‘Well, I think that’s great.’ And Ben felt that he was twelve or thirteen years old again, looking on his older brother with a rapt and fascinated attention. He possessed little of Mark’s instinctive decency, his natural sense of right and wrong. A part of him dismissed this element of his brother’s personality as wrong-headed and idealistic; yet there was something to be envied in Mark’s secret life, a sense that he was honouring their father’s memory.
‘What are you thinking?’ Mark asked.
‘Just that I hope you’re being careful. And that if you need any help I’ll do what I can.’
‘I appreciate it. Thankyou.’
‘And you trust this guy Randall? You really think he knows what he’s doing?’
‘A hundred per cent.’
A cold wind cut across the garden and Mark stood up out of the wicker chair, rolling his neck like a doll. Ben experienced another stab of frustrated envy, a craving to be involved.
‘Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?’ he said.
Mark looked at him and stepped down on to the grass. He was touched by Ben’s concern and already feeling the relief of having confessed his secret to the one person he could trust. Perhaps Ben’s presence would take the sting out of the job; perhaps Ben could act as a buffer for all the stress and concern.
‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing you could really do, mate.’
‘It’s just that I get so fucking bored all day up there in the studio. Maybe if I could just do something, even if it was only for Dad…’
‘Well, look,’ Mark began, recognizing the sentiment, ‘why don’t you come and meet the Russians sometime, make it look like there’s nothing going on? I’m going to a place with Tom on Friday, supposed to befriend one of them and get him on my side.’
Ben leaped on this.
‘Christ, yeah,’ he said. He had not expected such a big role. ‘Sure I’d do that if you thought it would help.’
‘It’ll make good cover.’ Mark was discovering a certain logic to the idea. ‘They’d never suspect anything if the two of us were out together.’
But how would he square it with Randall and Quinn? Why, when he had been so at ease with the masquerade, had Mark suddenly called on Ben for support? He made light of his decision with a joke.
‘It’s actually a lap-dancing place in Finchley Road. You might enjoy yourself.’
‘Or find something out,’ Ben added quickly. ‘Maybe stumble on some useful information…’
‘Well, that’s right. The important thing is not to say anything to anyone, not to let on that you know. And don’t mention what we’ve talked about to Alice, and certainly not to Jock.’
‘Fuck Jock,’ Ben said, with authority.
‘Forget everything until we talk. I’ll give you the address of the place when I’ve got it. Until then keep your mouth shut. We’ll sort everything out tomorrow.’
38
It was a cold night and Ben walked at pace along Finchley Road, searching for the entrance to the club. He hoped to discover Macklin and Mark waiting for him in the foyer, or just pulling up in a cab, because what if somebody he knew - a friend, perhaps, maybe even a gallery owner - spotted him as he walked inside alone? How would that look? A married man of thirty-two using lap-dancers for kicks?
Moving north into residential Hampstead, he noticed red rope cutting off a section of pavement and a chunky, stubbled bouncer breathing clouds of air into thickleather gloves. A blue neon sign hung over the door and two skinny office boys wearing chinos and polo necks had just mustered the courage to go inside.
‘Evening, sir.’
The bouncer was built like a bag of cement. With a single, murderous flick of his eyes he analysed Ben’s shoes, trousers, jacket and tie, and then waved him past the rope. Ben moved towards a small booth inside the door and paid an entrance fee of fifteen pounds. The girl who tookthe money had a copy of OK magazine hidden beneath the counter.
‘Just head down the stairs, love,’ she said, music thumping from below. ‘Somebody’ll take care of you in the lounge.’
Ben was struckby how smart the club appeared; somehow he had been expecting condoms on the floor, lurid pinklights and posters of models wearing plastic swimwear. At the foot of the staircase he was greeted by a middle-aged waiter wearing blacktie and ferocious aftershave. Beyond him, through double doors, he could see girls in next to nothing drifting past the glass.
‘Good evening, sir.’ The waiter had a southern European accent, possibly Greek. ‘I show you to a table?’
‘Actually I’m meeting some people,’ Ben told him.
