by Janet Pywell
My back is against the wall. ‘What do you want?’
‘It’s a present.’
‘What for?’
He bounces on his heels then scratches his trimmed beard and contemplates. ‘It’s a gift for looking after my mother and …for being such a wonderful neighbour.’ He doesn’t slur but he speaks cautiously and when he leans toward me his spittle lands on my cheek. I wipe it off with the back of my hand.
‘I never thanked you for looking after Mum when she had her fall. Then Annie tells me that you came in and sat with her when she wasn’t well this week so it seems I am in debt to your… kindness. And I don’t like to be in debt. It makes me feel uncomfortable.’
‘I don’t want this. I like your Mother.’ I push the wine bottle firmly against his chest.
‘Umm.’ He scratches his beard with his index finger.
‘I thought it was your boyfriend who likes my mother.’ His eyes are flat and lifeless. He waves his arms expansively. ‘I’m also in debt to you because you’re offering my wife a job. You want her to paint and decorate for you – in here. Don’t you have time to do it yourself? Why do you want my wife in here?’
I slide along the wall changing my grip to hold the bottle by its neck.
‘Let me explain things to you, shall I? Let me make things perfectly clear. I will spell it out slowly, so–you–will–understand–me. My wife doesn’t need the work. She’s a–very–busy–woman. So, it would be better for everyone if you tell her that you–don’t–need–your–flat–decorating. Tell her you have–changed–your–mind.’ His lips are close to mine. ‘Understand?’
‘Annie offered.’ I stare him in the eye. I have been in worse situations.
His breath is hot on my cheek, my nose and then my ear. His lips are close to my skin. I think he may kiss me or perhaps try to kill me. I turn away and hold my breath. My grip tightens on the bottle.
‘I don’t want you near my wife. Is that clear? Stay away from her or you will...’
I close my eyes.
‘And tell you boyfriend to stay away too.’
The front door slams.
When I open my eyes Roy is gone.
The following morning I’m at home trying to concentrate on my work for the art exhibition in Knightsbridge in just ten days’ time but my mind is wandering. Roy’s visit hasn’t unnerved me as much as the fact that Javier might have seen the painting.
Did Mrs Green show it to him?
He texted me but he stayed at his studio working last night as he has done for most of the past fortnight. He is finishing a canvas so that he can devote all his time to Josephine Lavelle when she arrives here at the end of the week.
The doorbell rings.
It couldn’t be Roy.
Couldn’t the postman just put the bills through the box?
On the second ring I sigh and stretch, straighten my baggy black shirt and open the door.
‘Give me a hand will you?’ I stare down at the top of Annie’s dusky blond hair. ‘God, it’s been a nightmare finding the right paint. I wanted to get the perfect colours.’
There are six large tins, several smaller ones, two rollers and half a dozen paintbrushes of various sizes. With a grunt she lifts a couple of heavy cans across the threshold.
‘I’ve time for a quick coffee if you ask me nicely but I have to collect Max in half an hour. I’ll start painting tomorrow morning. I’ve got some wonderful shades. Look at this lilac. Isn’t it perfect for the bedroom? And this sage green is ideal for the living room. I asked them to mix a special tone – I think it will look fabulous.’ Annie pushes me toward the kitchen. ‘Come on, Mikky. Chop, chop! Haven’t got all day you know. Heaven’s you look busy.’ She nods at my computer and my notes scattered across the table. ‘I promise not to disturb you while you’re working. I’ll be very quiet. No singing or whistling.’ She talks about the paint; texture and contrasts, and in the end I say.
‘Annie, is it okay, you know, you decorating for me?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘What about, Roy?’
‘Roy’s in Slovenia, he left this morning.’
‘He came around here last night.’
‘Yes. I know. With a bottle of wine.’
‘He threatened me.’
‘Roy?’
‘He said he didn’t want you painting my flat. He said that it would be better for me if I told you that I didn’t need the flat painting.’
