Hiding in Plain Sight

by Eoghan Egan

  ‘I’m interested in peace of mind,’ the art dealer cut in. ‘My wife travels a lot, and I want her to have protection if she ever finds herself in a bad place.’

  ‘Ah, Personal protection and piss of mind. Is priceless. This way. Plis.’

  The art dealer followed the man into a back store, stacked floor to ceiling with boxes. Kabir reached for one and opened the cardboard flap. ‘If you wish your wife safe trip, my friend, this is good present. A direct contact weapon, disguised as a mobile phone. It delivers five million volts. A one-second zap will stop attacker in his tracks. Two seconds, zap, zap, will drop him and give your wife time to escape from museebat …’ Kabir searched for the English word ‘… trouble. You buy?’

  ‘Too bulky. It must fit in a purse or handbag. I want … hmm, more compact.’

  ‘Yes, but dearer.’ Kabir delved into another box. ‘This one? We call it The Closer. It fits in your hand. Much lighter. See?’

  The silver case fitted snug in the art dealer’s palm.

  Perfect.

  ‘Can you demonstrate?’

  ‘Yes. I show.’ Kabir fitted a battery, explained the function buttons and pressed the control switch. A blue-white current pulsed across the top of the stun gun, creating a buzzing sound.

  ‘What happens if it’s held against an attacker for over two seconds?’

  ‘Depends on size of person. Big man? Knock him unconscious. Small man …?’ Kabir shrugged. ‘Either way, lady safe. You take it today, or I can Fed Ex.’

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  Kabir waved a finger in the art dealer’s face. ‘If you travel by plane, plis do not put into hand luggage. Separate this, and unlock this. The parts go through checked baggage like a battery razor. No problem.’

  The art dealer paid cash and got back into the taxi. He squeezed a tennis ball, aching to try out the new toy. Jana had given him a migraine. Glenavy was fourteen miles away. His hand tingled. The desire to push the immobiliser into either Dorothy Ridgeway or Jana Trofimiack’s necks was a living presence. He yearned to view its effect.

  Let’s see how much they appreciate The Closer up close and personal. Stupid, blind bitches.

  The driver eyed him in the rear-view mirror, engine ticking over.

  ‘City Centre,’ the art dealer said.

  If BachtoBasie hasn’t replied by tomorrow, I’ll research Jana’s movements outside work hours. What she does. Where she goes. Who she meets. Timelines. Or I could arrange a meeting in Dublin, and take her to join the others. Yes, El Matador. Literal translation, ‘the killer’.

  -----

  Conversations ceased when Jana walked through the office.

  She buried her head in files, sensing the sidelong stares of co-workers. Her time at Hattinger’s was limited. After today, everyone knew that. Nobody wanted to talk to her, terrified they’d get skażone, tainted. She’d quit rather than let him push her out. How could she not meet customers? Silly job, pushing paper around a desk when she should be… What if she defied the boss man? Jana cringed, as a consultant tried to explain the differences between hard paste Chinese porcelain and soft paste European porcelain to a client. Jana fidgeted, longed to butt in, but if he discovered she’d interfered … Was it possible he had cameras fitted? Her eyes searched the ceiling tiles. Or, what if staff were snitches? It wouldn’t surprise her. Thoughts of him made her shiver. And those eyes? Stone cold.

  Jana had no idea why he didn’t appreciate her work ethics. She’d asked staff. Nobody could answer. At first, she’d ignored it as a culture issue. His manner was vicious, but he hated Jana. It was all his fault, her becoming involved with Tomasz. A spaced-out conversation about the asshole boss. A dare, to defy him for treating her like gówno. On one side, the chance to exploit his company and get revenge was a big incentive. On the other, the pressure Tomasz exerted to switch more paintings, along with the risk of getting caught because Günther didn’t take enough attention to reproduce them right, was a recipe for disaster. Günther’s sloppiness would catch up on them. Now, the dare was reckless. Tomasz was too greedy. The walls were crashing down. On the positive side, she’d been able to send money home to Rzeszów and provide a quality life for her family. If they knew half of what she had to endure to secure their luxuries.

  Starved, because she had no lunch, Jana ducked out for food. She ordered kielbasa—comfort food Maia used to make—and used her phone to log on to a travel site. Scrolling through airline timetables she booked two seats on the cheapest flight to Jasionka airport. She finished her food and dialled a number. ‘Tomasz? It’s Jana.’

