Out of the Night

by Dan Latus

  18

  Aloaf of bread had gone. I’d had two in the freezer. Now I had one. Possibly a pack of cheddar cheese, as well – I wasn’t certain I hadn’t eaten it. A bag of Brazil nuts had disappeared, and a bag of sultanas. Those I was sure about. They had been where I kept my cereal packets, alongside the muesli. My stock of tins seemed to be down a bit, as well. Sardines mostly, I thought. Other things, too. Something here; something there. Not a lot – but enough.

  I checked around the house and smiled with satisfaction when I looked at the little kitchen window. The wedge of cardboard that stopped the window catch closing fully was still there, but its position was not the same. Someone had moved it, and it hadn’t been me. Now I thought about it, it probably hadn’t been me who had put it there in the first place. I couldn’t recall that window rattling much.

  So I made a cup of coffee, and sat and thought. Only food had been taken, and not much of it. Probably a bottle or two of water, as well, if I checked. Survival essentials.

  I smiled happily. She was alive!

  I walked over to Jimmy’s place to see if he was all right and to tell him the good news. The cottage was in darkness. He’d obviously taken himself off to an early bed. I smiled and retreated. My news could wait until the morning.

  The message recorder was flashing when I opened my front door. Again! I shook my head and pressed the button.

  ‘Jac Picknett here, Frank. Would you mind giving me a call when it’s convenient?’

  I wondered what this was about, and hoped I hadn’t lost her business. Maybe the locals had decided to pre-empt the planned new security system? With a sigh I picked up the phone.

  ‘Hello, Frank. I’m sorry to have called you so late.’

  ‘That’s all right. It’s not my bedtime yet.’

  I heard her smile.

  ‘So what’s happened, Jac? A break-in?’

  ‘No, no! Nothing like that. I just thought I would let you know I can’t find anything at all about the Meridion House Art Centre.’

  I began to relax.

  ‘It’s peculiar. Especially if they’ve been there a year, or so. Whatever they do, they need publicity. At the very least, surely they need to let the world know they’re up and running? But I can’t find any mention of them at all in any of the catalogues, or on the net either.’

  ‘Maybe they’re not a business?’ I suggested.

  She chuckled. ‘Well, if they’re not open to the public and they’re not a business, what are they? Why would they call themselves an art centre?’

  It was a good question, one that had me flummoxed as well.

  ‘Is that why you rang?’ I asked. ‘To tell me that?’

  ‘Yes.’ She paused and then said, ‘I’m sorry. I thought you would want to know.’

  ‘I was worried to death! I thought you were ringing to say your gallery had been broken into, and all your paintings had been nicked.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Actually,’ I added, ‘this is good timing. While I was out this evening someone who says he owns Meridion House, a Mr Borovsky, rang up and left a message. He reiterated that it’s not open to the public, but in the interests of good relations with his neighbours he’s invited me to go and see him in the morning. He’ll show me around.’

  ‘Oh? How interesting.’

  ‘Isn’t it? I thought I would take him up on it. Do you fancy coming with me? And casting an expert eye over things?’

  ‘Me?’ She thought for a moment and then said, ‘I’d love to. What time?’

  I told her.

  It was settled.

  Afterwards, I smiled with satisfaction. It could be useful to have an expert alongside me. Besides, I had been looking forward to seeing Jac Picknett again, and I didn’t mind at all if it was sooner than I had expected.

  19

  Jac arrived at Risky Point just after 8.30 a.m. I went outside to greet her.

  She got out, smiled across at me and then spent a moment looking around at the view. ‘How wonderful!’ she called, waving both arms expansively.

  ‘Good morning!’ I told her happily, always pleased to see someone glad to be here. ‘No navigation problems?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not one. You’re good at instructions.’

  I hoped that wasn’t a barbed comment and invited her in for coffee.

  ‘Do we have time?’

  ‘Plenty. Come on in.’

  She seemed as interested in the interior of my cottage as she had been in the exterior. ‘Have you lived here long?’ she asked.

