'Yes, you can stroke her.' Paul was smiling at some infant.

  Today's brands included a pretty owl-looking thing with a white downy chest. The child reached up and patted the creature.

  'Keep your fingers away from her face,' Paul warned. 'She has her eyes closed, but she can sense something approaching and tends to snap.'

  A large bird dozed on another perch, occasionally moving its feet so its bell clonked. It was hell of a size. God gets almost everything wrong in my book, but these two birds were exquisite, God on a good day.

  'What do you feed them on?' some old dear wittered.

  'Mice,' Paul said, pleased. 'And baby chicks. I tie a chick on a cotton and drag it along the ground.'

  'How sweet!' sundry maniacs cooed.

  'The hawk sulks,' Paul went on. 'I take him rabbiting and won't let him eat the little rabbits. I keep some for his supper. Gets really angry!'

  Everybody laughed, a merry scene from English rural life. I felt dizzy and went to sit on Holy Trinity church wall, my forehead clammy. Nausea enveloped me. I came to moments later. A woman was dabbing my forehead with a damp tissue while her infant appraised me with scorn.

  'Stay still, Lovejoy,' she kept saying. 'I get it too, all down my side.'

  'He's scared of the birds,' the infant jeered.

  'Shut up.' I tried to say it like Mrs Eggers, but it came out a bleat.

  'Told you!' said the titch triumphantly. 'Cos they eat chicks.'

  Paul came over with an owl. 'Sorry, Lovejoy. Didn't notice you, or I'd not have mentioned it.'

  'They eat the eyes first,' the little psychopath remarked, swinging her foot. 'Paul shows us, don't you, Paul?'

  'Miriam!' her mother scolded. 'Quiet, miss, or it's early bed. D'you hear?'

  'Jenny told me about your trouble, Lovejoy,' Paul said. 'They're gunning for you. When did you eat last?'

  'Just on my way to Woody's nosh bar,' I lied, making to rise but the infant carnivore's mother restrained me. Other shoppers stopped to watch, contentedly reminiscing about other dramatic faints they had known.

  Paul brought out a note. 'Order me some chips, okay? I'll follow on.'

  'Right,' I said, letting him stuff the money in my pocket. I don't know about other folk, but shame figures largely in my life. Here was me, a grown man, cadging grub money off a bloke who was giving his all to collect money for the Hospice for the Dying. I'm pathetic.

  'Stay still a minute more,' the woman advised.

  Another of life's mysteries: a woman can give you a bit of advice and make it sound like Newton's Laws. If I merely suggest something nobody listens, not even children and animals. I looked up.

  'Do I know you, missus?'

  'I'm a friend of Eleanor's. We used to live next door to her in your lane.'

  Oops. Eleanor is little Henry's mum. I babysit for him some afternoons. Uneasily I wondered if she knew that me and Eleanor used to make smiles. I remembered her now.

  'Satina? Sorry, love. I got giddy.' Her husband Luke is a customs officer of singularly sour disposition, while Satina was always happy as a lark.

  'This is my little Miriam, she of the sunny attitude.'

  Genetics work, then, I thought, assessing Miriam's candid gaze. Got it from her neurotic father, no doubt. Luke sees smugglers under every bed.

  Satina hefted the pushchair round. 'Don't say I told you, Lovejoy, but Luke starts a special antiques investigation soon.'

  Which explained why the town's antique dealers were gorilla about Mortimer.

  'Lovejoy's scared about the chicks, Mummy.'

  'No, darling. Lovejoy's just got a headache.' I watched her go. Smart, attractive.

  Customs officers get all the luck. Warily I rose, testing my balance while Paul's hunting birds eyed me hopefully. I set off, trying to seem casual yet strong.

  Ten minutes later I was wolfing fish, chips, mushy peas, and a ton of bread in Woody's nosh bar when Paul plonked himself down opposite and called for some chips. Woody does wonders with grease, fries everything in it except beans. His belly always shows through his unbuttoned shirt, black hair fungating up from below. Thick blue smoke hung in the air. His fag ash flaked down onto his rotting cakes. Why does TV never show places like Woody's, staple East Anglian nosh bar that keeps society going? TV

  cooks only tell you how to baste lampreys.

  'Wotcher, Paul. Who's looking after your eagles?'

