The Possessions of a Lady (7 page)

Waiting, I inspected her furniture, the display plates, the
armchairs, none of it antique. Except one little carriage clock on the
mantelpiece, Leroy et Fils of Paris. I went up to it, said hello.

'Got it, love?' I asked. 'Can I look?'

It felt all right, so I turned her round and opened her back. The
alarm setting's face was white! Why Leroy wanted to hide it thus I don't know.

'You're beautiful,' I told the clock. 'Want to come home with me?'

'I heard, Lovejoy! Keep your thieving hands. . .’

Miserably, I sat. There was one other recent addition, I noticed,
a sepia photograph of a Great War soldier in its original ebony frame. He looked
desperately young, Royal Artillery badges. Carmel wafted in.

'That soldier? My ancestor. He contacts me occasionally, in
spirit. He has a fund of stories.'

'Does he now.' I rose with a litany of excuses. Mysticism is
rubbish. 'Imustbegoingjustremembered. . .’

'Shut it, Lovejoy.' She sat opposite, crossing her legs. I
swallowed and sank, trying to look everywhere else. Carmel isn't fair. She
makes it impossible for you to stare away, then blames you for gaping. 'How
much for a sand job?'

Definitely no reason to leave. If I'd not called, she'd have sent
Bushmen trackers out. In fact, I was probably the subject of her phone calls.
Now Thekla had cut me off, Carmel had scanned her satellites. A sand job's a
special sort of theft.

'Depends on where, and the guard system.'

'Is that all? What about the stripe?'

Stripe is the item(s) due to be stolen. Carmel likes to use these
terms because her clients, especially the ones who finance such robberies, like
to remain aloof yet are impressed by jargon.

'Think national, Lovejoy. Like Tate Gallery loans.'

A sand job's simplicity itself. Nowadays, it's all the rage. God
knows why it's called a sand job, perhaps because gym plimsolls were called
'sand shoes' and robbers wore them.

In a sand job, a rich art collector, the roller, burns to possess,
say, a famous Constable, Da Vinci, whatever. Smouldering with unrequited greed,
he moans in disturbed slumber at the nerks in the National Gallery who won't
sell it to him for threepence. Then the radio news announces that the wondrous
painting is being lent to some gallery abroad. His chance! Quickly he phones
his favourite thief, and orders a sand job—that is, to nick it while it's
overseas, and bring it home to daddy.

Success requires two elements. First, a friend writes to the press
denouncing the loan in ringing terms ('Why should our great national treasures
be hawked about Europe? Will it be safe from international art theft . . . ?'
Curators anxiously reply that 'all precautions have been taken . . .'). The
second element is robbers good enough.

Please disabuse yourself of the old-fashioned Bulldog Drummond
footpad-and-gumshoe image. Times are new. East Anglia's robbers, craftsmen all,
don't immediately hit the ferry to Holland and jauntily steal the stripe and
bring it to the roller. Not nowadays, for hoods everywhere are eager to rob on
command, for a price. So if, say, the stripe is a Birmingham Gallery sculpture
being lent to Bergen in Norway, Scandinavia's art thieves are telephoned (at
their terribly secret Copenhagen number) and a fee arranged for them to do it.
If Glasgow is loaning stripe to Paris's Louvre, then you dial the oh-so-secret
Brussels number for a French sand job.

'The stripe's incidental,' I said.

Carmel's eyes widened. T never thought I'd hear you run down
antiques.'

T mean the stripe is a constant. The only variables are where, and
security.'

'A sand job's normally outside my creativity.'

'Oh, aye,' I said, cynicism showing. She wasn't normally this
reticent. Carmel has brokered several Continental thefts, and done well out of
them, meaning forty per cent from the insurers.

'No, seriously, Lovejoy.'

Then the penny dropped. 'Turners? You're going to tish that Turner
robbery?' To tish is to steal something in exactly the same manner as some
famous antiques robbery, a copy theft.

'Who knows?' Offhand.

But I knew, and rejoiced. This was mighty stuff, for the notorious
Frankfurt sand job had already entered antiques legend.

