by William Shaw
Frank picked up his mobile, hesitated.
‘Go on Frank.’
The boys listened. ‘Police please.’
The bell rang again.
‘Frank,’ he said. ‘Frank Khan.’ He gave his address. ‘There’s a man outside trying to get into my house,’ he said. ‘He’s making threats. He’s ringing on my doorbell now. I think he wants to harm me.’
He hadn’t mentioned them, hadn’t given them away. The bell was like a kind of torture now. Bzzzzzzzzzzz.
‘Hurry, please. Please. You can hear him, can’t you? No. I don’t know him. I’m scared.’
And then, just as he ended the call, the ringing stopped.
Nobody moved or talked, waiting for the doorbell to sound again.
After a while, Frank walked to the window, phone still in his hand and peered down. ‘I can’t see him. Do you think he’s gone?’ He looked round. Smiled suddenly like the old Frank, the one with whom they had sat in the KFC. ‘Two minutes, and then you’re out of here too.’
‘I was just getting used to it here,’ said Sloth.
‘Get out.’
‘Only joking. I’m happy to go, Frank. It’s been real.’
But just as Sloth put his hand on the lock, a fist banged on the other side of the door.
‘Shit.’
‘Who is it?’ called Frank.
Another bang. ‘Open up.’ The same voice that had come through the intercom.
Which was when Frank edged backwards into the kitchen and picked up the knife; one with a fat, curved blade and a small black handle.
TWENTY-THREE
In the corridor, Ferriter hissed, ‘Oh my God. You tell me to watch myself, then you blurt out something about someone having a grudge against the Millers, even though we don’t actually know that. Prize shit-stirring.’
‘She was annoying me,’ Cupidi replied.
‘And there was I thinking McAdam had told us to go carefully.’
But before Cupidi could reply, they were already at another door. A woman in her thirties sat alone in another white room.
‘I am sorry. An important call with N2N in Abu Dhabi. Terrific gallery. Do you know them? Please sit down.’
On the large canvas behind Zoya Gubenko’s desk, a brown triangle occupied a space on a wash of light blue paint, so thickly applied that it had formed dribbles.
‘You have coffee already, good. What can I help you with?’ There were two chairs facing her, as if arranged in readiness. Cupidi sat; examined Gubenko. Like the previous woman, she too was thin and immaculately dressed. Her hair was short, dyed grey, and she wore a black suit and heels, with an orange chiffon scarf around her square shoulders. She spoke quickly, in perfect English, but with an accent; Eastern European or possibly Russian, Cupidi decided.
‘A little background,’ said Cupidi, taking out a notebook, ‘on the Evert and Astrid Miller Foundation.’
‘Naturally.’ Gubenko beamed. ‘The Foundation was established in 2011, initially as a straightforward investment fund with a mission to support emerging artists. There are many of these, you understand? The art market is very vibrant right now, but it does not always nurture new voices. There’s always a tendency towards safe havens; it’s all Rothko and de Kooning. Our strategy is to work with a very mixed portfolio. The value of investing in pieces by more established artists creates a platform for us to experiment with newer practitioners.’
She paused, as if waiting for questions from the audience. It was a speech she was used to delivering to investors and gallerists.
‘As with all luxury goods, the art market is a healthy one right now, but within a year of starting the Foundation, Astrid Miller began to ask the question, healthy for whom? Is it healthy for the galleries? Yes, though obviously the internet is changing the gallery scene a great deal.’
‘Obviously,’ said Cupidi.
Gubenko paused, raised an eyebrow as if trying to discern whether Cupidi was being flippant or not, then continued. ‘For the investor, things are extremely healthy right now. Don’t be mistaken. You can make more money elsewhere, no doubt, on stocks or property or whatever, but the art market is currently producing more than reasonable returns and people with money enjoy the world it connects them too. Entrepreneurs like Evert Miller are creative. Creative people like the company of artists. But Astrid and Evert Miller began to question whether the contemporary market was as healthy for the artist as it was for the investor. In terms of delivering profit, the greater investor return is often paradoxically realised by those newer artists. The art market benefits greatly from that. However, the artists, whose work is typically bought for next to nothing, usually see little of the money.’
