‘A bit of boredom might do you good right now,’ Watts said. ‘And it would get you out of the firing line.’
All eyes were on Tingley. ‘I’ll think about it. Thanks.’ He put his drink down. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’
As Tingley walked away Gilchrist said to Watts: ‘Let me ask you a question. What did you think of the Police Committee – and particularly its chairman – when you were the chief constable?’
Watts grinned back. ‘Point taken.’ He scratched his head. ‘Funny you should mention the chairman. I bumped into Hart the other day.’
‘What – the father of the Evil One?’ Gilchrist said, only half-joking. She was the one who had arrested his repulsive son and been obliged to have dealings with him. She felt she needed a shower just thinking about him. ‘What’s he up to?’
‘Drinking himself to death, I think,’ Watts said. ‘He was coming out of the Bath Arms four sheets to the wind before one in the afternoon.’
‘I think the correct expression is “three sheets”, Bob,’ Simpson said.
He looked blank for a moment. ‘You know where the expression “three dog night” comes from?’ he finally said.
‘I don’t know the expression “three dog night”,’ Sarah said.
‘It was the name of a band a few years ago,’ Watts said.
‘Victorian times?’ Simpson said.
‘The Inuit judge how cold it is by how many dogs they need to snuggle next to for warmth. One dog night, not so cold; two dogs, getting cold; three dog night – seriously low temperatures out there.’
‘Aside from the number three, what has that got to do with the expression “three sheets to the wind”?’ Kate said.
‘Four sheets,’ Watts said. ‘It was a four sheets day.’
You approach the mirror in the bathroom. The man reflected looks familiar, not foreign to you for the first time in an age. You try a smile. Not great, but something. You don’t look quite so much like a man running from himself. You nod to your reflection.
‘Jimmy,’ you whisper to yourself.
You hope that Sebastian and Phyllida will keep their promise and take care of Sal Paradise and his wretched enterprises. If you can help them, you will, they know that.
You are not sure how you feel about taking revenge on Rogers and Howe. It has changed nothing. You are not sure how you feel about Michelle. You had lost her long before she died. But you failed her. You feel that and will have to live with that. You are not sure about your friend’s job offer.
You remember the words written as graffiti in the toilet of a café in Lisbon. Outside was a bronze statue of their original author, sitting at his favourite table in his favourite café in the city his writing made eternal.
The world belongs to those who feel nothing, the indelible graffiti read in solid black. You had a felt pen in your pocket. The nib was thin and on the wall the ink was faint but still you wrote two words in front of the inscription and put a line through the ‘s’ of ‘belongs’.
Whether any of the words are still there you don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. They remain the words you live by. Don’t let the world belong to those who feel nothing.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
All characters in this book are entirely and utterly fictional and bear no resemblance to any real person, even if I have some characters working for real institutions. The illegal art and artefacts trade does exist pretty much as I have described it but none of the characters I have invented relate to anyone involved in any way in the art, artefacts and museums world. Tragically, Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge regime were all too horribly real.
Peter Guttridge
Those Who Feel Nothing Page 25