‘It could be anyone.’
‘Most likely to be someone in the conservation department, though. They’re the people with the artistic skill to pull it off.’
‘But there’s nothing to suggest one of the curators – or anyone else for that matter – isn’t also an artist capable of forging a Whiteley. Even Kev in storage or the woman in the library could be painters, we simply don’t know. I mean, I presume they all work there because they like art, so really, half the MIMA staff from the guides to the guards might be frustrated artists trying to earn money while they wait for their big breaks.’
‘Way to simplify matters, Alex.’
‘What? Because rule number one of crime-solving is the criminal can’t be someone you haven’t met? Come on. The only person we can rule out is Tommo the packer, because he was already in hospital when Meredith died.’
‘Doesn’t mean he couldn’t have spiked something of Meredith’s before then. And it was just chance that she didn’t come into contact with or ingest it until later.’
I slump forward onto the table and bury my head in my hands. ‘Bloody hell,’ I mumble, then look up. ‘Really? And you thought I was complicating things?’
John shrugs. ‘Just considering all the angles.’
‘I guess that means we’d better find out exactly what’s wrong with Tommo, in case the whole thing is a falling out amongst criminals.’ I sit up again.
‘Ooh! Tommo got Meredith and someone else got Tommo! Erasing the trail!’
‘Far more likely someone got them both. Or Tommo’s collapse is unrelated.’
‘Or it’s the curse. Like Tutankhamun’s tomb: death by a disease no doctor can diagnose.’
‘John.’ I close my eyes briefly and pinch the bridge of my nose. ‘There was no curse of King Tut’s tomb, and there is no curse associated with Man Proposes, God Disposes. Both are just good stories. Otherwise, you and Fiona would be next in line.’
‘Not yet. I see the MIMA Director as a Lord Carnarvon counterpart.’
‘Robert Swindon is not going to die either. Can we forget the curse and assume someone at the Museum is behind everything? Seriously, who could be involved?’
We both stare at each other and John takes another bite. I can’t decide if he’s deliberately trying to make the noise of crunching toast obnoxiously loud or if that’s incidental, but the sound seems to fill the room. Hogarth has already eaten his bit and looks up expectantly at the sound.
John swallows and brushes crumbs from his hands. ‘How about we start with the people we know?’
‘Okay. Kev in storage. He was completely unfazed when we asked to see Whiteleys and he seemed oblivious when we saw the red painting.’
‘Good. Rule out Kev. How about Monty?’
‘Definitely weird, but does he have the artistic chops? You thought he had no idea about that engraving,’ I say.
‘He could have been faking, just so he could hang around and see what we were doing. He has to have some level of skill to be there in the first place.’
‘We’ll keep him on the list then. Who else?’
John pushes his empty plate away and we run through all the people we know at the Museum, getting precisely nowhere. Then I remember something.
‘Hey! Yesterday when you, um, left the conservation lab abruptly to phone Sue, there was a guy with a dirty blonde ponytail staring daggers at Fiona. Who is that?’
‘The one with the earring and Converse sneakers? That’s Phil. Not quite sure what he does, but he seems very intense. I noticed him staring at us too and wondered if he has the hots for Fiona.’
‘I didn’t notice his shoes, but the look I saw didn’t seem passionate or even wistful. More aggro. Maybe he’s jealous of you.’
‘Oh great. That’s all I need.’
‘Anyhow, better put him on the list.’ I make another note before shuffling through the pages I’ve written this evening, shaking my head. ‘None of this is really helping, is it? I think we’re wasting time thinking about people when we really only know a handful of the Museum staff. How about for now we forget about who and concentrate on why?’
‘Yeah, that might actually get us somewhere. Okay, so, we think Meredith came across the Whiteley and got suspicious that it’s either fake or stolen.’ John checks the teapot and gets up to make us a fresh brew.
‘She must have thought fake, surely? If it was stolen, the whole art world would know. I mean, that’s the norm isn’t it? All the galleries, auction houses and people like us get advised to be on the lookout after an art heist.’
‘True.’ John points the teapot at me for emphasis. ‘She must’ve seen it and somehow known it was dodgy.’
‘Unless … Shit, John. What if Meredith was in on it? Maybe she’s the artist.’
John’s eyes get wide. ‘And she was working with someone else who bumped her off once she’d delivered the painting so they could rake in all the cash!’
‘But wouldn’t it make more sense to move the fake painting out of the Museum before killing Meredith?’
‘Yes, unless something went wrong. Or Meredith got greedy.’
We both fall silent and I start doodling dollar signs on my notes.
‘Here’s another idea,’ I say. ‘If we go back to the original idea that Meredith wasn’t the forger … What if she figured out who it was and decided to blackmail the perp?’
‘What the fuck Alex? The perp?’
‘Guilty party then.’
‘Better. So either Meredith was the forger but for some reason became a problem, or she just stumbled across the painting and then was either found out, or confronted the person, or maybe even tried to blackmail them.’
John returns to his chair and puts the steaming teapot in the centre of the table. I pick it up and slide a trivet underneath.