Zoya Gubenko paused again, took her scarf between finger and thumb and rubbed it gently. Smiled. ‘In 2012 Evert and Astrid Miller decided to change the model.’ She said the phrase ‘Evert and Astrid Miller’ as if they were a single entity, a beautiful billionaire super-organism. ‘Evert and Astrid Miller announced that the primary purpose of the Foundation was no longer profit. As Astrid says, the objective has become to nurture emerging artists by leveraging the existing machinery of the art market in their favour. When she buys a new artist’s work, that artist becomes a co-investor in our art fund. She offers them shares in the fund so that, as the collective value rises, they are also rewarded. As a result she has become one of the figures the cutting-edge galleries seek out, and obviously artists much prefer to see their work come to a Foundation like ours. It has been phenomenally successful. Last year Mrs Miller was named one of the top one hundred influential people in the contemporary art world by both Artnet and ArtReview.’
Cupidi scribbled in her notebook. ‘Ms Miller,’ she corrected, without looking up.
‘Sorry?’
‘Never mind.’ Cupidi took a gulp from her coffee. It had gone cold during Zoya Gubenko’s speech.
‘So emerging artists actually make money not just from their own art, but from other works you’ve acquired. Like Funerary Urn.’
‘Exactly. Though we have much more valuable pieces of art. We own several Koonses, a very good Luo Zhongli, a series by Cy Twombly.’
‘But you share your profits with the newer artists?’
‘And as a result, they seek us out. Unlike other art funds, we are all about transparency. It makes us extremely unpopular with the other funds, of course.’ She smiled again.
‘Really?’ said Cupidi, looking up from her notebook. ‘So you have made enemies?’
Gubenko paused. ‘Obviously not in that way. Just within the art world.’
‘You said you were extremely unpopular with other funds.’
‘Only because we are getting more attention, perhaps.’
‘Might they be trying to sabotage your reputation in some way?’
Gubenko laughed. ‘Oh my gosh. What a thought. You are the police. Your job is to look for every bit of nastiness there is in the world. However, the art world is a very civilised one. It’s true that we represent a threat to their business model. Effectively, our approach gives us a unique competitive advantage – new artists want to sell to us. But I doubt anyone in this world would want to risk their reputation in that way.’
‘Tell me what you know about the movements of the artwork, prior to its installation in the Turner on April . . .’
‘April fifth, yes. I was told that was what you needed. I have them here.’
She took a sheet of paper from in front of her and handed it to Cupidi. It was a list of dates and locations.
‘This is where the piece has been since the Foundation purchased it.’
Cupidi scanned dates which went back five years. Ferriter pulled her chair forward towards the desk so she could see it too. The artwork had been in Spain, Beijing, Hong Kong and the UK.
She frowned and looked up at the administrator. ‘Forensics seem to indicate that the arm has been in the jar for two to three weeks. There’s no record of it being anywhere prior to arriving at the Turner.’
‘That’s because it was in storage. If it’s not at a gallery, it would be at the facility.’
‘Where?’
‘The Foundation uses EastArt’s services in East London. Many private investors do. It’s of a very high standard and very secure indeed. They handle the transportation of the work as well. They’re a very respectable company. Very discreet and very safe.’
‘Can we have their details?’ asked Ferriter.
‘Of course.’ She picked up her iPad and began scrolling through the contacts. ‘But I assure you, nobody could have access to anything stored there, not without our permission.’ Cupidi’s phone buzzed. ‘I have just sent the details to you,’ Gubenko explained. The silence of the place reasserted itself. ‘Will that be all?’
‘So, just to be clear, nobody else has the authority to access the artworks?’
‘Just Astrid herself. And Abir Stein.’
‘Who is Mr Stein?’
‘The Foundation’s curator.’
