What I didn’t care for was the sloppy dampness of the tunnel floor. As it narrowed it got wetter. I hesitated and pressed my weight on the torch rim. A moment later the bloody mark filled up with water. We were reaching the level of the lough. For an instant I panicked, moaning and quickly backing until my feet clonked on Joe.
‘What is it for Chrissakes?’
‘We’re getting below water-level, Joe.’
‘I’m not enjoying this either, Lovejoy. Get going. We’re practically there.’
‘Frigging hell. Can’t we just leave them here and . . . and . . .’
‘. . . And be buried in some bog?’ He laughed, actually snorted a laugh, the nerk.
Ten paces further the tunnel angled up and to the right. At the dip it was about quarter filled with a stinking puddle of muddy soil. Everything Heindrick had given us was sealed, but I wasn’t inclined to take chances and made Joe check the seals on every item after we’d sploshed through the dip. Only having one torch was a nuisance. Joe wanted me to pass it back for him to inspect the plastic wrappings, but I wasn’t having any of that caper. The torch was mine and I was sticking to it, so I shone the light back between my legs until he said the covers were all still intact and we could go on.
It was no more than eight or nine yards, that short ascent. So steep was it that I actually slithered and had to pull along with a handhold. Then the tunnel stopped, and there I was mystified, staring at the end of a hole and wondering what to do.
‘Above your nut, moron.’
‘Eh?’
‘It’s obliquely angled, a four-inch stone plug.’
‘I know, I
know
! Stands to reason it must be there.’ I made to undo it but Joe’s hand grabbed my leg.
‘No! No! Turn off the air pipe first!’
‘You stupid berk! We’ll suffocate!’
‘Not for a few minutes.’
‘Why? Why?’ I wasn’t really panicking, but breath’s important stuff.
‘They might count the bacteria and fungi in the grave dust and on the remains. They circulate in the air. They’re different species in the outside air than inside an old grave.’
‘Who’s going to think of
that
, you silly bugger?’
‘Professionals,’ he answered, cold. ‘Switch that air pipe off.’
‘So help me, Joe,’ I swore, and turned the hose’s end round. The hissing ceased. Straight away I felt myself gasping for breath even though I knew how daft I was being.
‘Get on with it, Lovejoy, or we’ll be here all day.’ That did it.
The plug was supported by a latch like an old wooden gateway, except this latch was steel and slotted into sockets which were set in stone to either side. The space was about three feet by three. I lodged the torch against the wall. Joe had to rest his elbows just below me, his legs projecting down into the sloping tunnel, so merely passing the tube forwards was a feat of skill. From it I took the expanding finger – only a crisscross of wood with a scissor grip at one end, and rubber tips at the other. Close the scissor grip and the crisscross extends, carrying whatever you’ve placed in its rubber-tipped ‘fingers’.
‘Hey, Joe. I’ll have to do it blind.’
‘ ’Course you will, stupid. Have a shufti first, work out the length.’
Sensible. I began to realize how useful it was having a bloke as skilled as the Sleeper Man along.
‘How?’
‘From here to where you drop the sleeper’s about nine feet. The finger’s capable of twenty. So make a mark on the ratchet in that proportion. The angles are constant throughout, right?’
‘Right,’ I said blankly, thinking, Eh? In the end he did that while I unlatched the plug. I shone the torch, a good krypton beam.
The inside of any burial chamber’s only pleasant in a museum. Seeing inside one for the first time since the Old People closed it is a frightener, really unnerving. We were near the apex of the triangular cavity. From there the ceiling – stone slabs laid crossways – widened. I could just see the edges of two of the compartments. These are kinds of booths which occupy the walls of the grave. The Old Peoples’ mortal remains went in these recessed galleries until the place was sealed for ever. And ever. I found myself shaking.
‘Lovejoy!’ God knows why we were both whispering. There was no chance of being overheard even if we yelled our heads off.
‘What?’
‘Mind that plug! On to the chamois.’
Reverently I laid the stone plug on the spread leather, taking care not to rub the grave dust from its oval top surface, and whispered for Joe to pass up the sleepers. The fifth torc which he handed me from the case was the genuine one. It broke my heart to unwrap it and grasp it about its midriff by the expander. Joe tried to see my every movement but it was just not possible in such a confined space, in Indian file at that.
‘Don’t let it touch anything, Lovejoy.’
‘You can trust me,’ I said. Once I let myself think of Heindrick’s threats I’d be finished, so I pretended confidence. I’ve always been good at lying, especially to myself.
