God, they were all so damn touchy.
‘I came here because I heard Derek Gibson was one of the best, but if you refuse to help…’ Linc got to his feet.
Gibson sat erect and lifted his chin. ‘I said no such thing. And for your information, I am the best.’
There was nothing wrong with this man’s ego, but when you were built like a bantam perhaps you needed cocksure arrogance. Linc retook his seat and slid the folder across the desk.
Gibson kept his hands clasped, but flicked his gaze to the folder. ‘If the newscasts are to be believed, the old man had his medals stolen. I don’t handle wartime memorabilia, so I fail to see how I can be of help.’
‘It wasn’t just his medals they took. He also had a mid-eighteenth-century mantel clock. According to his neighbour, someone had offered him a considerable sum for it only a few weeks ago.’
‘I still don’t see—’
‘Has anyone offered it to you for sale?’
Gibson snorted. ‘They wouldn’t dare.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s well known that before I purchase anything, I check it against various registers, interstate dealer sites and the Interpol database.’
‘How likely is it you would come across something listed by Interpol?’
‘A man can’t be too careful.’
‘That must be time consuming.’
‘Time is irrelevant. The slightest whisper of anything untoward can ruin a reputation.’
‘And reputation is everything?’
‘Exactly.’
‘There must be many times when someone brings in an object they’ve inherited, or unearthed in a flea market. Those items wouldn’t be listed on international databases, would they?’
‘One becomes adept at reading people as well as objects, Mr Drummond. Surely it is the same in your profession.’
Certainly that was true, but they weren’t here to discuss the finer points of policing. ‘And when does provenance come into play?’
‘I’ll lay it out for you, shall I?’ Gibson resumed his air of superior intellect. ‘First, I assess the person. Second, I assess the object—for marks, flaws or anything that might suggest it is not what it purports to be. Then I ask for provenance—proof of purchase usually, but artworks will often have a sticker or stamp of the original seller or a restorer on the frame. Then I check it against the various databases. I might, occasionally, be troubled enough to put out a few feelers among my contacts. Does that answer your questions?’
Linc pointed at the folder that lay ignored on Gibson’s desk. ‘In there are photos and descriptions of some of the items stolen during the home invasions.’
Gibson didn’t even glance at it but held Linc’s gaze and tried to stare him down. It was as if he’d already wiped it from his mind.
‘It is in your own interest, Mr Gibson.’
‘I don’t see how. These kids are hardly likely to come to me. I’m not a pawnbroker. You’d do better to go bother that lot at Cash Converters.’
Linc wanted to reach across the ornate desk and throttle the arrogance from the man, but he was a police officer, a professional. He couldn’t let this man’s snippy remarks wind him up. Yet it wouldn’t hurt to shake some of that conceit from his tweed-covered bones.
‘These robberies,’ he said, ‘are targeting privately owned antiques.’
For a moment, Gibson dropped the cocky sneer, but it reasserted itself as he sat back and clasped his hands over his waistcoat. ‘Impossible.’
‘I’d like you to look through the folder. See if any bells ring.’
‘And why would they ring with me?’
‘Perhaps they won’t.’
‘But you want me to waste my time?’
‘I thought time was irrelevant.’
With a tut of annoyance, Gibson snatched up the folder and flicked through the plastic sleeves. His dealer’s enthusiasm soon surfaced and he bombarded Linc with rhetorical questions punctuated by statements that he’d give up a body part or sell a relative to own such-and-such.
Linc scrutinised the bantam as he rhapsodised. Suspicion was a natural reflex when an apparently innocent man got so uptight over so little, yet Gibson did nothing to indicate he’d handled any of the goods. When he stopped talking to read one of the more convoluted descriptions, the shop took on the kind of hush that made Linc’s ears sing. No clocks ticked. No radio murmured in the background. Occasionally a car would pass, but that too seemed muffled. The silence was a counterpoint to the crowd of chiffoniers, tables, chairs, figurines and the small collection of artwork that badly needed the attentions of a restoration expert. Set in the back wall was a heavy steel security door.
