'No.' I invented my way through a folder. The words came out. 'That would be a giveaway. Carry a bag of tools. Wear overalls with an electricity logo. Midnight.'
'Midnight.' Carefully she repeated the details. 'From which direction do we approach, Lovejoy?'
'From the pond.'
'That side's awfully well lit, Lovejoy.'
'That's allowed for,' I told her. Her painstaking attention to detail was getting me narked. There wasn't going to be any Dulwich robbery, for heaven's sake. 'Once you're in the shadows, my insiders will lower the paintings to you.'
'There are no shadows round the building, Lovejoy.'
I sighed. She was a bloody nuisance.
'There will be,' I said knowingly. 'At midnight.'
'Who are the insiders? And how do we get the paintings away?'
Had she no imagination, for God's sake? As for helpers, I'd just made them up.
'Two false police vans will come to the front of the building,' I invented impatiently. It was the best I could think up on the spur. 'Okay? Load up and drive off.'
'Where to, Lovejoy?'
Jesus, but I was worn out. Coldly I stared her down until she coloured and started to apologize.
'Who's lost sleep to help you?' I demanded. 'Who's spent a fortune phoning, er, Amsterdam, just to pay off those Cockney fight-fixers?' I waxed indignant, thinking what a martyr I was and what ungrateful bastards friends were.
'I'm so sorry, Lovejoy. I didn't mean—'
'It's all right,' I said, broken, a real sob in my voice. 'All I need is honesty.'
She promised. I said fine, and went to find a friend.
Judith Falconer's the world's most desirable radio reporter. Her station doesn't rival the BBC, being a decaying mansion outside London. I've hungered for her some years, with no luck. Every time I've drawn breath to suggest she takes me on holiday to Monet's Giverny and ravages my poor defenceless body she just makes casual conversation.
She was waiting as arranged facing Eros, gorgeous as usual. We did the usual coffee fencing then got down to it.
'Want a scoop, outside broadcast? Judith, you can be the saviour of the nation.' Okay, so I'd promised Lisa. But was she here? No.
Judith was unfazed. 'Do you know how much an outside broadcast costs?'
'A titchy dictaphone will do. The only thing is, you don't air it until next morning.'
Her lovely brown eyes held me. 'What do you get out of this, Lovejoy?'
'Nothing,' I said, no acting needed. 'But if you'd come to Giverny with me, no obligation, I'd be glad.' She said nothing.
Being scooped by TV is the radio reporter's greatest fear. Her eyes sparkled.
'Can I trust you, Lovejoy?'
The world was low on trust today, I said. She smiled, said okay. Nothing about Giverny, selfish cow. See what I mean? Help others, you get nothing back.
We parted amicably. I walked round the Tate until the vibrations from the paintings made me feel queasy. I phoned Saintly, told him about the forthcoming robbery tonight at an unnamed art gallery.
'I'll phone you about ten o'clock tonight,' I said blithely. 'By then, I'll have sussed out who's doing it and where.'
'Is this on the level, Lovejoy?'
'Straight up,' I said. 'If nothing happens, you can arrest me. Incidentally, don't make too much noise or they might get away. And don't arrest a reporter called Judith who'll be describing events from the bushes.'
Lovely feeling, being honest to the police. I'd never done it before. I felt holy. In spite of my new-found piety I didn't call into St Paul's for a quick prayer as I went past. No sense in risking the She Wolfs ghost at this late stage. I rang St Thomas's Hospital.
Tinker was stable. They wouldn't give me any news about Trout. I insisted I was his brother, but they were adamant. It betokened bad.
The trains were running on time. I made it to East Anglia, got a lift from an old lady who'd just come from the dentist. She gave me a cheery monologue on the most reliable adhesive for dental plates, should I ever reach false teeth. I said ta. She told me she collected antique hat pins. Don't laugh. You can buy handfuls for a farthing at any boot fair - today, that is. Tomorrow, nobody knows. If I'd spare change, I'd buy up every old hat pin in sight. For less than an afternoon's wages you could have a massive display - ivory, Edwardian silver, Victorian, early plastics (soaring, unbelievably rare), unique porcelain-headed hat pins made in craft potteries. We'd just got talking when she dropped me off at Best River Outcomes, Ltd. I was sorry to see her go. 'Come to tea, Saturday, Lovejoy,' she offered roguishly. 'I'll have my new teeth in.'
