Out of the Night

by Dan Latus

  ‘Fuck you!’

  That was the best I could manage. The phone went dead. I scowled at it. Nice!

  Perversely, though, on reflection I was almost pleased. It meant they were still around, and it meant that for some reason I worried them. They were going to be a hell of a lot more worried when I caught up with them.

  I got up and did the rounds, checking doors and windows, before I went to bed. Second nature. Old habits. The small window in the kitchen was not properly shut. A slim wedge of cardboard that I must have jammed in to stop it rattling was the reason. I left it. If the wind got up again I would regret taking it out.

  That was it. Everything was back to normal. More or less. Well, that was one way of looking at it.

  14

  Especially after that phone call, I couldn’t get the blue car out of my mind. I had seen such a car entering the grounds of the art centre, but was it the one with the missing mudflap?

  There was only one place to start looking, if I was going to find out. So the next morning I set off for Meridion House soon after breakfast. First, I had to scrape ice off the windscreen. The weather had changed. It was a lot colder now but the wind had died down, the rain and sleet had stopped and it was a pleasantly bright day.

  The entrance to the Meridion House estate was very grand. You drove between two huge sandstone pillars and beneath a wrought-iron arch that spanned them. Then you followed a drive that wound its way through a patch of stunted and distorted Scots pine that must have been planted when the house was built. No doubt the original idea was to have elegant mature trees lining the drive, but it hadn’t worked out. The wind off the North Sea had seen to that.

  It was a short drive. Just a couple of hundred yards. When I rounded the final bend I came to a little hut and a barrier that would go up and down when the man in the hut at the side of the road pressed a button. I was surprised. You couldn’t see any of this from the road. Now I was alerted, I glanced to either side and saw a two-foot high fence of heavy-duty timber piling that would stop anything but a main battle tank. I guessed it ran all the way around the house and its immediate environs. I was impressed. Nobody was going to force their way in here.

  I stopped and wound my window down. The gatekeeper came out to see me.

  ‘Good morning!’ I said brightly.

  ‘Good morning, sir. Do you have business here?’

  ‘I do, yes. Frank Doy. I live at Risky Point.’

  He gave me a cool, alert look. ‘I don’t believe you’ve been here before?’

  ‘No, that’s right. I haven’t.’

  ‘Are we expecting you, Mr Doy?’

  ‘No. I don’t have an appointment.’

  ‘Then I can’t admit you. Sorry.’

  ‘You can’t admit me?’ I frowned at him. ‘This is an art centre, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. But it’s not open to the public.’

  ‘A private art centre? I see. Who’s the owner?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

  ‘Do you have any information about the place, and what it has to offer?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  This was becoming bizarre. What kind of art centre was it? OK. One last try.

  ‘Perhaps you can tell me how I can find information – and how to get an appointment?’

  ‘If you phone this number,’ he said, pulling a business card from his pocket, ‘I’m sure someone will be able to help you.’

  ‘There’s no one here at the moment who could help me?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, no.’

  I smiled sceptically and shook my head. Then I began a three-point turn, while he stood and watched. Once again, I thought, impressive security.

  Back on the main road, I stopped in an unofficial lay-by from where I could watch the entrance to Meridion House. I switched off the engine and prepared to wait.

  I was surprised and a little confused by my reception. It didn’t seem right. I’d never heard of a secret art centre!

  I studied the business card the gatekeeper had given me: ‘Meridion House Art Centre’. There was a phone number and small print said they provided training for young artists. So, an art college? A private one? Very private, it seemed.

  The card told me nothing else. The minimal information provided was, perhaps, intended simply to stop people wondering what Meridion House was. Again, I thought, quite clever. If there had been no information at all, public curiosity might have been unbounded.

  I wondered if young artists needed quite so much security and privacy, but I didn’t get very far with that one. Perhaps the youngsters were all from countries where people like themselves lived in golden palaces behind high walls that kept out the great unwashed. That would fit in with Jimmy Mack’s oblique reference to foreigners.

