An Artistic Way to Go

by Roderic Jeffries

  Campbell, not possessing a developed sense of decorous business behaviour, had merely produced ten one-hundred-dollar notes and demanded to know if that was good enough? Then he had left, refusing to give any address.

  Poperen? His work offered every chance of a very good appreciation in value. Though it would hurt the soul to buy his paintings and know that they were destined to be owned by some Philistine who probably thought Van Dyck was a female new age traveller.

  It had begun to seem that, ironically thanks to his own efforts, Poperen’s work had become far more appreciated than he had recognized. Because the artist had died young, he had produced a relatively small oeuvre and those who now owned his paintings were seeing the values of these constantly rise and were therefore unwilling to sell until and unless convinced the market had reached a plateau. But finally he had found in Berlin two of the largest works in the hands of a man who had needed money quickly …

  It was on his return from Berlin, with price and delivery date agreed, that the stewardess, handing out newspapers, had passed him one of the tabloids. He had asked for a broadsheet, preferably The Times, but she had said that all copies had already been distributed. With nothing else to read – he’d left a paperback in the hotel by mistake – he had begun to leaf through the paper, the standard of its contents confirming his firm belief that democracy was doomed since even the readers of a paper like this had the vote. Then on one of the pages he’d been surprised and disconcerted to see the photograph of the man whom he’d known as Campbell. The short article accompanying this noted that Ed Murray had been found guilty by a Philadelphia court on three counts of vicious assault, one of which had left a man brain-damaged and blind. According to the prosecution, Murray had been the enforcer for one of the Mafia bosses …

  He had ordered another gin and tonic. For some years there had been reports of criminals laundering money through art; either buying legitimately or from thieves. Dealers had been asked to inform the authorities should they have any reason to suspect this was happening. So should he now tell the police about Campbell? But had he learned anything of the slightest significance? And therefore it did seem pointless, if one looked at things realistically, to suffer the inevitable hassle …

  Three weeks later, another American, who gave his name as Sumner, had entered the gallery and asked him if he’d secured the paintings. He’d explained how hard the search had proved, then added that he thought he had found a seller. At the moment, he was trying to persuade the seller to accept a price that was fair to all parties …

  ‘Hurry it up,’ Sumner had said.

  There could no longer be any doubt as to where his duty lay. He’d almost rung the police; almost … That night, his thoughts had ranged far and wide. The recession had hit the art world really hard and profits at the gallery had slumped alarmingly. Davina had never been a careful spender, but compared to Rachael, she was a miser. Rachael had taken to the luxury life with an enthusiasm that was breathtaking and pocket-emptying. And when he’d tried to stem the expenses, she had shown, in the subtle way in which a woman did, that his pleasures depended on her pleasures …

  Paintings bought with black money were not immediately going to be put on display, they were going to be kept under wraps; they would only appear years later when without risk to the owner they could be shown in public as an ego boost or sold to legitimize both capital and profit. So a forgery could be sold to such a buyer in the certain knowledge that it would not be examined by an expert until long after any doubts about authenticity could affect the seller; indeed, even that might not matter since really good fakes were time and again declared to be genuine by experts who were too self-opinionated ever to accept that doubt could be cast on their judgements …

  Charles Field had been carrying out restoration work all his career and was brilliant at this. Several years back, one of Poperen’s paintings had been brought to the gallery by a man who had inherited it from Poperen’s niece, because even in France Oliver Cooper was acknowledged to be the expert on the artist’s work. The niece had obviously been a very prudish woman because she had banished the painting to an attic and there it had suffered so much from damp and dirt that by the time it reached the gallery, it had been in very poor condition. He’d pointed out all the faults and offered a suitably reduced price and this had been accepted. Then he’d handed the painting to Field and asked for as good a job of restoration as was possible. Field was a slow worker and so it had been months before the painting had been returned, but then it was only with the greatest difficulty that he had been able to make out the restoration work … He’d hesitated, then sold it at auction without any caveat and been gratified by the price it fetched …

  His thoughts were abruptly interrupted.