'It's a date, Tranquillity.' I waved her off. Her collection sounded worth something.
She'd described several original Art Deco pins.
Alone, I surveyed the canal. After London the stillness was unnerving. The boatyard was soporific, the water motionless. It looked painted by a stoned artist. Three longboats lay canted on the bank, to voyage no more. Others rotted in the yard pool, one down at the stern. A moorhen chugged out of a half-submerged window. Only one longboat looked worthy. No wonder developers like Talleyton and Gluck had itchy fingers. It was an investor's dream - a pittance now, for a fortune tomorrow.
A half-hearted hammer struck metal. 'Wotcher, Kettle,' I called.
'That you?' a voice quavered.
'Can you be more specific?'
'Hello, Lovejoy.' The old bargee emerged with his little grandson Jack.
'Can I take my pick of these longboats?'
He hid his astonishment. 'Jack, show Lovejoy the engine.'
'This way, Lovejoy.'
Little Jack took my hand as if I were senile. He's six. At the non-sinking boat he held up his arms. I lifted him aboard, clambered after. Old Kettle sat on a bollard and lit his pipe while Jack showed me starter, forward, reverse. I heard him out and said ta.
'I want to go to Saffron Fields, Kettle. Tonight.'
He spat, tamped his pipe and wiped the stubber on his trouser leg. 'Not allowed night journeys on a canal, Lovejoy.'
'But I'm a crook,' I said, narked.
'The canal's blocked up,' Jack said. 'It tried to reach the sea but doesn't.'
I looked at him. 'Don't be a nosey little sod, you.'
'Lovejoy swore, Grampa.'
'There's three locks, Chelmer style,' Kettle said. He used to make barge ware from sheet tin. I helped him to paint his jugs, kettles, tin vases, in the old style. We sold well to tourists, but he lost heart as his longboats failed. 'The last lock's our terminus.' He spat, eyed me. 'It's two fields from the sea estuary.'
'Why're you telling me this?' I asked, indignant. 'Think I'm going to smuggle a barge load out of the country, onto some blacked-out ship like they used to do in olden days?'
'Course not, Lovejoy,' Kettle said evenly.
Four o'clock in the afternoon I went back to my cottage to nosh on bread and fried tomatoes, have a sleep. It would be a long night. 36
ABOUT SEVEN I rang Gluck from the phone box by the chapel. It seemed impossible that he wouldn't hear my blood rushing in my ears.
'The news of a gallery theft breaks soon. The eastern promise is set up.'
'Where and when?'
'Dawn. All one shipment.' I made myself sound shakier than I was. 'I can get the lot to your manor. You'll get a legit bill of sale.'
'Wait.' He spoke to somebody, muffled. I didn't catch a word. 'Legit?'
'Above board. I deliver the antiques. You're allowed thirty days to pay.'
'It sounds good.' Yet he sounded wary. I thought, Dear God, must I lead everybody by the nose? Any dealer'd jump at it. I could see I'd have to make difficulties, to make him bite harder. I looked outside. The light was fading.
'There's a problem, Gluck. The eastern promise just arrived offshore.'
'Offshore where?'
Hooked him. 'Can't you guess? It'll all soon be on your land. But there's a risk.'
'I don't like risks.' His speech became guttural. He hated risks.
What the hell did I say now? There was no risk. With Billia and Dang under arrest soon, Judith the broadcaster observantly recording every detail in Dulwich's dark ditches, with Wrinkle and Honor fornicating among Jack the Ripper's ghosts in Spitalfields, every menace was safely neutralized. There wasn't even a risk for me, an all-time first. My brilliant planning had finally triumphed.