The Vatican Rip Read Online Free Page B

seemed there was no way out. Time for a truce. ‘All right.’
    ‘Thank you,’ she said, and meant it, which was odder still. She extended a hand. ‘I’m Maria Peck.’
    We went all Regency. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance. Lovejoy.’
    She didn’t look local, not with those lustrous Italianate features and that complexion, but Peck is unshakably East Anglian and I commented on it while we shook.
    ‘So I’m told,’ she said, and added sweetly, ‘Nothing like as unusual as Lovejoy, is it?’
    Smarting, I thought, okay. Truce, not submission.
    ‘This way, please.’
    I followed her lissom form. Whatever lissom means, it’s the right word.
    Most women have an inherent grace, don’t they, with awareness sort of built in. Well, the ultimate was Maria. I swear I was demented for her by the time we reached the classroom, though her attitude seemed to be one of instant aloofness once she’d got me to stay.
    But why the terror when I was making my sullen exit? Last time I’d been at school they were glad to get rid of me. Fool that I was, I shelved the little mystery and forgot it.
    Late Friday of that week it happened. I was in my cottage frying some pieces of apple. It’s supposed to be a countryman’s delicacy, but was proving a failure. For a start you need oil for the pan, and I’d got none. Then you need a good stove, and the bastards had cut my electricity off in the midweek. The methylated spirit lamp, which I use for wax modelling, was going full blast – an erg an hour – and the sliced apples were barely warm.
    The knock on the door surprised me. My cottage is fairly remote, on the outskirts of a small village. The lane leading to it is narrow and long and goes hardly anywhere else. The daylight had faded an hour since. I cheered up as I went into the little hallway. My first week’s wages were due for having attended that punk language school. Apart from having the opportunity to gape at the delectable Maria it had been a real drag, so I deserved every penny.
    It was Arcellano and his two nerks all right, but not with my wages. The three of them were crammed into the tiny vestibule, blocking out the vague haze of snow light.
    ‘Mr Arcellano!’ I yelped with false delight, thinking of money, and hot pasties and beer at the White Hart. Hunger makes crawlers of us all. ‘Good of you to call! Come in!’ Nobody moved.
    ‘Where’s the lights?’
    ‘Erm, well, I’ve had the electricity cut off,’ I said smoothly. ‘Temporary repairs, you understand. This wretched weather brought down a cable—’
    ‘What’s the stink?’
    ‘Stink?’ I swallowed my irritation. The bastard was speaking of my staple diet. ‘Ah. Delicious country recipe. Fried apple. Actually takes hours to make. I haven’t done the flaky pastry yet, or I’d offer you supper—’
    A flashlight blinded me. With the beam flickering into every corner the two goons bore me backwards and slammed me down in a chair. Heavy hands pressed on my shoulders when I tried to rise. It’s horrible to discover you are suddenly out of breath for no known cause. In that instant all I could think of was that quick glimpse of terror on Maria’s face when I had started to cut out from the school.
    ‘Is this how you live, Lovejoy?’
    ‘Only temporarily,’ I answered, narked. ‘I’m having an extension built—’
    ‘Hold him.’
    A flashlight was beamed at my face so I could see nothing. With my eyes screwed up against the beam I sat and listened while somebody, probably Arcellano himself, shook out drawers and emptied cupboards and slammed doors and tore things in the darkness beyond the light. I knew better than to hope for neighbours or the police to arrive. The former wisely leave me alone, and the latter are only more trouble and I’d enough to be going on with.
    Quite ten minutes later I heard Arcellano return. He sounded slightly winded from all his exertions. I felt the same and I’d done nothing but sit.
    A lighter flared,