‘So you keep telling me,’ Jesse said irritably. He had wanted to drive to Mold that night. Only the absence of a car and driving licence stopped him. If he’d had the money, he would have hailed a black cab to take him the whole way there.
‘Look at the picture’s catalogue,’ Larissa said, holding up the mighty tome dedicated solely to the picture. Across the front in gold was its title, The Improbability of Love, and between the thick hardback covers were eleven essays extolling the picture’s importance and cultural significance. There were pieces by Septimus Ward-Thomas on the value of this picture in the litany of art; by Simon Schama on its art-historical pre-eminence; as well as commentaries by Jasper Johns, Peter Doig, Dexter Dalwood, Catherine Goodman, Gerhard Richter and Tarka Kings, and poems by Carol Ann Duffy and Alice Oswald that had been inspired by it.
‘No one, apart from us, wants this sale to fail,’ Larissa said.
‘Annie is innocent!’ Jesse said, emphatically. He had stopped pacing and was now standing in front of Larissa, his eyes blazing.
‘I am not saying she is guilty, but the evidence is stacked up against her,’ said Larissa. ‘There is no footage of her in the shop on the day of the alleged purchase, but a policewoman recalls her giving a statement the day after the place was burned out and taking particular interest in the death of the shopkeeper. There is even CCTV footage of her taking the painting out of Winklemans’ as well as evidence pointing to her amassing information about the picture’s history, including visits to the National Gallery and the British Museum. The Winklemans even have records of books taken out of libraries on the subject of Watteau and details of her trying to authenticate the painting in every establishment apart from the obvious one – her employer’s. Why didn’t she show her picture to Rebecca?’
‘She did not want to be seen wasting office time,’ Jesse countered. ‘Besides, you know how frightening and unapproachable both Rebecca and Memling are.’
‘You have to admit, Jesse, it doesn’t look good. No jury is going to have much trouble convicting her,’ said Larissa.
‘She’s been framed.’
‘You are a man in love,’ Larissa said gently. ‘You have to play this very carefully and coolly if you want to help Annie.’
Jesse walked through the centre of Mold. Thirsty and hungry, he looked through the window of the Dolphin Inn wondering if he had time for a late lunch and a pint of Dutch courage. His thoughts immediately turned to Annie and he felt a stab of shame – her future rested in his hands and he was thinking about food. He found Ffordd Pentre easily – it was a housing estate built in the 1980s near the main Chester Road. Each house was a slight variation on a red-brick box: some had bay windows, some had white boarding, all had oversized garages and cobbled forecourts. Number 21 was surrounded by a small wall and a privet hedge. Unlike its neighbours, it had a neatly clipped mini lawn and hanging baskets. A tortoiseshell-coloured cat sat preening in the window and there was a small car parked out front.
Jesse had dressed carefully. He wore a pale-blue shirt, a tie and his best corduroy suit, hoping to look respectable but not official. Smoothing down his hair with his right hand, he walked up to the door and knocked firmly.
Inside Delia Abufel had just made herself a cup of tea, got three custard creams out of the biscuit tin, made a note to buy more at Tesco’s the following day, and settled down to watch a daily show, Pointless. It started at 5 p.m., and at 4.50 exactly, with everything ‘just so’, Delia turned the television on to see Alexander Armstrong’s beaming face announcing the first guest. Today, Delia thought, I am going to win. The day before she had been beaten again, another defeat in a long row of disappointments. The doorbell rang. One short but insistent bleat. Delia looked at the cat but he was unperturbed and kept on licking his paw. She turned up the television. It was probably kids from up the road – best ignored.
Outside Jesse moved his weight from foot to foot. He knew someone was inside; he could see ghostly reflections from the television screen flicker behind the net curtains. How long should he leave it before ringing again? He didn’t want to annoy the Abufels.
Inside Delia considered the different contestants and which pair would be her main rival. Most were normal middle-aged, Middle England types, but there was one duo that Delia hated on sight, Milly and Daisy from Blackpool. For a start they were pretty – far too pretty to have brains as well as good figures and nice clothes. Delia could have been Daisy or Milly. Delia should have been that kind of girl. But something went wrong. She had not had a lucky hand. She should have married Tod Florence and gone to New Zealand or accepted Ronnie Carbutt, who was now manager of all of Tesco’s Wales, but Delia had decided on the nice local boy instead. Maurice was, frankly, a waste of space – a plumber with no hope of promotion. A man to set your watch by, not a man to live your life with.
