‘So we’re international art thieves now.’
‘National, I guess. Listen: we can’t sell ‘em, we can’t take ‘em to a gallery.’ She waved her fork. ‘We can ransom them. He pays the tax, he can have ‘em back. Ronnie Wells’ll pay up. He loves art, he said so. Besides they’re worth it.’
Paul stared at her. ‘You need someone to look after you. It’s a big risk.’
‘We’re doing it for Morwen. You never met her. And we’re doing it for Denny. Get some tax in that office. ‘Cos she was the only one who stood up for Morwen. You got milk on your lip.’
He dabbed at it and she thought of Jessica, on her knees, dabbing at the carpet. She thought of Webster, his hand sliding towards her breast, she thought of his face, smirking at her, smirking at all of them. She thought of him in the lift, the gross body jammed against her, trapping her, the odour of wine and tobacco and stale breath. She thought of Ronnie Wells pulling her into the taxi. Her voice hardened.
‘These people think they can piss on the rest of us. They are going to pay their tax. I don’t care if he loves art. He’ll pay. That’s justice.’
‘Here’s luck,’ said Paul.
He downed the rest of the milk in one.
Eleven a.m. the next day. Paul was waiting at the corner, looking the other way, his jacket wrapped tight round him, hands in pockets, his shoulders hunched up, though there was no wind and the winter sun felt warm on the skin. He seems so frail, she thought, he needs a proper coat. She let her feet click on the pavement. He whipped round, the smile lit up his face and her spirit soared. He had his arms round her.
‘Missed you,’ he whispered, his lips against her ear.
‘It was only a day. I been busy.’
Yeah, she thought, mainly in bed, sleeping, eating, watching TV, sending out for pizza, resting, sleeping. She’d needed the sleep. But she’d sorted things too.
‘Long time.’
They kissed and time slowed. The people walking past them seemed a hundred miles away.
‘All clear?’
‘I been checking. I kept moving around like you said. Some City of London cops went in but they didn’t see me. They been gone twenty minutes. There’s only one person in there. Young bloke.’
‘That’s good.’
His face shone. They moved along the pavement, arms round each other, like any young couple out on the street on a Saturday in this fashionable area of the city. The galleries weren’t really open yet, they didn’t do much business until after lunch. It was a beautiful day, unseasonably warm.
Paul nodded towards the entrance. ‘That’s it. That’s where we were last night.’
Ade slipped something out of her pocket.
‘What you got?’
‘Mobile – new, supermarket, five pounds. One call and it’s in the river.’
‘Cool. Five pounds for a call? They saw you coming.’
‘Actually it was on special. Ninety-nine pee. Use it once and chuck it, straight away, they can’t trace it to you.’
‘Oh. You been watching movies?’
‘It’s on YouTube.’
They were passing a tall Georgian building with a heavily pilastered façade, just opposite the gallery. “Wells Fine Art”. It looked different from the way it had last night with the light spilling out the door and the group of men on the pavement. In the light of day it seemed smaller but more imposing. She slowed and pulled Paul back into the shadow of one of the columns. No-one paid any attention to them. She could see the gallery’s reception desk through the window across the street. She clasped Paul close to her and clicked Speedcall 1 on the phone.
‘What’s happening?’
‘Nothing. There’s a bloke there, he’s picking up the phone.’
Ade heard a clipped nasal voice in her ear: ‘Yes?’
She glanced up. It was Grant, the sharp-faced young man of the half-finished drawing, in a sandy-coloured three-piece suit, not the same as the one last night.
‘Can I speak to Ronnie Wells?’
‘I’m afraid Mr’ – he stressed the “Mr” – ‘Wells will not be at the gallery today.’
‘Can you take a message?’
‘Afraid not. I suggest you call next week.’
‘Too late then. I can only leave a message.’ Ade was enjoying this.
‘Please call later.’
Grant was ready to put the phone down.
‘You don’t like him, do you?’
‘Pardon?’ She saw him stiffen, like a hunting dog that’s spotted a hawk.
