Faces in the Pool

by Jonathan Gash

  In the bright lights of the famous Illuminations, a smartly dressed woman stepped into a car. Was it that pleasant woman Joanna? I knew all roads led to Rome, but Blackpool?

  Somebody tapped on the booth. I kept ringing dealers. The tapping continued. A woman was outside in the mottled darkness, evidently too impatient to cross the blinking road to a hotel phone. Eventually I opened the door and said, ‘Missus, this is a matter of life—’

  Breathlessly, she eeled in and pulled the door to. The place filled with perfume. She wore a voluminous tent.

  ‘Daniella?’ asked Hawkeyes of the West.

  ‘It’s Mortimer, Lovejoy,’ she breathed. ‘They’ve got him.’

  As my remaining dendrites synapsed, I said in the light of a passing tram, ‘Is that really you?’

  ‘You sent word, Lovejoy. Are you ashamed of me?’

  I decided to leave the shame bit. ‘Me? Send word?’

  ‘My sister, Etholle.’ She was so close I could have… I looked into those eyes, never wanting to look away again. ‘You begged me to come.’

  Passing blokes saw us in the phone booth and cheered as they saw Daniella fumble for a message.

  ‘I saw your performance, love.’ I got out.

  ‘I saw you when I was robing up.’

  She wore her drab marquee and a hood. ‘What was that about Mortimer?’ I didn’t want an answer.

  ‘They’ve got him, Lovejoy. They told me.’ She lowered her eyes.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mrs da Silfa’s people. They have him trapped at Somnell House. They said be there tomorrow.’

  ‘How did they catch him?’

  ‘He’s so trusting, such a beautiful nature, Lovejoy.’ Her lovely eyes filled. ‘It’s amazing that he’s your son, you being so… His mother must have been an absolute saint, when you are…’

  A tatty shiftless prat? It’s always me bad, and everybody else St Alban.

  ‘What can we do? They’ll be trailing me.’

  ‘They know you’ll try to rescue Mortimer.’ She gazed at me with adoration. I wished the frigging trams would stop clanging past with their lights showing me her lovely features. I was in enough trouble. ‘You’ll dare any wicked dangers to rescue him from their evil clutches.’

  ‘Hang on a sec.’

  This sounded like a Victorian melodrama, the way she was going on. There was too much risking of Lovejoy in her scenario. I felt safe in the phone booth, with nobody quite knowing who I was. I could go south, and let everybody get on with it. OK, there was this father-son stuff, but hang on. If I stormed Castle Perilous, who would be in the firing line? Me, that’s who.

  Who wants risks? I had no SAS to charge into Somnell House and confront its armed Faces. What chance would I have? They had guns. This called for heroes, not Lovejoy.

  Feebly, I said, ‘How about the police, love?’

  ‘Out of the question, Lovejoy. They have diplomatic status.’

  ‘And I’m a convicted felon.’

  ‘Don’t take on, darling. Please. You will brave the jaws of danger, Lovejoy. You are, after all, their only divvy.’

  Darling now? ‘True.’ I swallowed. It was so hot, Daniella so close and me trying to concentrate. ‘It’s just that…’ I strove for excuses. ‘I can’t risk you, darling.’

  ‘Me, Lovejoy? You’re thinking of me?’

  I went for it. ‘I must protect you, Daniella.’

  She really wept then, her lovely huge eyes streaming with tears. I could have eaten her.

  ‘You’re so sweet, when you could simply walk away. What a beautiful soul you possess, darling. No.’

  ‘No what?’ I wondered if I’d painted myself into a corner.

  ‘I am your secret weapon, darling.’

  ‘Weapon?’ Only moments before this creature lifted the world to paradise. She was no weapon.

  ‘Yes, darling.’ She smiled through her tears. ‘Just think. What does subterfuge need?’

  ‘Money? Guns? Police?’ I still hoped I’d be left out of it.

  ‘No, darling. It needs bait.’

  Like in fishing? You set traps with bait. I’ve seen poachers at it on the Stour in Suffolk, using snares to strangle creatures in the owl hours. I gulped.

  ‘Bait? You’re the bait?’

  ‘Yes, darling. I’m your Trojan Horse. The earlier we start, the better, don’t you think?’