With each child she had gained a stone; now all four had left home, leaving their mum with a hole in her life and a stomach that hung over her trousers. Glancing at the shelf beside the television, Delia looked at the two neat rows of books: the upper shelves were devoted to cooking, tomes by Nigella, Delia and co.; the lower were her collection of failed diets, every fad from the South Beach to Atkins, three yards of dashed dreams.
The doorbell again. This time longer and more insistent.
‘Which film has Sigourney Weaver starred in?’ Alexander Armstrong asked. ‘If you can guess the least likely and score the least points, you have a chance of going through to the head to head.’
Delia frantically tried to think of one Sigourney Weaver film. Was it Alien? The Ice Storm? Ghostbusters?
The doorbell rang again. Delia thought about getting a jug of boiling hot water and throwing it in the face of the offending child.
She had a thought. Maybe it was the military police come to tell her that her eldest boy, Mark, had been hurt in Afghanistan. They came to the door. They didn’t telephone. Where was Maurice when she needed him? Delia felt the urge to cry. Heaving herself up out of the chair she almost ran to the front door and pulled it open.
‘Tell me the worst,’ she said, fighting back the tears.
The man before her did not look like a soldier or a policeman or anyone official. He was dressed in a suit that had seen better days. His tie was straight, but his thick dark-brown hair shot out in irregular tufts. Looking down, Delia noticed that his shoes were covered in paint.
‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ she asked.
Jesse looked back at the small, round woman standing in her housecoat and pink fluffy slippers. If he had to match the narrow-limbed Trichcombe Abufel, with his perfectly tied cravats and polished shoes with the most unlikely person in the world, he would never have dared imagine Delia. Trichcombe had rarely shown any emotion, the woman before him had opened the door stricken with sorrow and was now sodden with rage.
‘Who the hell are you?’ she asked again.
‘I am a friend of Trichcombe Abufel,’ Jesse began.
‘Are you his bone smuggler?’ Delia asked hesitantly.
‘Sorry?’
‘His cock jockey?’
‘I am just a friend,’ Jesse said firmly.
‘What do you think Sigourney Weaver’s least-known film is?’ Delia asked, looking back towards the television.
‘Gorillas in the Mist?’ Jesse guessed.
‘Good fucking idea,’ Delia said, before closing the door in his face and rushing back to the screen.
Jesse was left standing on the doorstep looking at a shut door. Back inside, Milly and Daisy won that round with an obscure film named Galaxy Quest.
‘Here are the names of eight footballers – match their British club to the national squad they represent.’ Alexander Armstrong beamed out of the television screen.
Delia slumped back in her chair – she knew nothing about football. It turned out that Milly and Daisy did – they romped into the lead with a very low score indeed.
The doorbell rang again.
Delia heaved he
rself out of the chair and went to answer it. ‘Now what?’
‘I am sorry to bother you. It’s really urgent.’
‘I can’t ask you in – you’ll have to wait till Maurice gets home.’
‘When will that be?’ Jesse asked as politely.
‘Six p.m. exactly. Never a minute earlier or a minute later. Now who does Robin van Persie play for and where’s the fucker from?’
‘Manchester United and he’s Dutch.’
Again the door shut in his face.
Jesse sat on the wall outside the house. A brisk wind whipped up Fford Pentre. Jesse noticed other people returning from the school run or work, parking their brightly coloured boxy cars in front of their red-brick porches and hurrying inside. Even though it was July, an early dusk seemed to settle on the town. He watched as the lights popped on and spilled on to cobbles. Each house, so nondescript and unprepossessing in daytime, became genial after dark, windows glowing like gentle eyes on a bland face. At exactly 6 p.m. Maurice Abufel’s car, a Honda Civic, pulled up outside his house.
‘Hi, you must be Maurice Abufel,’ Jesse said, stepping away from the wall.
If Maurice was surprised to see a stranger lurking in his forecourt he didn’t show it. Maurice looked a little like his uncle – tall and thin with exaggerated features and a rather lugubrious expression. Unlike the exquisitely turned out Trichcombe, this Abufel wore a blue boiler suit and rubber-soled shoes.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘I am a friend of your Uncle Trichcombe. I was a friend. I am sorry for your loss,’ he added quickly.
