He waved them through. On the other side of the door was someone’s office. A desk and chairs. Wooden panelling. Artworks on the walls. Bram went first, then Frankie, then behind him someone cried out in pain. Both him and Bram turned to look. It was Lola. She was sprawled on the floor, clutching at her leg. She must have tripped over the door frame on the way in.
‘Shit,’ Frankie said, crouching down beside her to support her as she struggled to sit.
‘It’s my ankle.’ Her face was screwed up in pain.
Rivet knelt down and gently took her foot in his hand. She groaned.
‘OK, I’m going to try turning it, just gently,’ he said.
Another groan. She was gritting her teeth.
‘Without taking these waders off, I can’t tell how bad it is.’
‘I’ll be all right,’ she said, ‘just get me up.’
Frankie helped her, but the second she tried to walk, even with him still there supporting her, her leg gave way beneath her and she gasped out again from the pain. She managed to move a couple of paces, but only by half hopping and putting the minimum weight on her right leg.
‘Easy, easy,’ Rivet soothed, ‘let’s just sit you back down.’
From the way he said it, the look that passed between them, Frankie suddenly got it: the two of them were one.
‘I’ll be OK, dammit,’ she protested, but her face was just one great big grimace now.
‘No,’ Rivet said, ‘your ankle’s screwed. With a bit of luck it’s just a bad sprain, but it could even be fractured too. Either way, there’s no way you’re going to be able to do what we need you to do.’
‘But, I –’
‘I’m serious.’ He was holding her hand now, looking her hard in the eyes. ‘In fact, if you’re going to get back at all by the time we need to, at the rate you’re going to be moving, you’re going to have to set off now.’
‘Then who’ll –’
Bram was crouched down by them too now. He interrupted her with a hurried set of signs.
‘OK, yeah, that’ll have to work,’ Rivet said. ‘Frankie, old bean,’ he said in a cod English accent. ‘I’m afraid it looks like you’re up.’
‘Up where? Shit creek? Tell me something I don’t know.’
Rivet nodded up towards the top of the building. It made no sense.
‘But all the pieces I’m meant to be getting are here on the ground floor.’
‘Me and Bram will handle that. We need you to go upstairs instead and do what Lola was meant to do.’
‘No way.’ God knew Frankie didn’t want to be here in the first place, but at least he’d had a chance to learn his part in this as well as he could, the pieces as well as the route. But now what? They wanted him to wing it? And go wandering off into this labyrinth of a building? No friggin’ way.
‘We got no other choice.’
‘But why me?’
Bram signed.
‘Bram’s too big to get through it,’ Lola said.
‘And I’m too short to reach it,’ said Rivet.
‘Reach what?’
‘The hatch.’
‘What hatch?’
‘The one that leads out onto the roof.’
‘And why the fuck would I be going out there?’
‘To scatter all this shit that’s in my backpack.’
‘What shit?’
Rivet ignored the question. ‘And photograph it,’ he said.
‘With this . . .’ Lola grimaced in pain as she pulled out a small camera – Viollet’s camera, Frankie saw.
‘What, we’re collecting evidence of our own crime now, are we? Oh, that’s just brilliant,’ Frankie said. ‘What say we all have a nice little group shot of ourselves waiting out here before we all go in?’
Another flurry of signs from Bram.
‘Just take the camera,’ Rivet said. ‘There’s no time to explain.’
Frankie gritted his teeth.
‘Just point and click,’ Rivet said, demonstrating by taking a quick snap of the wall. ‘And do it right,’ he warned, jamming the camera into Frankie’s hand. ‘Because Dougie’s going to be looking at these photographs too.’
Rivet helped Lola off with her backpack.
‘Swap,’ he said, handing it over to Frankie.
Frankie peeled his own off his back and made the trade. Rivet unfurled another rolled-up piece of paper, this time showing the floor plans for inside. An arrowed route ran from here where they’d be entering the building just like on the one he’d been given to study. Only instead of leading to the main downstairs galleries, this one led upstairs.
