The Man Who Vanished

by Roz Goldie

  “Anyway, perhaps next time, we can arrange to go at the same time – or together if your daughter is busy.”

  “Oh, would you?” Cressida’s voice exuded a pitiful gratitude.

  “That’s very touching Cressida. Not many people want to travel with me – I am rather too direct for most folks.”

  “Not at all, Margaret. I consider you a model of politeness.” She sipped her coffee and added, “I thought you were very civil at the dinner and Mr Heedon is not the most gallant sort – is he?”

  “I would never embarrass you Cressida. He is a toady and an obnoxious man but I was your guest and as such, I always keep such views to myself. I’d not be so reserved on a cruise ship – imagine being civil to a toad like that! One might give the impression of liking him and end up at the same table! Heavens no!”

  “Then we are agreed. I would like you to be my travel partner next time.” Cressida Colliers was delighted at this renewed pact of friendship.

  “Actually, Cressida, I would be grateful for a travel partner. Coming back across Europe alone was rather a challenge – I’m past the stage where I enjoy solo trekking.” This was both tactful and true.

  Margaret rose to go and took hold of her battered leather handbag. She did not ask about le Brocquy, mentally filing away that particular reference for later.

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  It had been a week since Veronica Pilchard had discovered the ill-fated Nicola Tebaldi and Jack Summers had effected his release. Veronica’s injury had healed remarkably, as she had complied with the advice given to her – which was quite out of character. She was now thinking that she should be searching for a more permanent place to live, and was indulging her penchant for expensive shoes and handbags, so the room in Montague Road was fast filling up with her new possessions.

  She missed having a proper home and admitted that a combination of broadcasting, her occasional mystery lover and Wild Fern Alley had become the centre of her life – to the exclusion of her close friendship with Margaret Beightin. As if on cue she got an email from Margaret that morning.

  “Have you time to take in an art show today? It may be of interest. M.”

  Curious as to why Lady Beightin would think that she – as a notorious Philistine – should be in the least interested with art, she confirmed her interest and asked for details.

  The two met at entrance to the Stewart Gallery that morning. The gallery was a discrete but large display area stretching some 100 yards on the ground floor behind the furniture emporium run by Imelda Stewart. Imelda’s husband, Frederick, ran the art business and counted many of the great and good among his most favoured clientele – including Secretary of State, Clive Heedon.

  Margaret had taken the precaution of bringing her calling cards with her, announcing herself as Lady Margaret Beightin, in the certain knowledge that this would impress Frederick Stewart.

  “I’m dying to know why you think I’ll be interested. I know nothing about art, Margaret.”

  “It may not be anything. Call it a hunch. I’ll explain when we have been through the exhibition.” Margaret smiled, holding out one of her cards to Veronica.

  “Ah! You are on to something!” Veronica’s full attention was now aroused.

  As they entered, Margaret looked with concentration at the first large canvas she could see. It was a Basil Blackshaw and striking in its execution. The two women stood in silence until the owner arrived at their side.

  “Frederick Stewart. A fine piece indeed.”

  “Yes, it is.” Margaret offered her hand and he took it in a limp, slightly moist grasp. She pushed down the immediate sense of revulsion – distrusting any man with such a handshake.

  “Margaret Beightin – Lady Margaret Beightin,” she announced, as she quickly withdrew her hand and pushed a calling card towards him. “My dear friend Cressida Colliers said you had a particularly good show on at the moment and I was determined not to miss it now that I am in town.”

  The card and the name-dropping did precisely as Margaret had anticipated. Stewart was almost salivating. Cressida had bought a number of very costly paintings from him in the past and had impeccable taste in watercolours. Sir John Colliers was a man with whom he had done business over the years. What he lacked in aesthetic appreciation, he made up for in his nose for profit and discretion – these two attributes being nearer to Frederick Stewart’s heart than even the most exquisite of canvases. Art for him was much like any other property – except that it had a remarkable cachet, and he liked prestige.