Gibson cleared his throat and tapped the image of a gilded, multi-branched candelabra set into a large pink vase decorated with a vignette identified as Sleeping girl and Pan. ‘One of a pair as I recall. I sold them in 2003 to a Sydney couple, the Pearsons.’
Linc pulled the folder closer and read what was written beneath the image: Napoleon III. Second Empire Sevres and ormolu candelabra. Circa 1860. Value: $12,000. The police report claimed the candelabra had been stolen from a local man named Andrews.
‘You are certain this is one of the pair you sold to the Pearsons?’
‘Positive.’
‘If it had been sold on, would you know about it?’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘How?’
The dealer lifted one eyebrow and pursed his lips, trying for silent ridicule of a half-wit. Linc waited him out, intrigued to see how long the guy could keep it up, but weariness dragged at his eyelids. As a distraction he thought about Slab Carlson.
Constable Dubois had kept him up with her progress with the autopsy reports on Carlson’s mother and her boyfriend, and when he got back to the station he’d follow up with Riker about Carlson’s alibis for the robberies. Those thoughts led him to recall his showdown with Wainright, and anger churned in his gut. It seemed incredible that the only friendly faces in his new workplace were those of three constables with no reason to help him. No reason to dislike him, either. They were probably too young to recognise the politics.
Gibson’s sigh signalled defeat. ‘You don’t come across this sort of thing every day. A similar set were in the E. M. Hodgkins Collection in London. Different vignette of course. Each set was unique.’
‘How likely is it that the Pearsons would have split up the pair?’
‘People do strange things.’
It was curious that such a find ended up in a place like Gibson’s. It seemed doubtful that this little shop just outside Failie would be a mecca for high-end collectors. When he mentioned this, the dealer looked like he’d just bitten into a lemon.
‘I may have to keep a stock of lesser pieces, but I’m always scouting at other auctions and house sales. I check the Internet and, most importantly, I have contacts all over the world who know my preferences. Just as I know theirs.’
‘How much of your collection comes from overseas?’
‘Not much. Some. And then only the pieces I can afford.’
Linc could imagine the expense involved in this business. Perhaps that was why Mina Everton’s finances were thinner than her manners. When he put the question of expense to Gibson, the guy waved his soft hand around his empire of walnut, mahogany, and gold leaf.
‘Look around you. I do not deal in replicas pumped out of some factory in Indonesia. I cannot order from a catalogue like some department store. Nor do I deal in worthless bric-a-brac. I have a lot of money sitting in these items. Success, Drummond, takes a good eye and a strong heart. Antiques are not for the faint-hearted.’
Faint-hearted? The guy should spend a few hours at a siege and see how he fared.
‘And how do you develop this eye?’ he asked. ‘Do you need to do a trade, or a degree—like art history?’
Gibson made a noise between his teeth that sounded like ‘Tosh’. ‘Art history can help, but it doesn’t make a silk purse. It is an
innate talent. Very few have it.’
‘Can it be developed?’
‘Certainly exposure to the craft, careful guidance by a more experienced person who can communicate his talent can help to train somebody.’
He said it as if training were the next thing to fakery, but his little speech had contained more than self-importance. Yesterday, Mina had been panicked she might miss her meeting with this windbag. It was hard to believe that Gibson could give her something more important than feeling secure in her home.
‘Do you currently have a protégé?’
Gibson was suddenly cautious. ‘I do.’
‘And does this person have the innate talent you mentioned?’
‘Why does it matter to you?’
The man’s attitude was as spiky as Mina’s. Perhaps it was a necessary quality in the antiques trade, or it could be what had drawn them together.
He said, ‘I’m just trying to understand the business.’
‘She has a good eye. Her mother was an artist, you know. She studied at the famous École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts in Paris. The girl’s talent is remarkable, but it is her perseverance that sets her apart. She even went so far as to work at an auction house on her weekends. It’s the best way to get exposure to a range of goods and really learn their value.’
