by Peter Watson
Isobel nodded. ‘But I’d like to bathe this first.’
That night, at dinner, she had a surprise for him. ‘There’s really only one thing more peaceful than what we did today.’
Michael was tempted to respond in his own way, but held his tongue. ‘Oh yes?’
‘Mmm. Parachuting.’
‘You’ve done it?’
‘Eighteen times.’
‘Don’t you need to be just a little bit crazy to do that sort of thing?’
‘I hope you’re wrong. I knew a man before Tony who had been in the parachute brigade. The first two or three times were a bit scary – and my father was very much against it. But that only made me more determined.’ She grinned. ‘But nothing ever went wrong. Drifting down on a sunny day like today, feeling the breeze swish past you . . . I suppose that most of the time we associate a sinking feeling with bad things. But when you parachute you just go on sinking and sinking and sinking. It’s not like flying at all. You’re amazed at how much air there is, at how high the sky can be.’
They left the restaurant to find that, as on the night before, the air had turned quite cool. Isobel had brought a sweater with her this time, but even so she shivered.
‘Shall we walk to the end of the quay, like last night?’ said Michael. ‘Or are you cold?’
‘I’m cold. But let’s do it all the same. You can smoke there without doing too much damage.’
They strolled along the quay without speaking. Michael took out a cigar and licked the end. His thoughts drifted back again to Isobel’s fall earlier in the day. He wanted to lick her. Cables slapped on the masts of moored yachts as if applauding his thoughts. With difficulty, he got his cigar going: the breeze coming off the sea was now quite strong. Isobel shivered again and Michael put his arm around her shoulders.
The end of the quay had a small lighthouse. They stood near it and watched as a ship steamed steadily out of the harbour, the dark, mysterious silhouettes of its crew already busy, bending and pulling and winding.
‘Look,’ said Michael, pointing. ‘They don’t seem at all aware of how romantic they are. Where do you think they’re going? Leningrad? Santiago? Piraeus?’
Isobel looked up at him. ‘Newcastle?’ She smiled.
Michael kissed her as she smiled. He kissed her more forcefully than he had meant to, but all the longing he had been feeling earlier was there, and now saw its chance.
Though surprised by the force of his kiss, Isobel soon responded. She kissed him back but she also began to run her fingers over his shoulders, beneath his jacket. ‘I’m not trying to undress you,’ she said after a moment. ‘But could I borrow your blazer. I’m freezing.’
He laughed, took it off, and wrapped it around her shoulders. Then they walked back down the quay and round the harbour. Two more ships were preparing to leave, the men shouting to each other, operating winches and clanging and banging on metal. The smell of sea water and fish was now mixed with diesel oil and cigar smoke.
Outside the hotel they stood for a moment, watching again the lights of the fishing boats as they moved out to sea. Isobel stroked Michael’s hand. ‘Tonight,’ she whispered, ‘even Newcastle seems romantic.’
Michael leaned his body against hers and kissed the top of Isobel’s head. Then he led her into the hotel.
At reception he was handed his key but was surprised to find a piece of paper with it. ‘A message for you, sir,’ said the man at the desk.
Michael unfolded the paper and stared at the writing.
‘What is it?’ asked Isobel.
Michael began moving to the hotel stairs. ‘It’s from Helen,’ he whispered. ‘It says to call her. Urgently.’
*
‘The painting’s gone!’
‘Helen, no! Please God, no.’ Michael groaned into the phone. ‘You mean stolen?’
‘Michael, I’m so sorry. It was all my fault. I finished what you asked around teatime this afternoon. It was such a lovely day . . .’
Yes it was, thought Michael. But not any more.
‘. . . and one of the local gardens is open to the public. Just today, I mean. I went for a quick peek. I was gone an hour, no more. And I locked up. But when I got back this man had broken in –’
‘You saw him?’
‘Yes, and no. Yes, he was still here when I came back and I disturbed him. But I didn’t see his face. He was wearing a motor-cycle helmet –’
‘Helen! Stay there, we’re coming over. Tell us the rest then. We’ll tell you what it’s all about. I’m sorry, too, for putting you at risk. Very sorry . . . There’s something I should have told you . . . Look, it will take us ten minutes to check out, twenty-five minutes in the car. Hold on!’