  ‘Co? Wszystko dobrze?’

  ‘The package arrived. I delivered it. It’s not the most—’

  ‘You asked for it szybko.’

  ‘Tak, but Günther should’ve … It’s still bzdura. I told you his work isn’t as—’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Is konsultant cancelled?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Dobry. Tell your boss the McKelvey’s found—’

  ‘I’ve told him.’

  ‘That’ll get him off your back. Blame the old suka for forgetting where she left it. I’ve collected cash for the McKelvey. You’ll get your share when you give me the Yeats.’

  ‘I’m picking it up tonight.’

  ‘Good. You happy with that replacement?’

  ‘It’s better. The owner’s half blind. He won’t notice. Um, Tomasz?’

  ‘Có?’

  ‘I’ll be away for a while. We’re going to visit my family. Lech’s birthday is next week. He hasn’t seen his grandmother for ages. We fly to Polska Monday morning.’

  ‘Which airport?’

  ‘Belfast International.’

  ‘I’ll have a man meet you there. Give him the Yeats. He’ll have your money, minus Günther’s fees.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘What time’s your flight?’

  ‘Six-twenty a.m.’

  ‘How long will you be away?’

  ‘Two weeks.’

  ‘We’ve lots to do when you get back.’

  Head high, Jana left the restaurant, her step brisk. She’d enough money stashed to open her own gallery in Warszawa or Kraków. Ha! She’d get the last śmiać się.

  Evening

  Starved of company, Dorothy Ridgeway grilled Sharona, then spent the afternoon regaling her visitor with anecdotes about life in Belfast. And Blake.

  Blake had been a stockbroker with interests in art and property. Dorothy, a theatre sister, ‘born, bred and buttered’ in Belfast, had met him for the first time on his way into the operating room with a burst appendix. They’d married within six months. For over forty years, they’d bought and sold properties and acquired many pieces of art. Blake died the previous summer, aged sixty-eight.

  ‘I’ll show you around,’ Dorothy said. ‘With your art background, you’ll have an interest in the bits and bobs we collected. Now, see this one here …?’ She reminisced on paintings, sculptures, prints and drawings, recalling the story behind each treasure, where they’d purchased it and why she’d chosen it. Dorothy quizzed and verified Sharona’s expertise, and once satisfied, asked her opinion on various works.

  ‘You sure it’s safe to have these on display, Dorothy? Why not keep them in storage?’

  ‘What’s the point in that? No sense buying exquisite pieces if you can’t enjoy them whenever the mood strikes. That’s what insurance is for.’

  ‘But does your insurance company not insist—?’

  ‘Until the auction, I insist on keeping them here.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’

  ‘Here’s what the fuss was around. Isn’t it divine?’ Dorothy handed Sharona a small framed canvas.

  Sharona gazed at McKelvey’s oil on canvas of children feeding a calf. ‘God, the sense of light and space … Notice how he captured the wonder and nervousness in the boy’s face? And that’s also shown in the animal’s stance when the calf spots the stick in the child’s hand. It’s magnificent, Dorothy.’

>   Dorothy smiled. ‘That’s the first present Blake ever bought me. His dad and Frank McKelvey grew up together in Glanvale Street, a stone’s throw from here. McKelvey died the day we married. June thirtieth, 1974. I’ve a lot of emotional memories attached to this piece.’

  ‘McKelvey did incredible work with natural light and the sun’s rays,’ Sharona said. ‘And the sky … My lecturer used to speak of him in the same breath as Paul Henry.’

  Dorothy nodded. ‘Exquisite landscapes. Donegal in particular, and the West of Ireland.’

  Sharona inverted the canvas, appraised the back. Looked closer. ‘Have you taken it from its frame lately?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Hmm. The Rodman label appears genuine—’

  ‘And why wouldn’t it? What—?’

  ‘Pinholes, as if the brads aren’t in their original spots. And these scuff marks? Like someone removed the canvas.’

  ‘Rubbish, girl.’ Dorothy removed her spectacles, shielded her eyes and squinted at the picture. ‘Something pierced the frame when it fell behind the settee. Thank God the painting’s intact.’

  Sharona let the chandelier illuminations wash across the figures. ‘Seems … I’m not sure. Something’s off.’