‘It’s a message he definitely won’t want to hear. About Tintoretto. And Ackermann.’
‘Yes?’
Grant was bending his left arm awkwardly to reach into his jacket pocket.
‘He wants to see the paintings again, look on Tower Beach before the next high tide. And pay your tax. All of it. Now.’
‘I’m sorry?’
Grant had dragged a mobile out of his pocket and was trying to dial with his thumb while still holding the landline receiver. The same digit three times. Why’s that so difficult?
‘He’ll know what we mean. He’s got two hours.’
Ade pressed End Call.
‘We’ll go for a stroll.’
As soon as they’d turned the corner, she dropped the phone and stamped on it. Paul scooped up the pieces. They scattered them off London Bridge.
‘So what’s he going to find on Tower Beach?’
Ade looked down at the river. A tug for the Battersea Project was making its way towards them, the string of barges behind it heavy in the water, the diesels throbbing, the fumes ascending more or less vertically in the still air. Further down she could see the sunlight glinting on the turrets of Tower Bridge. Webster, Ronnie Wells, CI Mayland, she felt equal to any of them.
‘He’ll find a photocopy of the paintings with the trademark red spots on the throat. And a note: ‘You owe the Revenue, you’ve had the assessment. You want your paintings back, pay up.’ All nicely wrapped up in one of his bedsheets. And, of course, the cards.’
‘Yeah. The cards make all the difference, maybe.’
She hugged him to her. ‘He owes me. This is something I have to do.’
Paul nodded. He looked out over the river. ‘I want to be part of it. Don’t leave me out. I’d do anything for you.’
‘You’re part of this. But you have to trust me.’
He had both his arms round her.
‘I’d trust you with my heart’s blood.’
19
They strolled past City Hall in a cheerful mob of tourists. They walked hand-in-hand, very close to each other. After a while they paused to lean on the parapet over the Thames.
‘People just love the sunshine in winter,’ said Ade. ‘Look! That’s the third man in shorts so far. Doesn’t suit him.’
Ade stared at the Tower of London opposite them. It had always seemed like a Toy Town castle to her, with its neatly-crenelated battlements and slim towers capped with slate candle-snuffers. The beach in front of it was mostly out of the water and crowded with people, families, tourists, office workers who’d escaped for an hour, all out there in the pale sunshine. A group of children in sunhats were playing with an inflatable yellow dragon. They must be chilly, she thought. Hope someone’s got an eye on them.
The blue-grey waves of the river rolled past, trailing streamers of weed up-stream from the pillars of Tower Bridge. Tide’s turned. She could smell the dankness that hung over the water.
‘No sign of him,’ said Paul. ‘Christ, it’s the cops!’
He pulled at her arm. Ade caught a siren in the distance growing louder.
‘Take it easy,’ she said. ‘We’re just tourists, watching the show.’
A police car roared
onto Tower Bridge, its light flashing, and halted, slewed across the carriageway at the far end. Two motor-bikes appeared, moving slowly through the crowd on the embankment opposite them and stopped. The cops dismounted and started to order people back onto the bridge. A group of policemen spilled onto the beach at the quay end and ran along it, shouting at the holiday-makers to get out of their way. People were crowding onto the steps. Someone shouted out and the inflatable dragon bobbed, swung round and plunged away from the beach, a small boy clinging to it with his arms round its neck, laughing.
One of the cops waded out, grabbing for the rope, just missing it. People were shouting. Ade saw a young man in running shorts balance gracefully on the rail of the bridge and pivot forward, arms outstretched, head neatly tucked in. He entered the water without a splash and started after the inflatable, front crawl. By now the cop had got his boots off and threw himself clumsily into the water after him. People were packing the edge of the bridge. She could hear cheering like they thought it was a race.
Paul touched her arm. ‘Check the armbands. City of London.’
Ade nodded towards the end of the beach. She was in control. ‘Right on cue. And doing just as they’ve been told.’