‘What are you doing here?’ Maurice asked, taking a front-door key out of his pocket. ‘Why didn’t you ring the bell? Come on in.’
Maurice opened the front door and motioned for Jesse to follow. Inside Maurice took off his hat and put it on the table, put the key on a hook that said ‘Key’ and his car key on another hook that said ‘M’s Car’. He opened a cupboard in the hall and hung his coat carefully on a blue plastic hanger.
‘We have a visitor. Turn the TV off,’ Maurice said.
‘Who?’
‘A friend of Uncle T’s – he was waiting outside.’ Maurice and Jesse still stood side by side in the small hall. Through the open door they could see Delia heave herself out of the chair and come towards them.
‘I made him wait outside,’ Delia said, not looking at Jesse.
‘Why? It’s chilly out there.’
‘He might have been a rapist,’ Delia said.
Maurice looked his wife up and down. ‘In your dreams, woman, in your dreams.’
‘Shut your face, Maurice, and have some tea,’ Delia said.
‘What is it?’
‘Fish fingers and beans.’
‘Oh yes, it’s Wednesday.’
‘There isn’t enough for three,’ Delia said, looking at Jesse.
‘You cook enough for ten – eat enough for nine – tonight you can cut back. Won’t kill you.’ Maurice turned to Jesse. ‘Come on in and tell us why you’re here.’ Maurice led the way into the kitchen.
Jesse hadn’t eaten since that morning, but while he had their attention he talked, telling them about Annie, how she’d bought the picture in a junk shop and how he had encouraged her to get it authenticated. Next he explained how Trichcombe had stumbled on some dark secret hidden in the Winklemans’ past and had been literally expelled and discredited from the London art scene back in the 1970s. There was something about this picture, Jesse told them, that verified Trichcombe’s hunch. He had waited for over forty years to unmask the Winklemans and when he met Annie and saw the picture, he finally had proof. The art historian had written up his thesis and planned to publish it in a magazine called Apollo. On the day before Trichcombe was due to pitch the story to the editor, he suddenly died.
‘The coroner said it was a heart attack,’ Maurice interjected.
‘What kind of person deletes all their records on their phone, their computer and all their filing cabinets and then has a heart attack?’ Jesse asked.
‘Maybe the strain was too much?’
‘The caretaker of the building saw him leave that morning. He was carrying a package and told him he was going to the post office. I asked if he looked pale or ill. He said that he was in top spirits – even said “Good morning”, which was surprising for an old curmudgeon. With all due respect,’ Jesse added quickly.
‘He was a grumpy old sod,’ Delia agreed.
‘Two nights earlier he had dinner with a mutual friend and told her that he’d unearthed a crime that would blow everyone’s minds. Said it proved he was right and had been much maligned,’ said Jesse, leaning towards them. ‘I don’t believe that Trichcombe’s death was an accident.’
Maurice and Delia looked at each other.
‘I was putting out the washing today thinking that nothing ever happened in Mold,’ Delia said.
‘Nothing does happen in Mold. This took place in London,’ Maurice said.
‘My friend said that Trichcombe might have sent you something – a copy of his report,’ Jesse held his breath. It was Annie’s last hope.
Maurice shook his head. ‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’
Delia was quiet and she suddenly said, ‘The package – I thought it was from ASOS – I walked the whole way into town, had to wait in line for forty-five minutes and it was just one of his manuscripts. He’d rung to warn me a few days earlier.’
‘What did you do with it?’ Jesse leaned over the table.
‘I’m just trying to think,’ Delia leaned back in her chair.
‘Don’t take your time, will you? There’s just the murder of my uncle and a wrongful arrest at stake,’ Maurice said.
‘After the post office, I went to the butcher and got two lamb cutlets. I ran into Lily and she said come to Ivy’s for a coffee. So we went to Ivy’s – she had done a nice cake. A sponge with jam and cream and real strawberries from Spain.’
Jesse did his best not to cry out in frustration.
‘Then I came home.’
‘That was all that happened that day?’ Maurice asked incredulously. ‘I had probably driven from Chester to Birmingham, fixed four boilers, cleaned out a couple of drains and filled in the same number of call-out sheets; you sat around like Marie Antoinette eating cake?’
