Death of a Painter

by Matthew Ross

  Having reached that conclusion, I finally found sleep. Inspiration had come to me overnight because when I woke up it was fully formed in my head, and I knew it needed two of us to make it work. I called Disco right away. He discharged a volley of incredibly complicated profanity at being woken up so early, and put the phone down before I could even say a word, so I called his house-phone and asked his Mum to have him up and dressed within the hour, and here we are.

  Old John looked up at Disco and me, gone was the cute cartoon caterpillar face, replaced by a snarling lip curling to meet red-veined eyes.

  ‘You fucking bastard twats!’ he said, slowly rising from his chair. No more the sloping shoulders and old man stoop. He’d unrolled himself from his docile, senior cocoon and had emerged a vicious predator. Disco and I hadn’t expected this, and I realised that by instinct we’d taken a couple of steps back.

  ‘This is mine,’ Old John swung out a long gangly arm making Disco flinch as the knobbly knuckles swept past, ‘and I’m not having little pricks like you or your pisstaking mate come here thinking they can take it off me.’

  Flecks of white foam flew from the corner of his mouth on the popping P sounds, pisstaking, that could only mean Tommy, so John had seen him here after all.

  John dropped his arm to his side. His spine no longer shot up straight like a piston and began to sag slightly from the vertical. Getting angry, it seems, is still a young man’s game. Feeling the heat had subsided I stepped forwards. Disco followed my lead and edged closer. John saw this as a threat and reared up again, arms outstretched both sides marking out his exclusion zone, prepared to repel anyone that breached it.

  ‘Look at my face John. You did this.’ I leaned in to him, never breaking eye contact as I shouted my words.

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘’I’ve got witnesses,’ I lied. ‘Remember the mini cab driver?’ Judging by how his stance suddenly dropped, I had him doubting himself.

  ‘You were very territorial when we saw you here before John,’ I said, trying to speak calmly. ‘You kept saying you didn’t want Tommy here, that this is your job.’ He gave a weak nod. ‘And then I get a kicking to the tune of ‘you can’t have what belongs to me’, it doesn’t take a genius to work out who gave me it does it?’

  Old John stared, his nostril flaring, his lip flickering with the start of a snarl, and then with a speed no-one would have expected he lunged at me. By some freak of nature he may have retained the reflexes of a young man, but he still had at least thirty years on me and it didn’t take much effort to push him off. He stumbled backwards, tripped, and was caught by Disco as he started to fall. Old John wriggled and twisted, a caught fish trying to break free, but Disco gripped him tight until he’d worn himself out.

  ‘Have you quite finished, John?’ I got up close, almost nose to nose. He writhed in Disco’s bearhug, but after only a few seconds gave up. Disco directed him towards his chair, and he flopped defeated into it.

  ‘Okay John, you’re going to explain exactly what is going on?’ I said.

  Old John took a deep breath, looked around, and then began, ‘This is a sweet little number, nice easy work, I’m nothing but a glorified caretaker really keeping things clean and tidy, I figured there’s enough here to keep me busy until retirement and no need to go out chasing every lead, just keep my head down and get on with it. The last thing I want is someone else coming in, pushing me out. I thought that was what his meetings were about. Not that it matters now I suppose.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘They’re selling this place to a national chain, one of the big boys.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I heard too,’ said Disco, hoiking up his saggy-arsed track pants. He had rolled two cigarettes and handed one to Old John, who gratefully lit it from Disco’s shared match, inhaled a lungful and then spoke.

  ‘What they’re saying’s everyone’s going to do nicely out of it. The Quentins offload it for a truckload of cash straight into their trust funds. The manager’s been offered a seat on the board by the new firm. And the staff have been offered better pension rights. Everyone’s doing well out of it, except me. I’m out.’

  ‘Explain?’

  ‘These national firms have frameworks in place for their maintenance, they don’t use little one-man-bands like me. So as soon as the takeover happens at the end of the month I’m finished.’

  He muttered some self-pitying nonsense that was barely audible, and then stared appreciatively at the roll-up between his fingers.

