Quick on the Draw

by Susan Moody

  Tentatively I turned the key and pushed slowly at the door. Walked into the hall. Surveyed the terrain. Breathed out a long-held breath. A light blinked on the telephone, but my rug was unsullied. My computer stood on the desk, beside it my open files of notes. What lay beyond, in the other rooms? My bedroom, for instance? Would I be able to sleep in a bed on which I had discovered a body?

  ‘Hullo?’ I shouted. The sort of foolish call a Damsel-in-Jeopardy might make approaching a deserted boathouse at midnight. Not Alex Quick, ex-copper, though. Pulling myself together, I marched through the rest of the flat, looking for telltale signs of intrusion, theft or murder. Nothing. I looked into closets, under beds, behind doors. Zilch.

  So much for premonitions.

  If my friend Sam Willoughby had been in town, I could have called him to come and have a nightcap with me.

  But he was off in New Zealand. And not contacting me, close friends though we were supposed to be. Too busy gallivanting around instead with a beautiful Antipodean.

  And jolly good luck to him was all I could say.

  FIVE

  Sandro Grainger lived in the kind of London apartment that a good number of people would have prostituted themselves for. The rooms smelled of fresh flowers, newly polished furniture and trust funds. Quite unsuitable for a twenty-five-year-old, in my Great-Aunt opinion. How was he ever going to face the slings and arrows if he started out on life’s journey from a residence as palatial as this one? But then, how many of either was this privileged scion of a rich and noble family ever likely to encounter?

  There were two long tables set, covered in white linen, one with bottles and glasses, the other with plates and cutlery and a pretty generous array of mouth-watering food.

  My parents were there, chatting away to Sandro’s. Maddalena was a cousin of my sister’s Italian husband, and had been introduced to Dominic through them. Dom was not only enormously rich, but I seemed to remember that he also farmed in an eccentric sort of way: alpacas, was it? Or ostriches? Something slightly offbeat.

  All four of them were gazing up at an Escher which I presumed was a print rather than an original – though there was no reason why I should make such an assumption, given the amount of money in the Grainger family – while my father, Edred, made expansive gestures of a mathematical kind. Maddalena seemed a little bemused by my father’s exchanges, which were apt to veer away from any conversational paths already being pursued and soar off into fantasies which no one but my mother, Mary, was (occasionally) able to follow.

  Sandro’s little gathering seemed have metamorphosed into a largish party. There were quite a few pretty girls with long, straight blonde hair hanging down on either side of their faces and perfect white teeth. Too perfect, in my opinion. I find the current trend for washday-white teeth looks unnatural and therefore off-putting. Obviously some of these girls must be the friends who were at Sandro’s dinner party in Venice. The same with some delightful young men possessed of both charm and good manners. Beneducato, indeed. And much too young for me, unfortunately, but a great pleasure to come across, nonetheless. Among the older generation, there were three or four of those terrifyingly chic women with artfully greying hair you could bounce rocks off, and husbands you instinctively wanted to.

  Sandro was on the other side of the room, talking to my brother, but when he saw me he excused himself and came straight over. ‘I’ll introduce you in a random sort of way,’ he said. ‘So nobody suspects why you’re here.’

  ‘I can’t see why they’d suspect anything at all,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t planning to slap a deerstalker on my head or start taking people’s fingerprints.’

  ‘Of course not.’ He produced an indulgent smile.

  ‘Do they even know you discovered the doge’s ring or the little Botticelli?’

  He writhed a bit. ‘Actually, I did tell Katy. She seemed to be the one least likely to be the thief.’

  My eyebrows lifted. ‘But not Suzy?’

  ‘Um … not yet.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ It looked as though he didn’t trust her. Not a good basis for a relationship.

