“I’ll have a tea, if it’s all the same to you. Is this really your place then?” she said, her eyes roving over the colourful bird paintings and running a finger along the top of the lime-green dado rail.
“Certainly is,” Tarquin replied.
“You mean you own this whole place?”
“Yes … now let’s get the kettle on.”
“No. We better get you properly cleaned up first,” Claudia said, fixing Tarquin with a beady look. “Where’s the bathroom? I’ll need some disinfectant, cotton wool, and some plasters. You’ve got a nasty cut on your cheek and a graze on your chin, and we don’t want any infection. We really should get you to hospital with that finger, but I’ll bind it up for tonight and you must go first thing in the morning.”
“Oh … er … no, look, Claudia, it’s been very kind of you, but …”
“Tarquin, shut up and let’s get you sorted out. I know you’re going to crawl into your bed as soon as I’m gone. You men are all the same,” she said with amusement in her eyes.
“Oh, all right, but you really should be getting back. This is beyond the call of duty,” Tarquin said awkwardly. “Come up to the bathroom.”
“I knew it!” she said, chuckling at the top of the stairs. “Look at the state of this. Looks like you’re a very tidy man, Mr Tarquin. Were we in a bit of a hurry when we left this evening?” she said, picking a coat hanger off the floor by the door of the bathroom.
“To be honest, yes,” Tarquin said resignedly. “My girlfriend was getting a bit hysterical, so I had to leave quickly.”
“I’m not surprised. Something tells me you’re not big on punctuality!” she said sternly. “Are you really called Tarquin, or is that a nickname?”
“Yuh … that’s my name, all right,” he said.
“Weird! Sounds a bit old fashioned or something … it’s all right, though. Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “So where are the plasters and things?”
“There … in that cabinet … everything we need, I hope,” Tarquin said, gesturing to a mirror-fronted wall cabinet.
Claudia searched amongst the bottles and packets and then sat next to him on a large blanket chest with split cane panels. First she wiped the dried blood from his chin and cheek with a wet flannel and then dabbed the wounds with cotton wool soaked in surgical spirit.
Tarquin winced as the cool liquid stung his flesh, whilst also taking in the close proximity of her striking features. The irises of her pale eyes were an exotic cocktail of marbled blues and yellows embedded in the purest glass. It gave her pupils a hawklike intensity, as sharp as the spirit itself. They instilled wariness and attraction in Tarquin in equal measure and eventually forced him to move his eyes away.
Detecting his sudden shyness, she began to chat.
“Well, my name isn’t really Claudia,” she said.
“Really?”
“It’s Constanta.”
“Constanta?” he said, brows raised.
“That’s right. I changed it because it was too Eastern European, and I wanted to fit in … you know, to disguise myself.”
“Well, I noticed you had an accent … thought it was Russian.”
“Well, as I told you, I’m Romanian. I came over here five years ago to make my fortune in rich western country. I was trained as a gymnast at home, and I mean trained. I didn’t have normal upbringing. I was talent spotted and as a result my whole existence was dominated by exercise routines, strict diets, early nights. I was a mechanical doll designed to impress audiences with my gymnastic skills. But I grew too tall and was dropped.”
“Well, you’re certainly tall, Claudia … I mean Constanta,” Tarquin said smiling.
“I’ll tell you about that another time,” she said firmly. “There’s a more urgent issue which we need to clear up … and with that guy talking the whole way back, it wasn’t easy in the car.”
“Urgent issue?” Tarquin said quizzically.
“Darling, you’ve just been beaten by a pair of guys on a London street who referred to you as ‘Oliver’ and that doesn’t strike you as weird? And what about that envelope you mentioned they gave you? You’ve got it in your head that you were mugged, but I’m telling you, there’s more to it than that. What did they take? Absolutely nothing! Now that really adds up, doesn’t it!” she said with a cynical glint.
“Well … I suppose you’re right,” Tarquin said hesitatingly.
“I know I’m right. Now, this isn’t going to make you look beautiful, but it’s got to be done,” she said, applying a large plaster to Tarquin’s chin.
