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:

  Visitor: What a beautiful statuette!

  Doorman: Foreigners admire it. It is old.

  (Now, our little geezer thinks it's crud. But who is he to disagree?) Visitor (sighs): My father has always wanted one. Unfortunately he is ill.

  Doorman: I wish him better, with God's help.

  Visitor: If only I could show this to my sick father! I would pay x dollars / euros just to borrow it for a week.

  A gremlin alights on the doorman's shoulder and whispers how wonderful it would be.

  All that money! Who would know?

  A week later, an unbelievably rare antique terracotta figure, such as this one from Nok in Nigeria, makes its appearance in London's showrooms and is sold for umpteen thousand. These figures, incidentally, look like nothing on earth. Mirthless, lips slightly agape, eyes triangular, necklaces of the same dulled earthenware. Yet one in pretty tatty condition will buy you a freehold townhouse.

  This Quay Theatre piece was from Nok. I suppose I've made it sound really neff, but it's not. There's a plateau in Nigeria called Jos where these figures were made two thousand years ago. Collectors go mad for them, and pay fortunes. Why? Because they're the only real evidence that sophisticated sculptors were there that long ago.

  Sombre, almost menacing, they're not the sort of art you'd want on your sideboard, but dealers will kill for them. African travellers bring them into London, Munich, Zurich. Our dealers say, 'Netting Hill for illicit tribals.' They're not wrong.

  'Whose is this, love?' I managed to get out.

  She was smiling. 'I haven't the faintest notion, Lovejoy. I know Dad used to have one, but his was even uglier.'

  The brigadier? One swallow doesn't make a summer, yet if his syndicate could display a Nok head with such cavalier abandon, unguarded in a foyer, it was a message, and such a message. No wonder the Countess wanted to supplant them. It was a sign to the knowing – look, see what we can get hold of any day of the week.

  'Coming,' I said. I wanted to stick with her now. Obediently we went to watch the most dreadful concert of all time.

  When it started the awful music made me nod off. The audience thinned, I noticed, many choosing not to return after the tacky excitement of Sandy's arrival and my actors' phoney antiques thrills. The songs were dross.

  My mind kept going over what the Countess said. I was to help her, instead of the syndicate. She'd control the import of antiques. It was all the same to me. One tyrant's very like another. The only difference was that I'd get passion as a bonus from the Countess, not Maud. Promises, promises.

  Maud sat with me in our grand box, everything going her way.

  Several times I caught her looking at me with a frankly misty gaze, edging towards passion. She held my hand, even brought my arm round her. We were safe from gossipy eyes. We had champagne, too. I didn't touch mine because it gives me belly-wark. I'm lucky to be too poor to buy it. To please Maud I pretended to sip.

  The singers came and went, warbling, wavering, shrilly vibrato up and down scales nobody but a deranged composer could love. The audience slyly began to drift faster. It was pretty poor. The orchestra had been replaced by a dud pianist. While some old dear screeched out a Britten piece I found my mind trying to work out the cost. Why the heck pay good money – if there is such a thing – for this sham?

  I'm not keen on gelt. No, honest. I really do believe we think too much about it. Once you've got enough for bread and cheese, money's not a lot of use unless you're up to something. Maud was on fire. Her eyes met mine, ablaze with fervour. Was I worth all that?

  Worry must have shown in my face because she leaned close to whisper, 'Don't worry, Lovejoy. We were meant to be.'

  Between songs, I could hear the faint babble of some gathering in the ante-room.

  Possibly the orchestra and departing singers, leaving for their respective boozers. As the boring show ground on, though, the distant hubbub dwindled, until finally it too fell silent. The steam went out of our entertainers' performances. The audience drifted ever faster.

  Sandy must have persuaded Brig's syndicate to stump up the money. It must have cost.

  The great swan barge, the dancers, slaves and slavettes, torch bearers, the fireworks.

  Not to mention the professional orchestra to start the proceedings. And decorations cost a pretty penny. I badly wanted to see Quaker. He'd tell me. If it was the brigadier's syndicate, the problem would be that much less.

  'Where's Quaker, love?' I whispered.

  Maud had her hand on my leg. 'He won't be coming.'

  Who'd passed her that message?

  A tenor was singing. I recognized him as a cricket umpire. Were we down to this, a musical of neffie warblers? No wonder people were vanishing in droves.

  'And your dad?'

  'Shhh.'

  One newcomer crept in with that slow apology the body naturally makes when interrupting someone's performance. Florence Giverill, looking tired.

  The show finally trailed to an end. By then only a scattered few were left. The applause was desultory. Some geezer came on to say ta and how marvellous. The curtain swished to with relief. The place seemed so hot. I wanted to wave to Florence but she was in the stalls below and didn't look up.

  We went into the corridor. I kept looking about. No familiar faces now, just Maud's bright visage excited beyond what the evening deserved. It had been a mediocre show.

  She looked almost feverish.

  'Let's have a drink on the balcony, Lovejoy.'

  'Have we got time?' The place was closing fast. 'What about your meeting?'