  We left the phone box and caught the tram along the seafront to the hotel. She lowered her lovely face into her hood, anonymous again. I sat beside her, my spirits sinking. Daniella was determined to make me a hero. I’d never been one before. Coward always, hero never. Still, I might go missing before the action began. I’m good at never being where I’m needed. My three murdered friends already knew that.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  swindlers: ‘Those who trade in art’ (Picasso)

  We alighted. I was scared and hung back.

  ‘You’d better go in first, love.’

  ‘Why, Lovejoy?’

  Several blokes gave her a double glance, as if wondering why a bird with such a beautiful face wore such frumpish garb. She swiftly donned horn-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘You’ll be safer, Daniella,’ I lied, man of steel. ‘Suss it out, see if there’s anybody we know.’ I almost said in case killers lurked in the foyer so I could scarper. ‘Some of them followed us.’ I went all Sir Galahad. ‘I’ll make sure they don’t come after you. Give me a shout if it’s all clear.’

  ‘You’re so sweet, Lovejoy.’

  All misty at my gallantry, she hurried in. I really wish all women were as trusting. How on earth had I missed her first time round? Nervously, I peered inside to see if Donna’s madmen or Gentry’s killer pals were around. Daniella emerged and beckoned. I did a Dick Tracy skulk, and stepped boldly in.

  ‘They cleared off,’ I reported, steely of eye.

  ‘Thank you, darling.’ She hugged my arm. ‘My protector.’

  On the third floor, I sent Daniella in first, in case marauders were snarling behind the door. Smiling, I locked the door after us. They’d either not known the address of this hotel, or were expecting me to dash off to this Somnell House place where they’d taken Mortimer. I felt brilliant, now with Daniella all to myself. Heaven beckoned, its pearly gates opening…

  ‘Sodding hell, Lovjeoy,’ a voice growled. ‘I’m farting missel’ inside out here.’

  From the bathroom? The door was ajar, the light already on.

  ‘Tinker?’ Who else but the Beau Brummel of elegance, my grotty barker. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Trying to find you.’ Rural noises sounded. ‘I ate some crud from them whelk stalls. I’m suffering here, son. That gabby bitch who drives the tart you’re going to wed sent me here.’

  Daniella was already stricken. Now she looked on the point of flight. I made placatory gestures.

  ‘It’s all right, love,’ I told her. ‘Tinker’s strange.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ she said timidly. ‘He sounds ill.’

  ‘Lovejoy? You fetched a bird back?’ More noises from inside. I wished he’d closed the bathroom door. ‘I shoulda known you’d bring in a bint for a shag. I’ll get out of your road in a minute.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we help the poor old gentleman, Lovejoy?’

  Help him? I could have crucified the old git. ‘Give him time.’

  ‘You are so thoughtful, darling.’

  We sat on the couch, she compassionate, me burning with rage.

  My romance, the me-and-Daniella-against-adversity togetherness, could have made us lovers in a rush of passion. It was now gone, thanks to Tinker’s intestinal travails. From being desperate for any ally, now I could have throttled the boozy old soak. He’d ruined my tryst with the most glorious creature on earth.

  Tinker emerged after more groans and flushing waters. So ends romance.

  Opening a beer from the minibar, he gravelled out, ‘That Daniella? Wotcher, luv. Lovejoy, you lucky bastard. Blokes’d give every frigging groat
to have her on her back.’ He flopped into an armchair and belched on the first gulp. ‘Dunno how you pull them, son. Beg pardon, miss. That motorway grub did for me. Gawd Almighty, I’m reamed.’

  ‘Driver, Tinker?’

  He leant over as if imparting the strictest confidence. ‘That bint with the lawyer. Doesn’t look like she’d give Prince Charming a fuck.’

  ‘Ellen? Drives for Mrs Laura Moon?’

  He emitted a belch, three notes, each at a different pitch. ‘She’s up to somethink.’

  ‘Very perceptive, Tinker. Tell me more.’

  ‘Mortimer sent her. Said two o’clock.’

  Mortimer was everywhere yet nowhere. Tinker hauled himself up and ambled to the bar, unscrewed a small whisky bottle with one hand. I stared, never having seen that trick. He slumped on the carpet, his shoes gaping their holes.

  ‘Mortimer sent Ellen Jaynor?’ I mulled this over. From his dungeon? ‘To do what?’

  ‘Come for you.’ Tinker gave a suggestive wink, his idea of subtlety. ‘If you and Daniella want a shag, take no notice of me.’

