“Nil points for both of us,” thought Henry as he now saw the line of trees that sheltered his own building.
Tiredness gave way to a warm feeling of reprieve from the events of the day. He was fingering the keys in his pocket. Soon he would be home, a place to reflect and stand at a distance from today’s drama.
His solitary life pleased him. The work hard, play hard reputation of City traders was too cliché or perhaps out of date. The eighties were long gone. The days when traders snorted coke at their desks before markets opened had vanished. Banks had decided that the bonuses of their higher paid employees should preferably not disappear up their noses. The expression of power had shifted; expensive tastes of a different nature had replaced the exuberance and carelessness of that era. There were still the second homes in the south of France, the cars, the exclusive restaurants and fine wines but there was now contemporary art, a new battle ground on which to unleash vanity and buying power. Henry’s own private collection had moved from antiquities to modern art. He had no interest in spending a fortune on school fees when he could direct his hard-earned cash to the purchase of a masterpiece.
Henry knew that his monastic existence raised eyebrows in the City and so what? Wild speculations about his character fuelled malicious gossip. Was he gay? Was he impotent? Did he have an even darker secret to hide? Henry brushed these aside. Ambition had been his sole mistress and she had never betrayed him.
His mind switched back to the painting sitting in his flat. He wanted to close further speculation on his emotional landscape. The Raft of the Medusa had not been touched since he had first looked at it. Henry decided to call on Nancy – he felt the piece would be better viewed in someone else’s presence. Nancy had mentioned drinks. Why not accept her invitation sooner rather than later? The thought comforted him and the prospect of a conversation with someone in the know presented an irresistible intellectual challenge.
* * *
At Scotland Yard Nurani and Andy had been busy and were now sitting in Pole’s office. He was listening intently to what the pair had to say about Albert’s visit to Henry’s flat.
“So, you are completely positive, Albert came in with one briefcase and left with two.”
“Absolutely boss.” said Andy. “No mistake! He spoke to someone. You can see him bending towards the entry phone and saying something after he’s rung the bell.”
Andy kept glancing at Nurani to take his cue.
“Someone else could have been in the flat?”
“Crowne is single, no girlfriend, broke up with someone a few years or so ago, it seems, and the cleaning lady comes on Fridays. His family, well, father is deceased, mother still alive, lives in Asia,” said Nurani.
“Did you get a shot of Crowne coming into the building himself?”
“No, but he could have taken the car or simply walked in through the garage door. The CCTV camera was vandalised a few days before, not repaired yet. So we would not have seen him. He takes his car regularly, he’s got an MD parking space at the office,” replied Andy.
“Anyway Jon, why don’t we go and ask him ourselves?” said Nurani. She enjoyed using Pole’s abbreviated name when most of his other reporting lines addressed him as Jonathan or Inspector Pole.
“You just want to take a look at how the City bankers live, don’t you?”
“Now what would give you THAT impression,” she said, not flinching.
“OK, let’s go and visit our favourite banker. And Andy, check the log of the GL garage. If Crowne took his car there will be a record of him parking there.”
Ms Shah was driving her brand new car, a yellow Beetle with a small flower vase stuck to the dashboard. Today a flamboyant red rose sat proudly in its miniature holder.
“Nu, you don’t like this guy but don’t let it cloud your judgement.”
Pole was right, she did not immediately reply. Pole was one of the few senior officers who had taken time not only to work with Nurani but also to train her; a man for whom welcoming an Asian woman into the force was more than fulfilling the ‘diversity’ quota. His opinion counted.
“I know Jon. I won’t make the wrong remarks. I just think it’s such a shame that someone as bright as that should be letting himself down by spoiling his talents in a City job. The only guy I have sympathy with at the moment is the poor bugger who was flying the plane.”
Pole remained silent. These two men had died a tragic death, which was now murder. Nothing else mattered. He was not here to judge, that task would be left to the jury. He was here to do his job so that justice could be served. After so many years in the force Pole had reflected many times on the clear difference between revenge and justice, between justice and the law. Profile cases blurred these lines and yet he knew that, to be good at his job, this clear-cut definition had to be understood.
“At his best, man is the noblest of animals, separated from law and justice he is the worst,” said Pole.
“Wow, did you come up with that? Profound,” replied Nurani with a grin. She had been warned about her boss’s philosophical inclination.
“I wish! No, it’s a quote from Aristotle.”
“Was he not a Greek philosopher?”
“Correct, around 400BC.”
“So you are telling me we are here to make a difference?”
“Well I am. And to know that revenge in whatever form is neither law nor justice.”
“Right. I will need to ponder that a little if I may,” said Nurani, unwilling to be drawn into what she considered a superfluous debate.
Pole observed his young colleague sideways and judged that Nurani was not ready yet for an in-depth conversation. But whether she liked it or not he would one day have that discussion. It was the way he taught.
“Here we are.”
