The Dali Deception

by Adam Maxwell

  Apparently spotting what she was trying to do, Miss Lester looked away from her phone and said, “It’s odd, isn’t it? Almost too bright for a lightbulb.”

  Zoe nodded and used the moment to turn around in a full circle, letting the camera in her glasses drink in as much of the detail of the hallways as possible.

  “Apparently it’s some sort of natural light bulb, they use them in light therapy,” Miss Lester said.

  “That’s a thing, is it?” Zoe asked.

  Miss Lester laughed a little bubble of a laugh, “Yes, dear, that’s a thing.”

  The two women moved down the corridor, Miss Lester leading and Zoe following in silence for a moment until, once again, Miss Lester took her gaze away from her phone to address Zoe. “So how the hell did you manage to find out that Mr Glass,” Miss Lester nodded her head, an almost imperceptible bow at the mention of his name, “had this painting. Which one was it again?”

  “The Dali,” said Zoe, as matter-of-factly as she could manage. “Oh, there’s a website. Government website. It’s got a list of all the ones that are available in the whole country.”

  Zoe and Miss Lester passed a door, presumably the door to the first flat. It was large. Larger than a normal front door and there were no distinguishing marks on it to signify who lived there. There was no handle, just a card-swipe to the right of the frame.

  “I was surprised when I heard from you,” Miss Lester continued. “You’re the first to have come out of the woodwork.”

  “Really?” Zoe tried to sound genuinely surprised. “They told us about the website in the first semester.”

  Miss Lester shrugged and they continued in silence past another door, this time on the opposite side, and on further still until they reached a final door, facing them at the end of the hallway.

  “I didn’t know – I mean – who lives in a place like this?” asked Zoe, who had, much to her own surprise, finally begun to relax into the role of Sally the student. “He isn’t a–”

  “He’s a banker,” said Miss Lester, swiping her keycard and rolling her eyes.

  “Oh, right!” said Zoe injecting a hint of surprise. And the winner of the Oscar for best performance in a hallway goes to... “So he’s just security minded. I suppose the paintings he’s got are worth a couple of quid, aren’t they? Is that why it’s all keycards and security guards.”

  “This door,” said Miss Lester as she stepped inside the flat, “is not simply locked, it also carries an additional security system that will silently call the authorities if it is triggered. There’s no ‘picking the lock’. There’s no getting in and no getting out without this.” Miss Lester brandished the keycard.

  “Wow,” said Zoe and then, after entering the flat, “this place is amazing!”

  The flat that she had imagined was simple; spacious enough but compact. This was quite the opposite, looking more like someone had taken a Norse feasting hall and handed it to a reality television makeover show. The high ceilings, the huge rooms.

  Zoe had been concerned when donning the surveillance spectacles that she would look out of place trying to scan every corner. But, here in reality, craning her head to drink in every detail of this opulent underground abode seemed exactly the right thing to do. The central area was open plan but doorways and archways led off in different directions around the edges. She craned to see into room after room as she was led through the place. There was no way she was getting every detail but she was getting a good layout of the place, and she could extrapolate the rest when she got back to her desktop.

  “Okay then,” said Miss Lester, pointing to an archway off to the right. “Here we are.”

  Zoe walked through, and it was as if the designer of the house had had a taste bypass. The room was what fathers in 1980s American movies call a ‘den’. Except it appeared that instead of moving on to whatever the hell the twenty-first century equivalent of that was, Mr Glass had decided that he wanted to be rooted in that 80s timewarp. From the huge oak desk to the stuffed, dead creatures hanging from plaques on the wall and the ash trays with half-smoked Cuban cigars, this was a paean not to bad taste but to a complete absence of taste.

  Of course, there was the small matter that, as the head of a bank, he was able to afford something slightly more expensive than the classic ‘dogs playing poker’. And so, between the stuffed, dead animals were Rembrandts, Turners and there, in the corner, was the Dali.