Her eyes are like two dark grey puddles and she bites the corner of her bottom lip. ‘He doesn’t have to know, does he?’ she says. ‘We don’t have to tell him.’
‘And what if he finds out?’
‘I won’t say a word,’ she says. ‘Will you?’
I look sideways at Javier’s handsome profile. We’re eating in the local French restaurant around the corner from our flat near the river. He hasn’t shaved and his eyes are red and bloodshot – he has been working day and night finishing a canvas. It is the first time that we have had chance to talk together and enjoy a tasty meal.
Over his fresh lobster and my chicken in cream sauce I tell him about Roy’s threatening visit and how Annie turned up the next morning with paints.
‘She’s got balls! Especially if you say Roy was so angry.’
‘I had the wine bottle in my hand ready to smack him with it.’
‘He wouldn’t want to mess with you. I’ve seen you – you’re like a tiger when you get angry.’
‘It only happened once. Don’t exaggerate.’
‘Yes, and the guy never bothered you after that.’
I shake my head remembering the incident at University. Javier, Carmen and I had been at a Spanish rock band concert, I don’t remember the name of the group now but as we were leaving the venue a guy roughly pushed Carmen smacking her temple against a wall.
I tried to grab him but he escaped in the medley of people. We knew him. He was a cocky student with wealthy parents from Bilbao. He was loud, often drunk and brash.
When we got to the bar where the student’s hung out – he was there. I showed him Carmen’s bruised and bleeding face but he had laughed, worse still, he refused to apologise and in the end Javier had to pull me away.
But I waited and watched then I followed him down the dimly lit passageway to the toilet, taking him alone and by surprise with my biker boot kicking him in the middle of his spine. He crashed against the wall and I spun him around and raised my knee hard into his balls. He doubled over and I chopped the middle of his back with my elbow. Winded he slumped to the floor where I kicked him hard in the gut a few times and left him lying with pee seeping through his trousers and crying out in pain.
‘I’m sure you’ll sort out Roy if he turns up again.’ Javier refills our glasses. Our empty dinner plates are removed and we order coffee and whiskey.
‘He also told me to tell you not to bother Mrs Green again,’ I say.
He looks surprised and his cheeks flush.
‘I didn’t know that you had gone into see her,’ I add.
‘Ah, I was going to leave it as a surprise.’
‘Surprise?’
‘Well, you know the morning Mrs Green called in to see you? We talked a lot about paintings and she mentioned that she had an excellent forgery of a Vermeer and I wanted to take a look at it.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, think about it. Paintings turn up all the time – out of the blue – out of nowhere. If it is the original the museum would pay a fortune to get it back.’
‘It’s not the original.’
‘It might be.’
‘Have you seen it?’ I ask holding my breath.
‘Not yet – she didn’t want to risk showing it to me or having the discussion with her family around. Annie was there.’
‘She’s teasing you,’ I say. ‘Mrs Green is playing.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I’ve seen it.’
‘And it couldn’t possibly be the–’
‘
No.’
‘But just supposing it is. We could give–’
‘It’s not.’
‘But–’
‘It wouldn’t be ours to give–’
‘I know but just supposing we persuaded Mrs Green to give it back I’m sure we could get some reward. We could negotiate–’
‘You always said you weren’t interested in money and that it was more important to be a good artist.’
‘Think of the fame and the recognition we would get.’
I stare at him.
‘It’s true, Mikky. What if we found the world’s most expensive stolen painting and returned it? Look what happened to Josephine Lavelle – she found the Golden Icon. She is revered and famous.’
‘She was famous already.’
‘And now she’s a hero for returning a piece of national treasure.’
I shake my head. My mind is leaping at the thought of Javier taking my Vermeer and returning it to Boston – it just isn’t going to happen.
‘It’s Mrs Green’s painting. Let her enjoy it.’ My voice sounds harsher than I intended. ‘It’s not the original. It’s a fake. I’ve seen it, remember?’
‘I told her she should get it valued.’