  Veronica stood at her side, silently watching Margaret’s expression – one of disgust thinly veiled by a rictus smile – and observing the obsequious Stewart, as he fawned in the presence of a person who was titled and presumably wealthy.

  Assuming an imperious manner, she gestured towards the end of the gallery. “I think we should take in the whole exhibition now.” She addressed Veronica, ignoring the gallery owner, who took this as yet another indication of the woman’s status and importance.

  Veronica bit the inside of her cheek, the pain helping her to stifle the laughter rising in her throat. “Hm, indeed.” She said no more as she was afraid her gleeful sense of mischief would become obvious.

  Margaret walked slowly around the room that resembled more of an aeroplane hangar than a natural space for art. She rarely appreciated the huge canvases of contemporary painters. She stopped at a rustic scene of women stooped over buckets outside a farm cottage, painted in bold easy strokes of grey, blue and brown, with the tiniest of red and white flecks to enliven the scene. It was supposed to be a William Conor, but Margaret knew it was too studied to be anything but a counterfeit – albeit a good one – and she knew there were many such pictures masquerading as the work of artists whose work commanded high prices. The tell-tale fingerprint irked her – it was just too crude. That was a faker’s trick she’d seen before.

  Margaret Beightin was aware of the rumours about local art dealers, which is why she had chosen to visit the Stewart Gallery – a place where genuine pieces were on sale alongside those of a less secure provenance.

  When she felt they had spent sufficient time looking at the exhibition, Lady Beightin pulled herself up to her full height, drew back her shoulders and stated, “Mr Stewart these are rather good but I was hoping you might have something really special.”

  “Indeed? Lady Beightin I have a number of very particular works in my safe room, and I have contacts I can follow up if that helps. What did you have in mind?”

  “Louis le Brocquy. I am almost fanatical about his work but it so rarely comes on the market these days.” She implied that she already possessed works by le Brocquy.

  “Really! I must say that le Brocquy’s work is very special.”

  His expression reminded Margaret of the cartoon characters sporting bulging eyes with pound signs in them. She had his total attention. She now spoke in a brusque manner, “And do you have any such work in your safe room?”

  “I have to say that I do not. However, I have heard reports that at least one le Brocquy is about to come in the market. Unfortunately, as I understand it, the painting is a relatively minor work.”

  “Oh, how marvellous!” Margaret switched tone, positively gushing at the obsequious dealer. “I am so pleased to hear that. Mr Stewart, you have my card and I expect to hear news as soon as the picture becomes available.”

  “Lady Beightin, I can promise you that you will be my priority client in this matter. Now, I cannot guarantee the financial details.”

  He did not get time to finish his sentence as Margaret retorted, seemingly offended, “Mr Stewart, money is not an issue when it comes to great art!”

  “Forgive me!” He cringed and bowed to her.

  “Of course, just as long as I remain your priority.” She decided against shaking his hand and gave a curt nod of the head. “I look forward to it.” Turning to Veronica and assiduously avoiding calling her by name she said, “Now, my dear, c
ome along. We have other business to complete this morning.”

  Without a word, Veronica walked briskly behind Margaret into the bright morning sun.

  Outside and some yards from the premises, Veronica broke her prolonged silence. “Margaret, what a performance! You were superb!” She grinned, “Now tell me. What is this all about?”

  “I overheard a prominent person whispering Louis le Brocquy’s name on the phone and decided to act on my hunch that it is connected with some nefarious deed or other.”

  “That would be your friend, Cressida’s husband?”

  “Precisely. Le Brocquy’s work was once among the most expensive of any living artist in the British Isles and although there are no known counterfeits, the value of the genuine articles still commands vast sums – and the gentleman in question is a deeply venal man, who just happens to move in the upper echelons of the art world here.”

  “And when the painting comes up for sale, you will be notified immediately! How cunning you are, Margaret.”