It was surprisingly easy. I had to guess of course at the finish, as the luscious gold torc crept slowly out from the plughole and vanished from that eerie shadowy scene into the space of the grave. I hadn’t allowed for the weight of the thing – you try holding a gold weight on the end of a nine-foot length with your fingers and you’ll see how hard being a crook actually can be. Worse, I hadn’t calculated for the extender’s curve under the torc’s weight. After cursing and struggling I thought what the hell and let the torc go. We heard a soft thud and Joe muttered an oath, but I was more concerned with bringing the extender back without reaming out the whole grave’s interior. I told him it didn’t matter, that I’d stuck it in the space Heindrick wanted.
After that the others were simple. I had a rest between each, exercising my hands to make sure I could do the others properly but it was only for show so Joe would bring back a good report to our master. It took longer to replace the plug than it had removing the wretched thing.
‘That it?’ I was close to panic and wanting to get out, but he insisted on passing me the mechanical vibrator on its flexible shaft. We had an ugly moment with Joe telling me it was absolutely safe and just to press the tapered end against the stone plug, and me whining for gawd’s sake he’d electrocute both of us. In the end it functioned perfectly, juddering against the stone in a busy way until Joe reckoned the vibrations should have settled the grave’s dust over any trace of our penetration.
‘That’s all, Lovejoy.’
Give Joe his due, he was a real pro. Though there we were underground and in the clear now our job was done, he would not budge until every piece of plastic, every trace of our presence, was carefully bagged in plastic – he’d even brought a pocket stapler to seal the bloody things. I was frantic to get out, whisper-yelling what if the frigging dip filled up with water and suchlike hysteria, all to no avail. He showed what a true pro he really was, calm and businesslike.
There was room for me to turn and crawl out head first. But he couldn’t pass me, being simply stuck like a worm in its burrow. With a nod, he took hold of the tube in one hand, grabbed the case strap in his teeth, and began slithering backwards down the tunnel. Every yard he had to pause, pull down his jacket which kept rucking up his chest and impeding his elbow thrusts, but he kept calm and eeled along towards safety. I had a vested interest in his progress, but didn’t feel like making humorous comments about the mess I was in.
That’s how I remember Kurak, alias Joe Bassington: calm, mud-covered, strain showing on his face, but always edging on and on ahead of me in the torchlight. A real pro. Never once complained about the light in his eyes, knowing I would have worried about too much darkness. He even stuck his hands out to make sure my chin didn’t risk going below the water-level at the dip. Great bloke, was Joe.
And when we got out, into the torrential downpour of a day hideously brilliant, bright and grey, Heindrick told us we’d been much faster than he had anticipated.
Joe only said, “Eeesa Lovejoy. Ee doo far well, m’sieu.’
‘Good, good,’ Heindrick said, all smiles. ‘Shall we proceed homewards, Lovejoy? A late breakfast?’
‘Right.’ I scrambled from the turf workings and eyed the skyline. Still nobody to be seen, no Gerald, nobody. Great. My trusty helper had been rained off, the nerk.
‘Oh, Lovejoy,’ Heindrick called up. ‘Your jacket’s under the plastic. See you at the car. I’ll just give Kurak his instructions. Tie up the loose ends, you understand.’
‘You’re the boss.’
Without another word I left them there in the turf diggings. I’d burrowed like a frigging earthworm, been scared stiff, practically buried, covered in mud, and left defenceless by my so-called friends. And now I was soaked through, exhausted and hungry. Great. I’d never felt so sorry for myself. We’d done it, though. Now all we had to do was act our way through our casual ‘discovery’ of the gold torcs, and it was done.
But it still gets to me that I never said thanks to Kurak, alias Joe Bassington.
The last thing I expected was a house party. Two quartets of the Heindricks’ friends were wading into a buffet when I cleaned up and rejoined Heindrick. Lena was in a shirtwaisted thing with bishop sleeves, fawns against white. On other older women it would have been a mile too young, but Lena carried it off. She brilliantly defeated two plump young Galway birds who thought they knew it all until she apologized for the Rumanian caviare and sweetly asked had they tried the metheglin. I liked them, but after Lena’s broadside they only stood apart and muttered.