The Tate Gallery lent two masterpieces, each worth un-imagined
sums, to Frankfurt's Schirn Kunsthalle Gallery. Two hoods lurked inside until
the alarms were being cut from manual to auto, their chance window. They bagged
a guard, snaffled his keys, nicked the paintings, and legged it. As makeweight,
they took a Caspar David Friedrich (not worth a Turner, but who can sneeze at
an extra two million?) The sand job's hallmark: The hoods
know where the stripe is
.

'The Frankfurt job, Carmel. You're going to copy it. Tell me
where, and I'll give you a guide price.'

My heart thumped with excitement. If it seemed safe enough, I
might even watch the experts actually do the lift. It might be the only time in
my life I'd ever get to hold, just for one blissfilled moment, some Old Master.

'Later, Lovejoy. You'll have to be honest.'

Carmel never trusts me. I went all hurt. It beats me why women
want my company. I ripped my eyes from her legs and reached the door.

'Was that true about my cottage, Carmel?' I'd best stay away if
the bailiffs were in.

'You were hardly out of the gate, Lovejoy.' She shook her head. 'I
said it'd end in tears. That Thekla.'

'If you decide to go ahead, tell me, eh?'

She smiled, a lovely business ending in a slightly askew pursing
of her luscious mouth. I decided to forget temptation for a bit.

'Where, Lovejoy? You've no phone, nor a home to hang it in.' She
laughed. I shut the door on her final hilarity. 'Lovejoy and high fashion!'

It rained, heavy and worrying. I piked into the town centre,
thinking to try Lydia, recently back from a trainee course. She's my
apprentice. It was time she unlearnt the expertise she'd have assimilated from
the trade's professors. My mind was going, a sand job? Locally financed? Now,
if I was to embark on such a thing, which robbery would I go for? And where?
I'd no home, but antiques were always one lovely big promise.

6

It was dusk when I reached the centre, drenched. There was only
one free place open, the chapel reading room. I'd have gone into the theatre
foyer, but I'd have been stopped at the main doors and barred for scruffiness.
It wouldn't have happened in Will Shakespeare's day. Gloomy with self-pity, I
opted for shelter.

The town has chapels and chapels. We have a score or so still
extant. Others are gone, or apologetic. The bells of St. Mary's, Minehead, ring
silently now, being computer controlled. Such 'progress' is daft—a mute bell is
simply a non-bell. This chapel was an antique, the only sort that matter. I
stood in the dry, feeling pleased. Tradition's barmy, but good while it lasts.

Light came from a couple of electric lamps. A book stood open on a
lectern. I checked that it wasn't a Gutenberg or anything worth nicking, though
that thought honestly hadn't crossed my mind.

A voice made me jump. 'Do you search, brother?'

'No, Jessica. It's only me, Lovejoy.'

The chapel filled with overwhelming perfume. I almost swooned.
While Jessica lives, the perfume industry is safe. Jessica lives on/under/with
her son-in-law—opinions vary—on the estuaries. She is rich. To become even
richer she exploits every angle, not to say curve. She emerged from the
shadows. Mascara, rouge, false eyelashes that knock you askew if you get close,
lipstick thick enough to plough, long earrings, sheathed in silver lame covered
in Christian symbols. She was gorgeous, but not very holy.

'Heard you were in charge, Jessica. That's why I dropped in.' I
hadn't and it wasn't, but showing interest in Jessica never hurts. She was Carmel's
friend. 'Got religion?'

'Hasn't everyone, Lovejoy?' No answer to that, except some
Augustinian complexity. She drew close. I gasped for oxygen. 'I'm glad you've
left that horrid Thekla. She's no good for you.'

East Anglia wins the gossip stakes hands down.

'You're being beaten to the buy, Lovejoy?'

'Lies, love,' I lied.

'Has some new divvy hailed in? People say so.'

'They say too frigging much.' I was narked.

'Language,' she chided, cool. 'You're in church. So you'll do
Carmel's sand job?' She drew scabbard-length violet nails along my neck. My
middle went funny. She smiled; diamante dots shimmered on each white tooth.
'Welcome aboard, Lovejoy.'

