‘Yeah that was my next question, but then I was worried you’d covered that last night too. So how exactly do we do that?’
‘I was hoping you’d have an idea.’
‘Me? Do I look like some sort of genius?’
‘Hardly. In fact, quite the contrary. I thought you could come up with an excuse to bumble in and out of the storage area for the next couple of days. Or even send Fiona. Just enough so there’s no real opportunity to grab the paintings and spirit them away.’
‘How?’
‘Just to recap, the whole genius vibe that you purport to project continues to elude me. I don’t bloody know how. Tell Kev you’re studying the effects of hanging works on paper versus storing flat and just keep popping in and out so that it’s impossible to tell when you’ll turn up.’
‘See now that’s genius. I was thinking we could move the dodgy art to a different area in the storage bunker, then move them back on the night of the opening.’
‘What, and have our crim flip out? How would they know we’d moved them back? And how would we manage to move anything anywhere in the first place?’
‘Which is why I like your plan better. Except I’ve got to finish the restoration and I can’t exactly keep walking away from that. You could do the popping in and out thing under the guise of your impending appointment to staff.’
‘Maybe not. Look, on second thought, perhaps we don’t have to worry about the paintings being moved before Wednesday night. If this isn’t the first painting they’ve faked, our forger has a way to get things out of the Museum. But right now, it would make more sense to do nothing until the whole Meredith thing settles down.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Unless we stir things up and make him panic.’
‘We got this far.’
I bat my hand at John. ‘Just shut up and let me finish. The point is, A. Everyone will be crazy-busy today and tomorrow with final arrangements for the exhibition opening, so the forger should be too busy to act, or, it would look suspicious if he was gone for too long, and B. It will take time for him to organise transport and the like to get the paintings out, so the night of the opening is the most logical, soonest available time.’
‘Okay first you said “point” and then you listed two, an “A” and a “B”, plus you’re using a masculine pronoun, which I think I object to on principle.’
‘That’s it, focus on the big issues why don’t you? And if you object to that, I can understand why the thought of Sue on the warpath has you crapping yourself.’
‘Low blow, but point taken. Grammar aside, the timing does make sense.’
‘Only thing is, even if by some miracle we manage to catch a person shifting the paintings, and have other witnesses, there’s still nothing concrete that will tie fake Whiteleys to Meredith’s death.’
As the van inches down St Kilda Road we throw ideas back and forth, trying to come up with a better plan, debating who, if anyone, to tell in advance. But by the time we pull into the carpark underneath the Arts Centre only one thing has become blindingly obvious.
‘We suck at this.’ John wrenches on the handbrake.
‘That’s why “crime fighter” isn’t on my resume.’ I stare through the windscreen, watching MIMA staff pull into parking spaces around us. ‘Should we have our first loud Whiteley conversation as we walk through the carpark?’
‘But how would we know who was listening?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Even if we only get overheard by a couple of people I’m counting on the MIMA gossip machine to do the rest.’
‘Let’s go.’
We both get out of the van and manage to slam our doors simultaneously; it feels like we should have a cheesy seventies cop show soundtrack with a wakawaka guitar and a driving drum beat to play us into the Museum. As far as the plan is concerned, the acoustics and general layout of the carpark are to our advantage. Sound bounces off the concrete and distorts, masking its source, while fat pillars, elevators, and randomly placed plant rooms make lines-of-sight difficult. It’s hard to tell whether the squeal of tyres is ten metres away or one hundred. I step around the front of the van and we begin to head across to the stairs that will bring us out in front of MIMA’s main entrance.
‘Are you sure the Whiteley’s a fake?’ I try to project my voice without seeming to shout.
‘It’s good, but it’s definitely not a Whiteley.’
‘But who would paint a fake?’ This is the most stupid conversation ever, but our words seem to have their own agency, crackling through the muggy air with power and purpose.
‘I guess that’s what Meredith was trying to figure out when she got killed.’