The motorcycle cops were rummaging in the flotsam piled against the jetty by the tide. One of them straightened holding up a square white object. The other touched him on the shoulder and pointed at the water lapping round their feet. They moved smartly away, up the steps, onto their bikes and were gone.
Ade and Paul walked slowly back through the crowd along the embankment hand in hand. It was a splendid day. They’d soon be on the Thames path, leading up to the Tate Modern and the Globe Theatre.
‘You. Hold it there!’
A policewoman stepped out, barring their way. Ade felt her heart jerk in her breast. A line of police marched out in front of them, facing outwards at the crowd, clearing the area leading up to the main entrance to City Hall. People were pressing forward all round them. A motorcycle engine roared and a police bike mounted the kerb followed by a sleek black Daimler with a crest on it which halted at an angle to the road.
‘Relax,’ whispered Paul, squeezing her hand. ‘It’s democracy in action.’
The chauffer pulled open the car’s door and a plump older man with small eyes, wearing a rumpled suit and an obvious wig, got out. He paused, surveying the crowd, as if weighing up whether to wave and press hands or ignore them. Ade felt his eyes directly on her. He sniffed, turned and lumbered towards the entrance. A young woman, meticulously made up, in a tight business suit, high heels and blond hair pinned back, got out on the other side of the car and walked after him, carrying an armful of files. She muttered something and he turned, smiling warmly, and waved to the crowd. His shirt was hanging half out of his trousers.
‘“Votes”, not “voters”, “votes” – that’s what she said to him,’ Paul muttered.
‘White wine,’ said Ade, ‘Large one.’
The barman, who looked younger than her fourteen-year old nephew, capped a hand behind his ear.
‘Wine,’ she shouted.
He nodded and recited ‘Sauvignon, Chardonnay, Shiraz, Pinot, Merlot, Burgundy, Champagne,’ as if it was one word.
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Draft Guinness.’
She sipped at the bitter cloying soothing liquid.
‘Cheers! This stuff’s as good as a health drink, you know.’ Paul grinned and clinked his glass against hers, slopping beer onto the bar.
‘Do you think it’ll work?’
‘Ronnie’s got his instructions. He’ll pay up.’
He jogged her arm. A news strapline ran across the bottom of the TV screen above the bar: ‘Massive ex gratia tax payment. ‘Civic Duty’ says city fat cat.’
‘Can you turn the sound up?’ he said to the barman.
The bulky man wearing a torn leather jacket next to him muttered something.
‘What?’ said Paul. ‘I’m trying to listen.’
‘Bastards. Hate ‘em.’
‘Who? Business men? Fat Cats?’
‘Business, tax, hate all of them.’ He downed the rest of his drink in one.
Ade felt Paul’s mouth against her ear. ‘Did you get any of that?’
She wrapped her arm round him and held him against her. ‘Yeah, I got enough. He’s paid up. No-one said anything about the pictures. They’re keeping quiet. And I’ve got another idea.’
‘What?’
‘Tell you outside.’ The elation was surging through her. She’d won, they’d won! ‘Too many people here. Drink up.’
‘He’s paid up!’ said Ade, standing next to Paul in the pool of light from the pub door. ‘He’s paid up, he’s paid up, he’s paid up!’
She flung her arms round him. ‘He didn’t argue about the assessment, he just paid up. Like I said, he wanted the paintings back and he knew he owed the money, so he just paid.’
‘You are so cool.’ Paul squeezed her tight and kissed her, just under her ear.
‘And he sent the receipt to the Financial Times like it said and it’s on their website and the Revenue press-released it to encourage the others, and it all goes through Denny’s office. With Webster and this one she’s brought in so much cash they’ll have to promote her. Might give her an OBE. There’s nothing about the paintings ‘cos they don’t want anyone else doing it. City of London police. They look after the city.’
‘We cracked it,’ he sang, ‘we’ve just cracked it.’
‘Vampires and ransoms. Fear of the devil, fear of god. They paid up and we made ‘em do it.’
‘Should be drinking champagne.’