Ever had that feeling that you're so baffled that you feel like giving
up? I once knew this bloke, Cedric. Look at him, you'd say he was staid,
middle-aged, humdrum. A collector of glass paperweights, he owned a rare
paperweight from the French firm of Baccarat, in Alsace. A simple ball, it held
a green glass snake on white glass lace. Tip: If you come across one,
steal/beg/borrow/buy it; whatever the price, you'll end up violently rich. I'd
tried to buy it, but lacked money. Well, this woman Hilary came up to me at the
village dramatic society play, and gave me a letter for Cedric. I'm only the
doorman and sweeper-up, stand in the darkness waiting to switch on the lights
at the end.

We went outside so she could sniff tears dry. I stood there like a
spare tool.

'Can't you give it him yourself, Hilary?'

She'd broken down. I shushed her, in case the audience got
distracted from Noel Coward. T must stop seeing Cedric, Lovejoy. My husband,
the children . . .'

My admiration for Cedric soared. From a mere run-of-the-mill aging
bloke, Cedric became the Scarlet Pimpernel. I mean, Hilary was a real looker. I
would have been after her myself, if she'd had any antiques. That's what I
mean. I never quite know what's going on. The feeling was never so strong as in
Jessica's church.

'Aye,' I said. 'Carmel's asked. 'I'm not sure.'

God, but she was overpowering. The scent, her closeness, the still
church. Sanctuary must be like this, without the sense of impending doom.

'Carmel and I . . .' I shook my head disparagingly. Reluctance
about Carmel pleased Jessica.

'I'm glad, Lovejoy. Is it true you're going on Aureole's chain
gang? I should have thought that you'd have enough ... to do.'

'Stop that, Jessica,' I said weakly, through quickening breath.
'We're in church.'

'Sacrament, darling,' she said huskily. 'That's all love is. You
taught me that.'

I'd only come in from the rain. I was anxious to stay unravished
while I decided, but found my hands fumbling to undo us both in the aisle.

'Shagging in church is unlucky,' a bloke said.

We jumped apart, my heart thudding alarm. Jessica was equal to it,
and quickly stepped past me. It's easy for women. Their frocks just drop into
place, but is anything more obvious than a bloke suddenly deformed?

'Welcome, brother,' she cooed, sweet as honey, 'to sacred harmony.
I frantically tried to conceal my incipient lust.

The newcomer was vaguely familiar. Youngish, down-at-heel, leather
bomber jacket, oily lank hair, six foot, mouth agape, pointed winkle-picker
shoes that went out with the dodo. He was muscular, though. An iron pumper,
always in and out of poses. He moved aside. I realised that he was keeping the
altar in view, and recognised him.

'Wotcher, Tubb,' I said. 'Still training?'

'Lovejoy.' He came, warily rounded Jessica. 'Carmel's put me on the
sand job. Sorry I'm late.'

Late? I'd not spoken to him for months. 'You?’

He went indignant. 'What's wrong with me, Lovejoy?'

Jessica's sanctity evaporated. She looked annoyed.

Tubb's Carmel's helper,' I explained, wishing I'd not come, and
that I'd not got a helper like Tubb for a robbery. 'He's just out of gaol.'

Tubb was released a day late. His sentence had ended on a Friday.
The most superstitious bloke on earth, he'd clung screaming to the bars, until
the prison governor wearily agreed to let him stay an extra day. Ancient lore
says that Friday starts are bad luck, like not facing an altar. Here in East
Anglia some old people still creak out backwards after Evensong. I'd not heard
the superstition about not making love in church. If it's a real superstition,
it's a rotten one.

'When're we off, Lovejoy?'

‘I haven't said I'd do it yet.'

'Another time, Lovejoy.' Jessica swept off.

Sadly I watched her go. With her makeup and dress sense she could outvamp
those fashioneers any day of the week. Which jolted my memory. I was supposed
to be in the Quay nosh house, then meeting Aureole.

'See you, Jess,' Tubb said after her. Odd, because it's her
private nickname. I'd thought he didn't know her. 'Carmel says to stick with
you, Lovejoy.'

'Then no loony superstitions, okay?'

My mind settled a jigsaw piece in place. Carmel needed me and
nobody else for her sand job. I was still the only divvy for leagues around.