But it had never gone away. Not really. It was always there, sitting at the back of her mind. Lurking, like a dark shadow.
Tess downed the last of her wine and stood up, walking to the kitchen. Slowly, she poured herself another. Only two, she told herself firmly. If she had three or more glasses a night, it would fog her mind, and then she couldn’t paint properly the next day. She had to keep control.
She sat down on the sofa, staring mindlessly at the television. She grabbed the remote, flicking through the channels. There was nothing on, as usual. Nothing that could distract her from it. So she might as well sit here and stew on it. It didn’t seem that her mind was going to let her off this evening.
It was the questions that really haunted her. The questions that had no answers. Why hadn’t Eric run away with them? He had chosen to stay out of some misguided knight-in-shining-armour motive, but it still didn’t add up. He could have escaped as easily as she and Shay had. Why had he chosen to stay and face the police, for no good reason?
It had cost him his life. One split second decision that he could never take back.
Tess took another sip of wine, staring at the television. She was appalled to see that her hand shook where it gripped the stem of the wine glass. It had all happened so long ago, and yet it seemed like yesterday.
A memory came and lodged into her mind like a dart. The day of Eric’s funeral. Walking to his graveside to watch the coffin being lowered into the ground. She was wearing a new dark dress, bought especially for the occasion, which itched her terribly. She remembered being somehow gratified by it, though. As if she deserved this irritation somehow. As if she were wearing a hair shirt, that could somehow atone for her guilt.
She had stared at the plain pine coffin fearfully, as if it might suddenly explode. She couldn’t quite believe that Eric was really in there, or what remained of Eric. How could a guy who had been so vibrant and full of life suddenly be gone? Snatched from the world in a heartbeat. He had his whole life ahead of him, and now…nothing.
It was only the second funeral that she had ever attended. The first had been her grandmother’s, back when she was only seven. She had vague memories of it. But this was different. Her grandmother had been old and ill. Eric had only been seventeen. The fact that someone as young as herself could die suddenly was a violent shock.
And she had loved him.
Tess remembered staring at Eric’s parents, standing side by side, across from her. Witnessing their grief had been terrible. His father had supported his mother, who looked like she was about to collapse. Tess had bitten her lip, not knowing what to say to them. And yet, conversely, she had wanted to rush up to them and tell them the truth. That she had been there the night that Eric had died but couldn’t save him. That she was somehow to blame.
And then, she had seen Shay. He had looked uncomfortable in a new suit, which looked too tight for him. His eyes had darted around, as if he wanted to run away. Tess had stared at him, hard. She knew what he had done.
He had turned and met her eyes. She had seen the shame flowering to life in them, before he had gazed down, staring at the coffin.
And then, it had all been over. The coffin had been lowered into the ground. The mourners had placed their flowers in the grave and dispersed. Back to life, or what passed for it. Picking up the broken pieces and trying to start again.
She had felt Shay’s eyes on her as she walked away. But she had steadfastly refused to look at him. And they had never spoken again.
Tess drained the last of her wine. What had happened to him? After she had moved away, she had lost contact with everyone in that suburb. She had told herself that it was for the best. She had made new friends in her new town and tried very hard not to look back. There was no one she could ask anymore what had become of him. Where he was.
Did he ever think about that awful night? Did he still remember Eric, or had he chosen to forget? Did he remember her?
She smiled, suddenly. It was all useless speculation, and she needed to let go of it. She was a grown woman, now, not the lovestruck teenager who had broken into an abandoned house in the dark to try to impress the object of her desire. She and Eric hadn’t even been going out. But the memory of their one and only kiss—her first—still burned at the back of her mind. Would they have become lovers, if he had lived?
And Shay. It was so vivid in her mind, crouching beside him in the dark behind that shed. She could still see his large blue eyes, entreating her not to go back into that house. Saying that she was smart and to think of her future. She knew that he had only been trying to protect her. She knew that. The grown woman she now was even applauded him. So, why did the sixteen year old who still cried inside her want to smash his face into the ground for not having the courage to go back into that house and support his friend?
And how could he have deserted her, when he heard the police coming? He had skulked off into the night, leaving her to it. She could have been arrested along with Eric, and he just wiped his hands of her. Coward!, her sixteen-year-old self screamed in her mind.
Tess stood up, her heart thudding. She was going to have to break her self-imposed rule and have one more glass of wine. The memories were haunting her, and she didn’t think she could get through this night without it.
***
Tess walked into the bedroom, changing into her pyjamas. The night had turned cold, as autumn nights were wont to do. Soon, it would be winter. The thought depressed her slightly. She hadn’t spent a winter in this city in a long, long time.
She glanced at her bedside clock. No, it wasn’t time yet. Ten more minutes. She suddenly felt restless, like she wanted to change back into her day clothes and walk the dark city streets. But that would be pointless, as well as stupid, and she had to wait for the call, as she always did.
She picked up an art book, lying on her bedside table. She flicked through it, seeing her own scrawling handwriting on the front page. Tess Nolan, it read. First year arts. She had proudly labelled all her text books that first year of college. She had really believed back then that she would become a great artist, known and loved by the world. She smiled to herself. The dreams of youth.