  ‘What I want from you John, as a way to make amends, is for you to tell me what Tommy was doing here?’

  ‘Nothing. He’s never worked here in all the while I’ve been here.’

  ‘You’re starting to annoy me now, John, so if you don’t want to feel my boot up your arse as payback, don’t give me any more lies. He’s got a bundle of paperwork from this place – orders, instructions, payment slips, the full works. You saw it, I showed it to you.’

  ‘I’m telling you, he did absolutely nothing.’

  ‘He’s never been here?’

  ‘He’d been here two or three times, yes. But he’s never done any work here.’ He could tell that I was confused and starting to get frustrated so he quickly continued without prompting, ‘After the second time, I spoke to him and asked if he was visiting family here, he said no he had a meeting but didn’t say anything else, he couldn’t have been here longer than ten minutes. I don’t know what he was doing, honest.’

  He lifted off his glasses, instantly making his big round cartoon caterpillar eyes shrink back to normal size, and he wiped his lenses on a loose fold of his shirt. Disco meanwhile had got bored and wandered off, he’d found someone to have a smoke with, a skinny old man in a way-too-big dressing gown. They were sat on a garden bench merrily chatting away like old friends.

  ‘So, tell me about Charlie Quentin.’ My patience with Old John was running out. ‘Why was Tommy meeting him?’

  ‘I never said anything about Charlie Quentin,’ said Old John, but he hadn’t needed to. I’d managed to square off that piece of the puzzle myself. I’d been told Tommy had a friend in property helping him out: Charlie Quentin came from a property investment family, he was desperate for something Tommy had promised him, and Old John had confirmed Tommy had been coming here. It had to be Charlie Quentin who was helping Tommy with his plan.

  ‘I don’t know anything about Charlie,’ said Old John.

  ‘Don’t give me that, you’re giving me the hump now, John. You know something about everyone, that’s what you do, you’re a gossipy old woman, now I can either call Disco back to give you a slap or you can talk to me.’

  I stepped towards him and he cowered. ‘Okay, okay. Charlie, yes, they met. I saw them twice together, they came out and sat in his van, ten minutes later Charlie would get out and go back inside. I’ve no idea what they were up to.’

  ‘And what do you know about him?’

  ‘Charlie?’

  ‘What was the big property deal he was advising Tommy on?’

  ‘Property deal? Charlie? I don’t think so.’ He gave an involuntary laugh, ‘Charlie doesn’t know the first thing about property, or business. He’s nothing but a spoilt, bored, rich kid.’

  Old John directed his eyes towards the building, I followed and could see Charlie yawning in the office suite. He was here, good, I wanted to talk to him once I’d finished with Old John.

  ‘His dad got fed up with him loafing about all day, mooching off the family money, said he wanted him to learn the business, so sent him here. Gave him “executive” powers to make him feel important, but as far as I can tell it’s no more than being in charge of the company cheque book, making the tea and filling the photocopier.’

  What he was saying was striking a chord with me. When I met him in his office that day, he seemed surplus to requirements, a nice guy but pointless.

  ‘So, Kate Fuller?’

  ‘Kate’s the brains, she runs the place, makes all the de
cisions, works around Charlie rather than with Charlie, if you know what I mean,’ he said. ‘From what I hear from the staff here she’s the one that’s put this whole takeover deal together. You know me, speak as I find, she’s not an easy person to like, she’s rubbed a lot of people up the wrong way with her attitude, but hats off to her, she’s done well to put this all together.’

  ‘But Charlie?’

  ‘Tell you the truth, I think she prefers it when Charlie’s out the way, so she ignores him and leaves him to it.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Champagne Charlie. I heard all he’d do, on the days he actually turns up, is organise parties. Big lavish parties for other rich kids. He’d have the copiers churning out hundreds of invitations, probably what he’s doing now, no other reason he’d be in on a Saturday morning. And then he’ll spend the rest of the day on the phone taking orders and arranging supplies, special supplies, you know?’