  “You remember that security system we spoke about?” asked Miss Lester.

  Zoe nodded and tried to do doe-eyes.

  “Well, there is a further independent security system covering the paintings. Remove any of them from the wall and the place will lock down and the police will be called. And if you were thinking about having a root around in any of the drawers, please remember,” she pointed to the corner of the room where another camera surveyed the place, “someone is always watching.”

  Zoe laughed like it was a big joke and then reached into her pocket and took out a notepad and pencil. “This is all I need,” she lied.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” said Miss Lester. “You have six minutes.”

  “But I thought you said I could have an extra five?” Zoe smiled and gestured towards the phone in Miss Lester’s hand.

  “That includes the extra five.”

  Chapter 25

  In the eight weeks Miss Nicholson had worked for Lucas, or Logan as she had known him, she was sure she had the measure of him. As a result, she felt quite confident to fly in the face of his advice to get out of the city for a while. In spite of the money he had given her he was, on balance, a bloody idiot. And she wasn’t going to get anywhere in her life by listening to bloody idiots.

  Although she certainly wouldn’t admit it to anyone, she had taken a small amount of his advice and had gone on a little city-break. A trip to London to the British Museum she had always promised herself. She’d had an enormous amount of fun but all of her friends were still at work and it was short notice, so she’d had to go on her own and as a result had only booked the hotel for two nights.

  Besides that, now that she was effectively unemployed, she thought that the money would be better spent as the bloody idiot had suggested: training for a new career. Of course, she had no intention of going back to the office — there was no point. But then, on that crisp autumn morning she had reached into her bag for her compact and it wasn’t there.

  That event, in itself, was not that unusual. She was always putting it down somewhere or leaving it in her other bag, but this time she had exhausted all the usual places. Had it been her glasses case, her lighter or even her phone she could have come to terms with the loss and replaced the item. The compact, however, was different. It had been left to her by her grandmother after she died and, although now it contained no actual make-up, she carried it for the mirror. The mirror and the connection to her family.

  After days of intermittent searching she had finally remembered. She had left the compact at the office and, much as it pained her, she was now rounding the corner of the street and heading back there hoping that Logan Price wasn’t in.

  Trying the handle of the outside office she was pleased to find it locked. She fished around inside her bag until she found the keys her boss had given her. He wasn’t in the habit of turning up to the office on time, in fact most days he hadn’t turned up at all. She liked to think she had more integrity. When she was paid to do a job, she wanted to be as professional about it as possible, and in this case that had meant turning up on time. Whether or not that lazy article of a boss bothered to or not.

  Letting herself inside, Miss Nicholson walked quickly over to her desk. Nothing had been moved since she had left, in fact a fine layer of dust had begun to form on the exposed surfaces. She wasn’t surprised. Sitting down at her desk, she opened the right hand drawer and a little buzz ran through her as she spotted the compact nestled between a box of pens and a stack of unused envelopes. She quickly picked it up and slipped it into h
er handbag.

  “Is Mr Price in the office today?” A voice came from the outer hallway, causing Miss Nicholson to jump.

  “Err, no,” Miss Nicholson blurted, then, regaining a little composure. “At least, he’s not here now. He might be in later. I don’t work for him any more so I wouldn’t know.”

  “And yet you have keys to let yourself in to the office, do you not?” said the voice as it turned from the hallway into the office.

  “Well yes, but...” Miss Nicholson began.

  “Which would lead me to believe that you are still in his employ.” The voice sounded like glass being ground in a pestle, but Miss Nicholson was surprised to find that its owner was extremely small in stature.

  “Well...” Miss Nicholson tried to speak again.

  “My name is Terry,” said the man. “You can call me Big Terry. Can I trouble you for your name?”

  “Alison. Alison Nicholson,” she said, not quite sure what to make of the man. “‘Big’ Terry? I don’t mean to be rude but, well, do you have an act or something?”