Pole opened the door and took time to look at the imposing building. It had been the headquarters of Thames Water in North London at the turn of the last century, displaying sumptuous architecture of heavy stones and classical art deco design. They entered through the gate and walked a few yards, past a series of well-kept grass and flower beds, before reaching the main entrance. The bells pertaining to the flats bore no names. Albert must have known where to go. Pole pressed bell number seven. There was no reply. He moved away from the building and glanced up. There was light in the duplex flat occupied by Henry. Pole persisted and was prepared to ring Henry’s mobile when a voice answered.
“Mr Crowne, Inspectors Pole and Shah, may we come in? We called your office, but you had left already.”
The main door opened without a sound. They moved along a large hallway of stone, wood and steel. It felt solid and yet light at the same time, a peaceful harmony that was home. Pole and his assistant reached the private landing of Henry’s flat, and the large door on the far-right hand side opened. Henry leaned against the door frame, one hand in the pocket of his jeans waiting for them to make their way towards him. He looked quite different now that he had changed clothes, more carefree. He had swapped his expensive Savile Row suit for a pair of cheap jeans and an old Dublin university T-shirt. Pole took this opportunity to observe him before the mask of control had time to settle back upon his face.
“Could it not have waited ’til tomorrow morning?” said Henry.
“’fraid not,” said Pole, cheerfully.
Henry led the way into the flat. The entrance gave a feel for the eclectic taste of its owner. Sober yet elegant; a small collection of Asian antiquities was displayed round the hallway and as centrepiece a fourteenth-century Buddha from Cambodia rested in a carefully lit niche.
In the main lounge an immense tapestry was hanging on the far wall, it looked old and its distinctive blue revealed its origin to Pole.
“Aubusson,” he murmured.
Henry tried to ignore him but felt both impressed and gratified. Pole was not just some ignorant copper to have identified the piece so quickly. Pole glanced at the rest of the room, a few other statuettes had been carefully positioned on d
edicated shelves, a large cream sofa with a couple of armchairs added to the peaceful comfort. Henry’s lounger in brown leather, matching the frame of the sofa, was surrounded by newspapers and files. A quirky teapot sat on a side table still exhaling the scent of its fragrant tea.
Henry let his tall body slump into the chair, he vaguely gestured to his guests to take a seat.
“We are intrigued by a visit we suppose was for you, Mr Crowne. You did not mention it at our last interview.”
A faint smile brushed Henry’s lips at the word ‘interview’, which had in the banking world a much more exciting meaning. Pole took out of his pocket a CD, Henry though he recognised the initials AA on the cover.
“Do you think we could play this for you?”
“Be my guest.”
Henry leaned backwards and grabbed a small compact remote, a large screen appeared over the fireplace. He took the CD from Pole and shoved it into a dark sliver below the screen. Some scrambled images shot across the screen, then froze to present a picture of Anthony Albert speaking into the ground floor intercom of the building. Henry had not had time to sit down and any desire to do so was stopped by the scene. He spotted the date and time at the bottom of the screen 08-10-08//21.57.03. His mind raced back to the time only a couple of days ago, trying to remember whether he was still at the office, at a client’s. He needed … an alibi, a word he thought would never enter his vocabulary.
Pole let a couple of minutes pass, he was in no rush to break the silence. Henry felt Pole’s focus was total, he was reading his reactions, absorbing every detail, studying the lines on Henry’s face, the tension in his body, all information useful to harvest.
“Well it seems to me that Mr Albert was trying to invite himself to a decent bottle of wine,” said Henry finally.
Humour always saved his day. But this time the attempt at levity failed. In the silence that followed, Henry heard himself speak,
“Why do I have the feeling Inspector Pole that you do not believe me?”
“Play the DVD further, you will see my dilemma.”
And so it was that for the next few minutes Henry witnessed, incredulous, Anthony Albert buzzing his doorbell, entering the building and finally walking out with not one but two briefcases. The images finally vanished, leaving a grey screen. Pole waited, again in no hurry to suggest a possible scenario. Nurani had made herself invisible by studying the surroundings with great care. Henry followed Nurani’s glance. She had noticed the large parcel still in bubble wrap lying against the wall at the far end of the room. It looked incongruous in Henry’s well-orchestrated décor and The Raft of the Medusa’s power shook Henry’s confidence.
“What is the crazy asshole doing? He was not supposed to collect them himself, anyway.”
“What was the a-hole not supposed to do?”
Pole sounded amused by this sudden lapse in political correctness.
“The papers I told you about yesterday. He was not supposed to collect them himself.”
“Well, Mr Crowne, it looks as if he found them after all.”
“Correction Inspector. What he found was a briefcase. God knows what was in there,” Henry struggled to regain control of the situation. After all, he was right. Who could prove what was in the case?
“Point taken. But you must admit this is rather strange.”
“Strange as it might be, I certainly did not see him that evening.”
Pole sat back in his seat. The amazement on Henry’s face was genuine enough, he felt he had passed that test.
“So where were you that evening?”
“I was here. Later that is. What was the time again?”
Pole grabbed the DVD case.
“Time 22.57.”
Henry had seen Liam that evening. He had no intention of saying any more for the time being. Liam was not the type of character he wanted to discuss with Pole. He needed to leave him out of the discussion at all cost.
“Yes, I was back at home.”
“From where?”