Gibson came across as someone who wouldn’t give anyone a break. Yet he had done so for the daughter of an embezzler.
‘Have you shared your contacts with your protégé?’
‘Those contacts have cost me blood, sweat, and tears, and I do not just give away my competitive advantage.’
‘Not even to someone you’ve moulded into shape?’
‘We have struck a bargain.’
He explained how he’d agreed to present her at his Christmas soiree if she could source a series of objects, culminating in a Georgian silver artefact by a brilliant early-nineteenth-century silversmith named Paul Storr.
‘It would have completed my collection of all the great Georgian silversmiths.’ He released a heartfelt sigh. ‘She let me down.’
‘You won’t be endorsing her then?’
Gibson touched his palm to the teapot, made a face and poured himself another brew.
‘She’s smart enough to know I can sometimes be mollified.’ He gestured to the screen behind him. ‘Gave me a spirited negotiation, but we both knew I would get it in the end.’
Linc contemplated the image of peasants and nobles crossing a bridge. ‘It’s a beautiful piece.’
‘As I said, she has a good eye.’
‘You’re speaking of Mina Everton.’
Gibson’s bland face came to life at the strength of his surprise. ‘How on earth did you guess that?’
‘It was Ms Everton who gave me your name.’
The antique dealer’s face turned slightly grey. He sat back in his chair and folded his hands on his stomach. His chest was narrow but muscular and his middle-aged spread was kept under control. It wasn’t obvious at first glance, but the guy kept himself fit.
Gibson said, ‘Why were you talking with Mina Everton exactly?’
Chapter 22
THE TALL SHIPS CAFÉ had been busy all morning. Gwen sighed with relief when she put her feet up in the back room and lit up her second cigarette for the day. Mina sat at the table looking wrung out. Haunted. Like she had in the old days. Poor thing. And now she was full of questions about Jacko when for years she’d refused to even talk about him. Gwen took a long drag of her cigarette. It tasted so good. She held the smoke in her mouth then exhaled through her nose so every sense came alive. She’d been hanging out for a ciggie almost as long as Mina had been waiting for her to have a break.
‘Why bring all this up now, love?’ Gwen asked. ‘Your dad’s been gone a long time. You shouldn’t let these rumours get to you.’
‘They’re not. It’s—’
Mina gazed about her like a bewildered child. The café’s back room was a decent enough space, but the over-filled shelving fixed to every wall did threaten to dump their contents onto anyone sitting at the table. Gwen found it cosy—she took comfort in the need for so much stock, a sure sign that business was good—but she could see how some might find the room claustrophobic.
‘Maybe you need a change of scene,’ Gwen said. ‘Get away from this place for a while.’
‘What I need to do is confront the past. So please, tell me about him.’
It was hard to resist her pleas. Always had been. What harm could it do to talk about Jacko? The kid was old enough to know her own mind. Gwen let herself wander the sunny days of her past. Funny how she now only thought of Jacko as the bastard who’d hurt her Mina. He’d been much more than that.
‘I was as surprised as anyone when it all came out,’ she said. ‘Still can’t believe it. Your dad was a real charmer. Always ready with a tall story and a helping hand. Great laugh. Always laughed like you’d just said the funniest thing in the world. Made you feel special.’
Mina sat back and folded her arms. ‘If that’s who he really was, how could he just leave us? How could he not care what happened to us?’
What could she say? Some men could blind with their charm. When you finally saw the truth, they were long gone, usually with your car keys and your savings. It had happened to her once. Humiliating. That’s what it was. She looked at the young woman who gazed at her like she held all the answers. It was shameful what the town had put the Evertons through, never letting Mina and her mum forget what Jacko had done. No wonder Alyssa Everton had gone round the twist. It was a miracle Mina hadn’t followed.
‘The only thing I can think is that he was always that man underneath. It just came out when the pressure of your mum’s illness got too much.’
Mina put her elbows on the chequered cloth and massaged the base of her skull. She regarded the cigarette burning down in the ashtray and her face softened.