  Big Terry laughed a hollow, deep laugh with manic edges. It sounded like a big dog being beaten with an angry otter and it made Alison deeply uncomfortable.

  “No, my dear,” said Big Terry. “I am not in the entertainment business. Although I do find the business I deal in entertains me. My name is in reference to my standing within certain fraternities.”

  Alison nodded, not really sure what he was talking about. “I see,” she lied. “And you have business with Mr Price?”

  Big Terry had reached Alison’s desk and proceeded to clamber awkwardly onto the chair facing her desk.

  “That I do,” said Big Terry. “He has placed himself in a position where my undivided attention has been focused upon his actions.”

  Alison shifted in her seat.

  “I was just leaving,” she said, not really liking where this conversation was going.

  Big Terry shook his head. “You don’t know me, do you?” he growled.

  “I’m sorry, no, should I know you?” she asked.

  “You don’t know me, but you are a polite young lady.” Big Terry leaned forward. “I like people who are polite. People who help me. Are you going to help me?”

  “I’m not going to sleep with you if that’s what you’re implying,” Alison said sharply. With the expanse of desk between them she felt a spark of bravery within her, in spite of the man’s cold eyes and oddly intimidating demeanour.

  Big Terry held his palms up towards her, his stubby digits outstretched. “You misunderstand me...”

  “I don’t think I do, Sir,” Alison said, standing up. “I don’t know what business you have with that – that – arsehole. But it’s nothing to do with me. I no longer work here.”

  “You really have no idea who I am, do you?” said Big Terry. “Please, Miss Nicholson. Alison. Sit down and I’ll explain. We can help each other. And then, when we’re done helping one another, you can go.”

  Alison stared at him. This man was the reason Mr Price had told her to leave town. That prick was the problem here. Not the midget. She sat down.

  “I am a businessman, Alison,” said Big Terry. “I’m really not keen on any other definition beyond that.”

  “You’re a gangster, aren’t you?” Alison sighed.

  Big Terry shrugged. “I wouldn’t call it that exactly.”

  “You’re threatening me though?” she asked.

  “Threatening?” Big Terry frowned. “Certainly not. At present there is no need for that. Right now we are just two people having a polite conversation about a mutual acquaintance.”

  “Right then,” said Alison, preferring the conversation when it was on the subject of manners. “How can I help you then, Sir?”

  Big Terry smiled and nodded. “I wish to make contact with Mr Price. Do you have a means of contacting him?”

  “No,” Alison blurted and then, realising that probably wasn’t the right answer, let her mouth hang open for a second while she tried to come up with something a bit more useful. “Although,” she scraped the depths of her memory and finally found something worthwhile. “He called me from his mobile. A week or two ago. I didn’t put it in my phone book but it’ll be in my call history.”

  “Miss Nicholson, I’d be most grateful if you could find that for me,” Big Terry said.

  “So,” said Alison, flushed with the modicum of success she’d managed to wring from this awful situation. “What’s he done? I mean, has he double crossed you or something?”

  Big Terry laughed his grinding laugh again. “Double crossed? Sounds like something from an American cop show. He tricked an employee of mine into giving him a large sum of money under false pretences.”

  Alison was staring at her phone, flicking the screen through the days of calls, finger-travelling backwards on her personal timeline. “Are you going to hurt him?”

  “You don’t sound like you care,” said Big Terry. “If I were to say yes, would that bother you?”

  Alison looked up at him, giving the question some thought.

  “How would you feel if I told you that one of the gentlemen who Mr Price took advantage of was no longer on this mortal coil?”

  Alison stared at him, not sure how she felt about that.

  “How would you feel if I told you I shot him in the back of the head?”

  “I have to say,” said Alison slowly, “I don’t know. I mean, with the greatest respect, sir, a gentleman of restricted height walked into my old office five minutes ago, I found out he’s a – for want of a better word – gangster and that if I don’t help him that something horrible might happen to me. How would you feel?”