‘I’d like his contact details as well.’
She pursed her lips, picked up her tablet again. A second time, Cupidi’s phone buzzed.
‘You said three people had access to the EastArt store. Yourself, Astrid Miller and –’ she glanced at the details that Gubenko had just messaged her – ‘Mr Stein. Not Mr Miller?’
‘No. Well, theoretically I suppose he could have. He represents the Foundation. But he is more interested in the structural and financial details of the trust than the artworks themselves.’
‘That’s Astrid Miller’s role?’
Zoya Gubenko bristled slightly, but said, ‘Yes.’
‘Oh I see. It’s your role. But she takes the credit?’
Gubenko glared at Cupidi. Ferriter intervened with a dazzling smile: ‘We’d been expecting to see Ms Miller. Do you know where she is?’
‘I’m terribly sorry. She’s away. On business.’
‘Will you be speaking to her today?’
‘I don’t know. She travels a lot. China, Africa. She is always on the lookout for new work.’
‘And where is she now?’
‘Brazil, possibly. Until she contacts me with a request for something, I rarely know. It can be quite frustrating at times.’ A thin smile. ‘But that is how she is.’
‘We would like her details too.’
‘I’ll send her a message and ask her to contact you.’
Cupidi opened her mouth to object but, conscious of Ferriter’s more emollient approach, just said, ‘If you can let her know that this is extremely urgent. One more thing. Assuming that someone put the arm in the jar deliberately, could they have known in advance that it was going to be exhibited here in Kent?’
Gubenko paused, chewed uncomfortably on her lower lip. ‘Possibly.’
‘How?’
‘In this case the artist’s gallerist was a little over-excited when they learned the work was going to be included in the “In Memoriam” exhibition. They issued their own press release, even before the Turner had announced it. Not very good form.’
‘So theoretically, anyone could have known that it was going to be there?’
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
Cupidi stood, pushing back her chair.
Ferriter remained seated. ‘What’s it actually like, working with Astrid Miller?’
‘She is a remarkable woman,’ said Gubenko with a tight smile.
‘Isn’t she, though?’
But Gubenko was already at the glass door, holding it open for them.
*
At the reception desk, the woman looked up and said, ‘Mr Miller can see you for a few minutes, if it’s that important.’
Cupidi looked at Ferriter, a small smile on her face. ‘Of course.’
‘He’s in the main house. Wait outside. He’ll be there presently.’
‘Bloody hell. It worked,’ said Ferriter after they had stepped outside.
‘Do as I say, not as I do, obviously.’
Back at the front door, Ferriter drooled over the red car again. ‘I’d love something like that.’
‘You’re in the wrong career then.’
‘Astrid’s probably just really super-busy.’ The door opened as Ferriter was talking. ‘She does all this ultra-swanky charity millionairey stuff.’
They were both suddenly aware of a man in his early forties, dressed in a white Fair Isle jumper, standing at the door. ‘Five minutes,’ he said, looked them both up and down, and closed the door.
‘Was that him?’ asked Cupidi.
‘Oh God. Do you think he heard me?’ said Ferriter. ‘I’d be so embarrassed.’
Leaning down towards the glass of the car’s passenger window, Ferriter examined herself again. Normally, Cupidi would have laughed, except, today, she looked at the loose threads on the sleeve of her jacket and wished she had worn something a little smarter. Then reprimanded herself for such a ridiculous thought.
TWENTY-FOUR
When Frank yanked his front door open, knife in hand, there was no one behind it.
Cautiously, he emerged onto the landing, looked left and right. The shared space, with its nice peach-coloured walls, framed Constable prints and patterned carpet, was empty. Frank turned back to the two boys in his flat; they were staring past him, down the hallway.
‘I think he’s gone,’ he said.
Tap was the first to think it. ‘How did he get in in the first place?’
There was a second of silence before Frank said, ‘I’ll go and check.’ He slipped the knife into his trouser pocket and turned again.
‘He shouldn’t go,’ whispered Tap.
