Billings went downstairs and deposited the picture. When he came back up again Nicky had gone and Tara was glowering. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘He’s a trusting bugger, isn’t he?’ she said sarcastically.
‘Who? Nicky?’
‘No. His boss. He told Nicky to get a receipt from us, just to prove he delivered the painting.’
‘Really? How strange. Do you mean Trachtenberg?’
She grimaced. ‘None other.’
‘I thought Nicky just said it had nothing to do with him?’ But Tara wasn’t listening any more, and when a Kuwaiti spender walked in, Billings too put his mind to other, more profitable pursuits.
He intended to ask Trachtenberg about the Giacometti when he saw him next. But on the following Tuesday in Whitehall neither Trachtenberg nor Sally Kimmo were at the London One Thousand meeting. This seemed especially unfortunate since they were due to finalize their plans for the main building on the site. In it they had devised a small whirlwind exhibit of paintings of the Thames over the centuries. The loans had been confirmed by various institutions: Canaletto, Monet, Sickert, and many others had been promised.
In the other buildings installation was supposed to have begun, and Sally was going to report back on the status of work after visiting the site at the weekend. ‘We’ll just have to take it on faith,’ Canon Flowing declared. ‘I’m sure it’s all right or we’d have heard.’
Billings wasn’t so sure, and when Richard Bruce adjourned the larger meeting he determined to ask Holly if she knew where he could contact Sally. But as he came down the stairs, he found himself accompanied by the Marlborough man. ‘There’s a message for you from Number Ten,’ he said, handing him a stapled folded slip. Inside Billings read: Small crisis at work – sorry to have to cancel. See you soon. X H.
South London was a mystery to Billings. This was not the result of a Hampstead childhood, or any predilection for Chalk Farm Chinese food over the delights of fried plantains in the Brixton Road. It was simply that south of the River was not a part of London he knew. He viewed life there as consisting of a working class culture of small-time villains, who congregated in the kind of Victorian pubs that still had their dusty original mirrors and worked in garages where stolen cars had their engine registration numbers filed down; and a middle class life of green suburban avenues lined by plane trees (Wimbledon or Dulwich). He knew there were many black people living south of the River, but other than a clichéd perception of Brixton, he didn’t know where. He knew there were many young and wealthy people as well, living in Clapham, Wandsworth, or Balham, but he simply assumed they were mad.
He was therefore ill-prepared for his journey to the London One Thousand site. He took the Underground to Victoria and changed lines to Brixton. Ascending there, he looked fruitlessly for a black cab and after twenty minutes jumped into a Peugeot minicab which had stopped, unbidden, for him. Fifteen minutes later, after a labyrinthine journey through dense South London streets, they approached the site, which was ringed by high wire fences topped with strands of barbed wire. At the gate he was met by a security guard who proved implacable. ‘I have no authorization to let you in.’
‘But I’m on the government committee. Ring Whitehall. Ask Alan Trachtenberg.’
‘You ask Alan Trachtenberg. You ring Whitehall. I’ve got my orders, and until they change I can’t let you in.’
Billings turned away and began to walk around the vast perimeter. In the distance he could see the advanced state of the development: the cranes were gone, and there was little sign of heavy construction. Almost all the building facades were finished, though there were men working on the roofs of several of them.
It was an impressive if not altogether attractive sight, this mishmash of historical architectural styles. An enormous Queen Anne house of faded orange brick stood out, as well as a William and Mary manor house of Cotswold stone. But dominating the site was the main pavilion, built on Sterling-like lines of glass and suspended cables, with a sloping transparent roof. It was here that the core exhibits would be situated; here that the work assembled by Billings and Sally Kimmo and Canon Flowing would be shown in the great open hall. To delight and instruct, Billings thought, then felt very pompous. But he was pleased to feel that the artistic history of London would be so prominently displayed.
He came to another gate where a van was stopped while a guard checked the driver’s papers. He noticed a queue of Japanese businessmen, all in suits, being handed hardhats from another guard. Impulsively, he joined the queue; the guard looked at him a little quizzically when it was his turn, then said, ‘You know where to take this lot, right?’