  “Helpful?” offered Big Terry.

  “I feel helpful,” Alison nodded. “I suppose a part of me realised that Mr Price was into something a little ‘off’ but do I want you to harm him? I don’t know.”

  “It’s a tough decision.” Big Terry nodded sympathetically.

  Alison looked back down at her phone. Her hand was shaking slightly.

  “I just want to go home,” she said softly. “I only came back to get my grandma’s compact, I left it in the drawer. Please, can I just go home?”

  “Alison,” said Big Terry. It came out as a growl and her eyes flicked back up to look at him but, oddly, he was still wearing what passed for a sympathetic smile. “You aren’t a part of this world. You’ll give me the number on the phone, if you have a picture of him...”

  “I have, I have one I took, I can–”

  “Excellent,” Big Terry interrupted. “You’ll give me that too. And then you’ll go away from here and your world and my world won’t ever come together again. And if anyone ever asks about any of this then you just tell them the truth.”

  “The truth?” asked Alison, a tear welling in the corner of her eye.

  “That you never met me. That, to the best of your knowledge, I never came to the office. That the name ‘Big Terry’ means nothing to you.”

  “Right,” said Alison. “That truth.”

  Big Terry nodded.

  “And...”

  “I’ll find Mr Price and I won’t kill him.”

  “You won’t?”

  Big Terry shook his head. “I will ask him politely to pay me the money he owes me. I’ll give him a reasonable timeframe to do it.”

  “And if he doesn’t manage it?” said Alison, thinking of how hard he had found it to pay her.

  “Then I’ll cut off his hands and shove them down his fucking throat.”

  “I found the number,” said Alison.

  Big Terry reached into his jacket pocket and removed a business card. On it was written ‘Big Terry Enterprises’ and an email address and a mobile number.

  “Text me the number,” he said. “Email the pic.”

  Alison did as she was told.

  “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Nicholson,” said Big Terry. “If you leave the keys I’ll lock up when I’m done.”

 
Alison grabbed her bag and bolted for the door. “Thank you,” she managed to shout as she ran.

  Chapter 26

  Someone is always watching. The words echoed in Zoe’s ears and she had to stifle a grin as she adjusted the glasses. The glasses that were recording everything she saw and relaying it to the tablet computer in the holster strapped to her body. At that moment they were recording Miss Lester as she left the room and entered a different part of the underground mansion. It seemed odd that, until now, they had referred to this sprawling underground abode as Rollo Glass’ ‘flat’.

  She waited until Miss Lester was out of her line of sight and then finally had the opportunity to do her single most important task. Zoe took a deep breath and moved towards the painting. Taking pride of place between the stuffed and mounted head of a confused looking gorilla and another more elaborate painting was a plain, silver frame containing the canvas. Even in her own head she struggled to call it a painting, and that was doubly true now.

  Salvador Dali, the great surrealist, had produced this...

  Blank canvas.

  Except down in the bottom right hand corner where he had signed it. The signature reminded Zoe of a picture she had seen of the artist, his moustache crazily long. Surreally so, you might say. His signature looked like that, she thought.

  It was disconcerting, though oddly compelling. A complete absence of art in the middle of this room of collectible crap. Zoe leaned in close, making sure the camera glasses captured every brush stroke of his signature. The canvas was a lot smaller than she had imagined.

  She didn’t have long, but she didn’t need long. She moved in close, scanning the canvas inch by inch, looking for any other obvious marks or imperfection but there were none. It was, simply put, a blank canvas with a signature in the corner.

  Once she was satisfied that she had captured enough additional images she turned her attention to the frame. Or, more importantly, how the frame was attached to the wall. With her head pressed against the cold wall and the smell of stuffed and dusty gorilla in her nostrils, Zoe made a careful inspection of how the painting connected to the security system. Her gaze followed the wiring around up the wall and into a junction box in the corner.