  I shrugged, and waited.

  I waited the best part of an hour. Nobody came in or out in that time, and it was cold. I was cold. Running the engine for a few minutes every once in a while didn’t do much to warm me up. I gave it up as a bad job and quit.

  While I was in the vicinity, I drove into Port Holland, parked and set off to look around once more. The village itself wasn’t much. Just a few terraced streets of modest cottages built originally for the workers and their families. The fine boat tied up at the jetty was the star. And pretty incongruous it looked. As I studied it, a couple of men came from below deck and began sweeping and polishing.

  On such a cold, sunny morning the North Sea actually looked blue, and dangerously inviting. I made my way down the rough path to the beach, and thought once more what a mess it all was. It was a working beach, not one for holiday-makers. Broken concrete. Piles of washed-up kelp. Patches of sand and shingle. Swathes of big boulders. A few cobles, the property of men who still fished. A dozen or more fishermen’s huts, most improvised from spare parts and rubbish, and collectively looking as unsightly as any scrapyard.

  I couldn’t help wondering if a man with a boat as big and fine as the one at the jetty couldn’t have found a more decorous environment. It was handy for his house, I supposed, but still…. Millionaires, or billionaires, often had both yachts and houses in beautiful places, not junkyards. What was wrong with Palma or Montenegro? Either would be perfect for a private art centre, as well as for a boat like this one. Perhaps the man just liked ugly.

  Still, the huts caught your eye. They were interesting. I wandered between them. Some had windows and some had mere openings, but in both cases wooden shutters, proof against the weather, prevented anyone looking inside. Not that I needed to look inside. I knew some were storage sheds for nets and lobster pots, and for spare parts and tools for the tractors and boat engines. Others could be stayed in overnight, or for a day or two. Some of the latter would be well equipped, while others would just be empty spaces and bare floors. Fishermen were like everyone else. Not all of them would want a home from home.

  A little way above the beach was the blocked-up entrance to the tunnel that was the reason for the jetty in the first place. It was built for the shipment of iron ore brought from a nineteenth-century mine some four miles inland.

  There were other tunnels in the cliffs along this coast, some to facilitate the extraction of ironstone and others from the days when alum shale was mined. For over two hundred years the production of alum for textiles had been a major industry in Cleveland, and the spoil heaps you could still see in a number of places were their legacy.

  As my eyes ranged along the cliff face, they picked out another tunnel entrance, one I hadn’t noticed or known about before. This one seemed to be in use, judging by the well-kept, heavy-duty steel door that covered it.

  I spoke about it to a man who was walking his dog along the beach.

  ‘Yes, it’s an old tunnel,’ he agreed, ‘but I couldn’t tell you what it was for. We never knew it was there till this lot uncovered it, and claimed it. Bloody Russians!’ He nodded at the boat alongside the jetty.

  ‘Is that what they are? Russians?’

&nbs
p; ‘The bloke that owns the boat, Meridion, is. He bought Meridion House, as well. God knows what he wants with it. It’s a mouldy old dump.’

  ‘What do they use the tunnel for?’

  ‘It’s just a storage shed, apparently. They keep spare gear for the boat there. So they say, anyway. I haven’t seen inside, myself.’

  ‘Does the tunnel go anywhere?’

  ‘It must have done at one time. That’s quality stonework around the entrance. It won’t go anywhere now, though. Either it’ll have been filled in or, more likely, it will have collapsed.’

  I nodded and let him go on his way. He was probably right – about everything. On the other hand, he might not be. If he’d told me the tunnel led to Meridion House I wouldn’t have been astonished.

  I wondered if Bill Peart knew about all this. It didn’t take a lot of imagination to think coming into possession of an old tunnel leading down to a jetty could be useful to all sorts of people. It could even explain why someone with an oligarch’s boat and an art centre had bought into a dump like this.

