Free Spend Game by Jonathan Gash Page A

bobby and Old George more questions than they asked me. The young peeler finally drew breath and went into the warehouse to defend law and order now the crooks were miles off. Nodge, hands deep in his overcoat pockets, seemed anxious and morose, on the fringes of everything.
    ‘Cheer up, Nodge,’ I told him happily. ‘You’re in the clear.’
    He gave a sickly grin. I had a sudden strange idea. Wherever I’d been lately I’d seen Nodge’s apprehensive face. And he’d seemed so odd yesterday at the antiques fair. I glanced about. We were all alone in the yard. Old George’s quavering lies were still audible from inside the warehouse.
    ‘Look, Nodge.’ I tried to keep it casual. ‘What the frigging hell’s going on?’
    ‘Eh?’ He shuffled nervously.
    ‘And what are you doing here?’
    ‘Just passing,’ he muttered. ‘No law against looking in, is there?’
    ‘You look hunted, comrade. Where’s the happy Nodge of yesteryear?’
    ‘Nothing wrong with me, Lovejoy,’ he said, still shifty.
    ‘You’ve got my phone number.’ I shrugged and went inside with him to tell the others good morning.
    As I pulled out of the yard I saw another familiar face across the road among the early shoppers. Jake Pelman was standing in a butcher’s shop opposite, hesitating between the veal and lamb counters while a couple of women offered advice. He swung away abruptly on seeing my crate, but not before I’d made sure it was him.
    Medham village is quite big for East Anglia, three thousand people or so. Maybe it’s even a town. There was a lucky phone box near the Yew Tree pub. I had to sort a few things out or I’d go bananas. To save my ulcer perforating from worry I phoned Margaret first.
    ‘Lovejoy here, love.’
    ‘Where’ve you been?’ she sounded as though she’d just got up.
    ‘Shush. You were talking to Jake Pelman that night in the pub. What about?’
    ‘Well, honestly
    ‘
What about?
’
    ‘Don’t be so rude, Lovejoy.’ She unbent slowly. ‘About Leckie. Jake was asking what sort of things Leckie collects.’ We politely ignored the wrong tense. I thought, most dealers aren’t collectors, otherwise they’d be collectors and not dealers. Right?
    ‘And you replied . . .’ I prompted, knowing Leckie didn’t collect anything at all.
    ‘Relics.’ Margaret was all patience.
    ‘
Eh?
’
    ‘Relics. Church relics. Saints’ bits and bobs.’
    ‘Oh. Right then,’ I said lamely. This was all news to me. Later on I was to wish I’d heard it earlier. And clearer.
    ‘Can I be of any further assistance?’ Margaret asked sweetly into the pause. ‘Take a message to Sue? Tell Helen you’re on your way, perhaps?’
    ‘Er, no thanks. See you, love.’
    ‘Well, really –’
    Isn’t indignation ridiculous?
    I found another coin to ring Helen. She’d be into her second fag of the day. Monday morning’s her nightie-and-coffee dreamtime among last week’s antique-collecting journals. She answered on the third ring. This is the best luck I’ve ever had with a phone box, two successes one after the other.
    ‘Lovejoy,’ I told her.
    ‘You all right, Lovejoy?’
    ‘Look, Helen. The night Leckie got . . .’
    ‘I remember.’
    ‘You had this message.’
    ‘I gave it you.’
    ‘But you didn’t give it me
then
,’ I pressed. It was one of these details which were beginning to get on my nerves. Outside, I saw Jake Pelman standing on the corner. The blighter must have followed. He was peering uncertainly towards my phone box. All this was making me irritable. What sort of nerk wears a green suit like that, for God’s sake? ‘Why not, Helen?’
    ‘I gave you the eye,’ she complained. ‘But you didn’t come over.’
    ‘But Leckie told you it was urgent. Why didn’t you shout you had an urgent message from him for me?’
    ‘How did I know you’d take off so suddenly with that old bitch?’ She meant Margaret, women being like this about each other. ‘Anyhow,’ she said with finality, ‘I