The Vatican Rip

by Jonathan Gash

  THE VATICAN RIP

  The Lovejoy series

  The Judas Pair

  Gold from Gemini

  The Grail Tree

  Spend Game

  The Vatican Rip

  Firefly Gadroon

  The Sleepers of Erin

  The Gondola Scam

  Pearlhanger

  The Tartan Ringers

  Moonspender

  Jade Woman

  The Very Last Gambado

  The Great California Game

  The Lies of Fair Ladies

  Paid and Loving Eyes

  The Sin Within Her Smile

  The Grace in Older Women

  The Possessions of a Lady

  The Rich and the Profane

  A Rag, a Bone and a Hank of Hair

  Every Last Cent

  Ten Word Game

  Faces in the Pool

  Constable & Robinson Ltd.

  55–56 Russell Square

  London WC1B 4HP

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published in the UK by Collins (The Crime Club), 1981

  This edition published by C&R Crime,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd., 2013

  Copyright © Jonathan Gash, 1981

  The right of Jonathan Gash to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in

  Publication Data is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-47210-289-8 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-47210-290-4 (ebook)

  Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon

  Printed and bound in the UK

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Cover illustration: Peter Mac; Cover design: www.simonlevyassociates.co.uk

  In Rome, effort is unknown, energy is

  without purpose . . .

  – Stendhal

  Dedicated to the Second Biennial Festival of Bolton, Greater Manchester (formerly Lancashire) – August 1981 – in gratitude for the rich appreciation of community feeling instilled in the author by his unique home town.

  Chapter 1

  The trouble with life is, you start off worse and go downhill. I’d bought the rip in winter, two days before my Italian lessons with the delectable Maria were to begin – though I didn’t know that then.

  I’m an antique dealer. The antiques game is always at a lowish ebb in January, probably because everybody’s spent up after Christmas and is knackered by the weather anyway, so I was on the scrounge and feeling very sorry for myself. It hadn’t been too easy of late, what with inflation and all that. And the scanty tourists who knock about East Anglia in deep midwinter tend to be holy, on their way to carol services in our ancient little chapels. They aren’t so keen on our priceless (or indeed worthless) antiques.

  On this particular day the roads out of my village were bad. There had been one of those heavy snowfalls the previous night after a solid weekend of sustained gales. Typically, the buses never even started out from the nearby town, and as far as civilization was concerned our village might have been on Mars. A couple of lads from Hall Farm managed to shift the worst snowdrifts using tractors and got the south road partially cleared by noon. I was lucky – so I thought – and got a lift in from Ann Scott, the cheerful and pretty lace-mad wife of an insurance assessor. She tried telling me that the famous nineteenth-century torchon lace was superior to Honiton if properly made. We argued all the way. She was wrong, of course. ‘Torchon’ means dishcloth, but she wouldn’t be told. She has a valuable collection of lace samplers I’d been trying to buy from her on tick for years. We’d had several intimate afternoon negotiations. I’d lost every one on a pinfall.

  ‘You can show me the error of my ways, Lovejoy,’ she said, straight-faced and careful as she dropped me off in front of the town hall. ‘Before five, this afternoon.’

  ‘Any chance of you selling?’

  She smiled, not looking. The traffic swished slowly past through the mush. ‘Come and find out.’

  ‘When is Henry back?’ I’m always worried about new risks because there are so many old ones knocking about.

  ‘Six. Come early.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’

  She checked the traffic in her driving mirror and pulled out with a cool disregard for the road code. I winced at the squealing tyres and the honks of protest and observed her serene passage off down the High Street. That’s women for you. All the breaks and none of the breakages.

  The auction was well under way when I finally made it out of the cold and into the fug.

  Seddon’s Auction Rooms is basically a long derelict shed with alleged antiques crammed into every available bit of space. I saw that today’s auctioneer was Millon, a florid-faced, waistcoated know-all who believes the world owes him a living. My spirits rose. He was a newcomer and therefore by definition dimmer even than the regular auctioneers, which is to say beyond belief. Fewer dealers than ever had turned up today on account of the snow. I offered up a prayer of thanks, because fewer bidders means cheaper prices, even among this load of crooks. Still, the one thing you can say about crooks is they’re honest, not like the good old law-abiding public. And speaking of crooks, the auctioneer was gavelling again.