  ‘A few years. I inherited the cottage and since then I’ve spent a large part of my life and fortune fixing it up. Sometimes I’ve wondered if the sea would claim it before the work was finished.’

  ‘You are a bit close to the edge, aren’t you.’

  ‘And the edge creeps closer every year.’

  ‘I hope it stops soon. You’ve done such a good job,’ she said admiringly. ‘And it’s such a wonderful location.’

  ‘You’re my kind of visitor,’ I told her.

  I made the coffee. We sat round the kitchen table with it and discussed tactics.

  ‘If the objective is to find out what they do at this place,’ Jac said, ‘it might be best if I just go along as your companion.’

  ‘And not declare your special knowledge, you mean?’

  She nodded. ‘It might make them overly defensive.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve suggested that. I was thinking along the same lines.’

  What I didn’t tell her was that I had a slightly different agenda. I wanted to see if that damned blue car was there, as well as see what Meridion House was about.

  Plus, of course, I wanted to know more about the links between the art centre, the boat and the tunnel, as well as about this man Borovsky.

  There was also Bill Peart’s warning to fit into the mix. National security? Something was going on, and I wanted to know what it was. For the moment, the girl who had come out of the night to my door could wait; she had enough of my food to keep her going for a while.

  Jac was right, though. This Borovsky guy would likely be on the defensive if he thought he was being looked over by an art gallery owner. In fact, he might not even be prepared to let us in if he knew who Jac was.

  ‘Is this an old fisherman’s cottage?’ Jac asked as we went out to my Land Rover.

  ‘No. The other one is, but this was an ironstone miner’s cottage. There were a few of them here until the cliff receded, and they went with it.’

  I waved at Jimmy, who had come out of his front door to see what all the fuss was about.

  ‘The old guy over there, is a fisherman. Or he was. Doesn’t do much these days, but he’s the end of a long family line of fishermen. Mostly,’ I added, ‘he watches out for me these days.’

  Jac laughed and gave him a wave. Jimmy raised a hand in acknowledgement.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Mack, Jimmy Mack. He’s just come out of hospital,’ I added. ‘So now we look after each other.’

  ‘You can’t have much to do,’ Jac said, ‘in a tranquil place like this.’

  I just grinned and ushered her into the Land Rover.

  ‘How exciting!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve never been in one of these before.’

  I winced and hoped I could get it started.

  Meridion House appeared in my sights once again. So did the same gatekeeper. This time, though, he raised the barrier and nodded me through.

  Jac looked thoughtful. ‘A barrier?’ she said with surprise. ‘We don’t have anything like that outside my gallery.’

  ‘You don’t want it either,’ I told her. ‘Nor any barbed wire or landmines.’

  ‘You’re the expert,’ she said with a grin.

  I parked on the gravelled forecourt alongside a couple of very big BMWs that looked as if they had been valeted recently. By the time we had climbed out, a smartly suited young man had appeared to guide us into the house.

  From a sp
acious hallway, we walked down a long corridor lined with large oil paintings of what looked to me like biblical scenes. Old Masters, I supposed. I was impressed. On the thick carpet our feet didn’t make a sound. All I could hear, in fact, was the gentle hum of the air conditioning – climate control system, I should say.

  Borovsky was waiting for us in a large modern office full of light, and with an expansive view over fields populated by sheep and a few cattle. Meridion House, I realized belatedly, must be the heart of a large farm estate, as well as being some sort of art centre.

  Our host, a middle-aged, heavy-set man, stood up and came round to meet us with a big smile illuminating his features. ‘Mr Doy!’ he exclaimed. ‘And your delightful companion. Welcome to Meridion House.’

  I shook hands with him. ‘My friend, Miss Turnbull,’ I told him, as he turned back to Jac with a look of inquiry.

  I hoped she didn’t mind the subterfuge. A search on the web might have brought our welcome to an end very quickly if I had given Jac’s real name.

  ‘Enchanted,’ Borovsky assured her.