‘We’re getting bogged down,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t really matter whether she was in it up to her eyeballs or not. Bottom line is, we agree she was killed because the painting’s a fake.’
‘Absolutely. But who tore up the photo?’
‘That probably doesn’t matter right now either, but I’m going to say Meredith did, because if the killer wanted to destroy evidence surely they’d do more than chuck it in the bin right there next to Meredith.’
‘Maybe the killer is really dumb.’
‘I would venture to say that, given we are the only people who currently even believe this is murder, not suicide or an accident, this is not a dumb killer.’
John taps his forehead. ‘I like your thinking.’
‘The problem is, if we tell the police about the fake paintings now, that lets the killer know we’re onto them, and then we might never catch him or her.’
‘Or the cops might just think Meredith was the faker who then decided she couldn’t go through with it.’
‘What, so she leaves the paintings but kills herself? That doesn’t make sense.’
John shrugs. ‘I know, but the cops have already shown they don’t really understand anything going on in MIMA. I mean, you tried to tell them about the photo.’
I nod and sigh. ‘And I think if we brought the paintings to the attention of the management, they’d simply disappear. The Museum wouldn’t want that kind of publicity. So, once again, the killer would get away with it.’
‘There’s something else you haven’t considered about telling the Museum Director about the fakes.’ John is looking at me intently.
‘What?’
‘Well, come on Alex. After last time? If it was you who brought this to their attention, do you really think the job offer would still be on the table?’
I feel my face flush hot. ‘Barbara wouldn’t –’
‘It would be out of her hands. It’s not fair, but you know the size of the egos in that place. They made you a scapegoat the first time you showed them a
ll up, so I don’t think anyone will be composing sonnets extolling your superior wisdom and artistic eye if you tell them a forger is working in their midst.’
‘And that’s why my plan is so perfect!’
‘You have a plan?’
‘Not as such. More of a general direction I was considering that could prove advantageous.’
‘This ought to be good.’
‘Damn straight. First we drop a few hints around the place. Let it be generally known that we’ve found something, but no details about what we’ve found or why it’s important.’
‘And this achieves what?’
‘It’s going to make the guilty person nervous. Hopefully nervous enough to make an attempt to grab the paintings and move them.’
‘At which point we spring out from under a drop sheet in the corner and point our fingers accusingly?’
‘No need to be quite so disparaging. I don’t hear you offering up an alternative. Besides, this is the part of my plan that is so incredibly awesome, because it will not only mean the job offer is good, it will basically be my golden ticket to a stratospheric career path.’
‘Not seeing it, Alex. You are the poster child for the saying, “don’t shoot the messenger” except you have a bullet hole right between your eyes.’
‘Wow, nice visual, John, thanks ever so. I agree that will be the natural arse-covering instinct of some people in positions of power, but not all of them. And besides, we make sure that whatever happens, it happens on the night the Masterpieces of Victorian Britain exhibition opens, when the whole Museum is filled with reporters and photographers.’
‘That’s a bit of a stretch …’
‘Don’t quibble. Yes, they’ll be arts journalists, but they’re still reporters. So, if the story of the night happens to turn us into heroes who saved MIMA from the poison of one rotten apple –’
‘You’re sounding like a bloody cliché-ridden tabloid already.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Point is, how could they not love me and employ me when the media is looking on?’
‘Employ you, yes. Love you, different story. But we need to do something, so let’s do it. Just please don’t be too cut-up if we sort out all their shit and they still hate you.’
‘John, if you’ve got my back in the outside world and Barbara’s got my back in the Museum, they can hate all they want but they’ll have to suck it up. For my part, I’m just going to put on my bitch face and buy myself a pair of serious stilettos so I can grind those arseholes into dust.’
‘That’s the Alex I know and love.’ John toasts me with his mug of tea.
‘So now we just have to work out what hints we’re going to drop and how we’re going to finesse the timing so it all happens on Wednesday night.’
‘Should be a snap.’
Hogarth stands up, gives himself a shake, then stretches his front paws way out, bowing down and sticking his bum into the air as he yawns hugely. That sets me off, and then John joins in. I look across at him covering his mouth and realise how exhausted he looks with his red-rimmed eyes and stubble.
‘I hope I don’t look as crap as you do. Wait, don’t respond to that.’
John continues to yawn but attempts to speak at the same time.
‘Lucky for you I have no idea what you’re trying to say. C’mon, Hogarth has called time. The spare room is good to go and I’ll find you a toothbrush. And before you get smart, I have spare toothbrushes because my dentist gives them to me, not because I live in anticipation of seducing random men.’
‘I would never assume there’d be anything random about it.’
‘As long as my reputation is holding up.’
‘Moving on, can I throw some clothes in the washer overnight?’
‘Sure. Detergent is sitting on the bench. I’ll be up early with Hogarth so I’ll chuck it on the line for you. With this heat everything should be dry in an hour or so.’