  ‘Because I realized, after speaking to Katy, that it might be more – what’s the word? – diplomatic not to mention it to anyone else. By the way, my Uncle Cesare is in town and insisted on joining us tonight. When you meet him, you may realize why I am so worried about objets going missing from his appartamento.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Now, I must introduce you to some of the principal players in my little drama.’ He took my arm and led me – in a random way, of course – round the room. I met nearly all of the suspects. As I had guessed, three of the long-haired girls were respectively Suzy, Katy and Bianca. The fourth, Laura, was quite different, a raven-tressed, olive-skinned beauty with a surly mouth and unfriendly style. Heavy brows, shaped like wings, flared above her black eyes. We’ve all seen those unpleasant-looking, emaciated models at fashion shows from New York to Rome and back again: Laura fitted right in. She stalked grimly round the room, the epitome of every sullen female in mad shoes and clothes no one in their right minds would ever wear, let alone pay good money for, striding down international catwalks with zombie make-up and cheekbones you could slice cucumbers with. Whereas Laura wore black, the other three were in floaty floral dresses and expensive sandals with ribbons tied round their ankles instead of straps. They looked like clones. I could scarcely tell them apart. They exuded a kind of collective innocence which I guessed stemmed from never having had a life trauma to contend with. Not yet, at least. I wondered how any of them would react if a stone was chucked into the orderly pool of their existence.

  We chatted about this and that. Laura deigned to join us but didn’t speak, preferring to gaze aloofly towards the far end of the room. At an appropriate moment, I asked how they’d enjoyed Sandro’s last party, in Venice. No significant glances were exchanged. No one flushed a guilty red or tried to avoid my disingenuous gaze. They were enthusiastic.

  ‘My favourite city!’

  ‘Wish I had an uncle living there.’

  ‘Lucky Sandro.’

  ‘The Doge’s Palace – all that gilt plaster and those painted ceilings.’

  ‘Gorgeous!’

  The young men were all determinedly courteous, kindly taking time to talk to the older people in the room, including my parents, laughing at Edred’s excruciating jokes and asking intelligent questions of Mary. I didn’t take to Suzy Hartley Haywood’s brother, Tony, however. I could quite see why Sandro, albeit reluctantly, had nominated him as someone who might have stolen the Marchese’s family treasures. Grossly unfair, probably, but that’s what happens when a man won’t look you in the eye. Also one whose upper lip is raised in a perpetual slight sneer. Shiftiness is an unattractive trait, and this guy had it in spades. Even so, despite these disadvantages, there was no denying that Tony Hartley Haywood was extremely good looking. I wondered how many hearts he’d broken over the years.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met an ex-copper before,’ he said, after Sandro’s introduction. Smirking in a careless sort of way, I might add.

  ‘I bet you’ve met some serving ones,’ I said.

  He stared at me with hostility. Or, rather, not at me so much as at parts of me. Mostly my boobs. I stared right back, concentrating on his crotch area. Did he suspect that I knew the story of the stolen (though eventually returned) engagement ring? A very faint flush appeared in his cheeks for a moment. He laughed, as though he thought I’d been joking. ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘My parents are friends of Sandro’s parents,’ I said.

  ‘Which ones are they?’ As if he gave a toss.

  I indicated them. And then Herry. ‘So is my brother.’

  An expression approaching respect briefly illuminated his handsome face. ‘Hereward Quick is your brother?’

  ‘As it happens …’

  ‘Good Lord.’

  ‘You sound astonished.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘W
hy’s that?’

  ‘Oh, we’ve had … uh … dealings in the past.’

  Something cold finger-tipped the back of my neck. While I wouldn’t stake my life on it, I was pretty certain that any dealings this guy had with anyone at all would be on the shady side of legal. If Herry was mixed up with him, it could only be bad news. Hereward, my straight-arrow, white-bread brother … had he fallen in with a nest of vipers? Or a single adder, to be precise? I’d have to find out.

  The door opened. In blew a gale force ten, straight from the Arctic, via the frozen Russian steppes. The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. The newcomer was thin and sallow, very erect, with an eagle’s beak of a nose and greying black hair brushed back from his forehead to reveal eyes which – though I hate a cliché – could only be described as hooded. Like a bird of prey. Like a crocodile trying to decide which bit of its victim to crunch down on next. From Maddalena’s glad cries of greeting, I gathered that this was the Marchese Cesare Antonio de Farnese de Peron, her brother, Sandro’s uncle and indirectly the genesis of this gathering.