‘It’ll take you up through the permanent galleries,’ Lola said. ‘Where the route ends, that’s where you’ll find the skylights leading out. Oh, and make sure to leave them open. As obviously as you can.’
‘And the . . . shit . . . you want scattering? Any particular instruction with that?’
‘No, just leave it up there where it can all be found. Be creative, huh? Make it look arty. Mysterious. Have fun.’
‘Fun . . . Yes, ma’am.’ Might as well get this over like a good soldier, eh? Because they sure as hell weren’t planning on giving him the big picture now.
‘And watch out.’
‘What for?’
‘The guards. There might not be any. Our guy on the inside says he’ll do what he can to keep them away from where we need to be, and especially from the Sensation exhibition, but you need to keep wary, in case there is someone doing the rounds in the permanent galleries upstairs.’
‘OK, let’s get these damn waders off,’ Rivet said. ‘Let’s get this thing done with, OK?’
17
‘I’ll come with you as far as these back stairs,’ Rivet told him. ‘But then you’re on your own. As soon as you’re done, get back here as fast as you can.’
What? Like instead of just chilling out up there for a while and maybe indulging in a little amateur astronomy?
‘Sure,’ said Frankie, ‘I’ll see you back here.’
Rivet just stared at him for a second, maybe picking up on the sarcasm even in what he had said. Then he pulled his balaclava down and Frankie did the same. Rivet stood with his ear pressed up against the office door and listened. Then Frankie heard that same tinny jangling sound as before and the door lock gave a click. Rivet pulled the door gently ajar and peered out.
‘All clear,’ he said. ‘Ten minutes. Let’s go.’
Frankie checked his dad’s Rolex. He could just about make out the luminous hands. Funny, but this whole countdown thing made much more sense when it was leading to you getting the hell out of here instead of in.
Rivet was already through the door. Frankie followed him into the short corridor that lay beyond. It was carpeted. Nice and quiet. If only the rest of the building was like this. But it wasn’t, was it? More like polished wooden floors and floor tiles. Frankie remembered the click-clack of footsteps echoing all around the last time he’d been here.
Rivet moved fast, passing the doorways to what Frankie guessed were other offices left and right. The corridor terminated in a T-junction. Rivet hung a right. Didn’t bother consulting his floor plans. Probably already had the whole damn thing memorized. Frankie checked his own black hoodie pouch for the schematic Lola had given him with his route on it. Lose that and he’d be lost too.
Frankie felt a pat on his back and turned to see Bram gazing down at him and giving him a giant fat thumbs up.
‘Thanks, big guy,’ Frankie said. Then he turned and walked through the door.
He felt his stomach churning like he was going to barf as he stepped out into the main reception. His legs felt suddenly light, like they were about to give way. He remembered being back at primary school again, only this time the Christmas play. He couldn’t have been more than seven. He’d been a shepherd and he’d had to give the closing speech. This felt just like that. Like stepping out on stage. Like he was being watched, being judged. Like every single step he took could go wrong.
His British Knights trainers squeaked as bad as those rats down in the tunnel as he made his way to the stairs. He kept to the shadows where he could, skirting the perimeter. Another memory. Dougie Hamilton this time. That security guard telling him to pick up his rubbish. Just about right here where Frankie was now.
He looked up as he reached the bottom step and counted at least two CCTV cameras up there in the corners of the room. Impossible not to imagine some uniformed thug’s eyes widening at the other end as he spotted a movement and zoomed in. But as he covered the first few steps, neither camera tracked him. Meaning – please God – Bram was right and the cameras were just another part of the same security system that his wheeze with that Duracell Bunny had already blitzed.
Squeaketty-squeak . . . Frankie followed the staircase, zigzagging up. He pulled out the floor plan and quickly orientated himself. Yep, he needed to go left now. That corridor over there. The same ghoulish pale-blue lighting as downstairs was operating up here too. Frankie reached the double doors leading into what was marked on his map as the first of the galleries exhibiting the academy’s permanent collection, whatever the hell that was.