‘My brother, Mark Keen. One of his colleagues, Thomas Macklin. I don’t know if you’ve heard of them. They’re with some Russians…’
‘Oh yes.’ The waiter seemed to know all about them. ‘The party from Libra,’ he said, leading Ben through the double doors. ‘They haven’t arrived yet. But I can show you to their table. Mr Macklin has made a reservation with us.’
It was like the Savoy all over again, deference and respect if you could pay for it. Two girls, both blonde and staggeringly tall, looked up and caught Ben’s eye as he walked the floor. He smiled back, aware of bikinis and high heels, of other women scoping him from near by. Maybe he should do this more often. The club was comparatively small, a low-ceilinged room no bigger than a decent-sized swimming pool, decked out with expensive mirrors and dimmed lights.
Ben had been expecting something on the scale of Libra, perhaps three or four floors with room to move, but this was an intimate space, with a seating area of just ten or fifteen tables and a tiny spotlit stage skewered by a chrome pole.
He passed the office boys - already sitting down and drinking beers - and was shown to a long table flush against the far wall. Ben sat at the top end, facing the stage, his backtucked into a corner.
The waiter asked if he wanted a drink.
‘That would be great.’ He was making himself feel more comfortable, shuffling into his seat. ‘I’ll have a vodka and tonic, please. Iceand lemon.’
There were five other men in the club. Aside from the office boys, two thick-set Arabs with heavy moustaches were being entertained by a gaggle of girls at a table near the stage. One of them had his right hand on the neck of a bottle of champagne and his left curled around the narrow waist of a woman whose face Ben could not see. Above them, a blackgirl was dancing in sinuous loops on the stage, one of twenty or thirty lap-dancers dotted throughout the bar. Ben felt exposed, as if he did not belong in such a place. Yet the atmosphere was enticing; it fed into his excitement about the Russians, the sense of being involved in something clandestine and underground. He began looking around for Mark, checking his watch theatrically, and lit a cigarette to give an impression of cool. Maybe they’ve stood me up, he thought, though it was still only ten past ten. Then a song he had hoped never to hear again- Michael Bolton singing ‘How Am I Supposed To Live Without You?’ - began playing on the sound system and a lap-dancer was walking towards him.
She was six foot and blonde, wearing a tight leather dress. Not Ben’s type: plastic and exercised. When she sat down she deliberately let her leg touch his.
‘Hi there, honey.’ An American accent, with breath that smelled of mints. ‘My name’s Raquel. Mind if I join you?’
Ben found himself nodding, but he was looking around the room. He didn’t want to appear rude, but needed to find a way of making the girl go away.
‘This your first time here, honey?’ she asked. Her skin looked tanned under the lights.
‘First time, yes.’
The legs of Ben’s chair caught on a piece of loose carpeting and he was forced to sit at an awkward angle.
‘You’re American,’ he stated obviously.
‘That’s right.’
Everything he could now invent to excuse himself from the conversation sounded like a lie. That he was waiting for friends. That he was happy just sitting alone. That he thought America was a terrific place and rea
lly misunderstood by most Europeans. It was like being drunk and trying to persuade someone you were sober. Finally Ben said, ‘I’m waiting for Macklin. For Thomas Macklin.’
And Raquel’s face lit up.
‘Oh, you’re waiting for Tom?’
At last.
‘You know him?’
‘Sure. Everyone knows Tom. Comes in here all the time.’
And again Ben felt her leg against his, a lighter touch this time, the soft enticement. Raquel was sliding her hand across his knee, saying, ‘So, you wanna little dance?’
‘No, no thanks. I’d prefer just to sit here. On my own. They’ll be here any minute…’
To Ben’s right, the black girl was now gorgeously topless, gripping the pole like a microphone, and nowhere for his eyes to fall. Suddenly Raquel was swaying into his lap, her breasts a silicone mould. He said, ‘Look, this isn’t such a good idea,’ but his voice lacked clarity and resonance. Her face was suddenly so close to his cheekthat he could feel the heat of her skin against his own.
‘Naughty boy, Benjamin. Naughty boy.’
Macklin. Fuck.