  She simpered back at him, to my disgust. Already I didn’t like the man.

  He sat us down and asked our guide to arrange coffee. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I understand you would like to know something of what we do here at Meridion House?’

  ‘Very much. It’s just natural curiosity,’ I told him. ‘Someone surprised me the other day, saying there was an art centre here. I live nearby, up at Risky Point, but I hadn’t even heard of it.’

  He shrugged apologetically. ‘Security, I’m afraid. We have some very valuable artwork here. So I had a choice. I could fortify Meridion House as if it was the Louvre or I could keep things quiet and simple. I chose the latter course, partly because that is more in my nature but also because I never intended this to be a public gallery. We don’t want lots of visitors here. That is not what we are about.’

  ‘It’s a lovely old house, Mr Borovsky,’ Jac said diplomatically. ‘I think you made the right choice.’

  He inclined his head gracefully.

  I wondered about his origins. He was some sort of European, obviously, but was he really Russian? I should have asked Bill Peart if he could confirm what the dog walker on the beach had told me.

  ‘What is it you do here?’ Jac added. ‘What is your purpose? Is it to hold and protect a private collection?’

  ‘No, no. I am fortunate enough to have a wonderful collection, I admit, but my main purpose is to train a new generation of painters of excellence. Basically, Miss Turnbull, this is an art school, a private training facility.’

  ‘Oh?’ she said with apparent surprise.

  I decided to intervene before she said anything to suggest prior knowledge – or she asked to see his teaching certificate.

  ‘So, you have students here?’

  ‘We do. We have students. Not many, perhaps. Not like the big art schools. But that is because we pursue excellence. Only the very best of the best young artists are invited here.’

  He rattled on a bit about how wonderful and extraordinarily gifted his students were while we sipped our coffee.

  ‘Where do your students come from?’ I asked him.

  ‘Far and wide,’ he assured me. ‘Wherever my scouts identify true talent.’

  ‘Abroad even?’

  ‘Most certainly. Yes, we do have foreign students.’

  It was news to me. I hadn’t heard of any foreign students coming to stay in the area. Mind you, that wasn’t so surprising. I hadn’t even heard of Meridion House being an art centre until the other day.

  But the information chimed with something Jimmy Mack had said. He had muttered about foreigners in the vicinity. Perhaps they were some of Borovsky’s students.

  ‘Some from your own country, perhaps?’ I heard Jac ask gently.

  He chuckled. ‘My own country, Miss Turnbull? What is my own country? Please tell me. I would like to know.’

  Wisely, Jac just shrugged. I held my breath, wondering if hers was a question too far.

  ‘I will tell you what I know,’ Borovsky said with apparent good humour. ‘I was born in what is now Moldova, one parent Romanian and the other Ukrainian. My father was Jewish. I grew up in Russia. For many years I lived in the United States. Now I live here some of the time, or aboard my yacht. If ever I had a country, it was the Soviet Union. But that no longer exists. So what is my country now?’

  That sounded like a good question. I could understand his dilemma.

  ‘How extraordinary!’ Jac said, her face registering astonishment. ‘You are indeed a citizen of the world.’

  Borovsky laughed. I relaxed. He wasn’t bothered by her question. He was secure in his status and standing, and confident about it.

  ‘The world is more complicated now than when I was born, Miss Turnbull.’

  He glanced at his watch and added, ‘I wonder if you would like me to show you around Meridion House now?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ I said quickly, before he changed his mind.

  He took us through a couple of studios where three or four young people were working at easels. One looked Chinese. The others could have been from anywhere in Europe. They declined to be interrupted. We passed by quietly.

  Then he showed us a few paintings in his collection. They were housed in a very discreet gallery in the secure heart of the house. I could tell Jac was fascinated, and perhaps envious.

  That was it. He announced then that he had an appointment to keep and was sorry he couldn’t spare us more time, but he hoped we had found our visit interesting.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Jac said with enthusiasm. ‘It’s wonderful what you are doing here. I never dreamt there was such a place.’