“Oh no!” she giggled, leaning back to get a better view of his face. “You look like the Gaboar just got hold of you.”
“The what?”
“The Romanian police, darling, the Gaboar!”
“Oh Christ!” Tarquin muttered with a sense of horror at his reflection. “I need a drink.”
“Oh no you don’t! You need to show me the envelope, and then get yourself off to bed and sleep.”
“It’s in my coat pocket, I think, down in the hall.”
Constanta sprang to her feet and disappeared downstairs, leaving Tarquin to scrutinise his reflection sadly. He heard her having a small conversation with Percy, which pleased him, and filled him with guilt at his earlier petulance.
“Have you fed him?” she shouted up. “He looks hungry.”
“I … er … left in a bit of a hurry. Please give him the remains of the shepherd’s pie in the fridge,” Tarquin shouted down sheepishly.
“You are a bad man, not looking after your little doggy. I’m getting to know your ways, Tarquin, so watch out!” Constanta shouted up reproachfully.
Tarquin sat on the blanket chest listening to the muted noises from the kitchen below, and pondered as to how on earth he had arrived at this most unlikely of situations.
* * *
Gus brought the Sprinter to a halt at the entrance to Bob’s housing estate in Fulham. Although it was late, lights showed brightly in the numerous windows of the imposing tower blocks.
“Okay, mate, job done. Now we just wait for the arsehole to call Zoltan and plead his case,” Gus said, arching his back in the driving seat.
“Sure thing … bastard got off lightly in my opinion,” Bob said without feeling. “If I had it my way he’d be in hospital now!”
“Listen, mate, I gave ’im a good whack in the goolies … there’s a broken bone in there somewhere, I bet you!” Gus said with a smirk. “But Z told me to go steady on this occasion.”
“S’pose so,” Bob conceded. “I got ’im good as well, with me first punch to the guts followed by the old knee in the chin … nice combination that works every time!”
“Funny, innit, how these guys take the piss and just think that it’s all going to be fine. Nobody, like nobody, gets one over Zoltan,” Gus said with an element of reverence. “And Oliver needs to get this into his thick skull or the guy will be in the fucking cemetery.”
“Yeah, too right, mate,” Bob said unbuckling. “Right … well, give us a buzz in the morning and tell me what the big man says.”
He climbed out of the van and stood holding the door.
“Get yer head down, okay?” Gus said, starting the engine.
“Sure.”
* * *
Tarquin sat in the kitchen staring at the letter. It made no sense to his dulled senses, and it was getting late.
Oliver,
Since my phone call 6 weeks ago I have not received any communication from you.
You have my mobile number, email address, and a land number.
This was unwise. You have had ample opportunity to honour your obligations and suggest an amount you intend to pay me for my idea of the French cabinet.
Unfortunately, you did not take me seriously, which is why my father, a man you should be careful of, decided to teach you a small lesson. I say ‘small’ lesson in order to assure you that ‘bigger’ lessons will follow if you do not come round to our way of thinkin
g. It is dangerous to play with Russians, my friend, you should know this by now.
Call me.
Z.
Constanta came in from the sitting room.
“Do you understand what is happening, Mr Tarquin?” she said as though cajoling a child through an elementary exam sheet.
“Well … er … not really. It seems to be addressed to this mysterious man Oliver.”
“Exactly, so what does that tell you?”
“Well, I suppose … they—the two blokes—thought I was him,” Tarquin stuttered in disbelief.
“Well done, well done. We’re getting there!”
“Look, I’m tired,” Tarquin said irritably. “I don’t need this right now. You’ve been wonderful tonight, Constanta, and I can’t thank you enough.”
“Oh shut up, you silly Englishman. Always so polite! Now I must ask you a serious question, which you must answer honestly.”
“What’s that?” Tarquin said defensively. “Is your name really Tarquin … or is it Oliver?”
“What!” Tarquin said incredulously. “Of course it’s not bloody Oliver. Do you think I’m lying to you?”