Michael banged down the phone and started to grab his clothes. As he did so he relayed to Isobel what Helen had told him.
‘A helmet!’ gasped Isobel.
‘How on earth did he find us?’ Michael growled through his teeth as he stuffed shirts into his suitcase. ‘We were so damn careful. Did he follow you, or me?’
‘I’m certain he didn’t get off the train with me,’ said Isobel, thinking back. ‘There were only three others, I remember it clearly. You don’t think he was in disguise, do you? Oh, Michael!’ Isobel brushed his cheek with her fingers but then went to her room to pack her suitcase. Michael wracked his brains for the weak link in his plan. He was certain Molyneux hadn’t been on his train.
Downstairs, the receptionist was surprised they were checking out so late and assumed they had had a fight. They had to pay for the night they were going to miss but neither of them gave a thought for that. They were soon in the car.
Michael headed north on the Lowestoft road, then turned off at Wrentham. The rented car wasn’t anywhere near as nippy as his Mercedes but at that hour – nearly 11.30 – there was little traffic, the road was flat and straight and they made good time. They arrived at Helen’s just before midnight.
The stables were a blaze of light and, as soon as she heard the car, Helen came out to meet them.
‘This has never happened before,’ she said without preamble as they climbed the stairs. ‘I’m so sorry, Michael.’
‘What happened, Helen? Are you all right? He didn’t hurt you, did he?’ As he said this, Michael was startled to see, beyond the doorway, that the studio was in chaos. ‘You had a fight?’
Helen nodded. ‘More of a scuffle, really. He was hiding behind the door when I came back, and grabbed me. He was very tall and strong. He was wearing big motor-cycle gloves and gripped my flesh – here.’ She held out her forearms for Isobel and Michael to see a row of purple bruises.
‘What happened then?’ Isobel looked drawn.
‘We struggled. I kicked him. I got one arm free and threw some turps over him.’
‘Did you see his face at all?’
‘Not really. His helmet had a dark visor. I grabbed some brushes and tried to poke him where it might hurt.’
Despite themselves, Isobel and Michael smiled.
‘And . . .?’
‘It didn’t work. He forced me back into the kitchen and locked me in. Then he left with the picture. That was about five o’clock this afternoon.’
‘So how long were you locked up?’
‘Nearly four hours. I had to unscrew the entire lock and dismantle it with a knife. The screws were old and rusty and the knife kept buckling. I phoned you as soon as I could.’
Michael took out a cigar but didn’t light it. Instead, he fingered it as he explained to Helen about the Landscape and Molyneux. She listened, growing more intrigued as the story wound on. ‘So you see why I’m sorry, Helen. We thought it was good security not to tell you anything. But if we had done you might not have gone out and you would never have been hurt.’
Helen waved a hand. ‘I’m still in one piece, Michael. If I’d been here the whole time, it might have been worse. He was a very strong man.’
‘How did he find you? That’s what I don’t understand,’ said Michael.
‘We were so careful, we even came on separate trains as far as Cambridge.’
‘I think I can answer that,’ said Helen, moving to the mantelshelf. She picked up a piece of paper. ‘He dropped this in the scuffle.’ She handed it to Michael. ‘It’s an invoice I sent you. It has my address on it.’
Michael took the paper and stared at the heading. In black capitals it said, ‘helen sparrow fine art: picture restoration and cleaning’, and gave her address, phone number and VAT number. Michael breathed quietly. ‘He could only have got this by breaking into Justice Walk.’ His mind went back to that late-night figure he had seen in Lawrence street. Oh no!’
They stood in silence, staring at the remains of the picked lock on the kitchen door.
After an interval, Michael said, softly, ‘Have you called the police?’
‘No.’
‘I’d better do it now. Burglary, assault, theft. That must constitute an entire crime wave in Aldeby.’ He moved to the phone.
‘Michael, hold on.’ Isobel spoke in barely more than a whisper. ‘Helen, why didn’t you call the police? That would have been my first reaction.’