There wasn’t an ounce of guile among the guests as far as you could tell. County set, wealthy and ruthlessly exclusive. I was introduced as Lovejoy the famous antiques expert, which is the only lie that ever makes me go red. Then I was treated like a refugee. When a smooth auntie-shaped woman discovered I hadn’t seen the latest London Ayckbourn revival, the whole party realized I was simply contagious and drifted aside. I tried to nosh. Eating posh grub is daunting: posh means microscopic, and everybody notices if you have more than one minuscule blob from a dish. We were given no time to eat properly – this also being diagnostic of a country set – but ample access to the hooch, a cunning move, considering our host’s intentions. Some were already woozy when we lammed out in two big carloads. I drew four hairy blokes talking horses – and Jason as driver.
‘Hey, Jase,’ I said as we drove east among the traffic. ‘See that Chelsea porcelain eel tureen Mrs Heindrick served the caviare from? Red anchor, original cover.’ Worth a year’s executive salary in 1967, its current value’s mind-boggling. No response from Jason, and our companions were still on about nags. Bravely, I tried again. ‘Mind you, Red Anchor fakes go big nowadays, eh? I hate animal shapes. Her Chelsea top-decorated strawberry-leaf teapot was definitely Raised Anchor Period. Worth twice the tureen. Don’t you think Lena made a mistake?’
‘Shurrup, Lovejoy. I’m driving.’
‘Well, Jase, two different styles on one table and all that.’ I shook my head regretfully. ‘I’d have thought Lena might have avoided—’
‘Gabby sod. I said I’m driving.’
Odd, horses having names just like people. These blokes in the back were nattering on as if nags were real individuals. Takes all sorts, I suppose. Jason negotiated a bend, allowing a car to overtake. We were three cars behind the Heindricks. More cars about now, early afternoon. One was a white Ford saloon. No dents, one bloke.
‘If I’d been Lena,’ I said, ‘I’d have used that early Meissen Augsburg decorated gold-ground travelling service she has. Notice it in the hall case?’ Ponderously I nudged him. ‘Wouldn’t you, Jase? The Indonesian mahogany table would have ballsed up the colour scheme, but there’s a way round that—’
‘I’m driving. Shut
up
or I’ll—’
‘Okay, okay,’ I said, peeved.
He was puce by now, but it wasn’t me that made him edgy in the first place. I’d only made him worse. I thought hard about that. The road forked and bent simultaneously. The white car was turning off on the branch marked ‘Hospital’. Jason’s left hand was on the wheel, but his little finger could have easily reached the flash lever. Anyway, something clicked and it wasn’t Jason’s sudden cough. I wondered if he’d read any good books lately,
Paradise Lost
, something like that. The bloke in the white car had. I was sure of that.
It went off exactly as planned.
The cars put us down by the lough. We were to walk to the top of Kicknadun Hill, from where the level exercise ground belonging to the stud farm could be seen on the western slope. I hung back, for a million reasons depressed and worried by it all. I was staring glumly at the crannog with the two Galway girls when the noise attracted our attention and we went to join in.
Heindrick’s excited shouts, people yelling my name, and only me noticing that silent horseman standing so still on the skyline.
Then the plod across, and the whole charade. Spotting the gold torc’s gleam by pencil flashlight shone down a tiny hole where Heindrick’s stick had prodded between two great worn stones. Then Heindrick’s dramatic race to the car to bring the authorities. Fortunately, about then Lena noticed two of her own estate workers riding on the hill. How lucky, we all agreed, and flagged them over to guard the find.
The classical sleeper scam: find, register, protect. All done.
It was at that point Jason asked me in a mutter where did I think I was going.
‘To have a look at the castle ruins.’
Jason was standing aside from the main excited mob, talking desultorily with Lena. She looked the part as always, the only woman I ever knew who became slender in Hebridean tweeds. He gave her a checking glance and she nodded imperceptibly. I was to be allowed to walk three hundred yards in open view. Only my chains were invisible.
‘
Do
hurry back, Mr Lovejoy, if Kurt returns, won’t you?’ Lena said loudly, which was by way of announcing to her two men that she’d given permission.
‘Not be long.’
But where
was
Joe? That’s what was getting to me. I hadn’t seen him since our escapade of today’s rainy morning. Lena herself had driven the first car, Jason the second. No sign anywhere now of that relentlessly familiar Ford always on the outskirts of the action. No sign of Gerald or Shinny. I made a slight detour, taking in the turf diggings for old time’s sake, hearing with bitterness the laughter and thrilled chattering of the Heindricks’ guests gathered round the burial site. Everybody in friendly groups of self-interested grasping layabouts except me. Morosely I stared down into the excavated hollow of the turf diggings, and saw the idle nerk down there.