  'My helper. Millicent.' He was lavish with the vinegar and brown sauce. 'She's especially good with harriers. They hunt in flocks, unlike the rest of—'

  'Your wife Jenny,' I interrupted quickly. He had the grace to look sheepish. 'She and her pals threatened to hang me at Vice's wharf.'

  'It's that lad of yours, Lovejoy. Mortimer's too honest for his own good.'

  'Don't you start.' I wondered why I'd come to find Paul in the first place, then my mind cleared. 'Here, Paul. You train your birds up Saffron Fields, right?'

  'You want to see them fly, Lovejoy?'

  'No, ta. You'll have seen the lodgers, posh Yanks?'

  'Mmmh. The woman's a bit hairy. She's into the supernatural. Her husband Taylor Eggers is quite pleasant. He's into antiques, drops in the pub.'

  But something felt awry about the Eggers. Or maybe I was just hoping to rile the bonny Susanne, seeing she talked Mortimer down.

  'She one of these spirit mediums?'

  'Definitely odd. Wouldn't like to cross her.'

  'She doesn't mind your birds, then?'

  Paul grimaced. 'She charges me a daily rate. Mortimer lets me fly them free, keep the rabbits down on the Short Tom pasture.'

  'How come she doesn't know that Mortimer owns the place?'

  'How come you don't know, Lovejoy?' he accused, then nodded understandingly. 'You're trying to keep out of the way, is that it?' And added, 'The boy's agents in St Edmundsbury do the letting. You know country folk, Lovejoy. They can keep mum for ever, if they want.'

  Question two: 'There's some auctioneers who're twitchers, isn't there?'

  'One bloke,' Paul corrected. 'He's a serious birdwatcher. You know him. Nice geezer, Lanny Langley-Willes. Sotheby's, Christie's, the rest.' He leaned close, the ultimate revelation. 'Birdwatchers hate being called twitchers, Lovejoy.'

  And now the difficult question. 'Paul. What's Jenny looking for lately?'

  His features didn't change when I mentioned his wife, but heartache always shows through.

  'Regency and Victorian furniture. And some portrait.'

  And now I really was worried. Antique dealers aren't secret. The trade can also be very laggardly. Yet all of a sudden the local dealers were ganging up to march on Rome, viz.

  me. Why? Something was going on, and I'd not heard about it. Worse, the slowest-selling antiques are always excellent Regency and early Victorian furniture.

  Check the auction records. It's true. Even the sale of a single scroll-pedestal card table would be talked of for days.

  Suddenly I wanted to ask if Jenny was still shacking up with Aspirin, but tactfully shelved the question. 'Does anybody know what the Eggers are after?'

  'Some old portrait with a funny name. I'm just glad I'm not an antique dealer.' He looked at the coins I pushed across the table. 'Keep it, Lovejoy.'

  'It's your change. Put it in your bucket. And ta.'

  And I went in search of Rio Dauntless. If you want the truth, first find a liar. Nobody lies like Rio Dauntless, except me.

  5

  ESCAPE ALWAYS LOOKS greener on the other side of the fence. I sat on my doorstep trying to work out exactly what fence. My ancient Austin Ruby was just visible among tall weeds. Maybe I could sell it? Except people complain because it lacks an engine, selfish sods.

  Parenthood? Kids can keep it.

  Children, I'd realized in my swift introduction to fatherhood, get into trouble (e.g.

  leasing Saffron Fields to loony Yankees) then drag you in so that it becomes your fault (e.g. ruining the antiques trade). And finally they concoct barmy schemes to make everything worse – 'Hire actors, Lovejoy,' etc, etc.

  I told the scrounging bird life, 'I'm off. Fend for yourselves, okay?' I ignored the reproachful stare of Crispin my hedgehog and left the lot of them to it.

  The town nearest our village is ancient. Even its New Town area is old, so named because in AD 67 Queen Boadicea of the Ancient Brit Iceni tribe encouraged urban planning by razing the entire joint. I was glad to be leaving greenery and zooming back to civilization. Towns are safer. Sure, irate tribal queens may pillage and burn, but that's not half as creepy as a forest, it it?

  A mile along the main road I got a lift from a pretty lady in a little whirry motor. She invited me for coffee. Eager to please, I accepted. Disappointingly it turned out to be a Salvosh sing-along hymn session in the Drill Hall. I didn't mind. In fact I felt quite good, swelling her numbers and doing my bit for God. He repaid my generosity by providing some cold bread pudding (which I can't stand) and fruit flan, which I like but which was horrible. I promised really sincerely to attend every Thursday for ever and ever. See?