‘What?’
‘She should.’
‘She can’t.’
‘Why?’
‘She doesn’t want to make a fuss and she doesn’t want Roy to get his hands on it. She doesn’t want him to get ideas about the painting. He’s had a gambling problem before and she’s still wary of him.’
My plan is unravelling. I never wanted Javier to know about the painting. If only I had been home when Mrs Green called in.
‘Then it makes me all the more determined to do the right thing.’ He stirs sugar into his coffee.
‘If it is the original, I would agree with you, Javier,’ I lie. ‘But it isn’t. Let an old lady enjoy the last remaining years she has with the painting. Be kind, Javier. Don’t cause a fuss. She doesn’t need that.’
‘So you think Mrs Green’s painting is a fake, do you? I wish she had shown it to me.’ He sips the last of his whiskey and stretches his legs. ‘Where did she get it?’
‘From an art dealer in Paris, I think.’
Javier yawns. ‘Don’t you know anyone who might know someone who could check it out? You know–’
‘I checked. My dealer told me the original is somewhere in Kazakhstan. It was once valued at $500 million. He heard through a reliable source that it’s in the hands of a businessman and a collector.’ I don’t elaborate fearing my lie will lead me further from the truth and seem implausible.
Javier chuckles. ‘Collector – that’s a joke – he probably stole it in the first place, although wasn’t there a rumour the real IRA stole it?’
‘How do they find out about these things?’ I say matching his smile.
‘Journalists and investigators, I suppose.’
‘They’re not always reliable or even honest.’
‘So much information is subterfuge,’ he agrees. ‘The value of any valuable art possession depends on the ability to demonstrate clear title and evidence of its undisputed ownership.’ He smiles and seems absorbed watching the waitress clearing the empty table in the corner of the room and I study him and wonder about his motive. Javier is a clever and gentle man: captivating, entertaining, caring and sincere. Can anyone be that perfect?
‘And what about Roy?’ he asks.
‘He won’t get his hands on it while Mrs Green is alive,’ I say.
‘We’ll have to make sure of that.’ Javier asks for the bill.
I finish my whiskey and sit back mulling over our conversation. Time is critical and like an hour–glass I wonder how much I have left.
When will be a good time for me to make the swap?
‘You remember the journalist, Karl Blakey, the one Josephine told us not to speak to…’ he says.
‘I’d forgotten about him besides she asked you not to speak to him,’ I correct him.
‘He’s been following me.’ Javier looks out of the window and scans the dark and empty street.
‘Did you have lunch with him?’
‘We had a drink,’ he says.
‘And?’
‘I told him I wouldn’t speak to him but he won’t take no for an answer. He was actually very good company. He’s knowledgeable and well informed and he’s also got amazing contacts in the art world.’
Javier pays with his credit card. He taps his secret number into the machine and although the waitress looks at him with a flirty smile he is oblivious of her good looks.
Outside I button my duffel coat against the cold and we walk down to the river and along the towpath. Javier links his arm through mine. ‘Karl Blakey has written a lot about Josephine. He seems very interested in her career but it’s as if he doesn’t like her. He reported on her cocaine use that shocked her fans–’
‘Josephine took cocaine?’ I say.
‘Didn’t you know? Her career went into decline when the public found out.’
‘So, it turns out he isn’t such a nice guy.’ I push my nose under my collar. ‘Why is he following you?’ I ask.
‘I assume it’s because he got lucky reporting on her coke habit and he made a name for himself as an investigative reporter. He pretends he’s interested in her portrait but I think he’s trying to get me to reveal things I know about her. He wants to know when she is arriving in London and where she’s staying.’
‘An investigative journalist? I’ll sort him out for you, Javier. I’ll protect you.’ I tug on his arm and pull him closer to me.
The last thing I need is a nosey journalist sniffing around and I feel the sand shifting and draining away from under my toes.
