejoy.' He paused. I could tell that he was listening. He relaxed, continued. ‘Or why would you knock the lot down to Father Jay?' He did his weary sigh. 'Poor man. I have felt pity for him all these years. I learnt of his origin - cousins, you know, he and I. His mother was the illegitimate wartime child. She unwisely left a diary about it after the Dallas tragedy. She was frightened, the political dynasty proving so lethal. Jay was her only offspring. She died in a road accident.' 'Father Jay?' I couldn't think. 'But his name's Smith.' 'He made sure of that. Built up a convincing past. Entered the one remaining occupation where celibacy would protect him.' He sounded so whispering reasonable. 'Stay a priest and, however exotic his diploma-mill holy orders, he'd never have to reveal his origin.' I knew he'd turned his head. I couldn't see a damned thing. 'Marriage is the canker, Lovejoy. It exposes a man to every possible interrogation. Hourly, for life. I had to assume the responsibility. See the village's demise was accelerated - schemes failing, restaurants contaminated, Dame Millicent's herd infected, ancient land rights blocking developments.'
'Listen, Mr. Geake.' Suddenly I wanted Big John's goons to haul in. 'The Americans are here to help Mrs. Battishall. She's quite scatty, says she's descended from Bonnie Prince Charlie. Claptrap. But she'll make a killing - er, fortune - claiming the American throne. Barmy, off her nut. There isn't one!' I laughed. He made no noise. No wonder Father Jay had looked thunderstruck when I mentioned having to meet my American tourists. I rushed on with my promises. 'I won't say anything about Father Jay topping Tryer. Honest. Soon as I'm out of here I'll -' 'No, Lovejoy. No "out of here" for you.' 'Not . . . ?' I echoed, daft. I couldn't see what he meant. 'I did Tryer, poor chap. Ignorant, stupid. Utterly useless. God knows, I’d had enough run-ins with his like when I was in the force. Tryer's death kept the village out of the limelight. I couldn't possibly have silly letters claiming that America's golden politico had left a by-blow here on our fair shores, could I?'
'But it's made up!' I yelled. 'The whole fucking exhibition was forgery! It was even advertised as fake, start to finish!' I shed tears. Threatened by honesty. Usually the opposite does me down.
'You know how fakes get represented in the tabloid press, Lovejoy. They are the true fakers, are they not?'
'Sir. Look, please.' I wished he could see I was really fawning, grovelling to agree with anything. 'Father Jay - whatever he's really called - he was bidding too! I knocked 434 down to him! He's safe!' I injected a cheery laugh.
'Did you really not know, Lovejoy?' he asked mildly.
'Course I didn't!' Geake was lame! I'd seen that dragging foot. I could run, get away. I shifted my weight experimentally. His grip tightened, iron. Was he armed, a gun? Even bobbies aren't allowed them.
'So much untruth, Lovejoy. Where is the real thing? Like my injury. I had to run down the old clergyman. Maudie said that you'd been asking.'
'You deliber
ately . . . ?' I couldn't get it out.
'Wrapped the old man's motor? Of course. Thus providing Father Jay with a remote country incumbency where he could live in anonymity. He only had to apply. What other priest would want a dying village?'
True. Vicars go crazy for an active parish.
'I had a hard time proving disability. The medical profession can be most obliging, when threatened.'
Bloody hell. He was fit, didn't need to limp at all. And a huntsman. I'd seen him riding at Dame Millicent's. 'Look, Mr. Geake. I'll -' Promises, coherent and otherwise, babbled out of me.
'Get up, Lovejoy.'
I rose, blubbering and clutching at him. I felt my fingers touch cold metal. Christ, a gun? I heard myself groan in fear.
'Up you go. Head for the stairs.'
The pig had hold of my wrist. I got up and shuffled. I tried a despairing lunge to one side, blundering into a huge plant. He laughed a low laugh at my antics, put the barrel against my cheek.
‘Be good.' Like giving me a parking ticket.
'I don't know which way,' I stuttered, trying.
He propelled me along. He'd do me in here, or maybe up in the
corridor, be in the clear. With angry hoods scouring East Anglia for me, who'd suspect a retired peeler?
'They'll hear, Geake!' I fell over my feet.
His grip held. 'No they won't, Lovejoy.'
Won't. So he didn't intend to shoot me. Of course, for weapons are traceable. Unless I made a run for it he'd not fire. I blundered into the bottom of the spiral staircase, felt for the railing.
'Slowly, Lovejoy. Step at a time.'
One. Two. A third. I was whining in a continuous shrill supplication. Five, six, a slow seven. I'm pathetic, always terrified, always losing, hopeless.
What would he do, club me senseless at the top and send me hurtling down? No, for I might fall safely, except it was a hell of a way down, for here came steps eleven, twelve, thirteen. But near the staircase there was only that flat non-slip paving. I'd be sure to slam myself vertically down onto that, dashing my brains out. . .Sixteen, seventeen. God Almighty, who builds a conservatory with that height to the entrance? Some lunatic architect trying for effect, that's who, never mind the safety of people like me . . .
The Grace in Older Women Page 29