  ‘I’d say you’ve finally remembered,’ White drawled. ‘So now you know why you’re being asked to repay the million two hundred and fifty grand, plus, for the fakes.’

  ‘They were nothing of the kind…’

  ‘Cut the crap. A couple of months back, my principal had an argument and by the time it was over one of the paintings had been damaged. So he sent it to an expert to be repaired. This expert’s a smart guy. Because the tear allowed him to see a cross-section of the paint, something didn’t seem quite right; he began to wonder if the painting might just be a fake. So it was X-rayed, microscoped, spectroscoped, put under infrared and ultraviolet, and finally given something called transverse irradiation. The verdict? It was a brilliant fake. So my principal got to thinking and sent the second painting for examination. Same result.

  ‘When a man learns he’s spent a million two hundred and fifty thousand for a couple of fakes, he’s not smiling. But he’s a fair man and understands that maybe you were conned when you bought, just like him. All he’s asking is repayment plus that little bit extra.’

  ‘I sold them in good faith.’

  ‘Haven’t I just said? So provided the money’s ready for electronic transmission this time Tuesday, everything’s smooth.’

  ‘But … but that’s three-quarters of a million pounds.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I can’t find that sort of money.’

  ‘They say that where there’s a will, there’s a way. Try harder.’ White stood. ‘Been a pleasure, Oliver. And I’m telling you, if I lived in this lovely house with a beautiful wife, I sure as hell wouldn’t want anything to disturb the scene.’

  Cooper watched White stride across to the inside door and go out into the hall. After a moment, he heard a car drive off, yet still he seemed to be unable to move. The threat was all the more terrifying because it had never actually been spelled out.

  CHAPTER 6

  When Dolores stepped through the bead curtain across the doorway from the kitchen, Alvarez and Jaime sat at the dining-room table and Isabel and Juan were lounging in chairs set in front of the television. She was about to speak when Jaime, never one to get his timing right, said: ‘Isn’t grub ready yet? I’m hungry.’

  She put her hands on her hips and held her strongly featured head high, her midnight-black hair providing a handsome corona. ‘Should I apologize humbly for the delay?’

  ‘Humbly’ was not a word that came readily to her lips. Alvarez tried to express silently that he disassociated himself from Jaime’s question.

  ‘It’s just … Well, I thought…’ Jaime became silent.

  ‘You have forgotten? I have read many times that alcohol destroys the brain cells.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘You cannot recall that the gas gave out and I asked you to change the bottle? Or that I had to wait and wait until I could wait no longer or the cooking would be ruined and so I had to struggle to change it myself. Because of that, the meal will not be ready for a little while yet. But perhaps the fault is really mine. No doubt I should have allowed for the fact that when you are drinking, which is for most of the time, you cannot be bothered with anything so unnecessary as helping your wife.’ She lowered her hands
, turned, swept through the bead curtain and back into the kitchen.

  ‘I’ll swear she’s getting worse,’ Jaime muttered. ‘On at me every day. What have I done to deserve that? Nothing.’

  ‘That’s what she’s complaining about,’ Alvarez said.

  ‘Bloody funny!… I was going to change the gas as soon as I’d finished what I was doing. She expects me to run the moment she speaks. You know why women are like that these days, don’t you? It’s all that nonsense in the papers and on the telly about them being equal to men. Well, in this house, they aren’t. There’s only one boss and that’s me.’ He made certain Dolores wasn’t watching through the bead curtains, poured himself a large brandy, added ice. ‘She was very different when we were first married. Knew her place. Why do women change so?’

  ‘They can be themselves once they’ve got all they want.’

  ‘It’s bloody unfair.’ He drank. ‘You’re sensible; you’ve stayed single. You can walk along the beach and stare at all the bare titties and not have to pretend you’re looking at something else.’

