Whispers Under Ground

heard them. I sipped the beer. It was thick and nutty and should have, I decided, been drunk at room temperature.
    ‘Where was this then?’ I asked.
    ‘New Jersey,’ said Oberon. ‘When I was a cowboy.’
    ‘And when was that?’ I asked.
    ‘Why are you here?’ asked Effra and gave Oberon such a look that even he couldn’t ignore. I winced in sympathy and his lips twitched but he didn’t dare smile.
    I considered pushing it, but I was conscious of how hard Lesley was restraining herself from slapping me upside my head and yelling ‘focus’ in my ear. I showed Oberon and Effra a printed picture of the statue and another of the fruit bowl.
    ‘We’re trying to trace where these came from,’ I said.
    Effra squinted. ‘The bowl looks handmade but the statue is a nineteenth-century knock-off of a Florentine Aphrodite by one of those gay Italians whose name escapes me. Not one of the biggies though, it’s competent but it’s not exactly inspiring. I remember I saw the full-size version in the Galleria dell’ Accademia . Still can’t remember the name of the artist.’
    ‘How come Fleet does the art galleries then?’ I asked.
    ‘Fleet is the one that goes on the radio but I’m the one with the BA in History of Art,’ said Effra.
    ‘Not that this is a source of bitterness, you understand,’ said Oberon.
    ‘I only did it because Mum insisted that we all get a degree and History of Art seemed liked the easiest,’ said Effra. ‘And you did a year in Italy.’
    ‘Meet any nice Italian rivers?’ I asked.
    ‘No,’ said Effra with a sly smile. ‘But down South on the coast every other beach and inlet has a spirit sitting on a Vespa with a body like Adonis and a voice like the way you’d expect Robert De Niro to speak Italian, if he weren’t from New York. The Church never gets all the way to the toe of the boot Cristo si èfermato a Eboli and all that jazz.’ It was notable that Effra’s accent was shifting up and down the class scale at more or less random intervals.
    ‘Moving on,’ said Lesley.
    ‘The bowl looks like the stuff the Beales used to sell,’ said Oberon. ‘Empire Ware, Empire Pottery or some such name. It was supposed to be unbreakable and good for Darjeeling and darkest Africa.’
    ‘You want Hyacinth,’ said Effra. ‘She does the figurines.’
    ‘And where do we find Hyacinth?’ I asked.
    Hyacinth, it turned out, was the goth girl running the stall with death masks. It was noticeable that attitudes towards us had changed while we’d been upstairs having a beer. The stallholders definitely had us pegged as Old Bill now, and the customers, of which there were many more by then, had obviously got the same memo. Not that anyone was surly and rude, instead we moved in our own little bubble of silence as the punters hurriedly shut up while we passed by. We kind of like surly and rude, by the way, because when people are busy being affronted they often forget to watch what they’re saying, which is why me and Lesley whipped out our warrant cards before asking Hyacinth about the statue.
    ‘You people don’t come here,’ she said.
    ‘Give us your official address,’ I said. ‘We’ll come visit you there.’
    ‘Or,’ said Lesley, ‘you could come down to the station and give a statement.’
    ‘You can’t make me,’ said Hyacinth.
    ‘Can’t we?’ I asked Lesley.
    ‘Trading without a licence,’ she said. ‘Criminal trespass, receiving stolen goods, wearing heavy black mascara in a built-up area.’
    Hyacinth opened her mouth, but Lesley leaned forward until what was left of her nose was centimetres from Hyacinth’s.
    ‘Say something about my face,’ said Lesley. ‘Go on, I dare you.’
    Code of the police – you always back your partner in public even when they’ve obviously gone insane – but that didn’t mean you had to be stupid about it.
    ‘Look, Hyacinth,’ I said in my I’m-the-reasonable-one voice. ‘The guy who bought the statue was murdered and we’re just interested in knowing whether there’s a connection or not. We’re not interested in anything else, I swear. Just tell us and we’ll get out of your face.’
    Hyacinth deflated and held up her hands. ‘I got them off Kevin,’ she said.
    ‘Kevin who?’ asked Lesley, but I’d already started writing the capital N in my notebook when Hyacinth confirmed it.
    ‘Kevin Nolan,’ she said. ‘The wanker.’
    ‘Did he say where he got them from?’ asked Lesley.
    ‘Nobody ever says