  Towns help. Countryside can do you in.

  I wish I'd remembered that.

  The market was just packing up when I got down Scheregate Steps among the barrows and awnings, and got hailed by Vi Anaconda on her market stall. She sells dry goods, which means dross like ribbons, children's plastic toys and suchlike tat. She sings – I use the term loosely –in taverns at night, doubling her money by brief sojourns in drinkers' motors before wending her way homeward like a good girl. It's where she gets her nickname. I like Vi.

  'Wotcher, Vi.'

  'Hello, Lovejoy.' She eyed me from beneath her striped cloth and the straggly balaclava she wears. 'Surprised to see you're still in one piece.'

  'Misunderstanding, Vi.' My wayward brain talked me on. 'Hey, Vi. Why do birds'

  nicknames come last, and blokes' nicknames come first?'

  'What the toss you on about?' She was stuffing her items into black bin bags.

  'Well, Mirrorman Tate is Mirrorman, right? But you're Vi Anaconda. If you were a bloke, we'd call you Anaconda Vi, see?'

  She paused to sigh. 'What're you after, Lovejoy?'

  'I'm broke. I need—'

  'A team of actors, right? Tina Maria Stevens says she'll do it.'

  Everybody knows my business, except me.

  'Er, look, love, I don't want birds.' Mortimer was only fifteen, for God's sake. Time enough for females when he was older. Also, I'd never even heard of a female divvy, so how could I make Tina Maria into one?

  'Stop it, Lovejoy.' Still narked, I glared while she sold some customer a flashing plastic sword and three flashing plastic bouncy balls. Then she said evenly, 'You're behaving like an outraged parent. Your lad's got more sense than you, twice your brains, ten times your savvy. Tina Maria lives near Saffron Fields anyway. She'll keep in line.'

  Meaning tradition would control Tina Maria's potential lust? Tina Maria is neat, always brilliantly turned out, and has an antiques place called Tina Maria Interiors. She lives alone in a house – it's got a well in the living room; no, honest, it really has – and trades pre-Victorian gunge. She hungers to become an actress, which is like sinking on a rotting plank and hoping to swim to a different plank several shark-infested miles off.

  Thespians are a dodgy lot. I've heard that.

  'Well, if there's nobody else.'

  'How many do you need? I heard another four.'

  'How'd you hear, Vi?' I was as secret as the UN.

  'Some Yank in corduroys, been asking the market who's a divvy. Wants a naff painting of some crone.'

  Mrs Eggers's bloke from among the leeks? I decided I needed some gelt to escape from this tangle.

  'Ta, Vi. Look, could you lend me ...?'

  She wouldn't half me a groat, stingy cow. Affluence comes in the door and charity flies out of the window.

  Funny, but I felt odd, because something thrilling bulged a sheet on her stall. My chest bonged. A genuine antique within reach? Shoppers thronged. I could see nothing except that little mound. 'What've you got, luv?'

  'Silver things, Lovejoy. Take a look.'

  She uncovered a dozen items of genuine hallmarked silver. Knives, forks, serving and table spoons, fish servers. I drew breath.

  'Sorry they're tarnished, Lovejoy,' she said apologetically. 'I've got a tin of scouring polish. Not had time.'

  'Chuck it, Vi.' I frowned. They looked good, meaning silver that's supposed to be silver happens to be real silver, if you follow. 'How much?'

  'For the lot?' Vi stopped bagging her crud and peered. 'You okay?'

  I'd gone sick and had to lean against her stall, beads of sweat on my brow. She perched me on her barrow, propping me upright until I nodded that I felt fine.

  'It's my cutlery, isn't it?' She gaped at the silver. 'I got them for a spade and three Cotton Easters.'

  And I hadn't the wit to pretend they were worthless. All except one was standard 1930s stuff you can get anywhere. Tarnished but not deformed, they must have lain in a drawer, been sold as a job lot on some old biddy's passing. I winced as her fingers touched the one that mattered. She pounced.

  'This?' she marvelled, holding it up. 'A frigging deformed teaspoon?'

  'Be careful, you clumsy cow.' She dropped it into my palm, coming to ogle.