I widen my eyes at John and in return he mouths, Too much?
I’m about to answer when a car lock chirrups five spaces further along the row and Giles steps out from between a Holden and a Renault.
‘Good morning, Giles.’ I don’t think I sound overly hearty. John murmurs something I don’t catch.
‘Alex, John.’ Giles’ tone is completely even and I think perhaps he didn’t hear us talking. ‘Lots to do today.’
‘Fiona and I should have the Landseer finished by this afternoon, which gives us a bit of breathing space for drying ahead of the opening.’
Giles looks from John to me and back again.
‘It seems you’ve been busy.’
There is a moment of silence, then I step across and push open the door to the stairwell, gesturing Giles and John ahead of me.
Inside, I follow them to the conservation department where most of the staff are already settling in to their tasks. Giles gives everyone a bit of a pep talk about being ready to assist should any problems arise ahead of the exhibition, then he squeezes John’s shoulder and leaves, heading in the general direction of his office.
‘Ow.’ John rubs his shoulder. ‘Was he just being friendly? Because I am not built for that sort of friendship.’
‘Is that because you’re more spiritual than physical or just because you’re a wuss?’
‘I’m an artiste, sweetie.’
I roll my eyes and give him a shove toward the corner, where I can see Fiona darting surreptitious glances in our direction. ‘Come on Michelangelo, your protégé – or perhaps I should say acolyte – is looking anxious.’
‘I didn’t want to start painting without you here,’ she says, as we arrive in front of the canvas.
‘Do you want to talk through your approach first or just jump right in and I’ll only pipe up if I have to?’ John leans in close to check the bit they’re working on. He gives a short hum of satisfaction.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Monty and a woman I think is the textile conservator walking in our general direction.
‘I’ll let you get on with it,’ I say. ‘I need to have a word with Barbara about the Whiteley thing.’
John coughs loudly and I turn around, gasping as I pretend to notice Monty. Then I have to fight the urge to high five John. We so do not suck at this.
Monty nods at us and keeps walking.
‘Hey has anyone heard what the coroner had to say about Meredith?’ John is clearly going for an all-out assault with this thing. Everything seems to grind to a halt.
‘Have you heard something?’ It’s Monty, but harsh, all the private school vowels replaced by blue-collar nasal. Then the façade snaps back into place. ‘I understood a verdict of suicide was virtually guaranteed.’
I favour Monty with a puzzled frown. ‘I think John was wondering more about the method, rather than questioning the possible verdict.’
‘Right,’ says John. ‘I haven’t heard any other rumours. Have people been saying it wasn’t suicide, Monty?’
‘No, no, no. I just misunderstood your question.’ Monty pulls off his glasses and starts to polish them, focusing all his attention on the task.
/> I let the silence grow for a few more seconds. ‘I’m off. See you later everyone.’
It’s the cue for Monty and his associate to move away too, and Fiona turns back to Man Proposes, biting her lip. I head off to find Barbara, confident rumours will already be flying.
***
Before I track down Barbara, I make a detour into the bowels of the Museum. The door of Wayne’s tiny office is open, and the moment I appear he is on his feet, ushering me in.
‘I came to ask how Tommo is doing,’ I say.
‘Have a seat.’ Wayne pulls a beaten vinyl chair out from the corner. ‘I’ve just made a cuppa. Would you like one?’
I shake my head.
‘Bickie?’ He offers me a packet of Assorted Creams and I take a Kingston. Just to be sociable.
‘So how is he?’ I ask.
‘Better, doing much better,’ Wayne says, settling behind his desk.
‘Do they know what caused Tommo to collapse?’
‘Heart attack. Docs reckon he has a problem with his heart beating too fast.’
‘Tachycardia?’
‘That’s the one. Only they don’t know what caused that.’ Wayne takes a sip from his mug. It looks like exhibition merchandise from years ago.
‘Is he going to be okay?’
Wayne regards me over the top of his specs. ‘Yep. Thanks to you.’
