The Possessions of a Lady (25 page)

Nobody I recognised. I watched two young up-tight lovers arguing
in that silent head-shaking ritual that we developed in the caves. They left
not speaking. I read the posters. They only reminded me of Spoolie, who would
never do himself in. Okay, everybody gets downhearted, hears of a friend driven
to extreme measures. But Spoolie, halfway through a film?

Cradhead's number gave me a yawning policewoman, poor thing.

'Cradhead, please.'

'The office is closed. Can I be of assistance?'

'Tell him The Ghool Spool. Somebody died.'

'Your name and number

They think you're stupid. I went back to my place. Somebody'd removed
my tea. I had a row with the server, so-called, and had to buy another. I
watched the entrance. Nobody I knew. Passengers ambled tiredly. Three blokes
stood by platform 6A's steps, waiting for the early newspapers, race addicts,
different horses to lose on today.

Whoever came to meet me here was the enemy. Whomsoever sticks his
hand in this pot . . . Except I believe Judas was volunteering, faithful
supporter to the last and the churches got it wrong. My foe was the traitor.
Okay, I'd somehow got Spoolie topped. I ought to have guessed. Or maybe I
really had, deep down, thought, Well it's only Spoolie.

But I'd made sure he wouldn't ever publish his book that had
occupied him ten years,
Film Props and
Items
. It was an annotated list of all the movie gear used since the dawn
of time. Even in clink Spoolie worked on it, had the prison arguing what Garbo
wore, even about the window glass when Moose Malloy's reflection shows up in
Farewell My Lovely
and Dick Powell . . .

Poor Spoolie, the horror of it.

The tea made me choke, rotten railway tea. I snuffled. The prison
governor must've been dismayed when Spoolie got parole and the inmates reverted
to crime. If I'd been the chief warder I'd have hired Spoolie as visiting
recreation officer.
Spoolie, the Film Man
of Dartmoor
. It'd have made a brilliant story, intercut with scenes from
his favourite oldies, better than Burt Lancaster and his bloody spadgers.

Know what hurt? I hadn't really known Spoolie. Had I just used him
up, to identify the rival divvy?

The traitor came in. I saw the reflection. It hesitated, drew
breath, came closer. Stopped.

'Evening, Lydia,' I said.

'Good morning, Lovejoy.'

She sank opposite. Silly me, not keeping my eye on the time.
Lydia, Miss Precise. So all that defection business was a fraud. I eyed her,
curious. At times of treason you don't see the woman's shape, her luscious
form, feel the slightest pull. It was like she was made of sawdust. I couldn't
even register beauty. Women are creatures of love and betrayal, somebody once
said, or should have, but quotations only work against a backcloth of
understanding. Like, somebody worked out that Thomas Hardy used over 900
different poetic metres instead of the usual 300. So? Who knows the significance
of that, but some dusty old dons cranking word engines?

Times like this, I wished I still smoked my pipe. I might have
felt in control, instead of a twig floating towards rapids.

'I've come to apologise,' Lydia said. I watched her lips move and
marvelled at my absence of hate.

'Apologise for what?'

'I've had a long talk with Mrs. Finch.' She set her lips.
Disapproval was coming. 'However, I have to explain something first, Lovejoy.'

Here it came:
I caused
death, but in a good cause.

'Spit it out, love.'

'There's no cause for vulgarity, Lovejoy.' She steeled herself,
went for it. 'I
dislike
Mrs.
Treadwell.' She inhaled, settled. 'There! I've said it. She has far too many
frank opinions for one of her station.'

The server came to steal my tea again. 'Finished?'

'Mind your manners!' Lydia didn't raise her voice, but heads
turned even out in the concourse. Lydia invented a laser voice, and deserves
royalties.

The woman flinched, wiped her hands on her apron. 'He's been here
hours. This isn't a doss house.'

'Did you hear me
madam I will not tolerate such insolence
. . .' Et Lydia cetera. I waited the
storm out, trying to gee my mind to a synapse, make sense. Lydia sounded
straight Lydia.

The woman slunk off trying to look as if she'd won.

'You dislike Mrs. Treadwell?' I clung to the wisp.