  It's always other folk get lucky. Look for a short bulbous-bowled spoon with a straight rat's tail handle. (They fake them in Egypt and Turkey, so be careful.) Dealers call it a diamond-point, because its hexagonal handle ends in a faceted tip. They also say its bowl is fig-shaped, which it's not – though you can always kid yourself in antiques. The main thing is the 'Arctic' leopard's head mark, in the bowl near the handle's insertion.

  I'd only ever seen one, and only heard of three.

  'Is it rare, Lovejoy?'

  'Edward IV, love, made about twenty years before Columbus sailed.'

  She clapped her hands. 'How much?'

  'It'll buy you a new car plus a round-the-world cruise. And,' I added, returning it like sacrificing a finger, 'leave some change to reward a helpful friend.'

  'Great!' she cried. 'See you, Lovejoy. Good luck with the clowns!'

  Help a friend, lose a friend, my old gran used to say. Tired, I drifted through the market, blaming Mortimer for getting me into this mess. Nothing for it, but to resume my job at the Pot Race Garden Nurseries, where I laboured on days that go horribly wrong. They'd be glad to see me.

  You walk from town along the river until it goes under a bridge. There it forms a pool where a meadow slopes up to old people's bungalows. The Pot Race Garden Nurseries occupy a few acres, selling things to gladden gardeners. It's run by Merry and Tramway Adenath, who live in a troubled marital state. On quiet evenings you can hear their rage as far as Southwold. Their fighting script's unchanged these twenty years.

  They divorced three (some say four) times, but remarried repeatedly from a deep longing to resume conflict. The reason is Merry wants herbaceous efficiency while Tramway wants uninhibited growth. Which means Merry wants the Eastern Hundreds sprayed with lethal non-degradables. Tramway wants chemicals banned. Merry stocks her shelves with sprays, toxins, and molecules of fearsome potency, all of them synthesized by evil alchemists and guaranteed to necrose Planet Earth for eternity.

  Tramway undoes this good work by propagating weeds. He develops sturdy dandelions and nettles resistant to every known herbicide, and grows them exactly where their pollen wafts onto Merry's potent sublimates. Marriage is total war.

  Actually I'm on Tramway's side. You have to admit this couple is a good argument for bringing back duelling, though Planet Earth would lose out whoever won the shoot-out.

  I entered through the car park and reported for duty.

  'Lovejoy!' Tramway was pricking out some desperately sick weeds into meagre soil.

  'Good to see you. Sorry those dealers are going to hang you.'

  'Wotcher, Tramway. I'll escape when I've a bob or two.' Hint, hint.

  'Money? You're fired, Lovejoy.'

  'Eh?'

  He led me to where a few score of tiny trees struggled in dishes. I nodded, pleased. 'My handiwork. They're looking well, eh?'

  'No, Lovejoy. They're ruined.'

  'Can't be, Tramway,' I said proudly, not getting it. 'I repotted them.'

  'Into?' he prompted, waiting. I noticed he looked more ferocious than usual. He held a stainless steel dibble, swung it to and fro in a menacing manner.

  'Into bigger pots!' I pointed. 'I used good compost, honest.'

  'Why, Lovejoy?'

  'They were stunted. Poor little sods were all gnarled. Give them a bit of sun and water, they'll grow like pantomime beanstalks.'

  'They were priceless, Lovejoy. They were bonsai.'

  'Eh?' I gaped. No wonder they'd seemed little.

  'Yes, Lovejoy. Miniature trees, in pots. Some were eighty years old.'

  'But their poor feet,' I said lamely, quickly edging towards the entrance where two children and their dad were lugging out some frondage.

  'That's why I'm going to stab you to death, Lovejoy,' Tramway said, advancing. 'You owe me thousands for the damage you've done.'

  'Let me help!' I called out, desperately trotting over and helping the dad and his kiddies. 'Car over there, is it?'

  Screened by the little family, I reached their motor, then legged it. Merry jubilantly emerged to wave me off. I'd made a real pal in Merry by ruining Tramway's conservation programme, but maybe I'd spoiled her herbaceous skullduggery too. I couldn't risk it, so headed for the Antiques Emporium. Go back to antiques where you belong, you can't go far wrong. It's one of my more useless laws. I wondered if Tramway might give me some back pay.

  Now all I could do was confront Mrs Eggers with a team of pretend divvies. At least I'd finish up with a bawbee and a bite. For me, that's a good day.

  6

  GIMBERT'S AUCTION ROOMS were crowded. I was pleased, but worried Liza was in.