Constanta looked hard at him and then smiled. “No, I don’t think you are lying. I just wanted to be quite sure.”
“Well, thanks very much,” Tarquin mumbled. “That’s a relief. Feel free to look at any letters or magazines in this house which have a name and address on. Do you want my passport?”
“Later, darling,” Constanta chuckled. “So we can think that this Oliver man has done something rather bad and is being given a lesson, can’t we?” she said. “It would seem that the letter is written by someone, a Russian, who has been ripped off … had piece of furniture stolen or something like that. You see, it mentions ‘the cabinet’; ‘the cabinet was our idea and you stole it.’ Does that mean the idea or the cabinet was stolen?”
She looked up expectantly.
Tarquin groaned whilst clutching his head between his hands. “I just don’t know. It’s bloody double Dutch to me. What time is it, anyway?”
“Okay, I get the message. You want me to go.”
Tarquin was quiet for a moment.
“Look, Constanta, this is silly. It’s 1.20am. There‘s a bed on the top floor, all made up with its own bathroom, towel, and so on.”
“Are you crazy … me stay here?” she said, raising her eyebrows into a pair of beautiful arches. “I need to be up early to get to work. I start at 7.30am!”
“Constanta,” he said with sudden determination, “don’t be stupid …”
“You think I am stupid?”
“It’s a manner of speaking, sweetie, don’t take it literally. Just go upstairs and sleep. Let yourself out in the morning and don’t wake me up. There’s money in that bowl there for a taxi. Order one now; the number’s on that board.”
She hesitated.
“Go on … I don’t bite,” he said. “This house is number nine Warriner Avenue. There’s a phone by your bed. You’re in Battersea, by the way, in case you didn’t realize.”
“Can I take Percy for protection then?” she said.
“Please do. He likes girls. Oh, and be sure to leave your telephone number.”
“Okay.”
She sidled off and had taken two steps up the stairs when she suddenly stopped and leaned over the banister.
“Tarquin,” she said. “Do you know anybody called Oliver?”
Tarquin clasped his forehead.
“Well … of course … it’s a familiar name. Let me think. Oh of course, my godson, Olly, and there are some others, I’m sure, but this means nothing … they’re hardly going to be criminals.”
“Mmm … okay. Good night.”
“Good night, Constanta.”
With that, she went lightly up the stairs, chatting to Percy as though to a child.
Chapter 8
Melvyn couldn’t sleep. He sat on his favourite garden bench viewing the great orange moon rise above the cedars, whilst the cool night air nipped at his ankles. He could sense the three-dimensional bulk of that huge ball of rock on nights like this … its ponderous presence in space. In its paler, smaller guise it was just a flat nebulous disc, a gossamer decoration somehow lacking in solidity.
Sucking hungrily on his pipe, he thought of Zoltan watching him at Hertford House, the seat of the precious Wallace Collection, and it was a thought that made him squirm. Zoltan knew what he was doing, oh yes, no question of that—it would have been as clear as day. And the thought of being watched … ugh! That didn’t sit well at all. It made him feel extremely threatened and at the same time stupid. He’d been caught out at a time when he felt he was being supremely vigilant. Why in God’s name did this have to happen? Agreed, he had been to the Wallace for regular, intense sessions of scrutiny, but why did a man who was living in Germany have to appear at one of these precise moments? It was blatantly unfair.
He often felt his life was being handled by others. He sometimes imagined the whole world was in some sort of weird collusion against him, and that he had to jump through a series of hoops for some higher and entirely unfathomable purpose. Like the people around him were actors, taunting him to just the right pitch so as to strengthen but not break him.
And yet … sometimes, he had to concede that things worked in his favour. Within a few months of that restaurant meeting between Oliver and Fabien near Hardy’s, the young Frenchman’s life had literally fallen apart. Cecile had decided to leave him. She could see no future with him living in London on a limited salary and wanted to cut her losses. Her man was never around and her friends in Paris were talking. And yes, Fabien had become desperate, desperate to get her back at any cost and by any means, even if this meant doing the unthinkable. And this had provided the spark to launch the project.
