The Tartan Sell

Начало книги

This story starts with criminal passion in a shed. It descends into sordid corruption. But all along just remember one thing: Love and antiques are the same. Hatred and evil are their opposite. I’m an antique dealer, in bad with the law, and I should know.

There’s nothing antique dealers hate worse than fog and rain. Ellen agreed.

Three o’clock in the morning on a foggy rainy bypass, Ellen was tired—only the same as anybody else daft enough to be awake at this ungodly hour, but women are very self-centered.

“How much longer, Lovejoy?” she moaned.

“Couple of minutes.” I’d been saying this since midnight.

We were in Ben’s hut. He’s the vigilant night watchman hired to watch for thieves who habitually steal the roadmenders’ gear. He’s never caught any because he mostly kips in front of the portable telly his daughter bought him last Easter. Me and Ellen had made love and the old bloke hadn’t even stirred from his glowing stove.

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