She gazed at me in amazement.

  'The award, Lovejoy! The refunding of the town's syndicate!'

  Unease took me. I tried to sound nonchalant. 'What syndicate?'

  'Our town's investors, Lovejoy! It's been in all the papers!'

  Her eyes shone with pure admiration. Not for me, for Sandy. But how could he fund anything? It must be a scam based on promises. That old one.

  The great barge, with Sandy in his daft heroic pose above the colossal swan's beak, searchlights playing on him, serenely neared the theatre. People were running from across the car park, desperate not to miss the spectacle.

  Slaves, skin oiled to shine in the lantern light, hauled on ropes. A line of chanting slavettes, flaming torches held aloft, approached to welcome the hero. All wore flowing silver dresses, their faces and arms painted silver, quite macabre. Jeremiah Clark's Trumpet Voluntary crashed out, deafening us as an extending staircase rose from the swan's neck. Sandy stepped onto the stairway, gesturing majestically to the crowds beneath. The music changed to HMS Pinafore. Sandy was carried, still in his silly stance, through the dark night air above us to the balcony. Some loons, doubtless paid by the indefatigable Mel, started up a chant, 'Sandy! Sandy!' The crowd took it up, drowning out the music.

  Sandy ascended – not too emotive a word – giving queenly gestures, tears of exaltation running down his gilded cheeks. He would describe this for ever now, in pubs all over East Anglia: 'Did you see me ...?' He'd send photographs to us all, then try to charge us for them when we'd chucked them away.

  'Nobody else could perform like this, Lovejoy!'

  Maud's eyes glistened with moisture, adoring it. I kept looking for familiar faces. My erstwhile team of actors arrived, Tina leading them into the theatre. Jules was one.

  Conquistadores, on their way to new lands. I thought, once an actor, always.

  On the balcony, the mayor – can you believe bloody politicians? – laid a golden laurel wreath on Sandy's brow. The background music burst into the Hallelujah Chorus from the Messiah. Lot of Handel about tonight, him and Gilbert and Sullivan busily adding to Sandy's majesty.

  'Ladies and gentlemen!' the mayor shouted. 'Your saviour and mine, Sandy. . .'

  Pandemonium. Ecstasy, the elation of people whose jobs were spared and wages secure. People all about shook hands and hugged. I bet they wouldn't give each other time of day on the street in the morning, but tonight was gala time. Mel – he must have run up the theatre stairs – held Sandy's hand aloft, champion boxer pose. Sandy bowed to the multitudes – see? Loaves-and-fishes talk gets even the most cynical after a bit.

  The crowd roared. I saw Tex the Mighty Hex like a beaming Alp, head above the crowd.

  'He could finish up emperor,' I told Maud.

  'Oh, stop it!' she cried. 'Enter the spirit of the thing! Come on. We'll be late.' Impatiently she pulled me through the throng.

  'Lovejoy?' Mrs Domander took my other arm. She held Peshy. It looked even more smug than usual, but I noticed it darted nervous glances at the sky as more fireworks went off. 'Could I sit with you?'

  'Ta for the offer but I've to see the brigadier and Quaker.'

  Her lower lip trembled a moment, though it could have been a Shimmering Cascade that just then made silver firefalls from the theatre windows.

  'Only, I need to hand over your notes from the antiques sweep. Remember?'

  Notes? We kept no notes. 'Did you get your motor back from Alanna?'

  'Tinker brought it round.' Her mongrel snarled at me, not an all-time first. When did I ever do what it wanted?

  'Good, love. Well, maybe tomorrow, eh?' I bussed her, carefully avoiding her wolfhound, and moved on.

  'She's a pest, Lovejoy,' Maud said with satisfaction. We went towards the theatre with the crowd. 'You must watch her.'

  Odd, though. I hadn't made any notes on our antiques sweep. Nor had she. And how had Tinker delivered her motor, when he'd no idea where she lived? Alicia was a wanderer. Local hotel owners give her a spare room, night and night about. It's pure chance where she kips. You have to leave her messages in the wall of Cramper Evans'

  ruined chapel. After the pubs close she calls on Cramper to find out which bedroom she'll lodge in, giving a new meaning to the term No Fixed Abode. The thought almost made me look back, but Maud urged me on.