‘Come back. Just wait for the coppers,’ Sloth called after him.
But Frank had disappeared, out of view, leaving the flat’s door wide open.
Tap said, ‘Which way did Frank go?’
‘Downstairs, I think. We should make a move.’
‘No, Slo. He’s still out there.’
They stood in the man’s empty, soulless flat. The only way out would be to follow Frank down the stairs.
Sloth stepped forward into the small hallway.
‘Where you going?’
Sloth turned. ‘Nowhere. Stay calm, bro. Door’s wide open. Going to shut the door, just in case.’
And before Sloth turned back to close the door, Tap saw the shadow move on the wall behind him. The look of horror on his face was enough to make Sloth stop and turn again to look at what Tap had seen.
The man who had chased them from Tap’s house, who had followed them here, had not gone downstairs at all. He must have crept up to the next floor when Frank went down to look at him. Now he was silhouetted at Frank’s doorway.
*
He wasn’t particularly tall. An average-height man, dark-haired, brown-eyed, early forties, dressed in very ordinary high street clothes, plain brown shoes and leather gloves. No beard or moustache, eyebrows plain. No scars or tattoos, just a single small ring in one ear. Neither handsome nor conspicuously ugly. Even his face seemed unremarkable. There was no particular expression on it, no triumph at having finally found the boys.
Sloth lurched forward, grabbed the door to try and slam it, but the man stepped inside. He turned and closed the door behind him and walked calmly into the main space, the living-room kitchen. ‘Tell me quick. The phone. The one you nicked.’
Tap found his voice. ‘We gave it to my uncle. He brought it back to you.’
The man shook his head and talked slowly, as if the boys were simpletons. ‘Not that one. You know the one I mean. The other one. The one you called me on. The one with the words on it.’
Tap said, ‘You killed him, didn’t you.’
The man approached. ‘I want just the phone now.’
‘What’s them words about?’ demanded Sloth. ‘Tumour, paralysed, potential. All that stuff?’
Another step closer. ‘You gave me eleven words. I need twelve. Tell me the last word on the phone and you can go.’
‘Swear it.’<
br />
‘God’s life,’ answered the man.
But they didn’t know the last word. The phone had died before Sloth could read it.
‘Survivor, analyst, battle,’ said Tap. ‘Tell him where the phone is, Slo.’ He stared at the man, wiping tears away from his eyes. When had he started crying?
‘Phone or the last word. Give it to me now. It’s best if you do that without any fuss,’ the man said.
‘It’s not here. We can get it, though. Swear to God.’
‘Where is it?’
‘How come you’re at my house?’ Tap said. ‘Did you do anything to my mum?’ His eyes stung and his voice quavered, like a baby’s.
The man stopped, put his head to one side slightly. The tiniest smile exposed a chipped front tooth, the first sign of anything individual about the man. ‘Your mum?’
‘My mum,’ whispered Tap.
The two boys and this man, standing in a room, a metre apart.
‘Get me the phone now or just tell me the bloody word and I’ll let you know all about your mum.’
‘No.’ Sloth shook his head. ‘Don’t say nothing.’
‘Frick sake. Let him have it, Slo.’
‘Mikey gave him the other one. He still killed him, didn’t he?’
‘What was the last word?’
It was like they were in a puzzle and nobody had ever told them how it worked. Nobody tells you the rules in this game. You got to work them out for yourself.
‘The word,’ said the man again. Tap blurted, ‘Aspiration. That was the last word.’
For just a second, the man relaxed. Sloth was looking at Tap, eyebrows raised. ‘Swear on our lives, man. That was it.’
Simple. They had made up a word.
How was he to know it wasn’t true? Whatever strange game this was, he didn’t know what the word was any more than they did. They could run away from this now. He would never know. But they could see him spelling the letters on his lips, counting them with the fingers of one hand.
‘Lying.’ The man’s smile vanished. ‘Ten letters. That’s too long. You just made that up, you lying little bastards.’