  ‘That’s all right until one gets old.’

  ‘If you’ve had your fun, it’s easier to put up with things. In any case, all you have to do then is look for a widow with property.’

  Dolores appeared. ‘Is it Adela? Her land was some of the best when Luis, God rest his soul, was alive to farm it. The house in the village needs reformation since he was always so close with the money he’d never have any work done, but being so close there must be very many pesetas under the mattress. She’s a good woman. She wore black for a year and now is in grey.’ She smiled warmly at Alvarez. ‘I have always thought that one day you would mature sufficiently to stop lusting after foreign women who are little more than children.’

  Juan looked away from the television, that was showing advertisements. ‘What’s lusting mean?’

  ‘Behaving like a man,’ she answered, her present good humour in sharp contrast to her earlier manner. ‘You and Isabel can lay the table.’ She returned into the kitchen.

  Isabel stood and went round to the sideboard, carved in a traditional pattern, pulled open a drawer and brought out a tablecloth with blue Mallorquin embroidery. ‘Clear the table,’ she ordered her brother.

  ‘Clear it yourself.’

  She turned to Jaime. ‘Tell him he’s got to do it.’

  ‘It’s women’s work.’ Jaime said to Alvarez: ‘She thinks you’re after Adela. You aren’t, are you?’

  ‘You think I’m that crazy? Luis always said that he’d have been more comfortable living with a porcupine.’

  Jaime jerked his thumb in the direction of the kitchen. ‘For God’s sake don’t let on until after the meal.’

  For once, Alvarez thought, Jaime had spoken sense. Let her work herself into a full temper and even at this late moment she might deliberately become so careless that the meal was less than perfect. He poured himself another drink.

  She carried in plates, returned for an earthenware dish which she set on the earthenware ring in the centre of the table. She lifted the lid and prepared to serve.

  Sopa de peix de Sant Telm! Alvarez thought. When made by Dolores, a fish soup to lift up a man to dine with the gods. As he drained his glass and refilled it with wine, he allowed his thoughts to become more charitable. Women had many failings, but there were some whose achievements went a long way towards excusing these.

  * * *

  Members of the Cuerpo General de Policia normally operated from the police stations of the Policia Armada y de Trafico, but some years before and as a temporary measure, Alvarez had been given an office in the Guardia post in Llueso. He had remained in Llueso ever since, an arrangement that suited him since otherwise he’d have been stationed several kilometres away in Playa Nueva and have been unable to return home to lunch.

  He settled in the chair behind the desk and pondered the question, What might Dolores have cooked for lunch? It was quite some time since they’d had Greixnera de xot, and if anyone could turn lamb stew into a dish fit to be served in a five-crossed-forks restaurant, she could … The telephone rang. Grunting from the effort, he wriggled himself into an upright position and lifted the receiver.

  ‘There’s a call for you,’ said the duty cabo. ‘Some foreign woman can’t find her husband.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s missing.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘By asking her.’

  ‘That’s your job, not mine.’ There was a change of tone. ‘You’re through, señora.’

  She said, in Spanish: ‘My husband has gone…’

  He interrupted her, speaking in English since only an Anglo-Saxon could so molest a language. ‘What is your name, please?’

  ‘For God’s sake, he’s missing…’

  ‘I do have to have your name, señora.’

  ‘Rachael Cooper.’

  ‘And you live where?’

  ‘Ca’n Oliver. In the huerta.’

  ‘When did you last see your husband?’

  ‘Yesterday morning, when I went out to do some shopping.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘About ten. When I got back, he wasn’t here and his car was gone.’

  ‘Were you expecting him to return last night?’

  ‘Of course I was.’

  ‘Have you spoken to friends to discover if he’s with them?’

  ‘No one’s seen him. Something terrible’s happened, I know it has.’

  ‘Do you have reason to suppose he might be in trouble? Has he received any threats?’