  'Look, Lovejoy! There's Quaker!'

  I failed to see her husband. We reached the theatre foyer just as the commissionaires started to close the doors. Maud waved tickets. Others exclaimed in distress at being shut out. I felt smug: you poor inadequates are excluded, whereas I'm among the gentry. Satisfaction always quells sympathy.

  'Where?'

  'Gone on ahead,' Maud told me. One or two people said hello. Many more said hello to Maud. She looked superb, radiant. I recognized the occasional face as we climbed the stairs, but Maud was the centre of attention.

  'We have a balcony box, Lovejoy. We're not with the rest.'

  New snobbery took hold and I went willingly. The auditorium was packed, newcomers filing in, a few discreet arguments starting up of the polite is-that-my-seat-madam kind.

  Clearly a festival scene made for rejoicing. Were these all investors? I heard glasses clinking, corks popping, laughter. The stage's red velvet curtain was glaringly lit. To each side, Tramway had placed potted white flowering almond trees, the sort that go red and look sore at the twig tips, like chapped fingers that need cream when you're little.

  'Isn't this exciting?' Maud whispered, hugging my arm. She hadn't let go. I felt in chains, Lovejoy in vincula. 'This is what I've really been waiting for!'

  'Who on earth went to all this trouble?'

  Her smile dazzled. 'Why, me, silly!' she said, and my chest went cold.

  The orchestra struck up, 'Three Little Maids From School Are We'. The curtains parted, and Sandy came on with Mel and, wrong guess, that toe-rag Dennis who'd tried to get the lads to hang me when this whole thing started. In gymslips, false pigtails, spectacles and blacked-out teeth, they sang the song doing hockey-stick actions. The crowd went wild. Maud fell about, thought it was a scream. I was trying to think, kept looking about the audience.

  No sign of Alicia Domander or Peshy now, though Sep Verner was on the front row. The dignitaries were in expensive boxes, champagne flutes on the balcony rims. Where was Mrs Thomasina Quayle when I needed her? Instead I get Serious Fraud Officer Petra Deighnson across from us, smiling at the stage. Familiar faces everywhere, Jenny Blondel and her Aspirin, astonishingly with Paul the birdman. Wasn't he divorcing her?

  Maud squeezed herself like women do when they're enjoying events.

  'You'll not regret it, Lovejoy. I promise.'

  'Will I not?' was the best I could do.

  'We'll be happier than I've ever dared to hope, darling.'

  Sandy's trio minced from the proscenium blowing kisses. Such hilarity. Usually the Quay Theatre is Elektra and one-voice Sanskrit versions of The Cherry Orchard.

  The audience quietened. And on came Lanny Langley-Willes, another bad guess, smooth and wholly at ease with the world. Professional killers are. It's only amateur killers get the shakes. I saw Maud's eyes shining with rapture. It was a good night for her, everything coming just so. The house lights slowly dimmed and Lanny began to speak. Like I say, you've got to admire class.

  37

  HE SPOKE HIS introduction so calmly, with such accomplishment, that I almost came to share Maud's adoration.

  'This is a celebration. Our backing syndicate is secure,' he began, immediately raising his palms to quell the gratitude that rose from the audience. 'This gala night celebrates

  – let's not put too fine a point on it – wealth.'

  The wave of admiration was too warm to be suppressed even by his grandiloquent gestures. The audience stood and cheered. Numbed, I thought, but this is East Anglia for Christ's sake. We don't do this kind of thing. This behaviour creates political coups, guerrilla warfare, bodies beside dusty roads. It simply doesn't happen here. Maud's eyes glistened. Everybody sat and rustled to stillness. Lanny's voice resumed quieter.

  He was good value, for a scam.

  'I mean your wealth, the town's wealth. No!' It was a gunshot command for silence.

  The audience didn't move. 'Please listen.'

  He stood in the spotlight, smart evening suit, tall, elegant, everything you'd want a leader to be.

  'Our syndicate promised to underwrite your new developments – town centre, housing, leisure complex. Then.' He paused, voice mellifluous and falling an octave, and held it.