  “From you, that is a great compliment, Veronica.” Margaret was particularly pleased with herself on this occasion.

  Veronica left her thinking how unpleasant it would be to find oneself on the receiving end of Margaret’s sharp tongue.

  * * *

  Marianne was determined to find out who the mystery man in Veronica Pilchard’s life was. Veronica had obviously eyed up all the men in the residents’ group and finding no takers in the romantic takers, she had gone elsewhere. She knew he was dark-haired and had a moustache. She knew that he was often on the surrounding streets, where they had met, but that was all she could extract by way of specific information. As a landlady, Marianne had a keen interest in the welfare and business of her guests. Veronica, however, was tight-lipped on this subject, so Marianne would wait and watch in the hope of discovering his identity.

  Coming from the rather narrow social circle of the tennis club for so many years, and now mixing in the fairly exclusive gay scene in the Golden Palace, Veronica found him almost exotic with his deep brown eyes and his silent way. What others might have seen as secretive and even devious, she appeared to consider mysterious. As he was younger than her, Veronica did not harbour illusions of a permanent liaison. She did however enjoy the excitement of the affair and the intensity of his attentions. Mitchell was not like the men she had known before. The sex was fantastic – which added considerably to his attraction.

  She was not going to reveal his identity by telling Marianne or anyone else who asked – at least not yet!

  * * *

  DI Summers was informed of his father’s death by telephone from the local police in the village nearest to the villa where George Summers stayed in Tuscany. Like most public servants in that region – nick-named Chianti-shire because of the vast numbers of British ex-pats who retired there or kept a summer home – the officer spoke perfect English.

  Dottore Giacomo Dilucca was, of course, not a doctor but held the putative title as a senior Italian police officer. He addressed Jack with warmth as well as the professional courtesy he felt due to a fellow policeman.

  Dilucca informed him that his father had passed away, peacefully in his sleep at the villa where he rented a tiny apartment. “It would have been a mercy Dottore Summers, as you know, since he was so ill.”

  Jack was taken aback. He knew his father was suffering from some incurable disease but George Summers had determinedly avoided the specific nature of his condition so that Jack did not know precisely what the ailment was. Of greater concern was the fact that his father had expressed his wish to be buried in Tuscany.

  “Dottore Dilucca, my father wished to be buried in Tuscany. Is that not an extremely complicated and bureaucratic procedure? I am more than happy to comply with my father’s wishes but I am not familiar with all the arrangements that must be made for someone who is not Italian to be buried where you are.” Jack’s voice resonated with a combination of shock and boyish innocence. His father had said that this might be his last stay in Italy but he had taken it more as a sign of age than anything like the fact of the matter.

  “Please call me Giacomo and I shall call you Jack.” Dilucca outranked the Irish policeman but felt this was a situation for geniality rather than any formality. “Things can be arranged through us at this end – if you can make your way here to sign the documentation and agree to the arrangements, which are most…” he hesitated, clearing his throat and searching for the right word. “The arrangements, which are the least bureaucratic and time-consuming.”

  “Thank you, Giacomo. Thank you very much. That is most helpful. I can fly to Pisa directly as soon as I have permission for leave.”

  The two exchanged personal numbers and agreed to stay in close touch.

  * * *

  Veronica sat in studio, as the Barry Doyle Show was about to start, beginning to wonder if her spiteful intent might not backfire. On the other hand, Eliza had been determined to take up the invitation that had been emailed to her before she had returned early from the Middle East.

  Although she had provided Eliza with a perfectly good face-saving pretext for postponing the live broadcast, the professor had insisted that ‘the Nicola incident’, as she referred to the abduction, did not reflect on her at all. “Oh, that’s all in the past. I wasn’t even here, and I would enjoy the opportunity to share my analysis with a – well, let’s say wider audience.”

  Now, the academic was seated alongside Loyalist Flag Protester and community activist, Dwayne Butcher, opposite Barry Doyle. They chatted for the few minutes before the show started.