Ben practically threw Raquel off his lap and was greeted by a startling spectacle: Thomas Macklin wearing an electric blue suit, flanked by two unidentified men in jacket and tie, his brother beside them, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
‘Hello there, Benny boy. Having yourself a good time?’ Macklin leaned over to shake his hand. ‘I see you’ve made Raquel’s acquaintance. How are you, sweetheart? Looking gorgeous as ever.’
Raquel kissed Macklin full on the lips and said ‘Hi, Tom’ with a white smile. Ben was hot with embarrassment as he rose awkwardly from his chair.
‘Brother, these are some of my colleagues from work.’ The grin on Mark’s face was still evident. ‘You know Tom, of course. And this is Vladimir Tamarov, a lawyer from Russia, and his associate, Juris Duchev, from Latvia. They’re helping us out with the Moscow thing, trying up some loose ends.’
Ben got a good lookat them. Duchev was past forty, balding and squat, with tired, bloodshot eyes and skin the colour of pancake mix. He was wearing black flannel trousers and a Soviet-era woollen jacket that looked utterly out of place in the club. His expression was so hard and unkind he might never have smiled. Vladimir Tamarov also wore a look of absolute indifference to his surroundings. Tall and athletically built, he was dressed in what might have passed for Armani, with an expensive-looking watch visible on a thick, tanned wrist. His hair gleamed with oil, combed in swept-backstrands that ended in dry curls at the back of his neck.
‘Good to meet you,’ Ben told him, standing uncomfortably with his weight on one leg. It occurred to him that he was shaking hands with the men possibly responsible for his father’s death. Did Mark realize that? Had he thought this through?
‘Good to meet you also,’ Tamarov replied, ignoring a peroxide blonde who drifted past him wearing a black lace corset and thigh-high leather boots.
There were quickremarks now and drinkorders, the group settling down at the table. Ben was conscious that he owed money to Raquel, but she seemed happy to remain at his side, her hand now confidently parked in Macklin’s lap. Tamarov sat on Ben’s right, his backto the wall, with Mark and Duchev beside one another at the other end of the table.
‘Where’s Philippe got to?’ Macklin asked, turning and looking back towards the entrance. His voice was loud and controlling, any civility erased by drink.
‘Went to the gents, I think,’ Mark said.
‘Taking his fucking time about it. So, how you been, Benny boy?’
‘Not too bad, Tommy boy,’ Ben replied, and was surprised to see Tamarov smiling as he removed his jacket.
‘You not like me calling you that?’ Macklin grabbed Ben’s shoulder and squeezed it hard. ‘Hey Keeno!’ Again he was shouting down the table. ‘Little brother here doesn’t like me calling him “Benny boy”. Now what do you thinkabout that?’
Tamarov glanced at Ben, the unspoken solidarity of sober men, and raised his eyebrows in a way that suggested he was tired of Macklin’s behaviour, that he thought of him as foolish and embarrassing. Ben nodded back, and wondered if he had gained his trust.
‘I told ya,’ Mark replied, wearing the mask of work, the banter and the easy charm. ‘Ben don’t like to be messed around, Thomas. He’s the artist in the family, the thinker.’
‘Ah, you are the artist?’ Tamarov said, drawing Ben out of the exchange. His voice was low and matter-of-fact, a heavy accent.
‘That’s right.’
‘Mark tells me earlier you are painter, this is correct?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘I buy paintings, collect for my pleasure.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes.’
It was an early skirmish. Was Tamarov telling the truth? Drinks were being set down - champagne and vodka all round - and Ben concentrated on the swarm of bikinis and miniskirts now descending on the table. Mark shifted along so that a Thai girl with flowers in her hair could sit between him and Duchev. Duchev, looking like a coalminer who had wandered into the wrong party, grimaced as a thick-boned brunette tapped him on the shoulder and invited herself to sit down. They began speaking and Ben assumed that she was Latvian. Raquel then began massaging Macklin’s shoulders, saying how much she liked his suit and helping herself to champagne. He would have to speakto Tamarov.
‘So why do you do it, please?’ the Russian asked.
He had a very direct and concentrated manner, cold, striking eyes that could detect the flaw in a man.
‘Why do I do what?’