  I had a vague idea what Old John was hinting at but kept my silence, let him come to me, I thought, rather than ask too many questions. His character study married up entirely with my first impression of Charlie but I still couldn’t understand where Tommy fitted into all of this though, it’s not as though he hung out with the rich and famous.

  ‘Supplies, you know, cocaine, ecstasy all of that. Apparently, he used to be a proper out of control cokehead. One of the nurses here, she used to work at a private clinic, says she recognised him from when he was there doing rehab. That’s another reason his dad stuck him here in God’s waiting room, you couldn’t find anywhere less debauched.’

  Disco, I noticed, had now been joined on his bench by the receptionist that had been so snooty to me last time, what was her name again, Helen, was that it? And Old John seemed comfortable. He’d gone from fighting for his life to quite relaxed enjoying a good gossip and gripe. He was getting quite loose-lipped so I thought it best to keep relaxed, he seemed to respond better to it than threats.

  ‘His dad,’ said Old John, ‘and speak as I find, I rather admire him, I mean what father doesn’t want their boy safe, healthy and earning an honest living. The Quentins are worth more than you can ever imagine, but he’s made him clean himself up, get a job and he’s paying him a proper salary that he has to work for. You’ve got to admire him for that.’

  Old John wittered on but I’d stopped listening. The final pieces had clicked into place, I think I knew what was going on between Tommy and Charlie, but only one way to find out. ‘Bye John.’

  Disco and Helen were still deep in conversation, looked like it was going well between them: a derelict, semi-alcoholic chippie and a frosty, uptight receptionist, but then they do say opposites attract. Disco’s flirtation was the perfect distraction for what I wanted. I picked a route around the perimeter of the grounds, entering the building through a side door and with the reception unguarded I quickly followed the corridors I’d walked before, back to the office suite. To say Charlie was surprised to see me is an understatement. As he got off the floor and back into his seat, I closed the door behind me so we could talk in private.

  Twenty minutes later, walking at a brisk pace, quicker than normal, but not so quick it’d draw attention, I left the building. Disco was still on the bench with his companion. I tapped him on the shoulder and without breaking stride said, ‘Come on we’re leaving.’

  He took too long saying his fond farewells – I was in the van, engine on and ready to go by the time he got in, and I pulled away whilst he was still getting comfortable and buckling his seat belt.

  ‘What’s the rush?’ he said, then suddenly guessing I’d been inside the building. ‘Oh no, don’t say you’ve done something stupid?’

  ‘No. I’ve found out what Tommy was up to with Charlie, it makes sense now.’

  30

  For days that slogan in the Cash X Changers window bugged me, We pay you for electronics. I couldn’t think why, but then… of course, Charlie’s voicemail, I’ll pay you for them. It was the same phrasing. But he’d been talking about Tommy’s invoices against the purchase orders, and that’s why the phrasing sounded so awkward and clunky – you pay an invoice, but you don’t pay for an invoice. Adding the word ‘for’ makes it sound as though you are buying the invoice. And from my chat with Charlie, that’s exactly what he’d meant.

  Coming at him unexpected put Charlie on the back foot. I started the conversation with the fact that I knew he’d been badmouthing me to Jen, and that had frightened him into thinking that he was about to be beaten black and blue. I asked him questions. He held nothing back.

  Charlie resented being made to work by his father, it got in the way of his social life, but more significantly to Charlie, it came nowhere close to being able to fund his social life, and Charlie I’ve found has no intention of scaling back. Charlie’s solution was to do a little dealing of what he euphemistically called ‘party favours’ amongst his friends and associates. The trouble was, his boring nine-to-five doesn’t pay enough to bulk buy his wares. You’d think that wouldn’t be a problem, the Quentin family is exceptionally wealthy and Charlie has a trust fund. However, the reason why the family has remained so wealthy is because it’s not stupid: there’s processes in place to stop its younger members spending it all on, say, enough cocaine to stun a dozen donkeys. In short, Charlie is worth a lot of money but it’s very difficult for him to get his hands on any of it – and that’s where Tommy came in.

