Read Online Spend Game by Jonathan Gash - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Gash
Tags: Suspense
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family.
‘Typical.’ Maslow went colder still. ‘Trying to make a bob or two, and Leckie not even stiff.’
I kept my temper. One day I’ll rupture Maslow. He knows it, too. Still, it does no harm to mislead the Old Bill. On principle I let it go.
‘Maybe,’ I said, cool. Moll’s eyes filled.
‘And I thought you were Leckie’s
friend.
How
could
you?’
‘His sort’s always the same, Moll.’
‘If that’s all Leckie brought . . .’ I said, rising. It’s times like this I wish I’d a hat to fumble with.
Nobody saw me off. I now knew why Maslow had gone to the loop road in person. Leckie was vaguely related through his brother’s wife. Not that it made any difference to me, or to Leckie any more.
I took the south road into town. It was time I went home and did a few things. The Medham auctionwarehouse would be shut on Sundays, or I’d have gone straight over there and searched for the escritoire. It’s a miracle I didn’t run anybody over, weaving my preoccupied way through the strolling families on the riverside that links with the village road. All I could think of was Leckie, suddenly aware he was being watched in an emptying warehouse by the bad lads, and with no friends around save Helen, desperately passing her a note and then trying to reach me for help. He’d even tried leaving a dud cupboard at his cousin’s as a decoy, probably hoping against hope that her stolid husband Tom the copper was home.
I slammed the gears up and down on the Bercolta road, making some afternoon drivers honk at me, but I didn’t care. Leckie was too much of a gentleman to protect himself with women, say by cadging a lift with Helen or staying at Moll’s. I’d have sheltered screaming behind the nearest woman quick as a flash. That was typical. Leckie couldn’t be a mean bastard if he’d tried.
‘But Lovejoy’s one already,’ I said aloud, full of resolve.
The shadows were already lengthening when my crate gasped clanking into my garden. Sue was in the cottage porch, posting me a message by the looks of things. I cut the engine and shrugged. My crusade would have to wait till tomorrow. I waved to Sue. We went towards one another, smiling. Anyway, I excused myself, Sunday’s a day of rest for everybody, even the two killers.
Sometimes I just make one mistake after another.
I knew there was something wrong the minute I clattered into the warehouse yard the next day. Virgil’s is one of these ancient auctioneers which litter EastAnglia. As the rest of the world evolves, they stay immutable. They may behave all modern and efficient, even to the extent of having computers around the place, but in reality they are Queen Anne, and no nonsense about change.
For a start they have their own night guard. He hadn’t done much good last night, judging from the sober faces of the four people standing near the double doors. Nodge was there, funnily enough. My crate fitted neatly between a furniture van and a police car. For the only time in recorded history the bobby wasn’t Maslow. Wilkinson, the auctioneer’s chief whizzer, gave me a wave. He’s one of these long, loping men who can’t stop their arms from dangling about. Tinker says whizzers have telescopic arms for taking bribes faster.
‘Trouble, Wilkie?’
He came over, smoking a fag. His fingers are black from nicotine. ‘Vandals done us over, Lovejoy.’
‘Anybody hurt?’ I couldn’t avoid glancing over at Nodge. I knew what Wilkie was going to say.
‘No. Old George didn’t hear a sound.’
I thought, oh, didn’t he, and crossed the yard to see the broken window, glass crunching underfoot. Whoever it was had split the double doors at the top of the loading ramp as well. All in all a neat crowbar job. Old George was giving his version of the raid to the young red-faced stammering copper, who looked fresh out of the egg. Nodge listened, shaking his head sadly at the deplorable sinfulness of mankind.
‘Can I go in, Wilkie?’
He shrugged
‘Typical.’ Maslow went colder still. ‘Trying to make a bob or two, and Leckie not even stiff.’
I kept my temper. One day I’ll rupture Maslow. He knows it, too. Still, it does no harm to mislead the Old Bill. On principle I let it go.
‘Maybe,’ I said, cool. Moll’s eyes filled.
‘And I thought you were Leckie’s
friend.
How
could
you?’
‘His sort’s always the same, Moll.’
‘If that’s all Leckie brought . . .’ I said, rising. It’s times like this I wish I’d a hat to fumble with.
Nobody saw me off. I now knew why Maslow had gone to the loop road in person. Leckie was vaguely related through his brother’s wife. Not that it made any difference to me, or to Leckie any more.
I took the south road into town. It was time I went home and did a few things. The Medham auctionwarehouse would be shut on Sundays, or I’d have gone straight over there and searched for the escritoire. It’s a miracle I didn’t run anybody over, weaving my preoccupied way through the strolling families on the riverside that links with the village road. All I could think of was Leckie, suddenly aware he was being watched in an emptying warehouse by the bad lads, and with no friends around save Helen, desperately passing her a note and then trying to reach me for help. He’d even tried leaving a dud cupboard at his cousin’s as a decoy, probably hoping against hope that her stolid husband Tom the copper was home.
I slammed the gears up and down on the Bercolta road, making some afternoon drivers honk at me, but I didn’t care. Leckie was too much of a gentleman to protect himself with women, say by cadging a lift with Helen or staying at Moll’s. I’d have sheltered screaming behind the nearest woman quick as a flash. That was typical. Leckie couldn’t be a mean bastard if he’d tried.
‘But Lovejoy’s one already,’ I said aloud, full of resolve.
The shadows were already lengthening when my crate gasped clanking into my garden. Sue was in the cottage porch, posting me a message by the looks of things. I cut the engine and shrugged. My crusade would have to wait till tomorrow. I waved to Sue. We went towards one another, smiling. Anyway, I excused myself, Sunday’s a day of rest for everybody, even the two killers.
Sometimes I just make one mistake after another.
I knew there was something wrong the minute I clattered into the warehouse yard the next day. Virgil’s is one of these ancient auctioneers which litter EastAnglia. As the rest of the world evolves, they stay immutable. They may behave all modern and efficient, even to the extent of having computers around the place, but in reality they are Queen Anne, and no nonsense about change.
For a start they have their own night guard. He hadn’t done much good last night, judging from the sober faces of the four people standing near the double doors. Nodge was there, funnily enough. My crate fitted neatly between a furniture van and a police car. For the only time in recorded history the bobby wasn’t Maslow. Wilkinson, the auctioneer’s chief whizzer, gave me a wave. He’s one of these long, loping men who can’t stop their arms from dangling about. Tinker says whizzers have telescopic arms for taking bribes faster.
‘Trouble, Wilkie?’
He came over, smoking a fag. His fingers are black from nicotine. ‘Vandals done us over, Lovejoy.’
‘Anybody hurt?’ I couldn’t avoid glancing over at Nodge. I knew what Wilkie was going to say.
‘No. Old George didn’t hear a sound.’
I thought, oh, didn’t he, and crossed the yard to see the broken window, glass crunching underfoot. Whoever it was had split the double doors at the top of the loading ramp as well. All in all a neat crowbar job. Old George was giving his version of the raid to the young red-faced stammering copper, who looked fresh out of the egg. Nodge listened, shaking his head sadly at the deplorable sinfulness of mankind.
‘Can I go in, Wilkie?’
He shrugged
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