  I turned to watch some new activity on the jetty. Newcomers were loading heavy items onto the boat. The rear end had opened up like a car ferry, and they were rolling their stuff inside on trolleys. Very simple and easy. I wondered what the cargo was, but from a distance the wooden crates gave nothing away.

  I glanced at my watch and realized time was running out on me. I had less than an hour to get to Middlesbrough for my appointment with Jac Picknett. I’d better get back to the house first.

  Bill Peart was still on my mind. As I was debating whether to phone him before I set off, the man himself arrived.

  ‘If you want coffee,’ I told him, ‘we’ll have to be quick. I’m on my way out.’

  ‘Suits me,’ he said stiffly. ‘I’m a busy man.’

  I switched the kettle on, reached for the mugs and said over my shoulder, ‘Have you heard of a place called Meridion House?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘A mile or so outside Port Holland? That’s where I’ve been this morning.’

  He looked up, a calculating look in his eye. ‘Why is that, I wonder?’

  I ignored his sad attempt at clever humour.

  ‘It’s a strange place, and a bit of a mystery. Supposed to be an art centre. Owned by some Russian. At least, I was told that’s what he is. He’s the guy with the big boat in Port Holland, as well.’

  ‘The Meridion?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Another one with more money than sense. He should have bought a football club, like the rest of them.’

  ‘You’ve been talking to Jimmy Mack,’ I said with a grin. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Bill, but there’s a lot of old tunnels along this coast. They date back to the days of mining.’

  ‘That right?’

  ‘I’ve been having a look around the beach at Port Holland. There’s a couple there – one I knew about. It connected to the Old Park ironstone mine. It’s blocked off now, of course.

  ‘But I saw one today I wasn’t aware of. It’s in use, as well. The guy that owns the big boat has had it uncovered, and he uses it as a sort of boat shed. So I’m told. Might be worth looking into?’

  ‘Why ever would I want to do that?’

  ‘Big house, tunnels, a Russian with a big boat? It’s not hard to imagine all sorts of reasons.’

  Bill chuckled. ‘You want me to see what I can find out?’

  ‘It might be an idea. It’s an unusual situation.’

  ‘Aye, well.’ He yawned and stretched. ‘Let’s solve these murders first.’

  I made no further comment. Let him work it out for himself.

  Bill finished his coffee quickly and got up to leave. ‘Nothing more from your side?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Just Meridion House. I’d already mentioned that. It might be something, or it might be nothing, but my mind was easier knowing that Bill had it on his to-do list. It would be less difficult for him to look into than it would be for me. Besides, I couldn’t do everything. It was time he did some digging himself.

  15

  Ifound The Cleveland Contemporary Art Gallery with a few minutes to spare. It was in an old building, once the offices for a trolley bus depot. The conversion, presumably by Jac Picknett, wouldn’t have been cheap. Perhaps that was why she couldn’t afford top-of-the-range security and had come to see me instead.

  I walked round the outside first, sizing up the job. I began by assuming the existing security was next-to-nothing. There was a lot of glass in the revamped building and I wondered if any of it was extra special. It didn’t look it. Just toughened glass, with window locks a child of ten could break. Maybe a child of eight, given that we were in the centre of Middlesbrough.

  The interior was pleasant enough, and suitably atmospheric. It looked, in fact, like my idea of an art gallery. Plain walls with lights illuminating a handful of paintings. Plush red carpet. A man in uniform who opened the door for me. A smart-looking young woman behind a big reception desk. A couple of possible clients, or more likely window shoppers, eyeing a small bronze of a skating woman in Victorian garb, long skirt and coat flowing behind her as she held on to a bonnet with one hand.

  ‘Yes, Mr Doy,’ the receptionist said with a welcoming smile. ‘Ms Picknett is expecting you. George will show you the way.’

