Spend Game by Jonathan Gash Page B

felt underneath the stool and bent to peer. Sure enough it was covered beneath with two layers of hessian, the old giveaway. And Sven was still grinning like a fool.
    ‘The original hessian, too,’ he said, nodding. He’s no idea.
    ‘It’s a fraud, Sven.’ I avoided his eyes as I whispered the terrible news. All this truth hurt me more than him, but I knew how he’d feel. I ran my thumb along the little rails of the stool and felt the telltale Roman numeral incised under the bar. The stool had started life as V, fifth of a set of chairs. A cut-down.
    ‘We could do a special price,’ he offered eagerly.
    ‘No, thanks.’ I can make fakes myself, and cheaper than anybody else.
    The door clanged open and in breezed – well, stumbled – Tinker Dill. He homed in on me and Sven and flopped down.
    ‘We buying that, Lovejoy?’ he rasped, coughing and wheezing, nodding at the stool.
    ‘Not today, Tinker. Where’ve you been?’
    ‘Doing as I was told,’ he said with feeling. He slurped my tea and filched my pasty. He meant I’d told him to suss out Jake Pelman and Fergus. ‘Your pal Maslow’s out shopping. I had to come the back way to miss him, the bleeder.’ I grinned at this, then had a sudden thought. Now I felt let off the hook I could go out and rile the Old Bill as any rightfully indignant citizen would.
    ‘Back in a minute. Get some grub, Tinker. On the slate.’
    I left Tinker and Sven and shot out of the Arcade. There he was, sour and useless as ever, talking to his brother Tom near the post office. People were hurrying along the crowded pavements in the rain. Moll was talking prettily under a coloured umbrella. Pity her bloke was huge, and a copper. I trotted over at the traffic lights, sure I’d surprise him.
    ‘You’re supposed to wait till the cars stop.’ Maslow had been watching me out of the corner of his beady little eye.
    ‘Morning.’ I gave a hearty smile, because his sort likes us gloomy. ‘How’s the case?’
    He actually blushed. I mean it. Honestly, he looked down at his feet and shifted his weight. I had a sudden funny feeling things were going to go wrong. Peelers don’t blush easy.
    ‘Er, the case?’ He sounded hesitant.
    ‘Yes. The c-a-s-e.’ I waited a bit. Like a fool I was still beaming. ‘Leckie. Remember?’
    He faced me at last, after a quick glance at Tom. ‘It’s closed, Lovejoy. And before you start –’
    I couldn’t understand for a minute. You can’t close a case without catching the baddie, can you? Everybody knows that, even goons like Maslow.
    ‘Did you catch them, then?’ I was asking, still thick, when Moll broke in.
    ‘Oh, how
can
you?’ She stamped her foot with a splash, glaring from Tom to Maslow. They hadn’t told her.
    ‘Road accident,’ Maslow said doggedly. ‘It’s closed.’
    ‘But he was murdered,’ I said. It still wouldn’t sink in.
    Moll gasped at the word and rounded on them both.
    ‘There! I knew something was wrong when he came –’
    ‘A road accident’s a road accident, Lovejoy,’ Maslow pronounced. ‘Unless you saw something or have firm evidence . . .’
    We all stopped. People were staying close to the shop front for dryness. Cars swished by on wet tyres. I looked about, clearing my throat. I could hardly see for the red mist in my vision. How I didn’t clock him one I’ll never know. I took two goes to speak.
    ‘You’ve given up? Is that it, Maslow?’ I managed finally. ‘You’ve done your very, very best for Leckie?’
    ‘I don’t want any lip from you . . .’ He began a lecture about public co-operation.
    If I owned up to seeing the killing Sue would be roped in. And witnesses, even in dear old England, get crisped by tearaways who feel that evidence is often undesirable. So me and Sue would ‘accidentally’ get done, same as Leckie, soon as I opened my mouth.
    ‘How does it feel to be utterly useless, Maslow?’ I said the words politely because my face was tight and my voice shook. Tom looked