She drummed her fingers against the book, impatiently, and yawned. She wanted to go to bed, and put this night behind her. And she had to be up early as usual, to commute back to the studio. Mr. Gee wanted her there promptly at eight in the morning, and it took her over an hour in peak-hour traffic to get there.
To pass the time she took out her first sketches of the painting that she was now working on, the ones that had won her this job. She squinted her eyes, studying them critically. They were almost identical to the real thing. Meticulous copying had always been her forte. She remembered being praised back at college for the skill. Back then, she had copied portrait photographs by hand, painstakingly recreating every detail of the person’s face. People had remarked that her work was almost identical to the photographs.
She had never known that the talent would come to serve her so well. Or be quite so lucrative.
Tess sighed and put the sketches away. Yes, she could recreate another’s work brilliantly. But it was creating her own that she had trouble with. Finding that flash of inspiration to make her own unique work, and then fulfilling the vision. She had started a million pieces but rarely finished them. Something always seemed lacking, somehow.
Maybe it was better that she was doing what she now did. Maybe she just didn’t have it in her. Sad, but true.
Her eyes slid to the clock. Five more minutes.
Could she have done it, if she had never been there that awful night, all those years ago? Fulfilled her potential? Might it have been possible? Had something died within her, along with Eric?
She stared down at her phone. Yes, it was time. Exactly as expected, the phone started to vibrate, almost jumping like a bean on the bed. She picked it up. The expected unknown number flashed on the display panel. She pressed answer.
“Good day?
” asked the person on the other end of the line.
Tess transferred the phone to her other ear, getting more comfortable. “The same as usual. Although my lunch was pretty disappointing.”
There was silence on the other side. Then, “The price we pay.”
Tess grinned. “Indeed. Mr. Gee turned up at the usual time, frowning at my efforts. He threatened to tell the big boss again.”
“Any more information on him or her?”
“No.” Tess looked down at the bed. “I’m trying, but he’s pretty tight-lipped, as expected. I asked to see the boss, to talk about the work, but no-go. He did mention that I am only one artist in their stable, though.” She paused. “But we already knew that.”
“Yes.” There was a pause on the end of the line. “Tess, we might have to step it up a notch. I know you don’t want to alarm our Mr. Gee, but ask a few more questions. Does he carry a briefcase?”
“Sometimes.” Tess cradled the phone in the nook of her shoulder, staring at the wall.
“Distract him. Search it. We must find out who this mystery employer is before your work gets disseminated. We don’t want yet another major art scandal on our hands.”
“No, of course not.” Tess took a deep breath. “Anything else? I’m bushed, and my hand is aching. It’s pretty intense work painting all day like that.”
“No, that’s it. You are doing really well. Lucky us that you are such a talented artist. We hit the jackpot.”
“I’m flattered,” said Tess dryly. “Same time tomorrow night?”
“Always.” The caller hung up.
Tess placed the phone on the table and crawled into bed, switching off the lamp. She was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.
Chapter Four
Shay gazed at the man sitting across the table from him, studying him covertly.
The man was doing a usual power-play move, trying to assert his dominance. Shay had seen it a million times before. It consisted of the person who wanted to dominate not acknowledging the other person for a while. This man had not even glanced up when Shay had walked into the room and sat across from him. Instead, he had continued to furiously scribble in a notebook, and had been doing so for over five minutes now.
Shay sat back, easing into the chair. Let him play the game; he had all the time in the world. It just gave him more time to study the person. Shay tilted his head, ticking off boxes on an imaginary checklist in his brain. Mid-thirties; good looking without being threatening; clean-cut; well-pressed dark suit. Indeterminate nationality—the man had generic dark looks. He could be anything from Indian to English, and as he hadn’t spoken yet, he couldn’t pin an accent on him.
Shay coughed, discreetly, into his hand. The man raised his head, slightly.
“Yes,” he said, staring at Shay. “I know you are there. I just had to finish off some notes.”
“Of course,” replied Shay, smiling slightly. “Take your time. I am at your disposal.”
“All done.” The man pushed the notebook away and stared at him. “Mr. Stedman, I presume?”
Shay smiled at the alias, stretching out his hand towards the man. “Yes. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gee.” He took a deep breath. “Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.”
The man smiled, giving nothing away. Shay’s smiled widened. He was fairly sure that this interview room had been rented and couldn’t be traced back to whoever this man worked for, but he would make enquiries afterwards just to make sure. No stone unturned, said Shay to himself, repeating Thad’s motto.
“Now.” Mr. Gee’s voice grew authoritative. “You have come with the highest recommendation. Tell me a little bit about your background, and what you have done.”
Shay shifted in his chair. “I’ve been moving counterfeit goods for over ten years now,” began. “I have connections all over the country, and the world. If you need to discreetly ship items out of the country, I can do it for you, no questions asked.” He paused. “For a price, of course.”
The man nodded. “Of course.” He stared at Shay. “Money is no object, but the discretion part is vital, for obvious reasons. But you would be familiar with that in your line of work. Tell me, what have you moved out of the country?”