‘No, keep a low profile.’
‘OK, Guinness.’
‘No, champagne.’
They were on Bankside, leaning back on one of the benches, staring up at the sky over the river. The paving stones, damp after rain, glistened in the streetlights. He passed her the bottle.
‘Careful, that’s good stuff – the ’89.’
‘How would you know?’
He had an arm round her. ‘Can we stay here for ever?’ He pressed his face against her cheek.
‘Just for a little while.’ She thought how good it was, to have him nestling against her. ‘We’ve got things to do.’
A halo hung round the streetlights in the misty air and, over it all, the moon was rising, casting a soft radiance over London.
‘So where’re the pictures?’
‘Wrapped round my chest,’ said Ade, ‘under my tits. I took them out of the frames.’ She giggled and swigged the last of the wine. ‘They’ve been there since this morning. A bit sweaty, but it’s oil paint.’
‘Wow,’ said Paul, ‘you are number one: that’s twice.’
She dipped her head in acknowledgement. He’s right, she thought.
‘Now we’ve got to give the paintings back.’
‘Why? They’ve worth money.’
‘No. Too risky to hang onto them. Besides they have to know we’re serious: pay your tax, you get your paintings back. That’s the deal.’
‘So what do we do? Left-luggage locker, dump them on an all-night bus, post them?’
‘No, here’s the plan: we’ll leave them somewhere where no-one’ll look for them and where they’re bound to be found.’
20
They kept on up the path, dodging through the crowds of tourists and workers making their way east. She led Paul into the shadow under London Bridge.
‘Where are we going now?’ he asked.
She kissed him. ‘Tate Modern. Look at pictures.’
She took his hand. Soon she was striding past the grove of newly planted silver birch in front of the gallery, her feet crunching on the gravel, the great rust-brown chimney towering above her.
This isn’t Toy
Town, she thought. It looks like a real castle, and the Millennium Bridge is a silver drawbridge. You wouldn’t want to make trouble with someone who lived in that. Just back down the road, that’s where Webster’s offices are. She shivered and pulled her coat round her. Bet he’s in on the works of art scam. Think of those paintings he had in his office.
‘You OK?’ said Paul.
‘It’s nothing. Have you ever been inside a real Art Gallery? The other night doesn’t count.’
‘No. What for?’
She loved this building. She remembered the first time Morwen had brought her here, how excited she’d been when they’d walked out on the gantry over the vast pit of the Turbine Hall, the glowing disc of the eye of the storm above them seeming to fill the whole space with radiance. The Weather Project, such an everyday title. She remembered how the light glinted from Morwen’s eyes, as she craned her neck upwards, how she twisted her body to look on all sides, how she peered over the parapet. It seemed the right place to take the pictures.
She led Paul through the entrance into the glass-panelled atrium, the shop behind them and the cavern of the Turbine Hall to the side.
‘Good, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Now, see that woman there, standing over by the desk?’
‘The one with waist-length hair, smart jeans and the big sign? Looks like a lollypop lady only she ain’t, not with those specs?’
‘She’s a guide waiting to take people round. The sign’s got a picture on it. I want you to go up to her and point at that painting, the big one behind her, and tell her you’ve got a five-year-old who can do better than that.’
‘I ain’t got a five-year-old. I’d have told you.’
‘I know, Paul, it’s something people say. But just do it. And if she starts explaining, argue with her. Shout. Make a scene. Get everyone there.’
‘But they’ll throw me out.’
‘That’s the idea. You distract them while I dump the paintings. See you outside in ten minutes.’
When she came back, eight minutes later, pretty well all the museum staff were grouped round the exit staring out, all talking at once. The guide was looking dazed, her hair dishevelled, polishing her outsize glasses on a paisley scarf. The picture had come off the post, and another guide in a leather jacket was holding it out to her. A guard in a uniform that was too big for him stood next to her, stirring at tea in a large china mug. Floodlights had come on in the Turbine Hall. Knew I could rely on Paul, she thought.
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