  'Then the rumours began. People began to doubt. That the syndicate – your syndicate

  – was unable to stand by its commitment.' He sneered, holding attention, gazing round the auditorium.

  'We are here tonight to renew our undertaking. We have a source of valuable antiques to back up every claim we ever have made.' His smile moved row by row. 'We present a short demonstration, more as entertainment than to convince. But you are bright enough to realize the consequences.'

  'Isn't he wonderful?' Maud whispered. 'We were at school together!'

  'Wonderful.'

  'And to think Dad doesn't trust him!'

  I looked at her in the gloaming thinking, eh? Lanny was going on, a master of timing.

  Doubtless all that bird-watching.

  'Four selected individuals – Tina is the leader – will face a range of items. They will each unerringly identify the priceless antiques from the fake. Now,' he smiled disarmingly, 'this could be a set-up. But you know the auction houses I'm associated with. I guarantee this little interlude is unflawed.

  'Can I introduce Tina ... ?'

  Applause began, politely interested, as Tina led Wilhelmina, Larch the tree hugger, and Jules the ex-con on stage. They stood in line. The backdrop rose revealing an array of antiques on stands, on benches, maybe thirty or so in all. I felt one chime, a lone belling in my chest, from one direction but nothing much else. This scam was the goldie, the one deception that convinces when all else fails. So called from an old con trick that evolved back when people were easily hoodwinked. You'd show a seemingly gold statue, then allow the mark – the buyer you're tricking – to examine it, scrape off a sample for analysis. It's pure gold (of course). But it's only gold leaf, put there minutes before on the corner of the statue that you allowed the mark to touch, feel, use a microscope on.

  'Look, love,' I whispered to Maud. 'I'll be back in a sec.'

  'Now? Can't it wait?'

  'I said I'd meet Florence. She's late.'

  'Be sharp, then.'

  Below, Lanny was describing the supposed antiques. His actors stayed gravely listening, occasionally glancing thoughtfully at the items. I eeled out, hissing apologies like you do, and hurried down to the main entrance. The commissionaires were having a smoke, cigarettes cupped in fingers.

  Tinker was nowhere. I whispered his name into the dark. Nothing. I'd throttle the idle old soak. I'd distinctly told him to be here. You can't depend on anybody. Okay, so I'd not paid him for a few months. Was that a reason to let me down?

  'Good evening, Lovejoy.'

  I jumped. 'Evening, Countess. Seen Tinker?'

  'Yes.' She gave a throaty laugh. 'He had to leave.' Her suited hulk who'd chucked me out of her Antiques Emporiana gave a snuffle of mirth. I could see their features only in the sheen of the theatre's foyer lights. Funny how still and quiet it was outside, when from inside there came the roaring of the audience. My actors, re-enacting my feeble scam with which I'd tried to please Susanne Eggers.

  'Is Tinker okay?'

  'Temporarily.' She moved. 'Come, Lovejoy. Stroll with me.'

  'Countess, any other time—'

  The hulk shoved me. Obediently I strolled. The Countess moved through a slice of silver light. She looked lovely. Other women would say she was too florid, tarty even. But what's wrong with tarty? Glamour's sensible when it's aimed in my direction. I call that real logic.

  'Jules was mine once, Lovejoy.'

  'I heard.'

  'Like you, Lovejoy. Except, unlike you he leaped at my offer of... renewal.'

  'I've had problems, Countess.'

  She gave her throaty laugh. A bloke doesn't stand much chance. My resolve faded.

  'Poor helpless Lovejoy. Your own scam is being used against you. You know that?'

  'I'm guessing as I go.'

  She sighed. 'It's my poor Russia. It always is poor Russia. You know, Lovejoy, Russia wounds herself. Tranquillity? Pshah! We Russians abhor it!'

  'Look, er ...'

  'You know how to find tragedy? Follow the nearest Russian. With the instinct of a moth, he will dive into the flame with a cry of bliss.'

  I'd heard her speak like this before. After we'd made smiles, she would become so morose that you became sad too. I found it hard to take. I knew her next line. No good explaining—

  '—to the moth that it need only wait until morning, then it can enjoy all the light it desires. It simply seeks its catastrophic fate. All—'

  'Moths are Russian?'