Melvyn came back to his senses and his immediate predicament. The thought of having to give Zoltan a payoff for doing absolutely nothing was monstrous. Yes, it had been the Russian’s idea … he had to admit that; but the idea was just the beginning of a long arduous road, and it was he and Oliver who had walked it, not Zoltan.
But perhaps it was all working out okay after all. There had been no word from the Russian for weeks. Had he and his wife made up, and he’d simply shelved the whole idea of blackmail? Or was there something that Zoltan feared, that was holding him back? Did he and Oliver hold an ace without realizing it? Come what may, he would call Oliver in the morning and let him know the cabinet was now ready.
With that thought in mind, he got to his feet, and after tapping the remaining embers of his pipe on the side of the bench, he went back to bed.
* * *
Constanta too was restless. She lay in the semidarkness of Tarquin’s top bedroom, gently threading her fingers through the soft fur of Percy’s neck. The evening had been a crazy one, to be sure, and here she was, sleeping in the house of this guy she’d met only hours earlier. Who was he and what was he into? Something, for sure; people were after him. And yet he swore he didn’t know what it was all about, and she felt compelled to believe him.
She considered what type of guy Tarquin was, but soon realized, he wasn’t like any guy she’d met. For one, he was rich, and yes … that was appealing. He also had good manners as she’d observed throughout the course of the evening, and dressed in a way she liked. His clothes were undoubtedly good quality. He wasn’t one of those smooth modern guys, for sure; there was something old fashioned about him, and she could relate to that.
But he also seemed vulnerable in a weird way; kind of unstreetwise and a little foolish. Yes, he was big in a purely physical sense, but there was something about his … his unguarded honesty that was unusual. He had no lines, no bullshit, and this made her feel strangely protective of him. Sure, he was a little cagey about his girlfriend, but that was normal. There had been a row and he obviously wasn’t in love with her…no, definitely not.
She lay for a while longer in the quiet room considering the events of the evening, until,
with a loud sigh, she reached over and pressed a button on her mobile. The screen glowed 3.05am. With her hand resting on Percy’s warm coat, she adjusted her pillow and soon fell asleep.
Chapter 9
Tarquin’s eyes flicked open with unusual alertness and focused on the customary crack of daylight at the top of the curtains. For a few minutes he lay absolutely motionless in the warmth of his bed and played the film of the previous evening through his visual mind with great speed and clarity. He squirmed and flushed with shame at certain scenes, and at the point where Constanta applied the plaster to his chin, his hand whipped up to his face to verify that this wholly unbelievable series of events had actually taken place.
Fully booted up, he hauled himself out of bed and stumbled rather raggedly down the stairs to the kitchen, almost tripping over Percy on the way. A note lay on the kitchen table in very neat writing.
‘Thank you, Tarkin, here is my number …There is a card on your board from Oliver Clasper Antiques?? He lives two doors away at no. 5—Coincidence? Call me please, Constanta x
He bent down, wincing with pain, and picked up Percy who immediately began sniffing the cuts on his face. He then plucked the card from the board and gazed at it for a few moments.
“Percy, it’s been a very strange night, my boy, but it turned out okay, didn’t it?” he said with affection. “And I see you even got breakfast!”
Percy looked away with embarrassment and pretended to be interested in the fridge.
Next he went to the top of the house to check the bedroom, more out of curiosity than purpose, and found the bed neat and made. Apart from some water around the basin, the room looked unused.
Having washed and dressed, Tarquin began to carry out the actions he had decided to take. One was to call Diana and apologise for his appalling behaviour, and then to ask her out to dinner the following night. This would be a “special” dinner—the sort of dinner that only men who are madly in love, or those who sense they are in a very precarious position, would consider with any enthusiasm. Secondly he would call Constanta and thank her for her unbridled kindness in helping him. Thirdly he would call the police. Lastly, he would go to Casualty and get his finger dealt with.
The Freiburg Cabinet Page 8