“The office actually.” This was not a complete lie since Henry had dashed back into the office to grab some documents he needed for an early morning meeting. One of the trainees had stayed late to prepare the pack for Henry.
“You are not going anywhere in the next few days I presume. We may need to talk some more,” said Pole. “We need to understand what Mr Albert was doing at 22.57 … at the bottom of your building.”
“Absolutely Inspector.”
Pole rose, followed by Nurani, they left Henry’s flat half an hour after having arrived there.
* * *
Henry was walking back toward the lift. He had insisted on accompanying Pole to the door of his building and watched the two speak as they entered their car. He had not performed well and suspicions would be mounting. In a strange way, Albert was suddenly in control of his life. But Henry shrugged, Albert was dead. He was about to press the lift’s call button when a voice stopped him.
“Henry, what a happy coincidence,” said Nancy as she walked towards the lift herself.
“Nancy, how nice to see you,” replied Henry, forcing a smile.
“Would you care for a drink? That is if it is not too late of course.”
Henry took time to assess his neighbour. He liked her energy and elegance.
“Excellent idea, I could do with a drink and a good chat,” he said.
Nancy smiled amiably.
“Let me bring the wine if I can be that forward as to come to yours. I would love to take a second look at your new acquisition.”
“Something tells me that you are not going to take no for an answer,” said Henry, seeing the humour in the situation. His flat, his sanctuary would be invaded again although he had to admit he was looking forward to this latest intrusion.
By the time Nancy entered his lounge, Henry had positioned the painting on the sofa again. He had not removed the bubble wrap. She thought it strange but said nothing. Henry poured two glasses.
“Are you a collector yourself?” asked Henry.
“Yes, but I also support a small gallery.”
“I thought you were a lawyer? The head of Chase and Case mentioned your name a while ago,” said Henry intrigued.
“I was, a barrister to be exact. It feels like a lifetime ago and no longer that interesting,” replied Nancy.
Henry was torn for a moment between the desire to know more and that of speaking about his own collection. Surely a successful lawyer would not give up such a lucrative career.
“We can talk about my old profession some other time if you are interested,” said Nancy, relaxed. “How about discussing something that matters much more: YOUR collection.”
“Absolutely,” replied Henry.
Had he been that transparent?
“I must say … This is a daring piece to acquire.”
Nancy drank a little wine and carried on.
“Do you have a particular affection for the original?” she said as she stood up to move towards the painting.
“In truth, I have never seen the original. I mean, I have seen it in books but not in the flesh, so to speak, and … I don’t see why it makes any difference,” said Henry failing to hide his annoyance. This was not an art history course.
“I agree, a painting can have an immediate effect on the viewer but in this instance, it presents a background story with considerable significance.”
“Which is what exactly?”
“Well, Géricault’s The Raft of the Medusa depicted a tragedy that shocked the world and reinforced in France the distrust in the old monarchy.”
“I still don’t see the point.”
“The Medusa’s wreck was largely attributed to the incompetence of its captain, Viconte de Chaumarey. He was perceived to be acting under the authority of the restored French monarchy.”
“Why would the monarchy be involved in such an appointment?”
“Absolument and a very astute question indeed,” acknowledged Nancy. “It is
almost certain that King Louis XVIII had nothing to do with it. But remember the whole affair happened at a point in time in French history where democracy, as defined by the revolutionaries of 1789, has failed and yet monarchy is still unable to make a full come back.”
“The event was pretty horrific. How many survived?” asked Henry, sensing the potential of the original story.
“Only fifteen out of the one hundred and forty-seven crew survived. And those who did had to suffer starvation and cannibalism, murder, despair.”
“Do you see an analogy with the way French people saw the monarchy?” said Henry.
“I see two analogies. Yes, I see the incompetence of the French captain confirming the view that France had of its monarch but,” said Nancy, pausing as if to find the right words.
“And the second?” said Henry, eager to put forward the idea that had just dawned on him. “Are you going to tell me you see a parallel with what is happening in the markets?”
“Artists have an uncanny sense for what comes next. Il me semble,” said Nancy.
“Nancy. This is only a painting.”
“Then why do you want to buy it?”
“It is well executed, and the theme powerful.”
“It is not enough, Henry … it has meaning for you, not an intellectual one, a deeper one. Oui, quelque chose de profond.”
Henry poured some more wine in the two empty glasses, searching for a response and trying unsuccessfully to summon his French.
“There are a number of other pieces that represent the Raft. To me this is significant. The collapse of the old, the coming out of the new,” finished Nancy.
“I don’t see it myself but then again I have not spent ages intellectualising this purchase, et puis, je parle mal francais.”
Henry had hoped for a diversion from today’s events but instead found himself dragged into a philosophical debate he did not want to have. Nancy sensed the mood. There would be nothing to gain in arguing with a very tired Henry.
“You might be right, I might see too much in this piece,” replied Nancy. “But I hope you will indulge me if I speak French, a necessary contribution to my mixed cultural background and reminiscence of intellectual pride.” She smiled at Henry and the intelligence he read in her eyes struck him. She had defused his anger with unexpected calm.
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