‘Joint effort. Will you pass on my good wishes? I’m Alex Clayton by the way; we never did introduce ourselves.’
Wayne smiles. ‘Hardly the time, was it? But I know who you are. Took me a while to place the face, but Mr Westerman told me your name and then it clicked. You were here years ago. Briefly.’
I’d been about to stand and take my leave, but now I slowly lean back in my chair.
‘Caused quite a stink.’
John warned me it would be like this. The Kingston sits like lead in my stomach. Then Wayne shakes his head.
‘Bloody hell, you were shafted,’ he says.
‘How did you –’
‘Sooner or later I hear everything. Point is, far as I’m concerned you’re always welcome here. Don’t be a stranger. Tommo will want to meet you when he’s back on deck.’
‘Thanks. That means a lot.’ I leave Wayne in the centre of his kingdom, and for the first time in years, I’m actually feeling positive about the future.
***
The door to the exhibition gallery is unlocked and open today, and a steady stream of toolbox-toting maintenance people and black-clad junior curatorial staff are passing in and out. A bored-looking young guy stands next to the door, making a token effort at checking lanyards for security, but the majority of the Museum staff brush past him, either nodding importantly (the junior staffers) or ignoring him completely (maintenance men). All of them seem to possess an aura of industry and purpose, despite the fact there is no visible evidence of any work being carried out; everyone is just looking busy.
Pulling out my mobile phone, I press it to my ear. ‘Uh-huh, yes, uh-huh. The deadline’s tight but it should be doable.’ I sweep past the door bitch, making eye contact with him and continuing to spout inanities while desperately hoping my phone doesn’t ring. Inside the exhibition space, things look close to completion. The last of the packing material is long gone, the floors cleaned of scuff marks, and there seems very little left to do except straighten the room cards and set out a few extra chairs for the guests on opening night. A few people are fiddling with the lighting for various paintings, making sure the spots are positioned to best effect. Each mini tableau seems to consist of a long-suffering tech guy up a ladder moving a fixture back and forth as two or three people on the ground issue conflicting instructions – the public service in all its glory. It’s a far cry from the parry and thrust of the auction room, and I feel a sudden prickle of anxiety as I picture myself spending day after day engaged in this sort of minutiae.
I hurry into the next room of the exhibition, past Alma-Tadema’s The vintage festival, a tame bacchanal brought to life by its attention to lush detail and procession of attractive people in a beautifully rendered version of ancient Rome. Even a quick glimpse reminds me why I’m here, why I want to be here, surrounded by this calibre of art. I need to commit to something soon, before my adrenal glands implode with the strain of my oscillating emotions.
I still haven’t found Barbara, but now I can hear her voice, coming from the other side of a free-standing display wall. The side facing me is empty and I step up close to read the label. This is where Man Proposes will hang. The wall has been painted the deepest burgundy, in true Victorian style, and I can picture the painting here, its grey and white tones thrown into stark relief, while the tattered red ensign glows in harmony with this rich, dramatic backdrop. The colour also calls to mind the jumble of Meredith’s possessions around that broad, incongruous lake of Alizarin Crimson. John seems sure that exposing the forger will be detrimental for my future here, but I figure if we manage it with relative discretion there will be no losers. Except for the forger, of course.
Barbara’s voice pulls me back from my contemplation of a blank wall. I can’t make out what she’s saying, but I recognise the low, furious tone. Although I’ve never been on the receiving end, I’d witnessed the excoriation of one or two of my university contemporaries, and I hesitate, unwilling to interrupt. Instead I move quietly backward and a bit to the side, edging toward Ford Madox Brown’s The Last of England, which depicts a frightened-looking couple embarking for Australia. From their faces and the way they huddle together on the ship’s deck, it is clear they know exactly what they’re leaving behind, but desperation has brought them here. Their warm clothes and a glimpse of churning whitecaps speak of cold winds and harsh winter, while in the far distance the white cliffs of Dover can be seen, underscoring the finality of this departure. I think I know how they feel.