Shay spread his hands wide. “It would be a shorter list to tell you what I haven’t moved,” he replied. “Jewellery, designer clothing and shoes, electronic goods…”
Mr. Gee nodded. “I get the picture. Have you moved counterfeit art before?”
Shay nodded. “Is that what we are dealing with? The answer is yes, I have. I can ship it, no problem, and I have contacts on the continent that could sell it for you.”
Mr. Gee smiled. “Excellent. Our last distributor…experienced difficulties, hence creating the opening.”
Shay smiled back. “Legal difficulties, I take it? Don’t worry, Mr. Gee. Your art is safe with me.”
The man stared at him, making a steeple with his hands. He seemed to be thinking. Then he suddenly sat up, as if he had decided.
“Okay,” he began. “The enterprise I work for moves counterfeit art in two ways. Firstly, we target priceless works of art and attempt to move the counterfeit item seamlessly into the original work’s place. Major galleries around the world, wealthy collectors…you get the picture. Nine out of ten times it works.”
Shay’s eyes narrowed. “What about the Van Gogh I read about recently? Was that your enterprise?”
Mr. Gee nodded. “Of course. A shame about that one, but as I said, nine times out of ten it works. You’d be surprised how many priceless paintings are not the real deal.”
Shay raised his eyebrows. “Really? So, if I went to see the Mona Lisa at the Louvre in Paris I might not be looking at Leonardo’s work?”
Mr. Gee smiled. “I am not at liberty to identify the works, Mr. Stedman. But suffice to say it is a bit of a guessing game.” He paused. “You will not be working with that branch of our business, anyway. Once the priceless painting is swapped with its counterfeit, it is transported in the usual manner, with all the security and fanfare deserving of such a masterpiece. It is not the moving of such a work that is the issue for us. It is if the work is identified as counterfeit before it gets to its destination.”
Shay nodded. “I understand. So, what do you want me to do?”
Mr. Gee stood up and started to pace the room. “You will be working on another side of our business. This is the second-tier operation. We counterfeit less well-known works of art, as well, selling them around the world. By the time the new buyer realises that he has bought a fake—if he ever does—it is too late.”
Shay nodded. “You want me to ship these less well-known works? Where to, exactly?”
“Europe, mostly.” Mr. Gee sat back in his chair. “But we do try to stagger them around the world. If we sell three copies of the same work, we try not to do it in the same location. One will be targeted to Europe, one to the Americas, and the other to the Antipodes or Asia. Sometimes Africa. You get the picture. That way, there is a lesser chance of the buyers finding out they have bought a fake, or a longer time frame before they do.”
Shay whistled. “Clever. The enterprise you work for clearly knows what they are doing.” He paused. “Am I able to meet the owner of this operation firsthand?”
Mr. Gee smiled again. “Mr. Stedman, I am surprised. I thought you were a professional. You surely must realise that my employer must maintain anonymity at all levels of his organisation?”
Shay shrugged. “Worth a try. I much prefer to deal with my clients directly, Mr. Gee. That way if something goes wrong, such as not being paid or finding that I have been set up for a fall, I know who to blame directly.”
Mr. Gee nodded. “Understandable. But not possible in this case, I am afraid. My employer’s operation is too vast and far-reaching for him to deal with every contractor who comes on board.” He eyed Shay. “Do you accept these terms? Otherwise, I must terminate this meeting and wish you well in your future endeavours.” He sto
od up, gathering his notebook.
“Wait.” Shay stood up, too. “I accept the terms. As long as half the agreed amount can be paid as surety first.”
Mr. Gee nodded. “Done. So long as you also agree that if the works you are entrusted with do not get to their destinations we will no longer work with you, and your reputation will be ruined. We do not take kindly to double crossing, Mr. Stedman. We have had contractors before who have agreed to distribute, then sold the works themselves before they have arrived at their destinations. Needless to say, they never worked again.” He took a deep breath. “Permanently.”
“Message received loud and clear,” said Shay, staring at him.
“Good.” He stood up, placing his notebook and pen in his briefcase. “We have a deal. I have your number. When the works are ready, I will contact you.”
Shay nodded, standing up. “Here’s to a fruitful business partnership, Mr. Gee.” He stuck out his hand again.
The man simply stared at it. “Yes, well, good day, Mr. Stedman. I will be in touch.” He swept out of the room.
Shay stared after him. Mr. Gee was good. Very good. A consummate middle man, who only gave away as much as he needed to. He counted to the beat of ten, then opened the door, stepping out.
***
Shay slipped behind a newspaper stand, watching Mr. Gee standing at the traffic lights, waiting for them to change.
He had expected that Mr. Gee would get into a car immediately following their meeting, but instead the man had kept walking out of the building that they had met in and turned down the street. He was walking to his next destination. And Shay was tailing him so well that he hadn’t turned around suspiciously even once.
The lights changed, and Mr. Gee headed across the road. Shay waited a moment, then stepped out after him. He had brought a dark hoodie with him for this part of the plan. If the man happened to glance back, he shouldn’t be recognised.
Wild Keepers Page 52