  ‘Why exactly, Tinker?’ I saw his expression change to one of amazement and quickly explained, ‘Ellen, I mean.’

  ‘She gave me this.’ Tinker found a scrap of paper.

  ‘Shall I read it, darling?’

  Surprisingly, Daniella needed to find spectacles to read, ‘Dear Lovejoy, I fear matters have taken a disagreeable turn. Fatalities were never envisaged. I trust you, and your assistant. I shall find you. Yours, Ellen.’

  You can’t help watching a lovely woman. Daniella put her glasses away. I noticed the curls of her hair round her face, the tilt of her head.

  ‘How come Ellen knew Mortimer?’

  ‘Dunno, son.’

  Abruptly he keeled over on the carpet, snoring like a train.

  ‘Should we make him more comfortable, Lovejoy?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ I got him some cushions and a drape thing. I was famished. The hotel had a restaurant. ‘Look, love. We should we get some grub before Ellen shows.’

  ‘You’re so good, Lovejoy,’ Daniella breathed. ‘Tormented by anguish over your kidnapped son, yet you look after this poor old man.’

  ‘Oh, well.’ I almost said shucks, but it’s only for Yanks.

  She came close. ‘Lovejoy? Would you think it truly terrible were we to rest now? We could dine later.’

  ‘Er, all right.’

  ‘Honestly?’ She searched my eyes. ‘It’s not too self-indulgent?’

  ‘No, love,’ I said firmly, thinking, Dear God don’t let doubts intrude now. ‘We have a long night ahead.’

  ‘Thank you. You’re so sweet, Lovejoy.’

  ‘That’s all right, Daniella.’ I followed her into the bedroom and gently closed the door. ‘We must be sure not to waken Tinker.’

  ‘Lovejoy, you are so right.’

  We were the last in the restaurant. True to her usual practice, Daniella seated herself facing the corner. I understood her shyness now. The world’s most gorgeous anything must bring tribulations.

  I couldn’t help staring. Her compliance was a revelation. A man never knows a woman before, during, or even afterwards. He just has to trail along hoping to find some clue, like what she got from loving. To me, reassembling the world after having been with Daniella was beyond understanding.

  A lady seated herself next to me. Daniella gave a Gainsborough Lady inclination of her lovely head and glanced at me in inquiry.

  ‘How do, missus. Daniella, may I present Ellen? Ellen, Daniella.’

  ‘How do you do?’ Daniella said. ‘I’m relieved to find another lady supporting Lovejoy’s cause.’

  ‘I shall drive you, Lovejoy.’

  ‘You’ll come with us?’

  Ellen nodded, her gaze touching the wall clock. We ordered our grub. Daniella, true to womankind, had very little, though Ellen dined pretty well without wine. I finished everything they left. If you’re off to storm a remote fortress, you may miss your next meal.

  ‘Look,’ I said when we were ready to go. ‘I’ve not much gelt left.’

  Ellen’s eyebrows went??? I glanced at Daniella.

  ‘Sorry, Ellen, but I’ve lost track. Ted Moon and his girlfriend found me, but they got away.’ I went red, forgetting which lie I’d already told and to whom. ‘I haven’t reported to Laura. Where is she?’

  ‘Who knows, Lovejoy?’

  Fine by me. One fewer killer was a plus. I explained that Daniella was coming along to help, and about Mortimer’s abduction. Ellen’s expression showed more doubt.

  ‘It’s true. Mortimer is in trouble. I’d want more of us, but this is all of us. They want Daniella.’

  ‘And you, Lovejoy.’

  ‘That’s it. Me for the antiques, and Daniella because she is, er, special.’

  The waiter had sent grub up to Tinker, who was snoring again when we arrived. Fifteen minutes later we left the hotel in Ellen’s giant limousine. A shoddy drunk, an exotic dancer, a mistrustful woman and a scrounger.

  My hopes rested entirely on Daniella. If necessary, I could swap her for my survival. If all else failed, I’d depend on flight.

  ‘Are you all right, Lovejoy?’ Tenderly, Daniella took my hand as Ellen took us out of town. ‘You seem upset, darling.’

  ‘Just proud of doing the right thing.’ I filled up at my chivalry, but kept an eye on the route, just in case I needed to make a run for it.