I push back from the table and stand up, weariness hitting all my limbs simultaneously. ‘We’ll figure out a plan in the morning. It’s probably just a matter of gossiping with the right person.’ I cross to the kitchen door and pause. ‘Thanks for listening, and thanks for backing me up on the job thing.’
‘Any time. And likewise.’
I smile. ‘Ever the wordsmith,’ I say, then turn and make my way down the dim hallway to find a toothbrush and get to bed. Hogarth shadows me all the way.
The temperature is still somewhere in the mid-twenties when Hogarth and I head out on our pre-dawn walk. Crickets and cicadas are still at it, lending their harmonics to the symphony of air conditioners and pool filters, Grieg’s ‘Morning Mood’ for the twenty-first century. Despite the hot night, I’d been too exhausted not to sleep, but now I have an hour where my feet can follow one of our regular routes of their own accord, leaving my brain free to come up with some ideas. At least, that’s the hope. But when we get to the oval the sprinklers are on, so Hogarth and I spend a crazy thirty minutes chasing each other through the spray, occasionally mistiming our runs and copping an icy blast full-on. When it’s time to head home, my shoulders are relaxed, my mind feels lighter, and I haven’t thought about the situation at MIMA for even a second. Hogarth gives himself a shake and is almost dry in an instant, while my damp clothes keep me cool as we zigzag back through the torpid neighbourhood.
I had hung John’s things on the line before Hogarth and I went out. Now when I check on them they’re basically dry, and I haul everything back inside. The shower is running when we come through the back door, so I dump John’s clothes on the guest bed and bustle around getting breakfast for Hogarth and me. By the time the clunk of the pipes heralds the conclusion of John’s morning ablutions, I’m ready to jump in my own shower. It’s a strange morning pas de deux which somehow results in us both being ready at the same time without having actually exchanged more than a shout through a closed door. We converge in the driveway next to John’s van.
‘Looking artistically rumpled, Mr Porter.’ If I’d done that with yesterday’s clothes I’d look like I’d been dumpster diving, but somehow John looks like he’s stepped off James Packer’s yacht.
‘Not too casual?’ He pops the locks and we bail in.
‘What were your other options?’
‘Subject change! What’s the plan?’
‘You know when we go to auction previews, how we talk about the paintings in loud voices and then stop abruptly when anyone comes near, because we know punters are trying to figure out what we know?’
‘It’s one of the reasons I go to those things. Remember that time there was the painting catalogued as “Heidelberg School” but signed McCubbin and at least eight people asked me if it was a McCubbin or not?’
‘And we knew it was the real thing but instead crapped on about attribution problems and having to look at it properly, blah blah, then bought it a week later for two grand ’cause everyone else was scared? Of course.’
‘Good times.’ John sighs.
‘Which brings me back to the plan,’ I say. ‘We have a couple of convos in earshot of certain people that we cut short when we supposedly realise we can be overheard.’
‘That sounded so fucking cryptic you could almost be working for ASIO.’
‘We say the words “Whiteley” and “fake” a lot, perhaps throw in the odd mention of murder.’
‘And then what?’
‘We wait and see what happens.’
‘What if nothing happens?’
‘In that case I have no idea. I just thought if we stirred things up a bit and kept an eye on the fakes in the storage area, whoever’s responsible would try to move them.’
‘What if they decide to abandon them instead?’
‘You are no fucking help at all, are you?’
John doesn’t reply, busy switching lanes on Dandenong Road. The Tuesday morn
ing traffic is heavy and even this early the heat is shimmering up from the tarmac like a malevolent spirit, fraying the coolest tempers. John’s battered white van passes unchallenged, probably because it looks as though another dent or scrape won’t matter. We swing around the corner into Queens Road.
‘Look,’ I say, ‘if we’re right, Meredith got murdered because of these paintings. And if this has all been going on for a while, someone is making a lot of money. Those are two reasons why I think the paintings won’t be abandoned. They’re worth killing for.’
‘Two questions.’
I give John the side eye and take a deep breath. ‘Go on.’
‘What’s to stop the person coming after one of us?’
‘I’m banking on safety in numbers and the fact that one death can be overlooked as suicide but two raises eyebrows. Or at least, it would mine. Not worth the risk. Better to dispose of the evidence.’
‘But if the paintings are gone and we’ve been marching through the Museum trumpeting wild stories about a nest of forgers, you may come off looking like a dick again, Alex.’
‘I note your use of the word “again” John.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Precisely the reason we make sure there are witnesses when the forger tries to move the paintings.’
‘Of course! The most likely time to get things out of the Museum will be on the night of the exhibition opening.’ John slaps the steering wheel, suddenly enthusiastic. ‘The gallery space will be crawling with people but it’ll be deadly quiet out the back, plus the loading dock will be full of catering vans and the like. All in all, the perfect time to shift paintings.’
‘Are you only just waking up to that? I said all this last night.’
‘Oh yeah, sorry. I thought I’d had a revelation, but now I remember you mumbling something.’
I wait a moment before continuing. ‘The only slight flaw in my plan is that we have to hope the paintings aren’t moved before then.’
Painting in the Shadows Page 17