  Eliza began her well-practised speech, "Flags are contentious and discourses around them are inconsistent. For example, flying the Irish Tricolour in St Patrick’s Day Parades and the Union Flag in the Twelfth of July Orange Parades are powerful symbolic messages of exclusion. These sustain bitter divisions and hostility between factions.

  In so far as national flags express so-called ‘identity’, such displays are concerned with the sovereignty and constitutional status of Northern Ireland. And, the convenient equating of constitutional issues with ‘culture’ and ‘identity’ serves ethno-political purposes, for some political parties and all paramilitary groups. Different parties use plurivocity – that is multiple versions of meanings – and intertextuality – the shaping of meanings by use of other contexts – in their narratives on flags. Flags, emblems and symbolism visibly manifest division and hostility in everyday life in Belfast; with implications for politics and the entire peace process."

  Barry laughed to himself. He was going to really enjoy this.

  Dwayne Butcher looked at her in astonishment. “What are you talking about?” He was genuinely confused and unable to take in a word she said.

  Eliza look down her nose at Dwayne, making a fundamental mistake, as Mr Butcher was an astute and intelligent man, though evidently not highly educated.

  “I think we can talk more about this when the show starts.” Barry put his headphones on, as if taking production from the other side of the glass. He nodded at Veronica, indicating his intention to defer any further talk until the phone lines were open.

  Barry let the bold professor talk about plurivocity, multiple versions of meanings and intertextuality for just long enough to see the switchboard light up.

  “Calls are coming in already, folks. I think it’s Dwayne’s turn to have his say.” Barry Doyle gave instruction in a light, neutral voice, nodding to Dwayne Butcher.

  “I don’t know what intertextuality means. Is it something to do with gay rights?” Dwayne grinned mischievously, watching for Eliza’s response.

  Her neck reddening and her jaw clenched tight, she replied, “Mr Butcher, you are playing the fool but I know you are a shrewd operator. Do you deny that protests about flags are just a pretext to raise your own public profile?” She stared straight at him, thinking herself as winning the argument.

  “No, this is about our culture – about our right to have the nation
al flag flown every day of the year.” Dwayne Butcher had prepared himself for the interview.

  Barry Doyle cut in. “I think the listeners have something to say. Let’s take line one and Billy.”

  “The union flag is British and Belfast is British – can the professor’s fancy words change that?”

  Settling in her seat, lowering her shoulders and breathing out, Eliza Taunter began, “Billy, I wonder if you know about the democratic system where votes decided the matter.” Her tone was unfortunately, so condescending that Billy retorted.

  “I wonder if you can speak the Queen’s English!” And he hung up.

  Dwayne broke in, “The question is not about democracy. It is about the denial of our rights. Look to England, where the flag flies every day in municipal buildings in London, Liverpool, Manchester and other cities. I know ’cos I checked the facts.”

  “We’ll take another call. It’s Mary on line 2. What do you think, Mary?”

  “Flags have always been controversial here. As far back as the late 1940s and again in 1953 with the Queen’s coronation, when nationalist Councils like Newry refused to fly British flags and emblems.” The caller paused to give her words added weight. “The Unionist Government passed laws to see that didn’t happen again but now we have rules about when flags are flown on government buildings. This settled things.”

  Anxious not to be outdone and eager to display her extensive knowledge on the subject, Eliza replied, “Unfortunately, those rules do not apply to local government buildings, Mary.” Again, her tone was patronising.

  “Look you, Professor. Flags and emblems are a matter of respect and equality. By the tone of your voice, you don’t do either of those! That’s all I have to say.” The line went dead.

  “We certainly are touching on raw nerves this morning,” Barry cackled. “Let’s take another caller.”

  Some half hour later, the calls were postponed for the news. Dwayne was relaxed and content to repeat what he had stated from the beginning. Eliza was tense, unsure of how many more insults she could absorb from the unwashed and uneducated who were calling in.