  I remembered Sandro’s shiver of apprehension and could sympathize. Fierce, he’d said. Cesare could be fierce … Looking at the man now as he haughtily surveyed the company, I believed him. Sandro seemed mesmerized by the sight of his uncle, like a stoat caught in the crossbeams of an owl’s attention. He glanced apprehensively round at his friends, checking that none of them had a sign hung round their neck announcing I STOLE THE DOGE’S RING. I’d heard somewhere that the Marchese had a long-term mistress in Venice and a second one in Rome. But looking at the woman standing beside him – presumably his wife, the Marchese Allegra – it was hard to blame him. It can’t have been a bundle of laughs to share a bed with such a package of skin-draped bones.

  He was a businessman, but also a diplomat. I supposed that such people are trained in the art of the poker face, the ability to give nothing away, the deadpan expression. This man was deadpan from top to bottom, inside and out.

  Maddalena saw me staring at him and tugged him over to introduce us. He bowed stiffly over my hand, murmured courtesies. Turned out he was a collector, in a small way, of contemporary North American artists. The arctic permafrost melted a little when I mentioned Walid Raad and Chuck Close. I also spoke of Rauschenberg, Lee Miller, Andy Warhol. He winced again. ‘What is your opinion of him?’

  ‘The man who flung a can of soup in the public’s face,’ I said. I swear he came close to smiling.

  I told him about my commission from Darren Carter and he even went so far as to suggest that if I ever found myself in Venice, I should rock up to his palazzo and enjoy a glass of prosecco with him and his wife, who nodded unenthusiastic agreement. And, incidentally, he added, cast a glance over some of his paintings. It went without saying that the eye would be expected to be an appreciative one. ‘I think you’ll like them.’ Despite the unspoken ‘or else’ behind his words, I expressed myself as delighted and grateful for such a unique opportunity. I wondered if I could get an article out of it. Venice’s Secret Treasures …

  Sandro appeared, holding a couple of plates of delicious bits and pieces. ‘Here, take this,’ he said, handing me one. Then he ushered me to one of two chairs set on either side of a small, marble-topped table which held a bronze statue of some bearded person with a trident in one hand and something fishy in the other. ‘Neptune taming a seahorse,’ I said. ‘Thought a rarity.’

  ‘It’s that, all right. At least, according to my English grandfather. It was a twenty-first birthday present from him.’

  ‘Not cast for him by Claus of Innsbruck, by any chance?’

  ‘No idea.’ Not picking up my Browning-esque literary reference, his face expressed concern. Was Alex losing it? Had she suddenly developed dementia? ‘Have some of these battered prawns,’ he said kindly. ‘Absolutely delicious. They make the batter with brandy.’ He crunched one down. ‘Have you met everyone? Of relevance, I mean.’

  ‘Apart from Fabio.’

  ‘Oh, sorry. I forgot to tell you that Fabio phoned from Milan yesterday afternoon to say something had come up and he wouldn’t be able to make it today.’

  Was that significant or suspicious in any way? Well, of course it might be. But equally it might not.

  ‘Now tell me, Alex,’ Sandro went on. ‘In your considered opinion, of the guys you’ve met, which one do you—’

  ‘Hang about,’ I said. ‘I haven’t even had time to form an opinion, let alone consider one.’

  ‘No intuitions? No hunches?’

  ‘Not even in crime novels do investigators rely on sixth senses. Not any more. The readers wouldn’t stand for it.’ I laughed aloud, until I saw he was wrinkle-browed serious. ‘No, Sandro. No gut feelings. Nothing came up and hit me between the eyes, I’m afraid. Except that I wouldn’t trust your girlfriend’s brother with my brush-combings. Want my advice, steer clear of any business deals with that one, for a start.’

  ‘Hmm …’ He nodded. ‘But other than that?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The truth was that apart from Tony Hartley Heywood, they had all seemed as clear and transparent as glass. Even Miss Sullen, the brooding model. ‘Mind you, I haven’t met Fabio yet.’

  ‘It can’t have been him … he spends nearly all his time in Milano.’

  ‘But you told me your friends are constantly popping back and forth between England and Italy.’

  ‘I know. But somehow I don’t feel …’ He turned his head away and surveyed the room. ‘I mean, if Fabio had stolen the painting, why come over to England to dispose of it?’