In the last week of January three events happen simultaneously: Josephine arrives and checks into the Savoy Hotel. An article about Javier and his new portrait commission appears in The Sunday Times Supplement and thirdly, in the same newspaper there’s an interview with a wealthy Romanian businessman by Karl Blakey. The event that interests me most is the article on the Romanian Alexandru Negrescu presumably he has important information leading to the recovery of a stolen Vermeer painting and the curator from the Isabella Stewart Museum from Boston is also flying over from America for a meeting with Christie’s Auction House.
To clear my head I head for Chiswick Park looking for evidence that spring could be on its way but it is still January and a covering of snow has melted on the paths and muffled-up dog walkers and joggers whose breath comes out like plumes of smoke from a steam engine, hurry with purpose keen to get home.
I pass the pond and at the small bridge I pause to admire nesting ducks while pondering the implications of stealing the painting while Mrs Green is still alive. I can’t wait. The noose is tightening. There is suddenly too much interest in this lost masterpiece.
It couldn’t be the same Vermeer. The coincidence seems implausible. I sit for a while on a bench watching ducks glide across the water seemingly effortlessly while their feet paddle frantically underneath and I know how they feel.
A black Cockerpoo chases a Dalmatian and it sniffs snootily before turning dismissively and runs away.
‘Mikky Dos Santos?’ I turn at the sound of my name.
His face has been splashed on all the media outlets for the past few days under the heading of ‘Talented Investigative Journalist’ but it still takes me a few seconds to recognise him.
‘My name is Karl Blakey.’ He takes a card from his pocket and holds out his arm to stop me from moving away. ‘It’s important.’ His small rodent eyes are watchful and wary.
Josephine Lavelle is not here – does her rule apply to me? Besides I’m curious about the newspaper article and the Vermeer.
What does he want from me?
‘Nothing you say to me has an importance,’ I reply and walk away.
‘Come and have a coffee with me. I think we could help each other,’ he urges.
I continue walking. T
he black Cockerpoo runs toward me, his coat shines electric blue and I bend to pat his head, stalling and waiting for Karl Blakey to follow.
‘It can’t be a coincidence that you’re living with an artist who has been commissioned to paint a portrait of Josephine Lavelle, an ex–cocaine user, and a serial liar with a dubious past.’
I look up. It’s the first time I’ve heard anyone speak negatively about Josephine Lavelle and in spite of myself I smile.
He speaks quickly. ‘You must know the story of the Golden Icon and I believe she stole more from Dieter Guzman’s apartment when she collected it in Munich.’
‘What?’
‘And it’s no coincidence that a Romanian businessman has information leading to the recovery of a stolen painting. A painting that she reported seeing in that apartment in Munich last August. She was the last person ever to see it.’
I have no idea what he is talking about.
Karl’s small pink eyes regard me unblinkingly. He is about my age or slightly older perhaps thirty-five but his jowls wobble when he speaks. ‘Wait, Mikky, come back! Do you also know that your boyfriend is dealing with some well know art crooks? Ah? I can see from your face that you don’t. Be careful. Don’t trust him. Don’t trust what Javier says.’
I throw my head back, laugh in his face and turn away.
‘Call me anytime. You may need me,’ he shouts.
Drops of rain begin to splash on my cheek then my forehead. I know Karl continues to stand rooted to the spot, the heat of his eyes are on my back and as the storm breaks overhead rain falls in torrents and I run with my hands in my pockets. I take cover under a fir tree and shake water from my hair. Karl hasn’t followed me nor is he still standing in the rain. He has disappeared.
On the way out of the park I drop his business card into the bin with the doggy poo bags and head home.
We are sitting in a taxi on our way to the ballet at the Royal Opera House.
‘She’s excited to be here,’ Javier says. ‘She wouldn’t come tonight. She wanted to rest after her journey. It seems she spent quite a lot of time here when she was performing. She tells me London holds a very special place in her heart – for personal reasons. I didn’t know what she meant but I’m looking forward to spending time with her, Mikky. She is so interesting… she’s an amazing woman.’