  ‘Lot Forty-One. A small genuine antique silver bookmark. Who’ll give me fifty to start?’

  A hand touched my elbow. Even before looking round I knew from the pong it was Tinker. Bleary as ever, a crumpled alcoholic old reject in a stained army greatcoat, greasy of mitten and threadbare of gear. A stub of a person, but my one and only employee. He’s my barker, a sniffer-out of antiques. The greatest.

  ‘Hiya, Lovejoy. Your crowd from the arcade have gone for a bite.’

  I knew better than to argue. Tinker locates dealers and antiques by some kind of mental beam. Somebody morosely bid a fiver for Lot Forty-One and the bidding was off, to the auctioneer’s relief. He didn’t deserve such good fortune. Instead he should have been gaoled, because he had deliberately called a false description, an offence punishable by law. The ‘genuine antique silver bookmark’ was no such thing. Genuine and silver, yes. Antique and a bookmark, no. It was late Victorian and thus not ‘antique’ by honest definition (and here I exclude the Customs Office which, being unable to count above double figures, has reluctantly pretended for years that antiques begin at a hundred years of age). And it was a page marker. These delectable little objects are very collectable, being usually silver or even gold. Most have a split blade to slide over a page’s edge leaving the decorated handle protruding. About two-and-a-half inches and all sorts of shapes – scissors, carving knives, pipes, swords, leaves and the like. Lovely. My mouth watered. If I hadn’t been broke . . .

  ‘Jane Felsham with them?’

  ‘Aye.’

  I cheered up even more. She would be back for the paintings which I saw began about Lot Ninety in today’s heap of gunge.

  ‘Jason?’

  ‘Him too.’ My spirits fell again. Lately Jason had been seeing Jane more than he deserved. Only I deserved to see Jane Felsham that much, but seeing I was broke and Jason wealthy . . .


  Tinker cleared his throat, warming up for one of his famous rasping coughs. I drew a deep breath to last me through the droplet haze. Tinker’s cough started as a deep rumble full of such powerful reverberations that several of the crowd glanced idly towards the windows, wondering what kind of monster vehicle could possibly be making that racket on East Hill. It then intensified, growling and lifting in tone and bubbling as the phlegm in Tinker’s stringlike windpipe churned. The volume intensified and swelled sending shudders through the brickwork. Finally out it came, a great explosion in a slamming din of sound, a noise so cacophonous it rapped your eardrums. Tinker’s wiry little frame jerked double and bobbed with the effort. It’s a pity they don’t give Olympic coughers’ medals. The Russians wouldn’t stand a chance. Tinker would walk it.

  I opened my eyes in relief as the appalling noise dwindled, Tinker rejoined the human race, wiping his nose on the back of his filthy mitten, his rheumy old eyes streaming from the relief of having coughed and survived. The entire auction room was stunned into an appalled silence.

  Tinker was contentedly rolling himself a fresh cigarette when he noticed the ominous stillness.

  ‘Pardon,’ he croaked.

  A few of the dealers chuckled and nudged each other. And even Helen from the arcade, the loveliest dealer in East Anglia, smiled at Tinker. The trouble was that Millon chose to be offended, which led to his downfall. Antiques are dear, but there’s nothing so costly as pride.

  ‘Who made that awful noise?’ he parped. He knew very well who.

  The place stilled. Tinker stopped rolling his fag.

  ‘That corf? Me.’ Tinker was indignant. ‘I said me pardon.’

  Millon lost his rag. ‘Get out! I will not have this auction interrupted by any old doss-house lounger!’

  Poor old Tinker was stricken. He glanced apprehensively at me, knowing I needed him for a Kwangtung temple-door carving I had my eye on among the high numbers. A couple of the local dealers, suddenly nervous, shot glances at me. I saw Alfred Duggins, an elderly bowler-hatted collector of hammered coins, roll his eyes in alarm. He’d known me since I was a callow youth and guessed what was coming.