He nodded and set off across a muddy field towards the main pavilion, trailed by the Japanese businessman. As they approached the pavilion he saw through its glass walls dozens of construction workers. At the entrance the sliding electronic doors had yet to be fitted, and he led the Japanese men into a vast open area, on the scale of the departure hallway at Heathrow’s Terminal Four.
No one paid them the slightest attention, and walking through the hall he and his obedient group came to the back wall of the building, also glass, through which they could see the shaping of the outdoor amphitheatre. He decided to leave the Japanese here, and set off to find somebody who could take charge of them, and also show him the installation area for his exhibits. Among the construction workers he found a foreman, who said he’d never heard about any ‘effing Japanese’ but would see what could be done. When Billings asked about the artistic exhibitions, the man shook his head. ‘Wrong building,’ he said.
‘What do you mean? It’s supposed to be here in the entrance hall. This is the main pavilion, isn’t it?’
The man nodded, then motioned Billings to join him as he walked into the centre of the vast space. Here panels lined in felt were being put up, to create literally dozens of small booths. Electricians were working to install power points, and cabling lay in black coils all around them. ‘We’ve had new orders,’ said the man, pointing to the electricians. ‘It was going to be a simple display area – nothing to it. Then we’re told to put in seventy-five power points and cable for fifty-five Play Stations. We’ve only got two days to do all this.’
‘Play Stations?’
‘Yeah, you know – the things that play games. Like an arcade this will be. The other display’s been moved – to the model coach house near the back gate. I guess they reckoned it wouldn’t be much of a draw. For kids, if you see what I mean. They wouldn’t be that keen on pictures, I guess, all that historical stuff. Fair enough – I know my kids wouldn’t be. But if they got a look at all this kit I’d never get them out of here.’
‘Who decided this?’ demanded Billings, trying to suppress his outrage.
‘Old what’s his name. You know, the bloke what’s always in the papers. Hertzenberg or whatever his name is.’
‘Trachtenberg.’
‘That’s the one. He was out here two days ago. Not a nice bloke, if you ask me.’ He gave Billings an appraising look for the first time. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so,’ he added cautiously.
‘No,’ said Billings. ‘No disagreement there.’ And the man’s a liar, too, he thought bitterly, walking outside and back towards the gate. Behind him, far in the distance, he saw what must be the coach house. It was a good fifteen minutes’ walk away. Who on earth would see the pictures he had laboured for months to have shown? Not when the lure of video games and electronic shoot-’em-ups were so prominent. How best should he resign from the London One Thousand committee?
Then he thought of Holly. Would he be able to stay on as consultant for the Downing Street refurbishment? He supposed that if he didn’t make a fuss about Trachtenberg’s betrayal he could. If I go quietly from this one, thought Billings, I can still work Thursdays in Primrose Hill. But he was not in fact inclined to go without a fuss. And for that fuss he could think of no one better to speak to than McBain – in Daisy Carrera mode.
First he thought
it prudent to ring Canon Flowing and inform him of the debacle of their exhibit. He rang Lambeth Palace from a pay phone at Brixton station and was put through to the Canon in his rooms taking an early tea. He did not sound pleased to have his repast interrupted, even when Billings explained what he had discovered.
‘The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,’ said the Canon.
‘For Christ’s sakes, Canon,’ Billings found himself shouting, ‘this has nothing to do with the Lord. This is down to Alan Trachtenberg.’
‘There is no cause for blasphemy, however upset you may be,’ said the Canon through a mouthful of something crunchy-sounding.
Jesus, thought Billings, but did not say this aloud. He tried to control his temper. ‘Forgive me, Canon. I spoke in heat. But I’m very concerned about what’s happened to all the work we’ve done. It’s been relegated to complete obscurity.’
‘There is nothing wrong with obscurity,’ the Canon declared. ‘Obscurity is an honourable calling. Jesus our Lord was obscure.’
‘I understand, Canon. Like the man on the Clapham Omnibus.’
‘Very much so, Mr Billings. We are all servants of the Lord and,’ he said, allowing himself a wry chuckle, ‘public transport.’
