Every Last Cent

It had all the marks of pricey craftsmanship; not flat, but different planes of the brooch standing proud. Class. This, I knew just from looking, would be as superb when you turned it over as it looked from the front. Only one gem, set in fragile leaves made of diamonds in silver and platinum. It made my mouth drool. I'd never seen her wear any other jewellery. Blouse, neat white gloves, jacket and skirt matching, she looked you-shall-go-to-the-ball. She's known for it. I daresay the lads at the nick have a score of spiteful names for her. They say she'll go far. I don't doubt it. When first we met she was a lowly come-here-do-that. Now, she's the one they stand up for. Always wears white gloves, but not for what you think. I've actually seen her hands, and they're beautiful. No split nails for our Petra.

'Do be seated, Lovejoy.'

She has a pleasant face, lovely eyes. I couldn't imagine her doing the three-minute basic police training, Kevlar vests and guns. Petra seems remote as monarchy. Rumour puts her at Oxford reading classics, pure maths, divinity. Whatever, she's hard to fool and harder still to oppose. She looks the sort of plod that fashionable actresses are always trying to emulate in those tiresome TV mayhem-and-murder episodes. I was once being questioned when somebody rang her up and asked if she'd be willing to let some TV actress come and see her work. She'd replied, 'Don't be silly,' and rang off, continuing the questions without breaking step.

That's Petra Deighnson, vicar's daughter from Northampton. Oh, and big ranker in the Serious Fraud Office. She used to be in the local plod, but saw the light of promotion in the galaxy and jumped ship. The SFO has nicknames – Seriously Flawed Office among variants – but you dursn't utter them in dear Petra's hearing. Local dealers call it the Silly Failure Orifice. The SFO's useless, despite our Petra. It rattles sabres at robber barons like Robert Maxwell, then lets them get away scotage free while the rest of us sit seething and the tabloid newspapers thunder Why Are They Allowed? It's the little bloke who gets done, for forgetting half a groat on his tax return, or the old woman who forgets to claim her pension. They wistfully wonder how the huge-haul thieves get away with everything. The SFO alone knows, and does sweet sod all.

'Lovejoy. You witnessed an accident last night.'

'People keep saying so.'

She didn't smile, but something in her changed as if she was pondering a smile as a possible strategem for some future reincarnation.

'Won't you answer the question?' she said, quite pleasant.

'What question?'

'You watch it, Lovejoy!' Sep spat, itching to rise and belt my head in, his form of psychotherapy. Showing off before the pretty lady, more like.

'Leave him. Lovejoy's quite correct, Mr Verner. I didn't ask a question.'

He subsided, glowering. I'd made a pal.

'Sorry, missus. I've a bad head.'

'Can we offer you anything? Would you like to see a doctor?'

'I'll be okay as soon as I get back to work.'

Verner sniggered. She half turned and he quietened, staring at me with pure hatred. I wondered, not for the first time, how close he and Susanne Eggers actually were. Thick as thieves, to coin a phrase.

'If I remember anything, I'll phone in.'

'Very well.' She rose. We rose. 'I'll take you to hospital.'

'I'm not as bad as that, missus,' I said in alarm.

'To visit your friends.' I gaped at her as she wafted past. 'The Giverills. Do come.'

We drove to the new hospital in Gosbecks in a superb saloon that must have cost us taxpayers a mint. She had the grace not to charge me a penny fare. I was almost fainting from relief. Timothy and Florence were safe! All along I'd assumed that Olive Makins had been there to bear witness to their murders in a rigged road accident. I felt so grateful, to everybody – God, police, the ambulance, the AA, oddly to Sandy and Mel.

La Petra seemed to know the hospital corridors, leading the way with clicking heels. I wondered if, once folk rose to some requisite rank in official bureaux, they were trained to walk like a fieldmarshal. Patients and nurses melted before us at the Intensive Care Unit.

I'm scared of these places. The doctors look into you, obviously working out where the next needle must be drilled in, and nurses look like they're weighing how heavy you'd be to lift onto a bedpan. It's demoralizing when you're just a visitor.

The place was all glass cubicles, like some crazy computer game where a little figure has to make it through a castle dungeon and gets hoodwinked by hidden assassins. I was told to wait. A doctor came, looking at the floor while he spoke to Ms Deighnson.

She held a small transmitter thing. The doctor shook his head, shrugged, finally nodded. She beckoned.

'Go in, Lovejoy. He wants you.'

'Who? Is it Timothy Giverill?'

She didn't quite shove me, but I felt propelled. Somebody gave me a green hat and a mask – what the hell for? Was I to operate? A green gown enveloped me, the arms gorilla length, the tapes trailing on the lino.

'Sit there, please.'

I obeyed, stricken. Timothy – was that him, for Christ's sake? – was in a floppy transparent tent. Gasses hissed. Screens blipped green lines and spikes. I felt ill. I could hardly look. The nurse, garbed the same as me, warned me with a glare, but of what exactly? I didn't want to be here.

'Lovejoy?' A whispering gnat.

'It's me, Timothy. You okay?' Then I could have kicked myself. What was he supposed to say? Of course he wasn't frigging okay. He was smashed to blazes, his face swathed in bandages, plasters keeping tubes in place and see-through muzzles on his mouth. It was obscene.

'How is Florence?'

'She's fine, wack,' I said hoarsely, thinking well, nobody's told me different.

'Lovejoy? It's not her fault. It's mine, you see, old chap.'

'Don't worry, Timothy. You're going to be fine.'

'I asked for you.' A long pause. I looked to see if I could take his hand, maybe save his weakening breath by letting him signal by squeezing fingers. I'd seen a film where folk communicated like that, when one of them was poorly.

'Lovejoy? I trusted the contracts.'

His unsmashed eye caught me. I nodded agreement.

'Well, you would,' I said feebly. Contracts?

'I went in thinking it would be so splendid, being a Name.'

'That's natural, Timothy.'

'It would have gone all right. Hugo started it all.'

He seemed suddenly desperate, tried to move, failed and sank back. He searched, found me as I moved my head to be in slightly better light. Bloody wards are all lit by the Prince of Darkness. I'd have glared at the nurse but didn't want Timothy to waste his energy.

'Lovejoy. I didn't really do anything wrong, did I?'

He sounded pathetic. I shook my head emphatically.

'Course you didn't, mate. Not you.'

There was no reply for so long that the nurse began to tell me to clear off. As she gestured, Timothy spoke almost with his usual clarity, quite as if in the middle of a normal conversation.

'You see, old fruit, it's the promise, isn't it? Like the man said after the earthquake.

Every last cent. Wasn't that his phrase?'

'Yes,' I said, baffled. 'That's it, Timothy.'

Into the silence I said eventually, because he'd gone abnormally still, 'Some bloke, eh?'

Then in the clearest voice he said, 'You'll look after my Florence, Lovejoy.'

A statement, not a question.

'Until you're up and about, mate, course I will.'

Silence. The monitors blipped industriously. I rose, ahemed.

'I'd best be off, Timothy. Florence, er, sends her love. She'll be in to see you about, er, nineish, if that's okay?'