  She beckoned the doorman, who seemed glad to have something different to do. He nodded, gave me a quick smile and gravely led the way down a corridor and up some stairs.

  Jac greeted me in a friendly, if rather formal, way. She even seemed pleased to see me.

  ‘Mr Doy,’ she said, rising from behind her desk. ‘How good of you to come.’

  ‘We did arrange to meet.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘At this time, too.’

  ‘Yes, of course we did. I was expecting you. Would you like coffee?’

  ‘Later, if you don’t mind. I’d prefer to make a start.’

  ‘Of course. How would it be if I gave you a quick whistle-stop tour? It won’t take long. Then I can leave you to do what you need to do.’

  ‘Sounds good. It’s Frank, by the way,’ I said with a smile.

  She inclined her head graciously. ‘Frank.’

  ‘And it’s good to see you again. Did I say that already?’

  ‘I don’t think you did, no. But thank you. I feel the same way.’

  So we were off to a good start. That’s always promising with a new client. It saves a lot of hassle.

  The tour didn’t take long. She was right about that. The gallery was a nice place, but small. How could it be anything else without some mega corporation behind it?

  ‘Mostly, we show paintings by modestly known artists that we know will sell,’ Jac began as we set off down a long, narrow room that had once probably been a corridor. ‘We are a business, after all,’ she added.

  I nodded. Then I paused to look at a nice watercolour of a stretch of the Cleveland coast.

  ‘That’s not far from where I live,’ I told her.

  ‘Really? Lucky you!’

  She smiled a melting smile that endeared her to me, and turned away again. I happily followed her long, straight back as she smoothed her way gracefully across the carpet. It was then that I realized how extraordinarily slim she was. I could have circled the waistband of her black skirt with my hands. Not the white blouse above, though; she was well built in that way.

  We moved on to enter a larger room that was given over to seascapes in oil.

  ‘We do well with these, too,’ she said. ‘The Northeast is still a sea-faring region at heart.’

  ‘Gifts for retired master mariners?’

  She laughed. ‘Probably. Or modern yachting enthusiasts. Whereabouts on the coast do you live, by the way?’

  I told her.

  ‘Nice,’ she said, shaking her head judiciously. ‘Rather wild?’

  ‘Oh, yes. You have to hold on to your hat most days.’

  She seemed to like that, as
well.

  We entered a large room that did its best to knock you out. I stared with surprise at the extravagantly lurid canvases that dominated all the walls. Vivid yellows, empowering pinks, raging reds, and maelstrom blues. That just about summed it up.

  ‘Your acrylics section?’ I suggested.

  Jac laughed again. ‘It seems that way, doesn’t it? These are all by young local artists from the college. I like to showcase some of their work.’

  ‘And is this what young artists like to do these days?’

  ‘Those that like to paint at all seem to, at the moment. Those, that is, who are not busy creating sensory experiences in other media, or trying to shock us all with political comment.’

  ‘Well, that’s enough for me. I forgot to bring my sunglasses.’

  I wondered if she would laugh again, and she did. It was a soft, tinkling sound that was a sensory experience in its own right.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ she said. ‘Come and rejoin me when you’re through. We’ll have that coffee – if you have time?’

  Oh, yes. I was sure I would have the time. Apart from anything else, I was getting to like Jac Picknett more every minute I spent with her.

  It didn’t take me long to work out, on a rough basis, a reasonable package for the gallery. It wasn’t the Tate or the Louvre, after all. Jac didn’t need, and probably couldn’t afford, state-of-the-art security. She just wanted a sensible package. I could set that up for her.

  The package would include well-positioned CCTV cameras and monitors, good locks on internal as well as external doors, internal sensors and alarms and a lot of common-sense precautions that experience had demonstrated were as effective as anything.

  ‘What’s the damage?’ Jac asked when I returned to her office.

  I told her in ballpark terms.

  ‘That’s a lot better than I feared. Are you sure?’