  ‘It’s the light in here.’

  ‘You’re probably right, and—’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘—and I don’t want to upset you, Dorothy, but Frank McKelvey painted this ninety years ago. It’s weathered, as you’d expect for its age, but … There was this guy in college, an art restorer. I picked up some bits off him. I’ve a notion there should be more hairline cracks.’

  ‘I’m telling you, the light—’

  ‘There’s a test experts perform on canvases.’ Sharona scrutinised the picture again.

  ‘Why would—?’

  ‘To confirm if it’s genuine or—’

  ‘Or what?’ Dorothy eyed Sharona, suspicious. ‘Genuine or what? Of course it’s genuine. Full stop. Exactly what test? Hmm?’

  ‘They remove the canvas from the frame and view it from behind. If you can make out the image of the entire scene, chances are it’s a reproduction.’ Sharona sniffed. ‘Can you smell paint?’

  Dorothy inhaled and coughed. ‘Ach, this cold has blocked my sinuses. Put hydrochloric acid in front of me, and I wouldn’t notice. But I don’t have flu all the time, and I’ve never … Anyway, that’s impossible. As you say, it’s ninety years old. Who in their right mind would take a canvas out of its frame for no reason?’

  ‘Can’t imagine, Dorothy.’

  ‘Jana was only in the house for a minute. She didn’t have time to … But if somebody did, and mind you I’m not saying they did, but if you’re right, and I’m not saying you are, then it must be Hattinger’s. But Jana said they didn’t come across it, and no one else has been here since, so either you’re mistaken, Hattinger’s are liars or Jana … No, she’d never … She found … How can …? Someone’s telling me porkies.’ Dorothy’s narrowed eyes combed Sharona’s face, judging her reaction.

  ‘I may be wrong, but …’ Sharona brought the canvas closer and inhaled. ‘I’m positive it smells fresh. If you twisted my arm, I’d say this is a photograph.’

  ‘Photograph? Now I know you’re … That’s utter nonsense, girl. I’ll prove it. I’ve the validation papers and receipt from Rodman’s. Someplace. There’s no way Blake bought an item that wasn’t a hundred per cent genuine. I’m a feeble old woman, but I’ve still got eyesight.’

  Sharona raised the frame closer to the chandelier. ‘It’s the only conclusion that makes sense.’

  Dorothy stood on tiptoe and looked over Sharona’s shoulder. ‘You’re very sure of yourself, young lady. How can you be certain? It looks authentic.’

  ‘It’s amazing what they can achieve with Photoshop these days.’

  ‘What makes you even think it’s a photo?’

  Sharona pointed. ‘This patch here? The paint should be dense. You can see the image of texture, but there’s no paint substance.’

  ‘Hmm. Don’t stir. I’ll be back.’ Dorothy left the room.

  Sharona examined the painting again, wavering between doubt and belief. Something was wrong.

  Dorothy returned and slumped into a Victorian mahogany chair. ‘I rang Charlie. Told him what you’ve said. He swears you’re the genuine article. If in your judgement there’s a problem, then I’m bamboozled. Why put a photo in a frame? When was it switched? And where’s the original? Jana and Ambrose … I know these people. I’ve treated them like family. This is awful. The piece Blake bought me? I want it back.’

  ‘Dorothy, I haven’t the technical skills to verify this, but I can get in touch with an impartial appraiser. My old lecturer, Tristin Reed, is an art historian at Dublin’s National Gallery. We could make an appointment.’

  Dorothy cupped her face in her hands. ‘God, that’s … I can’t comprehend why people I’ve trusted … You sure I need to do this?’

  ‘Ninety-nine per cent.’

  ‘Where’s my mobile? I’ll phone Ambrose. Give him a piece of my mind.’

  ‘Mr Hattinger mightn’t be aware—’

  ‘Course he’s aware. It’s his company.’ Dorothy took the picture and studied it again from every angle. ‘Who does he think …? Nobody gave him permission to tamper with my property? How. Very. Dare. He. I can’t get my head … Tell you what,’ Dorothy slapped her thigh, back in control. ‘I’m in Dublin tomorrow, preparing a fundraiser. We’ll get your expert friend to assess my McKelvey, and—’

  ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday,’ Sharona said.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Get him on the phone. I’ll use my powers of persuasion. I want this painting authenticated immediately.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Hattinger’s will be at the fundraiser ball. You’ll come too.’