‘Is that why you have a car and driver from the Palace every time we meet in Whitehall?’
There was complete silence on the line. Finally, Billings broke the quiet. ‘Canon, are you there? I still need your views on the London One Thousand development.’
But there was no reply. Soon a high-pitched tone made it clear that the Canon had replaced the receiver.
At the gallery an hour later he found Tara, looking slightly alarmed. ‘Can you please ring McBain right away? He said it’s urgent.’
‘Of course. I was about to ring him anyway. What’s the matter?’
‘He sounded very alarmed. You should ring him.’
‘I will,’ he said and phoned from the kitchen. ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked when McBain picked up at the other end.
‘Have you been buying any pictures lately?’
He thought for a moment. ‘No. That’s not how this business operates anyway. In effect, everything’s here on consignment, no money changes hands until and unless I sell the picture. Why?’
‘You sure?’
‘How far are we going back? I bought a picture last spring for myself, but I may exhibit it and sell it. Why do you want to know?’
McBain was insistent. ‘Are you sure you haven’t bought anything special recently?’
He was growing a little impatient with this. ‘Are you asking as Daisy Carrera? Or as an investigative snoop?’
‘Neither,’ said McBain, sounding irritated himself. ‘I’m asking as your friend.’
‘What is this about?’
There was a pause, then McBain said, ‘There’s a rumour making the rounds that a senior arts figure in the Government may be in trouble with the police. For receiving stolen goods. Or maybe just stealing goods – a picture, that is. I’m not sure. Fairweather’s on it, and so is the Sunday Mirror. I was worried it was you.’
‘It can’t be me. I haven’t bought a thing in months.’ McBain was audibly relieved, and they talked briefly about a lunch date until Billings said goodbye and hung up the phone, only to discover Fairweather walking into the gallery. There was no sign of Tara.
‘Haven’t seen you since New York,’ Billings boomed out, thinking it best to pre-empt the man.
Fairweather looked mildly embarrassed. ‘Hello. I’m afraid I’m here on business.’
‘Always happy to sell to working members of the press,’ said Billings, in as Hooray-ish a laugh as he could muster.
Fairweather didn’t even smile. ‘Actually, I’m here to ask you about a painting that’s gone missing.’
‘Yes?’ He wasn’t going to give any ground.
‘It’s a Giacometti. Belonged to Mrs Sally Kimmo, your fellow committee member. Apparently, she’s filed a complaint with the police, saying it’s been stolen.’
He was so surprised that he could not say anything. He merely nodded, trying to smile as loftily as possible.
Fairweather scratched his balding head. ‘She seems to think you might know where it is.’
‘What? The Giacometti? I don’t know what you mean. I mean, Sally is a friend of mine.’
Fairweather looked embarrassed again, and took out a small ring-leaf notebook from his overcoat pocket. He made a show of scrutinising his notes. ‘Not according to Mrs Kimmo. You’re being linked with its disappearance.’
As with Trachtenberg, Billings realized there was nothing to be gained by continuing the conversation with Fairweather. He said as much to him, who took it badly, saying, ‘Are you denying the story then?’
‘There’s no story to deny. I’m just very busy now, and I’m asking you, very politely, to leave.’
‘I don’t have to leave. This is a public place. You’ve no right to throw me out. It’s, it’s... discrimination. That’s what it is.’
Billings regained his composure now; clearly Fairweather had been too long in New York. ‘Are you out of your mind? I am under no obligation to let anyone in here I don’t want to – that remains one of the blessings of this country, I am happy to say. But let’s not argue – let’s just agree that I’m closing early. So out you go.’
‘But it’s only three thirty,’ said Fairweather, back-pedalling reluctantly towards the door. His tone was more plaintive than querulous.
‘None of us is getting any younger. Some days, I close at two. Bye bye,’ he said, as Fairweather moved onto the street and he closed the door and locked it.
Where was Tara? A sharp rap on the front door’s glass pane revealed her standing outside, peering in anxiously.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ he said, unlocking the door and promptly relocking it. ‘I’ve had the so-called working press here and I could have used you.’