‘Painting. Why did you become artist?’
For the sake of the job, it seemed important to Ben to take care with his answer.
‘I do it because it’s the only thing I know how to do,’ he replied. ‘I can’t bank. I can’t farm. I can’t teach. But I can draw. And I have a need to do it, to get this stuff out of me.’
It was an answer he had employed many times before, but Ben now added to it by drumming his chest in a manner that he thought might appeal to a Russian. The music in the club was now very loud, the throb of a Latin salsa.
‘I see.’ Tamarov seemed unaffected by events around him: the laughter, the wisecracks, the two bored black girls near by, yawning into their mobile phones. ‘And how do you feel about the way art is going in this country?’ he said. ‘In England?’
‘You aska lot of questions,’ Ben said, and regretted it. That wasn’t the way to win him round. Tamarov let him fall through an embarrassed silence, twisting ice in his glass. Forced into a quick reply, Ben said:
‘I thinka lot of so-called modern art is bullshit. I’m trying to do something more lasting. More authentic.’
‘I see. Yes, the way that painting is presented here concerns me. You have this so-called artist, a man who leaves his clothes in a Tate gallery, and he is made famous for this. But then England has chemists, engineers, you have architects, and nobody knows their names. Why is this please?’
Tamarov looked very much as though he wanted an answer.
‘Well, it’s just laziness on the part of the media, laziness on the part of the public,’ Ben told him.
Raquel was laughing at something Macklin had said and he could feel her leg moving under the table.
‘People respond to modern art in the same way that they respond to sex.’
Tamarov frowned.
‘To sex?’
‘That’s right. To sex. They respond purely on the basis of appearance. There’s nothing deeper going on.
“Does this installation turn me on?” “How does this video make me feel?” Those are the kind of questions they’re asking themselves.’
Tamarov asked for a translation of the word ‘installation’ and Ben did his best to provide one. Then the Russian began nodding slowly, as if deep in thought.
‘Well, this is true,’ he said finally. ‘An appreciation of older paintings, the work of Matisse or Renoir, this is much closer to lov
e. My feelings for them will become deeper, as they would for perhaps a friend.’
Ben couldonly smile awkwardly. It occurred to him that he was in the middle of a lap-dancing club holding a conversation about art and friendship with a money-laundering Russian gangster who could have murdered his father.
‘Your British culture is only about shocking people,’ Tamarov continued. ‘This is what happens when the morons take over. They play to the - what is the expression Sebastian is always using - the lowest common deconimator. Is this correct?’
‘Lowest common denominator, yes,’ Ben said, noting the clear reference to Roth. ‘And they are the lowest common denominator. I mean, what are their obsessions? Celebrities, gossip and fucking.’
When Tamarov smiled, it was strange to see a face so controlled, so basically intimidating, giving way to an amusing idea. It was the reaction, Ben realized, of a man who liked what he saw, a thought that appalled and gratified him in equal measure. He was doing a good job. Then there was a sudden commotion at the table, Macklin breaking off from Raquel and swinging round in his chair. Twice he shouted: ‘Hercule!’ in a voice loud enough to be heard above the music and Ben looked up to see a skinny, well-dressed man approaching the table, drunkand disoriented, with a stunning Indian girl in tow.
‘Sorry, Tom.’ Philippe d’Erlanger had only a faint Belgian accent and he was speaking quickly. ‘I am coming backfrom the toilet and I meet Ayesha and we do a little dance together and I was delayed. Hello, I’m Phil.’
‘Good to meet you.’ And now Ben was shaking the hand of a drunkBelgian who ran eastern European prostitutes out of a restaurant in Covent Garden. It worried him that a part of him found this exciting.
‘You are Mark’s brother, yes? Benjamin?’
‘Benny boy!’ Macklin corrected, a clammy hand going backonto Ben’s shoulder. He could feel the weight of it, the sweat, and wanted to throw vodka in Macklin’s face.
Raquel was laughing as he said, ‘That’s right, I’m Ben. Mark’s younger brother.’ D’Erlanger sat down.
‘So you workat Libra?’ he asked, noting a tiny particle of cocaine at the base of the Belgian’s nose.
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