Delia pursed her lips but didn’t reply.
‘Did you bring the package home?’ Jesse asked.
‘I’m just trying to think which bag I went out with.’
‘Could you have left it at Ivy’s?’ Jesse asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.
‘Did I take the big shopper or the string bag?’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ Maurice asked.
‘One’s got a pouch.’
‘Perhaps you could check the pouch?’ Jesse asked, already on his feet.
Delia walked over to the cupboard and opened it. The shopper sat at the back behind the ironing board. Delia patted the big front pocket.
‘It’s not in there.’ Looking up at the clock she gasped. ‘It’s the Mac Show in ten minutes – they’ve got Rob Brydon on tonight. Shall we go and watch it?’
‘Please, Mrs Abufel, I know that it’s a lot to ask but we need to find that package,’ said Jesse, trying to keep his wavering voice even.
‘Don’t you worry – as soon as the programme’s finished, I’ll keep looking.’
This time Maurice got to his feet. Maurice, in his worn tartan slippers, his comb-over, his patched brown cardigan over his Corgi regulation workwear and his 1960s prescription glasses, turned from a plumber into a roaring colossus.
‘Get out of that chair and into the attic,’ he shouted at his wife. ‘For once in your life put the TV in second place and someone else in first. We are talking about my uncle Trich. He was family. Family comes first. If it didn’t, I would have walked out of that door many years ago. Now you go and get every single scrap of paper that my uncle sent you and bring it down here as fast as your tiny legs c
an carry you.’
Delia looked at her husband in astonishment. She opened and closed her mouth and left the room. Jesse and Maurice sat in silence listening to her heavy tread on the stair and then on the landing and a thump as the attic ladder was lowered. There was a creak as Delia climbed up into the loft.
‘Should I go and help her perhaps?’ Jesse asked.
‘Stay there,’ Maurice replied staring ahead.
A few minutes later, Delia returned with three carrier bags. Inside there were unopened brown Jiffy bags with Maurice’s name written on the front. On the back, also handwritten, was Trichcombe’s name and address. Jesse sorted through them quickly. None had been sent recently.
‘Are these all his books?’ Maurice asked, turning the envelopes over.
‘He wrote at least twelve,’ Jesse answered. He examined each postmark with great care. ‘It’s not here.’
‘Go and call Ivy. See if you left it at hers,’ Maurice instructed his wife.
‘She’ll be watching The One Show,’ Delia grumbled, going out into the hall to use the telephone.
Ivy, they found out, didn’t have the manuscript, nor did Lily.
Jesse felt his and Annie’s future slip away. He knew that it was hopeless and she would be found guilty and spend the rest of her life in prison for a crime that she had not committed. Her life would be sacrificed to keep a secret safe. Jesse also knew that he would never love again. No doubt there would be other women, memories would be created, pictures painted, but it would be a shadow of the life that he wanted to spend with Annie. Until the moment they met, Jesse realised his existence had been wrapped in a kind of ambivalence and his idea of success was personal freedom – freedom from commitment, worries, poverty, wealth, anxiety and possessions. He had constructed a rather bland, emotionally sealed existence.
He loved painting and his family but little else. Once or twice a woman had been worth crossing town for, but when they drifted off complaining of his lack of engagement or commitment, Jesse had shrugged apologetically.
That all changed when he met Annie. His life, once an orderly, monotonous and pleasant series of tuneful single notes exploded into a cacophony of riotous, unpredictable chords. Sunshine flooded into dark, unknown corners of his being. He had become utterly daft, light-headed and open-hearted. He smiled at strangers, sang in lifts, danced down corridors. He heard melodies as if for the first time; saw colours afresh. Every tiny task became effortless – he ran down streets and bounced up stairs. Some inexplicable film had been lifted from his eyes, allowing Jesse to see the world from a familiar but altogether surprising viewpoint. Everything became heightened, acute and affecting. His painting was utterly transformed: muted tones and careful composition gave way to extravagant bursts of colour and wild flights of fantasy as his brushes flew with brio and élan across canvases. Occasionally the breath escaped from his lungs with such force that he had to hold on to something solid to stop the ground from giving way. He knew, with absolute, undeniable certainty that he and Annie were meant to be together.
The Improbability of Love Page 45