I can still hear Barbara, and the occasional squeak as her target tries to get a word in. Hoping I can make it to the painting before I’m spotted, I take two large, quick steps and I’m standing in front of The Last of England, my back to the room. Straining my ears, I detect no break in the tirade so I figure I’m good. After a few beats, while I make a show of studying what is considered to be one of Madox Brown’s most important works, I turn and start briskly toward the sound of Barbara’s voice, making sure that this time my shoes slap heavily on the floor. When I round the partition everything is quiet. Barbara is squinting at a painting, or possibly her eyes are narrow with fury; I’m trying not to stare. A hunched figure is scuttling toward the far door, lab coat flapping over jeans and blue Converse sneakers. I catch a glimpse of a blonde ponytail but I can’t tell if it’s a male or female, let alone who it is. Probably better not to know.
‘Alex!’ Barbara reaches for me and does the continental double kiss. ‘I was hoping to see you ahead of the opening. What do you think?’ She inclines her head toward the painting. ‘I met with a bit of resistance about having this as one of the final works in the show.’
I turn to contemplate the smallish portrait. ‘Why? She’s stunning.’
‘Oh they wanted a classic Victorian chocolate box scene so people would leave happy. You know, a nice garden party with a pretty girl and a handsome suitor, a spying maid and maybe a fluffy dog to round things out.’ She wrinkles her nose.
‘I saw a couple of those on my way through and this is much better. I like the fact that it’s a smaller painting, so people have to pause to have a look, rather than just glance at the wall as they hurry out to the gift shop.’
Barbara is nodding. ‘Thank you.’
‘But what I really like is that even if you didn’t know it was Helen of Troy, how can you not be captivated by that stunning red hair and milky skin packaged up with such a sulky sideways glance and those low furrowed eyebrows? I mean, that woman is clearly trouble, but she’s also a goddess. Frederick Sandys capt
ured it all, even down to the way he’s got her filling the canvas like that; she’s in your face in every sense of the word.’
‘I wish you were doing floor talks for this show, Alex. Your academic knowledge is first-rate, but you have a way of breaking it down for people when you need to.’
‘Well that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Barbara.’
She raises her eyebrows expectantly but at that moment, one of the junior staffers pokes her head timidly around the corner.
‘Excuse me.’
We both look at her and she turns red.
‘Yes? Is there a problem?’
The girl’s cheeks flush even more under Barbara’s gaze.
‘No, I mean, I don’t think so. That is,’ she turns to me, ‘are you Alex Clayton?’
‘Yes.’
She sighs with relief, then shoots a wary glance at Barbara. ‘I have a message for you from someone in the conservation department.’
I hold out my hand, expecting a note from John, but the girl shakes her head.
‘No, he told me just to tell you.’
I stare at the girl but nothing happens, she’s looking at Barbara again. I can tell from her clothes and dark hair she’s not the person who got carpeted a few minutes ago, but perhaps word has already spread and the troops are running scared. I sigh. ‘Tell me what?’
‘Oh, sorry! Tell you that he’s solved the problem of the red Whiteley.’
Now it’s my turn to shoot a glance in Barbara’s direction. I’m assuming John hasn’t solved anything and has just hit on the best way to spread rumours, but of all people, I wish he hadn’t laid it at Barbara’s feet like this. ‘Really? Thanks for that. Is that it?’
She nods vigorously, then almost seems to bob a curtsey in Barbara’s direction before disappearing back the way she’d come.
‘What have you done to these people?’ I make it sound like a joke.
Barbara holds up both hands in a defensive gesture and smiles. ‘Who, me? I may have established a few ground rules, but nothing diabolical. I just want to make sure everyone knows that I’m not a has-been academic looking for an easy path to retirement. I intend to get right in the thick of it, and everyone needs to know it.’
Painting in the Shadows Page 18