  Charlie had quickly mastered his job, which wasn’t hard seeing as Kate Fuller had removed any responsibility from it as successfully as she’d eviscerated the poor sap on the other end of the phone that time. The only role he had was the keeper and sole signatory of the cheque book, a largely ceremonial role seeing as practically every transaction is done electronically, controlled by Kate Fuller.

  Now, by chance, Charlie and Tommy had a mutual friend, a certain Rob Beach. He was the matchmaker, introducing them to a partnership made in heaven. Tommy had a bundle of dirty cash he wanted to launder. Charlie had the means to legitimise it.

  Charlie basically bought Tommy’s cash from him. Say Tommy had two grand of Hamlet’s dirty cash. Charlie would raise a purchase order to Tommy for a non-existent piece of work at Queen Mary’s to the value of two thousand pounds. Tommy then submitted an invoice to correspond with the purchase order, hand over the cash, and receive a clean corporate cheque in return, et voilà, Charlie has his pocket money to spend, the fiddle is lost within Quentin Property Holdings records behind a full paper audit trail and Tommy has a clean transaction in his books.

  All in all, a tidy, clever little scam, not bad for a bone idle rich-kid slacker. The only trouble is, like all good things, it’ll come to an end when the business is sold. I guess that’s why he was so persistent with me and Jen. He wanted to try and get as much cash as he could before the sale goes through.

  Disco listened to all of this in rapt silence. I think he understood most of it. After letting it sink in, he asked, ‘So how does this Rob Beach fit into it again?’

  ‘Mutual friend, that’s what Charlie said. We know he’s married to someone working there, so he must have got to know Charlie, and he would have known Tommy from years back because they were both into the clubbing scene.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Disco, then after a thoughtful scratch added, ‘But how would he know about Charlie needing cash and Tommy having too much? Also, does this get us any closer to finding out who killed him?’

  Those questions hadn’t even occurred to me and I certainly didn’t have any answers, so I turned up the radio and ignored him and all his conspiracy theories until we got back to the Golden Lamb.

  31

  The Golden Lamb was busy for a Saturday lunchtime, and Disco was welcomed home to a chorus of cheers. I was getting progressively bored chatting to a data cabler I knew loosely and was relieved to feel a tap on my shoulder from the very last person I was expecting to see.

  ‘I was hoping to find you in here,’ said Nick Witham. Despite him joining t
he Rozzers, he was alright. Nick was, at heart, still the same shit-for-brains, good-natured idiot he was at school and I was pleased to see him.

  I ordered him a drink and a fresh one for myself because I knew Mr Data Cables wasn’t going to offer. They’re all the same, they all think they’re a grade above your humble electrician, they all want to tell you how big their job is and how much they’re earning, but do they ever buy you a drink when they’re telling you all this? Of course not. He was a tedious prick anyway, so with beers in hand I motioned Nick towards a nearby table, and left him where he stood without even a goodbye.

  ‘Cheers! Nice to see you Nick, don’t often see you in here.’

  ‘No, I know. And I’m not stopping, I’m meeting Spencer, he says hello by the way.’

  ‘Hello back, how is he, alright? Got any more tattoos?’

  ‘Has he? I should say so, he’s just had this oriental looking thing all down his leg, it’s huge. Looks good though. Mum hates it.’

  ‘So, what, is Spencer totally covered in tattoos now?’

  ‘Yeah, more or less’ Nick laughed, ‘But none on his hands, neck or face. He’s paranoid about work and being in uniform. Worried about it affecting his career prospects.’

  ‘But I’ve seen plenty of them in uniform covered in tattoos and piercings.’

  ‘I know, I know. But you never know with these supermarkets, always changing policies. He’s deputy manager now, so I guess he doesn’t want to take the risk.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I replied, ‘Cheers Nick.’

  He took a noisy slurp, ‘I wasn’t even going to have a pint, I only wanted a quick word. Still, be rude not to wouldn’t it.’