  'You remember!' She gave a cry of delight.

  'What do you want me for?'

  'I want a little betrayal, Lovejoy. You and I will rescue a fragment of civilization from those barbarians!'

  'Who?'

  'Those in there,' she said with detestation. The hulk walked behind, feet going crunch crunch when we were on the greensward. Why did his steps go crunch? Mine didn't.

  The Countess's didn't. 'They will buy anything from those Muskovites. You know all Muskovites are oafs?'

  'Not from St Petersburg?'

  'Hah! You remembered!'

  She turned. We were about two hundred yards along the riverbank, the theatre glowing like hot embers in the distance, lights reflecting in the water, the great gold swan barge still shimmering. The hulk stepped round us so he was behind.

  'Moscow will sell anything. War loot. Rubbish. Dross from China. Among its shipments of garbage there will be some exquisite antiques. These they will sell without compunction. Icons. Furniture. Jewels. Porcelain. Holiness,' she added unexpectedly.

  'The sanctity of generations, Lovejoy. And these idiots will buy them, to save their miserable skins.'

  Wary of the hulk, I didn't heave a sigh of dismay. She wasn't speaking of merely one antique, or even of a trickle. She was talking of a tide, a great unstoppable flood. Out of control.

  'Look, Countess. That syndicate has sources beyond imagination. The world is awash with money looking for a home – investments, antiques, securities. Russia has access to valuables. When unlimited money meets countless antiques, a deal is inevitable. That syndicate is nasty, so it's invincible.'

  'Yes, Lovejoy.' She went calm. 'But we can betray!' Her face was in shadow as we began to retrace our steps towards the theatre. I could hear the smile in her voice. 'Our tactic!'

  I can't believe these national characteristics. I once met a Yank who wasn't a millionaire. Unbelievable, but true.

  'Got an idea how?'

  'What were you and Tinker going to do, Lovejoy? Something truly pathetic, like try to upset the syndicate's first auction? Use your divvying talent to expose those infantile actors who're in there pretending they have the same unique gift?'

  She made her explosive sound of scorn. It sounded an audible pout.

  'Well, yes.' I was narked. 'It might have come off.'

  'You think like a midget, Lovejoy! For true perfidy, you need my breeding, my genius.'

  I'd thought I'd been really brainy, working out where the syndicate's first auctions would be held. They would do it in secret, of course, for a very specialized clientele of shady buyers. These things are easily arranged. They go on all the time, stolen stuff from country houses and auction rooms.

  For something this big, though, all their items would have to be passed off as possibly tainted wartime loot, or antiques stolen from Asia Minor or India, the Persian Gulf states, the Far East, all those countries where embargoes had been placed on antiques.

  That would only be the start. Central and South America would come next within a twelvemonth, then West and Central African states would be denuded of their heritages. It was happening now, but disorganized. On the dripfeed, so to speak. This syndicate would establish regular channels.

  She trilled a laugh. I wanted to see her face, her mouth. I always like to watch. Women have such mobile features, so expressive in laughter or dismay. And their eyes ... What on earth was I thinking?

  'You don't mean tell the Customs and Excise?'

  'Silly!' I liked her arm through mine. 'I mean us! You and I! Not contemptible clerks.'

  Her old accent had come back to accompany her rage. Contemp-teebell clerrr-kkess.

  'Safely?'

  She laughed. 'Safety is silly, Lovejoy. You know the Tsar's definition of safety? Safety is when you see the guns before they fire.'

  Fat chance for me, then. I never even know what's happened afterwards.

  'Who'll set it up?'

  'You. Your skill is well known. Enough to be trusted by buyers.'

  'Well, yes. If I know the buyers, and they know me.'

  'I already have lists.'

  The theatre music suddenly played. Doors opened sending huge swathes of light through the darkness. People spilled out onto balconies. Lights came on. Interval time, with celebration in the air. I could see the Countess's goon's silhouette. God, he was enormous. I was glad I hadn't made a run for it. Was I was better off taking the Countess's offer than trying to bubble the syndicate on my own? Maybe I'd save somebody's life. I'd not done too well so far.

  '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.