'She revealed that she advised you to . . .' She took shallow
breaths, leapt. '. . . to
cohabit
with Mrs. Finch. Mrs. Finch's type is the salt of the earth. But she is a
middle-aged widow who operates a fish and chip shop. Doubtless she has merit

Why had Lydia come? If I was wrong about Lydia, then what was I
right about? Maybe she'd explain. Owlish, I blinked, waited for her to ... I
was going to say 'come clean', but Lydia is testimony to Water Bright From The
Crystal Stream.

She glared at me with the self-satisfaction of a woman having had
a row.

'Now, Lovejoy. What is your problem?'

'Problem? I thought you'd tell me.'

‘I?' She wrinkled her brow. It cleared. 'Is it that Wanda,
Lovejoy? I also dislike her.'

My head sighed. Lydia solves everything by finding some other bird
to hate, whereas I find that women are best liked. My difficulty is finding
enough time to like enough, if you follow.

'I'm not sure, love.' I found her shape had reappeared a bit.
Warily I watched her mouth, can't be too careful. 'I'm lost.' But not so lost
that I couldn't prompt her into revelation. 'Tinker's cousin's girl Vyna. I'm
trying to find her. I'm worried about the poor child getting into bad habits.'

'Go on, Lovejoy.'

A glimmer of mistrust still, not enough to justify stopping. I
showed a bit of mannish loyalty, those irrelevant sentiments that Lydia knows
simply don't exist. I worked up to it.

'It's my childhood, Lydia. I grew up in a northern town. Tinker's
the same, a generation ahead. He knows what it was like.'

'So?'

A shrug. Apologies go a long way with Lydia, especially if they're
for nothing. 'Tinker had to stay in case Vyna showed up in East Anglia, see?'

She hesitated. 'All the antique dealers know about Tinker's
relative, Lovejoy. Vyna should have stayed studying fashion.'

'Fashion?' I said. This was supposed to be me, explaining. 'Vyna?'

'Of course. She'd been touring fashion exhibits in museums.

Didn't I say she'd been to Salford for that purpose? You don't
listen. But you haven't the resources to find her, Lovejoy.'

'No, love.' I was patient. 'I went to the police. Cradhead's doing
nothing. People won't give Tinker the time of day. And the girl could be
anywhere.' Noble, I girded myself. 'You might not be aware, Lydia, but a
teenage girl is still a child.' I waxed lyrical about me, the brave rescuer,
battling to save a forlorn maiden. Lydia halted me.

'Hasn't it occurred that she might be evading you?'

'Lydia!' I went stern. 'No cynicism. Until this girl is rescued .
. .' Straight out of Richardson's Pamela. Lydia was miffed. She regards
bollocking as her own personal ploy. 'I feel responsible. Tinker is my friend,'
I ended. Maybe, my sluggish cortex cautioned me, the spy is somebody else, not
Lydia.

'Why here?' She looked about, swept her fingers along the table
surface with disapproval. The server woman hated it.

'I was to meet somebody here at ten last night who would say where
Vyna had gone.'

'Who?'

'Dunno. I was late. They didn't show.' I looked at her. I've never
known her lie without blushing. 'But you did.'

'My secretary rang round all the dealers.' She coloured slightly.
'I still have your address lists.' My ex-apprentice. 'Chessmate, Mrs. Finch.
And my firm has the Mercia franchise for hotel foyer displays. The Braithwaite,
Mr. Boxgrove. And that gentleman I simply do not trust.'

'Who, exactly?' I thought I'd been invisible.

'Tubb, they call him. And Carmel.' She leaned close, a secret in
the offing. 'Tubb works for Carmel.'

'And Spoolie?' Hard to stay casual.

'Certainly not, Lovejoy.' She bridled. How Lydia manages to do it
I can't fathom. 'Break off
all
contact with him. He has been in
gaol
,
Lovejoy.'

She was innocent. I stopped acting, just nodded. Anybody could
have traced me. Or had I deliberately left a spoor an anosmic dog could have
followed?

'If you have no idea who was to meet you, Lovejoy, then there will
be a message.' She went to the counter. Voices rose, Lydia's laser. She
returned, replete as ever after a scrap or sex. 'Come, Lovejoy. Aldridge street
market, eleven a.m.'