The top half of the doors was made of see-through glass. More of that pale-blue light beyond. And, shit. Frankie’s heart jumped like it was about to do an Alien out of his ribcage. His hand froze on the door handle. Someone was there. A man’s silhouette stood less than ten feet away. They were staring right at him. Don’t fucking breathe.
But then he did. And not just breathed, laughed. Because it wasn’t a person, was it? It was a bloody statue. He slowly turned the door handle and the door gave. Not locked, thank God. He pushed it slowly open and stepped inside. Yes, up close he could see that the figure who he’d thought was eyeballing him was Roman and made of stone. Jesus, he even had a friggin’ discus in his hand. As Frankie’s eyes grew more accustomed to the light, he saw the room was full of sculptures. All part of the Academy’s permanent collection, no doubt.
He checked his floor plan again, this time risking using his head torch. He took the second of the two doors on the far wall leading out of here. This one was unlocked too. He stepped through into another gallery. All paintings, this time. With a couple of benches right bang in the centre of the room – directly below the skylights he now needed to bust out through.
He hopped up onto the nearest one and reached up. Bollocks. No good. He was still a good two feet away from reaching the skylight’s frame. He used his torch again to check it over. No latches. No catches. No way he could see to open it from this side. But that was OK, right? Because Rivet had said he had to make it obvious that they’d come in and out through the roof. Fine. Then the best way was just to smash the shit out of that glass. But with what? Because it looked well thick. Probably reinforced.
He looked desperately around. Rivet might not have been here in person, but he sure as hell was in spirit. Frankie could practically hear him hissing another one of his bloody segmented countdowns into his lughole. There were plenty of paintings, of course, that he could have used to try and crack the glass. But they all looked well old and the same no doubt went for their frames. Even if he could manhandle one of them up there good enough to swing it like a club, it would probably crack and disintegrate well before that reinforced glass.
The only thing that looked remotely solid enough to break through with was the one thing on display in here that wasn’t a painting. It was a great big lump of what looked like stone on the other side of the room. He ran over and read the label underneath it. The Taddei Tondo. And, yeah, you know what? It might just do it. It was certainly heavy enough. If he could just get it back there onto that bench, he might be able to swing it up and smash the shit out of that glass.
He reached for it, but then stopped. The date next to its name on that label caught his eye. The name of the geezer who’d carved it too. Michelangelo. Fuck a duck. As in the Michelangelo, right? As in the same fellah who carved David and the bloody Sistine Chapel ceiling. Oh yeah, Frankie’s old art teacher, Mr Garcia, had taught him plenty about him. About how he was possibly the most talented artist who’d ever lived.
And no, no way could Frankie bring himself to use it like he’d just planned – even if he could lift it. He didn’t even think about it, he just stepped back. It was one thing stealing a Virgin Mary made out of elephant poo, but using a Michelangelo as a battering ram would have been totally out of order, right?
But if not that, then what? Again, he imagined Rivet’s voice counting on down. He stared desperately around. There had to be something. And then he saw it. Half hidden in the shadows, over there in the corner. A fire extinguisher. Nice and solid. Should be well up to the task.
He jerked it out of its cradle and ran back to the centre of the room, hauled one bench up on top of the other and carefully clambered up. Plenty close enough now. He could even see his eyes glinting back at him from his balaclava in the reflection of the skylight glass. He got a good grip on the extinguisher and swung it hard. Nearly came a cropper too as it bounced right back at him. Just about kept his balance. Definitely reinforced then. He planted his legs wide and steady and gave it all he could . . . and this time with a horrible squeaky sound, a little crack zigzagged out from the frame across the glass. He hit it again and the crack grew wider. The third time, the whole pane shattered, raining down glass all over him and onto the floor.
Had that been noisy? Shit, he couldn’t tell. Noisy enough to hear on one of the floors below if anyone was about and listening down there? Better pray not. He lowered the fire extinguisher by its hose gently onto the floor and reached up and broke the remaining shards of glass free from the skylight frame with his gloved fingers.