  ‘That’s easy. To divert suspicion, I’d imagine. Cover his tracks.’ I ate some of the stuff on my plate. All of it was absolutely delicious. I wanted more. Much more. ‘One thing I don’t understand … why not sell the doge’s ring? It must surely be a museum piece. Whoever took it in to the pawnshop can’t have got anything even close to what it’s worth.’

  ‘This had puzzled me also. But perhaps the depositor intended to come back as soon as possible to redeem it. Or perhaps just because it is a museum piece. There’d almost certainly be some adverse publicity.’

  ‘Someone temporarily embarrassed, as they say?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘It was taking a bit of a risk that the piece would have been sold before whoever deposited it came back to redeem it. As indeed it was.’

  ‘Luckily it was by me!’

  ‘And still no idea who might be responsible?’

  ‘I told you. As far as I know, none of them have any need to steal. Or pawn.’

  We both scrutinized the room. Standing by a porphyry column – God, how horrible, why would a young man like Sandro own such a thing? – was Katy Whatever and Uncle Cesare, discussing something in an energetic, not to say forceful manner. Probably art of some kind, I imagined, since he was a collector and she worked in a gallery. Near them, Jack and Harry Jago, the organic kings, were considering an asparagus spear in a thoughtful way. They were cheerful young men, as I had discovered when I chatted to them earlier. Hugely enthusiastic about their enterprise, too. ‘If we can get the necessary documentation, we want to add homemade jams and jellies to our catalogue,’ one of them had said. Jack, I think it was. The two of them were almost indistinguishable, with auburn-tinted hair and ruddy countryman’s cheeks.

  At the word ‘catalogue’, the other had produced as though from nowhere a booklet. ‘Never without one,’ he said.

  ‘Take a gander at that sometime,’ said his brother. ‘I think you’ll find it interesting.’

  Eating Naturally, it said on the front. There was a picture of a rustic basket full of vegetables on a red-checked tablecloth, with a sunny yellow bowl of wholesome brown eggs arranged artfully in front of it and a view of fields full of daisies in the distance. I stuck it into my shoulder bag. ‘I’m sure I shall. Tell me, does it cost a lot of money to set up something like this?’

  ‘Pretty much. Start-up money, that is.’

  ‘We were lucky,’ said
his brother. ‘We were gifted the land by our grandfather. The thing was what to do with it?’

  ‘Then we came up with the organic idea.’

  ‘And away we went.’

  ‘Drew up a business plan—’

  ‘With Sandro’s help.’

  ‘Cost sheets, feasibility studies, funding, publicity, all that.’

  ‘It’s worked out well.’

  ‘Millionaires in the making?’ I said.

  One of them raised reproving eyebrows at me. ‘Maybe it sounds naive—’

  ‘Or even untrue.’

  ‘But we didn’t go into it for the money.’

  ‘We’re happy enough just to make a decent living.’

  ‘With sufficient for a few extras, of course.’

  ‘Such as affording to get married.’

  They had explained that Jack (or possibly Harry) was tying the knot next month.

  I’d looked round. ‘Is the bride-to-be here?’

  The soon-to-be groom shook his head. ‘She’s gone to Barcelona with some mates.’

  ‘Sort of an early hen party,’ explained his brother.

  ‘So she’s not part of this crowd?’

  ‘God, no.’ The two brothers looked at each other and laughed. ‘Christ, no.’

  ‘But you were all in Venice for Sandro’s party.’

  ‘That was different.’

  I couldn’t pursue our conversation further because I had just noticed my mother looking at me, and went over to join her.

  Now, chomping on my last prawn, I said to Sandro, ‘I hadn’t realized that you were involved in Eating Naturally. The Jago brothers’ enterprise, I mean.’

  ‘It was only to a limited degree. And only until they got going.’

  ‘Nonetheless …’ Leave a sentence unfinished and I’ve often found that people rise like a fish snapping at a fly to complete it, often in ways I couldn’t have imagined. Sandro didn’t.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said vaguely. He stood. ‘I’d better go and circulate a bit more.’ He hesitated, looking down at me. ‘I saw you talking to my uncle earlier.’