  Mortified, Tinker shuffled sideways towards the door. ‘Sorry, Lovejoy. I’ll see me quack, get something for me chest. Honest.’ He thought I was mad at him for one lousy cough.

  I said nothing. I was looking at the floor, planks in a row and worn to the nails by generations of people coming in this crummy auction just because they wanted an antique, a piece of the loving past to cherish them against the shoddy crapology of our modern world. In this generation those ordinary people just happen to be Tinker and me. And you.

  ‘Do-you-hear-me?’ bleated this nerk on the rostrum.

  ‘I’m going, mate,’ Tinker muttered.

  ‘Tinker.’ I gave him a quid. My voice sounded funny. ‘Wait in the pub. I’ll only be ten minutes.’

  ‘Ta. But the auction won’t be over till—’

  He peered at my face and then quickly went, his old boots clumping until the door pinged shut behind him. By now old Alfred was at the door, nervously measuring distances for a quick getaway. Trust him to suss me out before the rest.

  Millon announced, pompously tugging his waistcoat neater, ‘Now we can get on! Lot Forty-One. The bid’s with you, sir.’ He pointed to a tall neat gabardine-suited bloke, who had bid last in a foreign accent. ‘It was fifty pounds. Who’ll give fifty-five?’

  I found Helen’s hand on my arm. ‘Please no, Lovejoy,’ her voice begged. But it was miles off and I shrugged her away.

  Millon was chanting, ‘Fifty-five anywhere?’ when I coughed. The place stilled again. It was nothing like a Tinker special, but I did the best I could.

  ‘Who’ll give me fifty-five for this—?’

  I coughed again, a non-cough phoney enough to gall anyone. Millon glared in my direction. ‘Sir. Please control your noise or I shall have to ask you to leave also.’

  So I was a sir and Tinker was a doss-house lounger. I coughed again, looking deliberately at Millon. He reddened and for the first time noticed that the other bidders had silently begun to recede, leaving a clear space around me. I heard Alfred mutter, ‘Oh Gawd!’ The door pinged once as he slid out. Wise old bird.

  Millon’s voice wavered but he gamely went on, ‘In view of the interruptions we will leave Lot Forty-One in abeyance and go on to Lot Forty-Two, which is Chippendale—’

  ‘No.’ That was me, trying for a normal voice but it came out like a whipcrack.

  He stared. I smiled back. In that moment one of the strangers next to the big bloke started to say something but he was pulled up by a kindly friend, which saved him a lot of trouble, whoever he was. I heard another voice murmur, ‘Watch it, mate. That’s Lovejoy.’

  Millon’s gaze wobbled. For confidence, he stared belligerently to where his three miffs were standing. Miffs are auctioneers’ callers who hump stuff about and make sure potential bidders get the barest glimpse of the lots next on offer. They were looking anywhere else. You have to smile. Sometimes they behave like real people.

  ‘What do you mean, no?’ Millon snapped, which only goes to show how dumb auctioneers can be.

  ‘I mean your “Chippendale” bureau is a fake.’

  There was a babble of alarmed chatter, quickly fading. Millon practically went berserk.

  ‘This is outrageous! I’m putting you out this instant! And I’m having you sued for—’

  That old familiar white heat glow came in my head. I gave up trying to be patient and found myself walking forwards, the mob parting like a bow wave. Everybody gave me their attention, especially when I told them to.

  ‘All of you listen,’ I said. ‘Lift his Chippendale bureau up. It’s the wrong weight for its size. Look at the right-hand drawer – you’ll find a pattern of old filled-in screw holes. It’s oak all right, but nicked from a World War One vintage bedroom cupboard. And the ageing stain’s phoney. Invert the drawers and you’ll see the paler shrinkage lines round the edges.’ I looked up at Millon, now looking considerably less assured. I added, ‘It’s not Chippendale, chum. It’s a bodged mock-up.’