‘Trying to quit again?’
‘Always.’
If Gwen had a buck for all the ciggies she’d smoked while she and Mina sat just like this, she’d be on easy street. They’d gossiped and laughed and cried—though Mina had done most of the crying, and most of it in the year or so after her dad buggered off. The poor kid’s teenage years had been harder than they should have been. Gwen had done her best to help Mina through them by giving her a job after school and watching out for her while poor Alyssa was busy. She always told people she didn’t have a mothering bone in her body; Mina had shown her she was wrong. She was good enough for part-time motherhood.
‘Get it off your chest, love. You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t keeping you up at night.’
Mina’s look of surprise was almost comical. ‘You always could see right through me.’
‘Made of glass you were back then. Still are.’
‘Yeah, I kind of hoped I was more flexible though.’ She offered up a weak smile. ‘Like Plexiglass.’
Gwen laughed. Her throat rasped and she coughed. She needed to get off the cigs. Maybe in the New Year. A resolution she’d keep for once. Maybe she’d even drop a bit of weight, get the doc off her back. Ah, who was she kidding? It was ciggies or food. She couldn’t quit both. A girl had to live. And Ronny Clarke seemed to have no qualms about grabbing at her love handles.
‘I can’t sleep,’ Mina said. ‘When I do, I dream about Mum working her tiny forge in the workshop. It’s so real I wake up certain someone is there. And I keep hearing things in the garden.’ She shook her head.
It wasn’t just that, Gwen was sure of it. Mina wouldn’t be biting her lip and asking about Jacko if that was all there was to it.
‘Out with it, kid. What’s really eating you?’
‘How could he do it? Before he left, she was fighting it. Afterwards …’
Mina clenched her fists. She was working up a good head of temper. Best to let her get it all out. Never did a body good to keep all that locked up.
‘Working two jobs didn’t help,’ Mina said. ‘It must
have been humiliating for Mum to go cleaning for the same people who’d abused us in the street, people who’d been their friends, but she never complained. When she should have been exercising and looking after herself, she sat in the kitchen until all hours painting that cheap pottery. Her sculptures should have been exhibited in galleries.’ Mina drew a shaky breath. ‘She was an artist. He killed her talent, just like he destroyed her desire to fight.’
Gwen crushed out the half-burned cigarette and pulled Mina into her arms. It felt a bit awkward, like the first time the kid had turned to her after the Davison boy had been so cruel. Poor Mina. She’d had it bad for that Pete Davison. Gwen could still picture her face that day of the barbeque when she’d told her the boy was looking for her. Lit up, it had. Of course, that had soon vanished when Gwen teased if Mina didn’t snap him up, she might. Still, that joke had taken the kid’s mind off what had just happened in the kitchen.
‘It wasn’t how they said it was, you know.’ Gwen patted her back.
Mina tightened her hug then moved away. She didn’t look any happier. ‘Lindy Roberts and Caro Davison were pretty sure of their facts.’
Gwen knew all about those rumours and how they got started. She’d been there. She and Caro Davison had been about to enter the kitchen from the lantern-lit garden when Jacko sauntered in from the hallway. Bebe, removing Gladwrap from bowls of salad, had called out, ‘Oh, lover-boy’.
‘Hello, ba-a-by,’ Jacko sang.
Caro had lifted her pencilled eyebrows at Gwen. Everyone knew those two were just mucking about. They’d been mates forever and could belt out a karaoke rendition of that old song at the drop of a hat, but Caro only saw it as grist for her gossip mill.
Jacko kissed Bebe’s cheek—more evidence for Caro—then wiped his mouth.
‘Yuk, what’s all that muck on your face, B?’
She laughed and struck a fashion pose. Unlike Caro and Gwen, she could pull it off.
‘I’m all glammed up. Have to be now I’m a curator. No more Gidget in bikinis for me.’
Jacko smiled and stroked his forefinger along her cheek. ‘I kind of liked Gidget.’
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