  No illusions any more. No trust anywhere. I knew from the affair in Lincoln Cathedral I might never get out of this alive, because who else knew what the Faces were going to do, but me?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  to fubble: in antiques, to bluff and counter-bluff

  Ellen drove steadily. I dozed as the town lights receded. The county was anciently called Christ’s Croft, from its peace and harvests. To the south was Windmill Land, where there were spectacular windmills draining the marshes. In my mind it was still a land of dark mills and valleys with tall chimneys and crammed terraced dwellings. No longer.

  ‘Lovejoy is so tired,’ Daniella explained in a whisper to my mighty cohort.

  ‘Working hard, miss?’ Tinker cackled.

  ‘At planning, Tinker,’ Daniella said with indignation.

  Ellen’s gaze showed in her driving mirror, suspicious cow. I don’t quite know what a sardonic glance is, but she was good at it. I slumped on Daniella, as women don’t need sleep after making smiles. Ellen suspected me of getting up to no good with Daniella, while Daniella wanted to pretend we hadn’t.

  ‘Ellen,’ Daniella said after an hour, ‘would you pull in here, please?’

  We had stopped at a tavern on high moors, presumably the Pennines. A nosh place gleamed with lights, cars in its forecourt.

  ‘Lovejoy,’ Daniella said gently as I came to. ‘We must rest here.’

  ‘And have a drink,’ Tinker croaked. ‘Old soldiers have bad throats.’

  ‘Tinker,’ Daniella scolded. ‘You consumed eight bottles. Count them aloud and then try to tell us…’ etc, etc.

  We entered the hostelry. Entertainment was going on, with music thumping and customers shrieking. Daniella hung back, Ellen with her. I was pleased, an older woman minding the timid younger one. We were a team.

  Daniella gave Tinker money while we found a table in the foyer. I listened to the stupidity in the entertainment room. One-arm bandits rimmed the walls. You can always tell the addicts, fixed on the spinning numbers. One in fifty players gets hooked, willing to rob and kill for their daftness. Leonardo da Vinci said, ‘Nature takes revenge on those who want to perform miracles…and forces them to live in poverty.’ Trouble is, every gambler is Darnborough, the ‘man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo’ of the song. (The bank couldn’t afford to pay him, to the yippees of gamblers everywhere.)

  Ellen and Daniella exchanged glances. Starving, I tackled my pasties but couldn’t help wondering about their eyebrow play. Eventually Daniella went to the loo, closely followed by our driver. I a
sked Tinker if he thought Ellen could be trusted.

  ‘Her? As a die, son.’ He spat into an empty glass. I edged away. Tinker eats, as Bilko – the American character played by Bill Silvers – used to say of rural manners, without a net. ‘Somnell House is not far now, across the moss. Picture on the wall, see it?’

  Carrying my pasty – you can’t be too careful – I went to the old sepia engraving hanging by the bar. A manor house on a rising moor. A ‘moss’ is a local way of saying morass, a quagmire. It looks like ordinary grass, but walk on it and whole acres undulate like a waterbed. Every year ramblers are found trapped or even drowned. The iron gateway looked straight from an old Hammer Horror black-andwhiter. Well chosen, Donna. Hard place to storm.

  ‘That place still here, mate?’ I asked the bartender.

  ‘Oh, aye. A few miles. Foreign folk have it now.’

  I nodded ta and rejoined Tinker as the women returned. He was chatting with another old soldier, swapping merry tales of massacres and vying for the worst wounds.

  From the riotous party came familiar music. At first I thought it was chance, then coincidence, and finally knew it was the enemy. I nudged Tinker.

  ‘Is that singing who I think it is, Tinker?’

  He looked his disgust. ‘Aye, frigging poofter. Should be “Any Old Iron”, him.’ The old music hall ditty is a joke song, all Cockney rhyming slang – iron hoof for poof, green tie for quean (sic) and so on.

  ‘Sandy?’ I asked in disbelief. ‘So far from East Anglia?’

  Tinker looked his surprise. ‘Aye, son. He’s on our side, right?’

  ‘Er, right,’ I said weakly. ‘We should be going.’

  Drifting over, I looked in. The riot was in full swing. Sandy was on a stage doing his usual ‘Give Me Some Men’ song, mincing across the stage wearing a Guards’ scarlet jacket, thigh boots and very little else. Women were screaming and laughing, Mel sulking and everybody egging Sandy. He loved it, pouting and trying not to fall over his silver spurs.