  I added my own thanks, careful not to overdo it. I knew nothing about art, I told him sincerely, but I, too, admired what he was doing here.

  Once again, he inclined his head gracefully and smiled at our appreciation. Then he personally led us outside to the Land Rover, which he looked at with interest.

  ‘I restored it myself,’ I told him. ‘This is my “Old Master”.’

  He laughed and congratulated me. ‘Such a good job you have done, Mr Doy. It reminds me of my army days!’

  We shook hands.

  Just before I climbed into the vehicle, my pulse began to race. A blue Passat was now parked on the other side of the BMWs. I took a step back and looked at the rear wheel. A mudflap was missing.

  ‘It looks like you have more visitors,’ I said as easily as I could manage.

  Borovsky turned, looked at the car and said, ‘No, not visitors. They are men who are doing some maintenance work here.’ He shrugged and added, ‘I must remind them to park at the back of the house. Only visitors are supposed to park here.’

  He waved us away as I set off towards the exit.

  ‘In a word?’ I said, after we had safely passed the barrier and the man in his gatehouse.

  ‘In a word,’ Jac said decisively, ‘he’s a phoney.’

  I nodded with satisfaction.

  20

  Back at Risky Point, I led the way inside and we sat down again. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Explain yourself. Let’s hear what you learned from that visit.’

  Jac shrugged. ‘I don’t know what he’s up to, of course, but nothing he told us makes much sense. You can’t just run a private art school. Not unless all your students are royalty from somewhere like Saudia Arabia, and money’s not a problem for them – and you’re so private you don’t need licensing. As for scouting the world for extraordinary young talent, well … that’s just nonsense.

  ‘Also,’ she added, ‘at least some of his Old Masters are fakes, whether he knows it or not.’

  ‘Really?’ I was surprised by her certainty. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Do you recall that Rembrandt he’s so proud of? Well, the real one is in the Hermitage in St Petersburg. I saw it there last year.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ve sold it?’

  ‘The Hermitage?’ She chuc
kled and shook her head. ‘No way! Some of the others were fakes, too. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Not stolen?’

  ‘Well…. It’s funny you should say that.’

  ‘I’ll make some coffee,’ I said.

  ‘So what’s he doing?’ I murmured reflectively.

  Jac sipped her coffee and shook her head. ‘No idea, but it’s an interesting question.’

  ‘Maybe he’s just running art holidays for rich foreigners?’ I suggested. ‘You know – come and paint with us on the beautiful North Yorkshire coast! Bed and breakfast, and jacuzzis in every room.’

  ‘It’s possible, but in that case you would expect them to publicize what they’re doing, wouldn’t you? They would have to do some marketing.’

  ‘Probably. Unless Meridion House is so select they don’t need to. Or they don’t need the money. Borovsky has a big yacht as well, moored at the jetty in Port Holland.’

  ‘Has he now?’ She fluttered her eyelids. ‘My kind of guy!’

  I smiled, thinking Jac would look perfectly at home on a big yacht. She was made for it.

  She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m sorry, Frank. I must leave you. I have an appointment I must keep. But it’s been an interesting morning. Thank you for inviting me.’

  ‘Thanks for coming. You’ve given me a lot to think about.’

  She smiled. ‘You must visit me sometime.’

  ‘I’d like that. Where do you live?’

  ‘Redcar. Like your friend Jimmy, I’m at the end of a long line of fisher folk. He’ll know my father and grandfather, as well as a lot of others in the family. The Picknetts are true Redcar people, and an old fishing family.’

  ‘Not artists?’

  ‘Fisher folk,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m the black sheep of the family.’

  She brushed my cheek with her lips and left. I was sorry to see her go.

  If she’d stayed longer, I reflected, I might have told her about the girl. I might even have wondered aloud if the girl was in any way connected to Meridion House and the national security issue. But that would probably have been a mistake. I had no wish to get Jac into trouble with Bill Peart, or with anyone else. Best to keep such thoughts to myself. So, on balance, it was a good thing she had left.