Time to move. He flattened the little backpack Lola had given him as tight as he could onto his back and then reached up and took a grip on the frame. What if someone was up there? He got a horrible vision of guards and cops just squatting there waiting to catch him, their beady little eyes already glued to his exposed fingertips, reaching out to haul him up.
Steady, Eddie, he slowly pulled himself up. Thank Christ for all that work down the gym, because at least he had the muscle to do it. The first thing he felt was the temperature drop as he hauled himself up. Cool air. God, it felt good. Like a glass of cold water. Relief hit him next. No one was here. Just a long, wide flat roof. Straining now, as he heaved his torso on out, he quickly shifted his position and hooked his knee up onto the frame. His heart lurched as he nearly lost balance. But then he was up. He was through.
So what now? Keep low. That was for sure. Because there were taller buildings here. Way taller. Windows and balconies all around. And so what if it was the middle of the night? This was London, the city that never bloody slept. Anyone who looked out or stepped out would get a bird’s-eye view of him if they only looked his way.
Bollocks. He rolled onto his back. A sky full of stars. It would have been beautiful if he hadn’t been so sodding scared. Right, time to see what goodies Lola had packed for their little adventure. A tuna sandwich, perhaps? A Penguin? A Twix? No such luck. He unzipped her rucksack and tipped its contents out onto the roof by his side and just gawped. What the hell? Was he dreaming? An arrow. Rope. Crampons. He felt like he was playing some surreal version of the friggin’ Generation Game. What next? A cuddly pissing toy? Oh no, he’d already found that downstairs. Oh, but here was the pièce de friggin’ résistance too. A bunch of black-and-white postcards of Houdini himself.
Just the usual kind of stuff a gal packed whenever she went on an art heist then. It made about as much sense as some of the art pieces in that Sensation exhibition down below. But then maybe that was the point? A crime to match the target. He remembered that band from a couple of years back. The KLF. Wasn’t that what they’d been called? The same ones who’d dumped a dead sheep outside the BRIT awards after pretending to shoot the crowd? The crazier the publicity stunt, the more attention it got. Meaning maybe there was method in this madness. Bram and Dougie�
�s method, through and through.
But what the fuck, no matter, hey? At least Frankie knew what to do with it. Scatter it, right? Wasn’t that what they’d said? Well, scatter it he would. Like a solid bloody pro. Or more like an exploded aircraft, actually. He just got up and half ran, half bounded across the roof, dropping the items willy-nilly. Then he remembered what Lola had said. Make it look weird . . . mysterious . . . arty. OK, fine. So be it.
He got creative with the rope, tying it round the periscope hood of an air vent, before lowering it down the side of the building, carefully between the lines of windows so it couldn’t be seen from inside. It didn’t even reach the ground, coming up maybe ten feet short. He could imagine some copper just standing down there and staring and scratching his head and wondering if someone really could have climbed up and then back down with all those stolen works.
Frankie couldn’t help smiling at the thought. He grabbed the postcards of Houdini next and arranged them in a pentagram, using little sticks and stones he found in the guttering to hold them in place. He looked around, satisfied. The whole thing looked like the product of a deeply disturbed mind. Not so far from the truth either. He needed to get out of here before he lost his marbles for real.
Shit. The camera. He’d nearly forgotten. Snap snap. He did it quick.
Gripping on to the frame of the skylight, he then lowered himself back down, his muscles warming to the task this time, already limbered up. He climbed down off the benches. He thought about moving them back to how they’d been before. But no. Leaving them like this was fine. It would just look like whoever had nicked the exhibits from downstairs had used the benches to get back up onto the roof.
Right, time to scarper. He hurried over to the door. Then stopped. Something was bugging him. But what? Something not right. He turned and slowly looked back round the room. At the paintings . . . the Taddei Tondo . . . the benches . . . No, nothing wrong there. But then he saw it. The fire extinguisher he’d used to smash his way up through the skylight. The one he’d taken off the wall.
The Break Page 19