  ‘Crikey, I—’

  ‘No excuses. You’ll be my guest. To be honest, I’d prefer to muck around in a horse barn than spend a night in a ballroom, but it’s our duty to give back to the community.’ Dorothy touched the frame again. ‘I can’t accept … No doubt you believe, but …’ She placed the painting on a chair and clapped her hands, back in control. ‘Right. You’ll help me search for the receipt.’

  ‘I should get on the road—’

  ‘Nonsense, girl. You’re staying tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll travel south together.’ Dorothy caught Sharona’s arm. ‘If you’re wrong, no harm, no foul. If you’re correct, I demand an explanation. Wild horses won’t stop me uncovering what happened. This picture. I can’t describe the significance … Its emotional value is priceless. I bet you want answers too. Hmm?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Good. Now, call your arty friend. We’ll set up a meet for tomorrow afternoon and untangle this riddle. Let’s find the receipt and uncork a bottle of limoncello. It’s from a fabulous lemon grove we bought in Capri a few years ago. You like limoncello, don’t you?’

  ‘I … Thanks, Dorothy. Maybe a smidgen.’

  -----

  Hugh’s driveway was a pristine sheet of snow.

  He was brewing coffee when Eilish walked in.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. An oversized tote bag lodged between their bodies, preventing Hugh’s attempt at a bear hug. Eilish broke the embrace. ‘That van looks grotty. It’ll destroy suits—’

  ‘I’ll be wearing a boiler suit when I’m out on deliveries.’

  ‘Wearing a what?’

  ‘Boiler suit.’

  ‘Charming.’ Eilish wrinkled her nose. ‘You won’t need new clothes so.’

  ‘Clothes are the least of my worries. Coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Eilish looked at her watch.

  ‘We must start pencilling in meetings,’ Hugh said. ‘Another five minutes, I’d have missed you again.’ He gestured at the weekend bag. ‘I’ve collected some clothes. Tried phoning you last night. Your voicemail was full.’

  ‘You know there’s no signal at my parents’ house. I got your text this morning. Terrible news
about Kathleen.’

  ‘Yeah. Rough few days.’

  ‘Sorry I can’t babysit tomorrow. I’ve a hairdresser’s appointment.’

  ‘It’s okay. Ma feels she can manage on her own. For a while, anyway. It’ll be—’

  ‘Yeah. I know.’

  ‘How’s your mother?’

  ‘Still stuffed with flu.’ Eilish studied her fingernails.

  ‘Eilish?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing. Why?’

  ‘We’re okay, aren’t we? I mean, we don’t talk anymore. It’s—’

  ‘We’re both stressed. You … your unemployment, and I’m supposed to be back to screamers with sugar tantrums on Monday.’

  ‘Unless this weather gives you another week off school.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Eilish teased her hair and picked at a split end. How’s McGuire’s?’

  ‘One minute I’m driving that old rickety Hiace, but to be fair, it’s no worse than my car, and the next I’m steering Malcolm in the right direction. Dole, plus the sixteen hours a week I’m allowed to work will—’

  ‘God. Enough to starve on.’

  Hugh frowned. ‘If we reduce expenses, we’ll manage. I’m positive I’ll get a permanent job within a month. Max.’

  ‘Tara and I arranged a catch-up tomorrow night in the Ramble Inn. Join us if you want.’

  ‘We need to talk,’ Hugh said.

  ‘We’ll chat tomorrow.’

  ‘In a crowded pub? Can we talk now?’

  ‘Provided you don’t come up with a catalogue of do’s and don’ts, or tell me what I can or can’t buy. You’d swear I shopped in Milan. If I see a bargain, I’ll buy it. I pay my share.’

  ‘Did you buy food this week?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘You made me rip out a good kitchen, spend fifteen grand on new units, and we’ve no food? Or milk.’ Hugh’s arm-wave encompassed the room. ‘What’s the point in—?’

  ‘Nobody made you—’

  The kitchen door opened. ‘Knock knock,’ Ferdia said. ‘Front door’s unlocked.’ He walked through the kitchen, left slush and cigarette smoke in his wake, tossed car keys on the countertop, opened the patio door and leaned against the frame. ‘If you’re making coffee, I’ll have one.’