  She didn't hesitate, 'You're always so particular.'

  The bar, usually so crowded, was almost deserted, just one barman washing glasses and tidying up. A couple had obviously sat out the last half-hour. They left as we entered. Maud put a note on the counter. I got the drinks and followed her out onto the balcony and stood beside her in the night air.

  This was where Sandy's soaring staircase had risen from the swan barge on the river below. I looked over. All gone now. Fairy lights still adorned the riverbanks, but the fireworks had ended and the crowd dispersed. A last pair of snoggers glided below the bridge. Lucky bloke. I realized that I'd thought that thought about a lot of people tonight. Lucky others, not me.

  'Isn't it blissful, Lovejoy?'

  'Constable painted this stretch. He liked it.'

  'And Gainsborough.'

  Well, Gainsborough would, randy git. Hardly a blade of grass hadn't carried Tom G and his various birds at some time along his riverside. I didn't say this because the truth maddens women.

  'When's the meeting?' I asked, to get things clear.

  She leaned against the balcony, appraising me. The lights went out on the floor below, darkening the river. Probably last of the singers and ushers going home.

  'Why are you so concerned about the meeting, Lovejoy?'

  'The brigadier'll be narked if I make you late. And Quaker.'

  'What's the difference? You can't come to it.' She sounded mischievous, like she was setting me up for the laughter of others. I looked about. Nothing. Coloured lights downriver doused with appalling swiftness, leaving their imprint in my eye. The point was, I wanted to see who would be there. It was the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle.

  Whoever killed Vestry, drove Bernicka to suicide, and killed Timothy Giverill, was in the brigadier's syndicate. They were all responsible. Maybe it had been real democracy, let's take a vote, who's for executing Vestry, Bernicka, Timothy Giverill, show of hands?

  There's no telling when money rules.

  I felt sudden pity for Bernicka, always worrying that her fifty-four years would show, crow's feet, her crazed love for Leonardo da Vinci, then dying like that. It simply wasn't fair.

  'Can I lock up?' The barman came to the balcony doors and started setting catches.

  'Yes, fine,' Maud said, while I said no. 'We can go down the outer staircase.'

  'It's regulations, see.'

  He closed us on the balcony. I heard him shooting bolts along the doors. Reinforced, I now saw. I was ill at ease.

  Cars started up, a door slammed. Voices called, a girl laughed, hurry up or Jane'll be late again, hahaha. Maud sipped at her glass. I didn't sip my drink, no wish for it. I find I only hold one because it's expected, don't imbibe as much as others want me to.

  It wasn't like I was trapped. And there were worse fates than being encaged with a gorgeous bird like Maud. She placed her glass on the balcony rim and moved close. Her palm came on me. I gasped. Another choice taken out of my hands, so to speak. It isn't the same for women. They can simply say stop it, step aside and that's the end of the matter. A bloke can't. It's their power. My throat went thick. I managed to speak.

  'How did you stop Quaker coming here?' I asked.

  'I didn't. A friend did it for me.'

  'Lanny Langley-Willes?' Had my voice gone higher? I don't usually sound breathless.

  Her hand kneaded me.

  'Him?' Contempt, so soon? 'He just does a few valuations for Dad.'

  Another one from the old regiment, hey? I couldn't speak. She held me in thrall, poets would have said. Somebody below called to check the main doors.

  Was the Nok statuette still there? I wondered why somebody had brought it in the first place. With this audience, there was unlikely to be an enormous amount of expertise knocking about. Or had somebody been watching, judging my reaction as me and Maud re-entered? 'Lovejoy, mate?'

  I'd never been so relieved to hear Tinker's hoarse yell. Maud exclaimed in anger.

  Quickly I bawled down, 'Aye, Tinker. Up here.'

  He called, 'There's a feller and two birds at the Drum and Flag.' I couldn't see him in the dark. 'Wants ter see you.'

  That was a relief. I'd never wanted to escape from Maud before.

  'Door open, is it? This balcony's locked.'

  He chuckled, huff-huff-huff followed by a prolonged cough and a spit.

  'You randy git. It's all shut. There's wood stairs. Pull the rope.'

  'Tell them I'll be there in a minute.'

  'Right, son.'

  I heard his cough recede. Concealing my relief I turned to Maud and said I'd got to go, would see her after. 'It'll be Quaker, love. Him or the brigadier.'

  'Go, Lovejoy?' She seemed to be sulking. I could see her face against the sky glow, not quite a silhouette. 'When we're partners for life?'

  'Look, love. I want out from all this.'

  'You – want – out?' Her hand slapped my head sideways. 'Don't you understand? I've made sacrifices to get that stupid obsessed dolt out of my life. To have you instead.

  And you say you want out?'

  Her hand lashed me. I felt stunned, tried to back away, stumbled over something, maybe bottles, a stool.

  'Look, Maud. Nothing personal. But the Countess came in the interval. It's only a row between two syndicates. For money.' I sounded relieved even to myself. 'It's nothing important.'