'Eh?' I looked at the server. 'Get some grub.'

'Not here, Lovejoy.' Lydia swept out, head high. I'd have tried
it, but would have fallen over the chairs. She told me when I caught up, 'That
woman thought you too unkempt for an antique dealer, Lovejoy. The description
of you—via a newspaper vendor—was imprecise.'

We breakfasted at a greasy nosh place round the corner. Bread
fried in fat, eggs and bacon, stale bread a foot thick, porridge stiff as glue,
tea strong as sludge, rock-hard marmalade, black puddings you could bounce.
Thank God some places know how to cook. Lydia didn't eat, must have breakfasted
on the train.

'Vyna,' I said in the Braithwaite. 'In fashion where?'

Lydia's lovely lips thinned. Her luscious figure had returned.

'Little minx,' she said, holding her hat on one-handed. 'Supposed
to be studying at Viktor Vasho's. The fashioneers have a student register.'

'Well, it must've been hard for her.' I set the great Braithwaite
booming uphill, heading for Walsall.

'Everybody has difficulties, Lovejoy!' Lydia said sharply. 'That's
the trouble today . . .' etc, etc. Now, Lydia's not quite twenty-four, and was
gunning away at a lass not much younger.

But Vyna Dill, in fashion? Viktor Who?

'How come you know so much fashion stuff, love?'

'You sent me on a course to the V & A Museum, South
Kensington, on materials in antiques.'

'Er, aye.' I'd forgetten. I'd wanted to get rid of Lydia for a
while because of Janie Markham. 'To educate us in fashion.'

We made the street market with half an hour to spare. I was past
concealment.

23

Aldridge market is long and thin, fifty stalls petering out
between shops. We parked in a place marked
Deputy
Mayor ONLY
. I nicked a 'Disabled' sticker from another car ('Lovejoy! How
dare you! Such wanton ...!')

'Who in the market, love?'

'It was verbal only, no names, no note.'

'Look,' I said. 'Pretend you're not with me.'

She muttered, but obeyed. I walked down the crowded market. No shops
names I recognised, no decent antiques, no Maerklin tinner. I saw Lydia at a
haberdashery, ignored her, drifted on, felt my chest. Eleven o'clock came. Nil.

Only one thing to do. I did a despondent shrug, asked a few
stallholders if they'd any antiques, the usual. Still nil. There's a market
clock, the only antique in the place, but too solidly stuck to be nicked.

Then, moving off, I saw it. On one of the stalls was a photo of
the
Lepanto
, my tinner, propped
against some Wellingtons. It definitely hadn't been there minutes before. I
pushed through, looking.

'Is that for sale?' I asked the stallholder.

'Eh? No, mate. Young lassie left it, said her brother would come
for it. That you?'

'Er, aye. Ta.' I gave him a note, took the picture. 'Sure it was
her?'

'Blondie, a bit of all right.' He grinned. 'Got your work cut out,
the boys after her, eh?'

'True, right enough.' I did a lot of grinning. On the reverse,
Sold today. M/CTM. tomorrow.

The tinner had been flogged, then. M/C is Manchester. TM, though?
I went through the market, saw Lydia look sharply at the photo in my hand as I
passed. Then I ran to the council offices cursing. Vyna would be watching to
see I'd got the message. Nobody.

Lydia had arranged to meet me in Aldridge library, if all failed.
I went into a tavern facing. The barman glanced at my photo, smiled.

'Lot of them about today.'

I feigned surprise. 'Bought it off a barrow.'

'Girl had one just like it, waiting here for her brother. Aussie.
I'm good with accents.' Vyna, lurking here, peering.

'I collect old pictures. She still about?'

'No. Notice dolly-birds go for older men?'

It took time, but I got it out of him. She'd been with a flashy
older bloke. No, the barman hadn't caught his name. He ended up being
suspicious. I told Lydia all this when we met up. I got a newspaper. It seemed
that somebody was dead, half a column inch, a fill-in by a tired stringer. Foul
play was not suspected. The deceased ran a film enthusiasts' shop. That was all
the world could manage for Spoolie, requiescat in pace. We left Aldridge.