A Rag, a Bone and a Hank of Hair

'What went wrong, Lovejoy?' some lass said, strolling past.

'Eh?' I halted. It was Billia.

She stopped, furtive. A barrow dealer boxing up his fake kakeimon vases hopefully started a harangue. I drew her on.

'I thought I wasn't supposed to know you, Lovejoy!' she said.

I was at least as thunderstruck as she was. Why wasn't she in gaol? Okay, so I didn't need the phoney robbery at Dulwich Picture Gallery any longer, Gluck being dead. But at least my plans should be working somewhere, however phoney. She was only a red herring, for God's sake. Even plans I'd assumed tightly knitted were unravelling.

'Why,' I began, then halted. I could hardly expect an answer to why aren't you arrested with your bloke Dang, when I'd betrayed her dud burglary attempt to the police. 'Why did you say that, Billia?'

We drew in the shadow of trestle stacks for further incoherence.

'Me and Dang did everything you said, Lovejoy. Nobody came.'

'Great.' I thought quickly. 'It's been postponed to tonight. I'll be doing it with you.'

She looked full of doubt, untrusting cow. I'd sweated my socks off for this woman, risked my life among maniacs, and she hadn't the loyalty to catch the Dulwich bus?

People are rotten. 'Honest, Lovejoy?'

'Of course honest,' I said, narked.

'And you'll have the money to get Dang off?'

'Hand on my heart, Billia.' A bonny lass, but what a blinking pest. I got rid of her by pretending I was being beckoned by an important illegal importer. 'He's a pal of that Caravaggio conspiracy geezer,' I lied quickly. 'Sotheby's and all that. Don't be late tonight, love.'

And escaped into the dwindling market. Nothing sadder than a folding street market or a fading day. I know one forger, English watercolours, who can only work at teatime in autumn as the light dwindles. I've never yet seen him smile. It must be his soul. This attractive woman stopped me, said hello.

'Is that you?' I asked. Is there a dafter question? Nobody can say no, can they?

'Colette, Lovejoy.' Her smile was radiant. She was dressed to kill. Hair done, teeth a-dazzle, clothes guinea-an-inch. 'You approve?'

Bags under her eyes, though. A facial and new earrings can't hide heartbreak. Yet hadn't her Mortimer been saved from death? And herself from poverty? And, small point, by me? That's a woman for you.

'Beautiful, love.' She'd probably dressed up for me. It was her sign that we were going to resume where we'd left off. I warmed to her. 'You look good enough to eat.

Congrats.'

'Yes.' Bravely she forced a smile. 'When we signed everything over to Dieter there was a legal who-goes-last clause.' Her lovely lip trembled. 'I now realize that Dieter, poor lamb, intended to make sure he alone was left. He was driven to it, of course. He'd been awfully deprived as a child.'

'Him and Honor,' I said, cruelly, but wanting to know.

'That bitch is well dead,' Colette said with venom. 'Dieter was easily led. Handsome men with ambition, falling into the hands of some evil old crone like her,' et unbelievable cetera.

A rag, a bone, and a hank of hair? Maybe - plus a fearsome power of self-delusion.

'Moiya December's consoling herself, I see.'

The pretty lass was sprawled on the bonnet of Sir Ponsonby's motor, eating cherries in what can only be called an erotic manner while the world held its breath.

'She's another whore,' Colette said.

'Look, love. Sign Saffron Fields over to Mortimer before the day's out,' I begged. 'I'd hate for things to go askew at this stage.'

'It's already done,' she said. 'Through Arthur's old lawyer.'

Relief swept over me. 'Deo gratias. Love, you seen Sorbo?'

'He was here,' she said. A ripple of laughs made me look. Mimi had sold her gruesome dogs. She was taking the money, walking across for a last word with Auntie Vi. 'Keep in touch, Lovejoy.'

Not for me after all. Forlorn hope. Colette was already moving on. I mean, Dieter Gluck was a crazed killer, yet he'd had Lydia, Colette, Honor, Moiya all panting after him. Is life fair? I wandered to the three remaining stalls still on the go, when Sorbo touched my arm. He still wore his ancient frock coat, was fat as a duck.

'Lovejoy? He wants you. In Fauntleroy's trailer.'

'Who, Sorbo?' It could only be one of two.

'Saintly. Sorry, Lovejoy.'

Sorry is the traitor word. I went in, lamb to the slaughter, through Auntie Ws carcinogenic cloud. Sorbo stood back. I passed Fauntleroy, his attire gaudier than ever.

First time I'd ever seen him looking pale. He was watching me on the pavement.

Saintly's driver waved Auntie Vi and Fauntleroy away. Fine time to discover the truth, I thought bitterly. Always stupid until it's too late. 39

SAINTLY LOOKED PARTICULARLY dapper today. Some folk are smarmy. I tend to envy them because it looks cool.

'What, sir?' I said.

'Door, please.'

I shut it. He was sipping sherry from a fair-sized glass square-foot goblet. Some duckegg had clumsily engraved a two-budded English rose on it. This was the Jacobite emblem, the two buds being the Old and Young Pretenders. The goblet was modern pressed glass, yet an innocent buyer might believe some dealer's persuasive patter and buy the pathetic fake. Fauntleroy routinely sold such monstrosities.

'Remain standing, Lovejoy.'

As if with great reluctance he sighed, put his dud glass down.

'What am I here for?' Suddenly I couldn't do speech properly. Yet surely I was safe, the Bermondsey market still wrapping up out there? Except you can have one too many maniacs.

'To realize the truth, Lovejoy.' He bent forward, stared into me. 'Jesus, you already have! I'd never have believed it!' Satisfied, he nodded in self-congratulation.

'You are Gluck's principal backer, Mr Saintly.'

Best I could do. I didn't want to say the rest, in case it hurried him into doing something I'd regret. Yet I was still safe, in Bermondsey's daylight. All he could do was arrest me, right?

Saintly agreed, 'I did contribute money, plus influence.'

'I don't see why.'

'That's because you're a member of the fucking ignorant public.' It was a sudden snarl.

He rose, strode at me, clouted me sideways. 'I'm paid a pittance, Lovejoy. To take responsibility for filth like you. What do I get for it? A paltry pension and a tinfoil gong.

I had a decent thing going. Dieter and me go back years. It was me brought him in.

Then you came along, you absurd bastard.'

My mouth was bleeding. I righted myself, more trembly than I should have been. Odd, because I'd been knocked silly before and felt better than this.

'As far as I'm concerned you can get on with it,' I said shakily. 'Please let me go.'

'And you "won't say anything", is that it?'

'Honest. I'll help you to do the Dulwich job. Gluck's dead.'

'I can't understand why Wendlesham let you go, Lovejoy.' He seemed reflective, an academic discussing haiku poetics. 'Clearly, it was you who somehow killed Dieter.'

'I never touched him or his two pals.'

'Three pals,' he jeered. 'Don't forget Bern.' '

'Was that Sorbo's doing?' It just came out in astonishment.

'Me and Gluck shared the honours. Sorbo's a nonentity, just does as he's told. Can you imagine? A bruiser like Bern getting fond of an ageing trollop like Colette? He tried reasoning with Dieter and me, after I'd ordered him to dust you over the night you traced Colette to St Anne's churchyard.' Saintly fetched out Sorbo's Nock weapon.