‘McBain?’ she asked hopefully.
‘No such luck. One of his colleagues. Apparently, Sally Kimmo’s had one of her pictures stolen.’
‘Good,’ said Tara, then recanted when he stared at her. ‘Well, not good. But you know what I mean.’
‘No, I don’t,’ he began sharply. ‘Sally’s a... colleague. There’s just been a misunderstanding. The only thing is, the picture she says has been stolen is a Giacometti.’
She looked at him so piercingly that he felt unnerved. ‘I’m going to clear this up right now,’ he declared. He went to the Cedar of Lebanon and picked up the telephone. In fairly rapid succession he learned that Trachtenberg was unavailable and Sally Kimmo was ‘away’. Feeling desperate, he dialled Holly’s mobile phone and got a taped message. Finally, he dialled Trachtenberg’s office again and asked for Nicky, the assistant. ‘Who?’ said the Trachtenberg secretary.
Who indeed? ‘Nicky. Mr Trachtenberg’s assistant, surname unknown. Shaved head, trendy clothes, tall, perfectly pleasant. It’s essential that I speak to him.’
‘Didn’t you ring before?’
‘That’s me. Ten minutes ago. What of it?’
‘Nothing,’ the voice said, retreating. ‘You will appreciate we get all sorts of calls. Mr Trocadero left our employ some months ago.’
‘Mister Trocadero?’
‘Uhm. Nicky, as you call him. I’m afraid I haven’t got a number for him.’
He hung up nonplussed to find Tara standing next to him, looking impatient. ‘What is it?’
‘Can I remind you of one thing?’
‘What’s that?’
‘There is a painting sitting in the vault downstairs. From the Professore. It’s a Giacometti, I believe.’
‘I know that. What do you want me to do about it?’
She shrugged, as if to say ‘Suit yourself’. ‘Nothing. Do what you want to do. Only if the press have been here talking about a stolen picture, which belongs to a woman you know and is by the same artist as the picture you’re holding downstairs, which you’re holding in somewha
t odd circumstances if you remember, then I would smell a rat. But then, who’s little old me?’
Who indeed? he just managed to keep himself from saying. ‘What am I supposed to do then? What are you trying to say?’
‘Only that I would think your next visitors are likely to be the Fraud Squad. Call me paranoid, but that’s what I’d be worried about right now.’
‘Are you serious?’ He felt he had enough on his plate and this was one ingredient too many. He put his head in his hands and moaned loudly.
Tara put a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on, this is not the time to fall apart. Come on,’ she repeated more strongly. He followed her downstairs and she led him to the vault room, which he opened. From the middle of a stack of landscapes he drew out the Giacometti, still encased in bubble wrap.
‘Now what?’ he asked. ‘There are probably reporters right outside. If not the police.’
‘Open the door,’ Tara commanded, and he went to the front end of the vault and began to undo its double bolt and Banham lock. It led to a tiny area down below the pavement, which extended to their neighbours next door, the Bolivian jewellers. Here they kept the rubbish cans between collections, and Tara stored her bicycle on those days she cycled to work. Steps led up to a padlocked gate in the street level railings.
‘You can’t go up there,’ he said, motioning to the stairs.
‘I’ll go next door. I know the girl in there – we smile at each other in the sandwich shop. I’ll go up, then out of their back door into the mews. Don’t worry about me. Or the picture,’ she said, relieving Billings of the package and tucking it under her arm. ‘When the police come I’d suggest you simply deny everything. Tell them you’ve never seen the picture.’
‘But what about Nicky? Won’t he tell them the truth?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought they’d get to Nicky. This was supposed to be stolen from Sally Kimmo’s house, you said. What would Nicky be doing with it? No, the best thing is to deny everything. I’ll back you up when they get to me.’
‘I don’t want to get you in trouble, too.’
She shook her head. ‘You know what I think about the company you’ve been keeping. One of them’s set you up – and rather well. Once this is over I think you had better go back to your old friends. Lock up behind me now,’ she said. ‘I’ll be in tomorrow. I hope Giacometti likes south of the River.’
Holly Lester Page 22