  An angry murmur rose from the crowd. Millon paled. I felt so happy.

  Blithely I sailed on, ‘Like that old sextant.’ It had been proudly displayed in the window all week. ‘Did you tell them it isn’t really seventeenth-century, Millon?’ I explained how even with a small hand-lens you can spot modern high-rev lathe work.

  Millon was going green. The ugly groundswell of muttering intensified. He bleated, ‘These allegations are quite unfounded—’

  ‘And that old Dutch microscope, Millon,’ I announced with jubilation. ‘You catalogued it as a mint original. The lenses are whittled-down spectacle lenses from a threepenny stall. Any optician will tell you how it’s done.’

  Somebody shouted, ‘Well, Millon? What about it, eh?’ Another dealer yelled, ‘I bought that ivory, Millon—’

  ‘Taiwan,’ I put in before the dazed auctioneer could draw breath. ‘They simulate the grain.’ With a wax coating pitted by a kitchen cheese-shredder and a dilute solution of phosphoric acid you can give almost any plastic a detailed texture of ivory. Unscrupulous forgers of antiques can mass-produce them if you make a template, though I’ve found (er, I mean I’ve heard) the moulds don’t really last very long.

  ‘Please, gentlemen.’ The nerk tried to gavel but it only irritated everyone still more.

  ‘What about this miniature?’ That was the big Continental bloke. He was looking not at Millon but directly at me, which I thought odd. Nor did he seem worried at having risked his money on a load of tat. The man next to him, obviously one of his many serfs, was holding up a small filthy medallion-sized disc covered by a dirty piece of glass. Even across the angry crowd in that dingy hall I felt that luscious shudder deep inside my chest. My breathing went funny, and I shook to the chime of heavenly bells.

  For me all strife momentarily ceased, and I was in Paradise. I was in the presence of a
genuine sixteenth-century miniature, possibly even done by the great Hilliard himself. I groaned audibly and felt tears start in my eyes.

  The big geezer laughed, a strange noise like a cat’s cough. I didn’t need to explain my jealousy because it must have showed on my face. He had made himself an absolute fortune and suddenly I hated him more than fried liver, the bastard.

  I turned away and raised my voice over the babble. ‘Pay attention, troops. That bobbin tree catalogued as late Hanoverian is actually brand new, and imported pinewood at that.’ I could have gone into details of how fruitwood and laburnum can be simulated in these delectable household necessities of Regency days, but you can’t educate antique dealers so it’s no use bothering.

  ‘Please. You’re ruining—’

  ‘That Civil War cavalry pistol’s a fake,’ I continued, pointing. ‘A cut-down Eastern jezail with a Turkish barrel. Note the—’

  I would have gone on because I was just getting into my stride, but with a howl the dam broke. A beefy gorilla in from the Smoke shouldered me out of the way. The furious dealers grabbed for Millon, the poor goon shrieking for help but of course his three miffs had vanished and he disappeared in a mound of flying limbs. I spent the next few seconds eeling my way from the pandemonium, smiling blissfully. The place was in uproar as I pinged out into the cold.

  Happier now, I plodded the few snowy yards to the Ship. I could still hear the racket from the auction rooms as I pushed open the tavern door. Tinker was hunched over a pint at the bar. He started at the sight of me. ‘Look, Lovejoy. I could get old Lemuel to help instead.’

  ‘Shut it.’ I gave him the bent eye and he subsided into silence but still managed to drain his pint. His gnarled countenance led me to understand a refill was a matter of survival, so I paid up. It was in that split second while Tinker’s pint glass remained miraculously full that I felt the most horrid sense of foreboding. I started to slurp at my own glass in an attempt to shake it off just as a hand tapped my shoulder.

  ‘Lovejoy.’

  Chris Anders was normally a taciturn geezer but now his face was puce with fury. He is domestic pre-Victorian furniture – that treacherous shifting sand of the antiques world – and late Victorian jewellery, and good at both. I quite like him but at the moment I wasn’t exactly in the mood to have my shoulder tapped. I sighed and put my glass down. It was one of those days.