  ‘No.’

  If the husband really had disappeared, then an investigation should start immediately. But ninety-nine times out of a hundred, ‘missing’ husbands preferred not to be found until they had had time to concoct a story good enough to allay the suspicions of their wives. Added to which – though, of course, this was not in any sense a deciding factor – by the time he’d driven to the huerta, talked to the señora, and determined the facts, it would be long after lunch time. ‘Señora, rest assured that almost all missing persons turn up sooner rather than later. But to make certain there is no obvious cause for concern, I’ll be along as soon as I have finished some very important work which, regretfully, I cannot delay.’ He said goodbye quickly – women when emotional could become very argumentative – and replaced the receiver. He settled back in the chair.

  CHAPTER 7

  Over the years, the slowly rising land of La Huerta de Llueso had been overtaken and overlaid by luxurious homes, gardens, swimming pools, and even hard tennis courts, so that now only a bare half of the area was under cultivation. It was a sad sight for anyone who could remember when every last centimetre of every field had been worked.

  The narrow lane had been designed for mule carts, not cars. As Alvarez slowly approached a very sharp right-hand bend, made blind by the house on the corner, a Mercedes came round at speed and was forced to brake fiercely enough to make the tyres squeal shrilly. The driver sounded the horn and angrily waved at Alvarez to back. Alvarez did so until the road briefly widened sufficiently for two vehicles to pass. The Mercedes drew level. ‘Pity you didn’t ever learn to drive,’ the man behind the wheel shouted in English through the opened window before accelerating away.

  Alvarez thought up an answer after the Mercedes’s dust had settled. He continued on around the corner, turned left a hundred metres on. Now he was level with a small orange grove in which a man was working with a Roman plough, pulled by a mule, a sight which in the past decade sadly had become rare. Alvarez braked the car to a halt, leaned across to lower the passenger window. ‘Felipe.’

  Caimari shouted at the mule, which came to a stop, head drooping. He dropped the reins, walked between orange trees, came to a stop, and looked up – at this point, the road was a metre higher than the field. ‘It’s you, Enrique! Not seen you for a long time.’

  ‘Life gets even busier. How’s the family?�
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  ‘Can’t complain.’

  He was of a generation who had endured great want and hardship and had learned the truth in the old Mallorquin saying, Do not complain that the rich man is robbing you lest he realize you still have something worth stealing. ‘Which is Ca’n Oliver, owned by English people?’

  He thought. ‘Along the next dirt track to the right. The land belonged to old Serra until he died.’

  ‘D’you know the English señor who lives there?’

  ‘I’ve seen him. He’s not seen me.’

  Alvarez correctly understood that the Englishman was one of those foreigners who snobbishly ignored the locals. ‘His wife says he’s gone missing since yesterday morning.’

  ‘Surprised she’s bothered to report it.’

  ‘Why d’you say that?’

  ‘It don’t mean nothing. And if you ain’t anything better to do than talk, I have.’ He turned, stumped his way back between the trees, picked up the reins, shouted at the mule and resumed ploughing.

  Alvarez drove on until he reached a dirt track on his right, turned on to this. A couple of hundred metres on, a drive flanked by oleanders, grown as trees, not bushes, led up to a turning circle in front of a very large bungalow. Visible were flower beds which were a mass of colour, and part of a lawn that looked fit enough for bowling. Because the land sloped very gradually all the way to the distant shore, Llueso Bay was visible; seen at this distance, all development around the water became mere blotches that hardly diminished the beauty of the scene.

  The door opened and he turned to face a young woman in neat maid’s uniform. He introduced himself.

  ‘You’d best come in instead of standing out there,’ she said pertly.

  He stepped into the large, air-conditioned hall, almost icily cool in comparison with the heat outside. ‘Has there been any news of the señor?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘I do hope nothing terrible’s happened.’

  ‘I doubt it has … When did you last see him?’