'Right, Countess. Equal partners?'
Maybe I could start eating regularly, pay Tinker a fortnight's back wages.
She froze. There was enough light for me to see her face suddenly chill. 'Do not presume. I am nobility, Lovejoy. You are a serf.'
'Yes, Countess.'
Well, she was right, right? That we'd once been lovers wasn't to count. I heard a faint whirring sound. An electric motor? The river made a faint lapping sound. Doubtless some boat, perhaps a lucky lad drifting to bliss out there in the reedy darkness, jammy sod. There was a series of soft susurruses among the bulrushes, the swift near-silent sort that you try to ignore but can't. Luckily the Countess hadn't noticed. It's always a bit embarrassing, others making love especially if you're with a bird. Dunno why. The velvety sounds stilled. The gentle whirring stopped. The lovers had clearly decided to stay there a while, switched off their engine. I didn't blame them.
The Countess had been explaining her fiscal policy, something about percentages. I dragged my attention back from passion.
'I shall apportion your share when the syndicate's brought down.'
'Who will you get to do the damage, Countess?' I asked humbly, as if I didn't know.
'There is a bandit, one Mr John Sheehan,' she said, cool. I warned myself off using that description in Big John's hearing. Or, indeed, anywhere on Planet Earth. 'My agent works for the syndicate. I placed him there very early. Almost, you could say, before the scam began. He is my contact with Mr Sheehan.'
Jules the actor? I thought but did not say. I vaguely wondered what might have happened if I'd not picked him at the audition. She'd have simply got a replacement. I'd only chosen him, I remembered with chagrin, from sympathy because he'd done porridge and was looking for a job. I must be transparent.
'What will you get out of this, Countess?'
'I shall not tolerate insolence. I am above such questions, Lovejoy.'
'Yes, Countess.'
Her amusement returned. 'However, since you agree my demands, I reveal that I shall own one of those importing channels for myself.'
'I see.'
'It is not to be compromised by anyone.' So I was to keep out of it while she made hay?
Well, nothing ventured.
'Very well, Countess.' I was fed up with agreeing. 'Do I get Tinker back?'
'He is at the Marquis of Granby on North Hill.' The hulk's snuffle irritated me further.
Her early hint that Tinker needed rescuing was a ruse. 'He is trinkink, Lovejoy. He was given money sufficient.'
'Thank you.' Thanking her for not marmalizing my barker? Pathetic.
'I shall let you know when we strike. Meanwhile, Lovejoy, join the celebrations. Maud is waiting. She is not for you. Such shoes, and that hair.'
'I think she's nice.'
She carolled laughter. 'You poor fool. You know nothing.' She sobered. 'Three weeks from now the Names will fall into bankruptcy when their illicit antiques import scheme fails. All their imports will be delivered to me. I shall celebrate.'
'What about the town, Countess?' I had some friends who lived in the area. They'd suffer. I didn't want her to bring the whole Russian mafia invading.
'Ah, you mean the developments, Lovejoy? The mall, the leisure, the housing?' She trilled. 'There might be other syndicates. They will take it over. As long as the terms are highly favourable. To me!'
'You've already worked it out.'
'Once I heard from your friend Quaker, that his father-in-law's syndicate – the one busily pretending in the theatre there – was close to ruin in Lloyd's insurance risks, of course I did.'
The theatre's two-minute bell sounded. The music was about to start celebrating the phoney success. She smiled, searching my face for doubt.
'My syndicate does not take unnecessary risks, Lovejoy. Greed is for peasants, not one such as I. One last thing, before we part.'
'Yes, Countess?'
'No disloyalty, no?'
'No disloyalty, yes.'
She simply remained there. The hulk strode for her motor. She didn't speak to me. The motor came. She embarked. It drove off in virtual silence.
The audience was returning. I went towards Maud, working up a smile.
38
IN THE MAIN foyer a plain modern display case made me halt, though Maud was –
tugging me on saying we'd be late for the concert.
In it stood a terracotta head. I stared. It was a Nok figure. Just that. No notices, not a word of explanation. No guard, either. I'd never even seen one before, but I knew it could buy us all and leave enough for fish and chips on the way home.
'Wait, love.'
My breath was suddenly difficult. I stood. Folk went on past into the auditorium. Maud was on the staircase, fingers drumming on the brass handrail. I couldn't hear what she said for the chimes belling in my middle. I felt sick, malarial.
Hunting treasures is as human as greed. Look at the so-called Rommel Treasure, ditched into the Mediterranean off Corsica in 1944. Every year, hunters with impossibly refined electronics seek these six packing cases of pure gold nicked from Libya's Tripoli and Tunisia during World War Two. Nobody succeeds, maybe because they look in the wrong place. (The Santo Antonio monastery is the nearest marker, if you want a try, and good luck.) But not all wealth is pretty.
There's a horridity in antiques. I swear some folk go for worrisome shapes and figures simply because they shock. A lady – lives up my lane – once did her living room out in purple flock wallpaper with dark scarlet corners, lampshades, skirting, rugs, cushions. It looked like the Inferno, but she proudly showed it off. Everybody thought her barmy. I thought it classy, because I liked her. Fine by me.
This antique head was different, though. I knew exactly where it had come from.
One of life's problems is the balance between greed and honesty. Think for example of the plight of some poor man whose country's in a hell of a state. Let's say he's a humble doorman at nothing more than a folklore museum. He's not been paid. The government's embroiled in revolution. People fleeing the city. Gunfire is heard at night, ever closer. (Now this is real, not made up.) What can he do? He has no friends in high places. His wife isn't from some rich clan, tribe. She earns a farthing cleaning, but the rich folk have fled in their Lagondas. His family's starving.
Then he thinks, our little frightened man. He has the keys to the museum. But tourists don't come any more. No coaches full of camera-toting holidaymakers. His bosses are in Geneva or Acapulco. Desperately hoping to get paid, though, our little bloke still trudges in each day, unlocks the museum, crouches in the dust guarding his country's ancient treasures.
He's never felt so alone, so desperate.
He ponders. Inside, there's a ton of artefacts. Educated strangers travel thousands of miles to visit his shabby museum. They take photos with their expensive cameras, admiring the old-fashioned things.
What do these visitors admire? Why, one item especially: some manky old terracotta thing. It's a head, its features long, the chin showing a tufted beard, braided hair and tight, squarish ears. It wears a terracotta necklace and seems to be looking askance.
Now, our little man squatting in the dusty doorway wouldn't give the thing the time of day. Also, aren't these old tribal statuettes ghostly?
Then up comes a bloke, perhaps the only visitor our doorman has seen since the troubles began. What ho, says the foreigner, can I see your museum? The little custodian's pleased. Maybe this stranger's arrival heralds a return to normality – wages, food, buses running again! Certainly, sir, in you go. Hoping for a tip, he eagerly shows the feller round. This conversation occurs: