‘Of course I tried, which is more than you did.’
Giles was the first to calm down. ‘This is stupid. Nobody killed her, it was an accident. An accident, a dreadful accident. We must find a phone and call the police. We’ll tell them exactly what happened, how the boat turned over, how we did our best to save her. But we didn’t know she’d been taking pills. All right?’
‘How could you do that to Lisette?’
‘I’ve done it before with girls. I suppose I just didn’t think.’
‘You’re still not thinking. We can’t lie about something like this.’
‘We can. We must. Whatever we do, it can’t help Lisette now. There’s bound to be an enquiry, and we’ve got to think about saving our own reputations.’
‘Reputations? What do they matter?’
‘Trust me, they matter. This was a tragic accident. All right?’
‘Well ... all right.’
‘Listen, we two must always stand together, or we’ll fall apart.’
I jolted back to reality to find Giles standing over me, holding out a tumbler of whisky. ‘Drink this, you look as if you need it. What’s up? Aren’t you feeling well?’
‘I’m OK. Just those old words, they took me right back to . . . you know.’
He nodded. ‘Horrible. We were lucky to get away with it.’ ‘I still have nightmares about it sometimes.’
‘Really? I can’t say I think about it much.’
‘I do. And about the police enquiries, and the papers . . . and my father so ashamed of me. Even though our story was believed, he said I’d disgraced the whole family.’
I finished the whisky and reached for my coffee cup, while Giles went calmly back to his chair. Could it be he hadn’t realized the effect his words would have on me? Or did he know full well, and perhaps think he had some kind of hold over me? I had let him use me when we were kids, but it wouldn’t happen again.
I focused my attention on the golden boat. ‘Let’s get back to the matter in hand. You were saying you and Baker had an interesting idea.’
‘Can’t you guess?’
I sipped my coffee in silence for a while, listening to the faraway sounds of London’s traffic. ‘He thought it could be a good enough reproduction to pass for genuine, and sell for a nice big price, but he couldn’t sell it himself. He suggested you sell it for him, and the two of you split the take?’
He smiled his expansive smile. ‘Got it in one, except there’d be three of us to share, if you come in with us.’
‘Me?’
‘We need you to certify that it’s genuine. If you vouch for it, selling it will be a doddle.’
I shook my head. ‘Sorry, it’s far too risky. A sale like that would attract too much attention. The media would pick it up, and we couldn’t prevent other experts from examining it. I’m not the only one who can spot reproduction Celtic art.’
‘Now who’s being naive? I’m not suggesting we auction it at Sotheby’s under the eyes of the world’s television cameras. I’m thinking about a private sale to an art collector who’ll accept your assurance that it’s two thousand years old, and pay us the going rate. Why not?’
‘I think “why?” is more important than “why not?”. Why on earth are you even considering this? It’s a hell of a risk, and you don’t need the money, do you?’
‘As it happens, I do. Can I tell you something in confidence?’
‘We both know we’re good at secrets.’
‘I need an injection of cash for the business. I need it urgently, and I don’t want to tell the world about it. You mentioned our latest expansion in the Middle East. We’ve been planning it for years, but the timing could hardly be worse, given the present political situation, and it’s gone pear-shaped. I’m in trouble. So far I’ve kept it quiet, but I’ve got to do something about it quickly.’
Of course I knew all that. Research is one of the tools of my trade, though I don’t usually spend time probing into the murky affairs of the City of London.
Giles sighed. ‘Unless I can raise a decent amount of cash by the weekend, my business will collapse like a house of cards.’
‘Surely things can’t be that bad? Can’t you sell off one of your subsidiaries, or close down a factory or two?’
‘Too public, and too slow. Besides, it’s not as simple to close down factories as it used to be. There’s always hassle over redundancy payments for the workers . . . Oh, Tony, I’m sorry, that was tactless. Your father was made redundant, wasn’t he? Just after we left school?’
‘That’s right. The firm he worked for was taken over by a larger company, who closed most of their UK factories and moved production to the Far East. Dad was the wrong side of fifty, and couldn’t find another job. It broke his heart, and finally it killed him.’
‘That’s terrible. I was abroad by then, I didn’t hear about it till later. If I’d known, I’d have got my father to offer him work.’
‘I doubt it. It was your father who closed down his factory.’
He looked genuinely shocked. ‘I’d no idea. Truly I hadn’t . . . And you say it killed him? What happened?’
‘Being unemployed was the final straw, coming after the publicity over Lisette’s death. He hit the bottle in a big way, had a massive stroke, and died of it.’
Giles looked miserable, the picture of a kind, concerned friend. For a moment I remembered how close we had been. Would he really have helped me, if he’d known about Father?
But then he broke the spell. ‘Perhaps now I can make it up to you. Just a little.’
‘We’ll see.’ I put down my cup. ‘Let’s be clear. You want me to help you sell this reproduction as a genuine first-century artefact.’
‘Exactly. What do you say?’
The fish had taken the bait. ‘I suppose it could work, if it was a private sale. But finding the right collector could be tricky. These things take time.’
‘I’ve already found him. Norbert Van Lugenheyer, the New York millionaire. He collects ancient artefacts, he’s as rich as Croesus, and he hates publicity.’
‘Van Lugenheyer . . . that’s quite a thought. He’s prepared to pay a fortune for something he wants badly enough, and then he hoards all his treasures in his bank and never shows them to anybody. I have visions of him sitting and gloating over them at the dead of night. Yes, he might well fit the bill. What put you on to him?’
‘It was Baker’s idea, but I’ve checked, and he’d be perfect. But the approach would have to come from my agent. You, in other words. You know him, presumably?’
‘Yes, in fact I’ve even advised him occasionally. He’s got a wonderful Celtic collection. It’s a pity he locks it away in a vault, I think beautiful things should be seen by as many people as possible. But for our purposes, it’s an advantage.’
‘ “Our purposes”. Does that mean you’re with us?’
‘Perhaps. I’ve one more question to ask.’
‘What’s in it for you?’
‘That’s the one.’
He rubbed his hands together. This kind of haggling was meat and drink to him. ‘Baker wants twenty thousand in cash. I’ve agreed to that, it doesn’t seem unreasonable, given that the boat will sell for seven figures. You and I will split the rest . . . say seventy-thirty?’
‘You’re joking, I hope.’
After a few minutes of enjoyable bargaining, we shook hands on fifty-fifty.
‘I’ll contact Van Lugenheyer this afternoon,’ I said.
‘As soon as you can, please. And remember, absolutely no publicity. I want my name kept right out of it.’
‘Understood. You’ll be “an anonymous vendor”, I’ll be your agent. Don’t worry about a thing. Leave it all to me.’
‘That’s perfect. Thank you, Tony. Now, how about a spot of lunch to celebrate?’
But I had another appointment, and a more congenial companion to celebrate with.
~ * ~
Jack Baker’s workshop is in the West End, tucked away
behind the fashionable jewellery shop that sells most of his work. I never go there, because he likes to keep it as his private den where he can work away undisturbed. So we meet at a nearby pub, a small and rather scruffy place that we like because it hasn’t been gentrified, and still welcomes ordinary working Londoners among the tourists and the posers.
I got there first and bought a pint for myself and a large glass of red wine for Jack. I took them to our usual corner table. As he walked in, I gave him a thumbs-up.
‘It went well, Tony? Good. And you have bought something to celebrate with. Even better. To your health.’ He sat down and took a long drink of wine.
‘And yours. Yes, it went like clockwork, Jackie boy. I’m to ring Van Lugenheyer this afternoon. He’ll help us. I’m sure of it. I’ll get him to agree a nice juicy price.’
‘This is not about money, Tony. Not for me, anyway.’
‘Nor for me. But for Giles, that’s exactly what it’s about.’
~ * ~
You probably know the rest, it made quite a splash at the time. Of course some things never became public, such as the details of my phone conversations with Van Lugenheyer. I made other calls too, to journalists I knew, but only those I could trust not to be too discreet. Soon rumours began to circulate about the boat, its beauty, its probable value, and its possible sale to America. A few contacts rang me; I refused to comment, which fanned the flames of gossip nicely. It was as easy as burning down a forest by dropping a lighted cigarette end.
By evening, I was able to ring Giles and tell him Norbert had agreed a very satisfactory seven-figure sum. ‘And he’ll transfer the money between his bank and mine the minute the boat is in his hands. I’ll take it over to New York myself. He’s away from his office tomorrow, and can’t take delivery till the day after. Is that OK?’
I could hear his smile over the phone. ‘It’s excellent. Well done, Tony. I’ll get my people to book you a flight. Thanks again.’
By the next morning, the TV and radio news people had picked up the story and were running with it. An ancient and beautiful golden boat was being sold to an American collector - ought this to be allowed? - by an anonymous London vendor - who could it be? - for a fabulous price - just think of a number and add a few zeroes.
Shortly after noon Giles sent me a text. ‘This is brilliant, Tony. Shakespeare had it wrong. All that glisters is gold this time.’
I texted back an obvious reply. ‘Glad it’s turning out as you like it.’
He didn’t know that by then the forest fire had changed direction. More phone calls, a word here and a hint there, and out of nowhere came a suggestion that the boat wasn’t, after all, a genuine Celtic artefact, followed by informed speculation about the names of the buyer and seller. Again, I gave no comment.
Giles rang me in a panic about eight. ‘Tony, what’s going on? The media seem to know about Van Lugenheyer, and a couple of reporters have even been on to me, wondering if I’m the anonymous vendor. I denied it, of course. But how did my name get out?’
‘Don’t worry. I expect they’re ringing all sorts of people, just on the off-chance. Keep calm and hold your nerve. It’ll all be over soon.’
‘That’s not the half of it. There’s another rumour the boat isn’t genuine first century.’
‘I’ve heard that one too, but I’m not losing any sleep. The only people who know for sure are you, Baker and me. Remember, as long as we stand together, we won’t fall apart.’
‘But suppose Van Lugenheyer starts having second thoughts? Have you spoken to him today?’
‘No. Tell you what, I’ll ring him now and make sure he knows the score.’
It was a short conversation.
‘Thanks for your help, Norbert, it’s all going according to plan. I won’t forget this.’
‘Sure, Tony, no problem. Although I’m still not clear exactly what it is I’m helping with.’
‘Just a bit of local politics, that’s all.’
‘So the less I know about it the better, right?’
‘Right. Now it’s time for the next stage.’
‘You want me to announce publicly I’ve lost interest in the boat because I’ve heard disturbing rumours about its provenance.’
‘That’s it. And thanks again. I owe you a favour.’
‘I’ll hold you to that. If you ever get your hands on a real first-century golden boat, I expect to be the first to know, all right?’
‘It’s a deal.’
Next morning came the grim news that Giles’ business empire had collapsed in a welter of huge debts and worthless shares. Giles and his wife had left London in their private jet, heading for South America. The gossipmongers revelled in speculation about their future. The serious commentators pontificated about the demise of yet another iconic British business. Nobody asked me anything at all.
~ * ~
When I got to our pub at midday, Jack was waiting, with champagne on ice.
‘Well, Monsieur Boulanger,’ I greeted him, ‘we did it. It’s finished.’
He got up, and we shook hands. ‘I am glad. We have a kind of justice now. Of course it won’t bring them back. But I am content.’
I nodded and filled our glasses. ‘So am I. As the man said, all’s well that ends well.’
‘Ah no, we need no quotations today. Just a simple toast. To my sister, and your father. May they rest in peace.’
<
~ * ~
JUST TWO CLICKS
Peter James
Peter James, who currently chairs the Crime Writers’ Association, is a film producer and scriptwriter whose series of detective novels featuring Roy Grace has been translated into more than thirty languages and has regularly featured in the bestseller lists.
~ * ~
J
ust two clicks and Michael’s face appeared. Margaret pressed her fingers against the screen, in a longing to stroke his slender, Pre-Raphaelite face and to touch that long, wavy hair that lay tantalizingly beyond the glass.
Joe was downstairs watching a football match on Sky. What she was doing was naughty. Wicked temptation! But didn’t Socrates say the unexamined life is not worth living? The kids were gone. Empty nesters now, just herself and Joe. Joe was like a rock to which her life was moored. Safe, strong, but dull. And right now she didn’t want a rock, she wanted a knight on a white charger. The knight who was just two clicks away.
~ * ~
Just two clicks and Margaret’s face would be in front of him! Michael’s fingers danced lightly across the keys of his laptop, caressing them sensually.
They had been emailing each other for over a year - in fact, as Margaret had reminded Michael this afternoon, for exactly one year, two months, three days and nineteen hours!
And now, tomorrow evening, at half past seven, in just over twenty-two hours’ time, they were finally going to meet. Their first real date.
Both of them had had a few obstacles to deal with first. Like Margaret’s husband, Joe. During the course of a thousand increasingly passionate emails (actually, one thousand, one hundred and eighty-seven, as Margaret had informed him this afternoon), Michael had built up a mental picture of Joe: a tall, mean, no-brainer of a bully who had once punched a front door down with his bare fists. He’d built up a mental picture of Margaret, also, that was far more elaborate than the single photograph he had downloaded so long ago of a pretty redhead, who looked a little like Scully from the X-Files. In fact, quite a lot like the heavenly Scully.
‘We shouldn’t really meet, should we?’ she had emailed him this afternoon. ‘It might spoil everything between us!’
Michael’s wife, Karen, had walked out on him two months ago, blaming the time he spent on the internet, telling him he was more in love with his computer than her.
Well, actually sweetheart, with someone on my computer, he had nearly said, but hadn’t quite plucked up the courage. That had always been his problem. Lack of courage. And of course, right now this was fuelled by an i
mage of Joe, who could punch a front door down with his bare fists.
A new email from Margaret lay in his inbox. ‘Twenty-two hours and seven minutes! I’m so excited, I can’t wait to meet you, my darling. Have you decided where? M xxxxx’
‘Me neither!’ he typed. ‘Do you know the Red Lion in Handcross? It has deep booths, very discreet. Went to a Real Ale tasting there recently. Midway between us. I don’t know how I’m going to sleep tonight! All my love. Michael xxxx’
~ * ~
Guilty Consciences - [A CWA Anthology] Page 10