Helen hesitated, then smiled sheepishly at Isobel. ‘It’s your picture, your property that’s been stolen. So if you want to report it I can’t stop you. But, from my point of view . . . well, if I go to the police, it might get out . . . other people might not send me pictures if they think I’m a security risk.’ She looked across to Michael. ‘I know you have lost a painting and I’m mortified about that. I know you’ll never send me any more business . . . but . . . but I’m not really hurt. A few scratches and bruises. I can tidy up the studio in a couple of hours. The kitchen doesn’t really need a lock anyway.’ She looked at Isobel, then was silent for a moment. ‘Unless you have to report the theft, I would rather not report the break-in or the assault.’
Helen sank into a chair, not meeting anyone’s eyes. There was silence in the room.
Michael was the first to break it. ‘I’m sorry, Helen. I sympathise with what you say. But we must report the theft. Two thefts, one here and, almost certainly, one at my house. I don’t know if he took anything else but we’ve to get that picture back. That’s what the police are for –’
‘I agree with Helen,’ Isobel cut in.
‘What? But –’
Isobel interrupted again. ‘Listen, Michael. It’s late, you’ve had some drinks and your brain’s not in fast-forward, as you would say. In the first place, we exposed Helen to this attack. She was put at risk, bruised and locked up because of us. Therefore, if she wants us to do something for her in return, the very least we can do is listen to her. But forget her problem with the bad publicity. You can forget the burglary in London too. Molyneux broke into your car and took nothing, so I bet all he stole from your house was that invoice, that tiny piece of paper with the information he wanted –’ Michael tried to interrupt but she waved him down. ‘Listen to me for a moment. Don’t forget that the painting is mine and, if I don’t want to report it missing, it’s my decision. In any case, what are we going to tell the police? Will they believe us? The picture is only valuable theoretically. We don’t know if Molyneux is his real name and neither Helen nor you has ever seen him.’
‘They’ll believe all this chaos. They have records of the aliases that criminals use.’
‘Michael! You know perfectly well that Molyneux is no ordinary thief.’
‘We have a picture of the painting. The police could circulate it.’
‘But Molyneux’s not going to sell it, is he? He can just sit on it until we lose interest. Assume he is a known criminal, that Molyneux is even an alias known to the police. Say they question him. He was wearing motor-cycle gloves so there are no fingerprints here, we can’t identify him and he will simply hide the picture until everyone has forgotten this business, then quietly start up all over again.’
‘But we can’t just do nothing.’
‘That’s not what I am suggesting,’ said Isobel. ‘We haven’t asked Helen the most important question yet.’ Isobel turned. ‘When you cleaned the picture, what did you find?’
Helen was relieved to be talking about something else. ‘I started on the patch of grime at the foot of the column just so I could get used to the picture. Then I cleaned that face you mentioned, with spirit . . . it was interesting because there was a small pear-shaped tear under the grime, tiny but an exquisite pearl of water. Then I had a go at the area you specifically asked to be cleaned.’
‘And . . .?’
‘I found two things. The first was very curious. The monk, the monk with no face, in fact didn’t have feet either, or not ordinary feet. They were furry with sharp bits, pointed, like claws really.’
‘And second?’
‘In front of this monk, directly in front of the sharp toes, was a stone slab, a floor-tile really. Hexagonal, with a design on it.’
‘What sort of design?’
Helen shook her head. ‘It was too vague to make out. Sorry.’
‘Damn,’ hissed Michael.
‘No, that needn’t matter,’ said Isobel. ‘Think. Maybe the vagueness of the tile is deliberate. Remember, the monk is dressed in a Franciscan habit, Michael. It directed us to Lewell Monastery. That must be where the tile is. There must be a floor-tile at Lewell which has the design clearly etched. That design contains the next clue. Don’t you see, Michael, Molyneux has to go back to Lewell.’
Michael stared at her. He was experiencing a mix of emotions he had never felt together before. Admiration, for Isobel’s cleverness. An unease at her disregard for the police – she’d picked that up as a journalist in foreign parts, he assumed. And the way that she stood in the studio, her skin aglow with the fire that now burned inside her, as she thought it all through, brought back the sexual longing that had been extinguished with the message to call Helen.
Isobel continued. ‘Which means,’ she said, half smiling, half grimacing, ‘that we have to leave for Dorset right away. Molyneux has a four- or five-hour start, maybe a bit more. He won’t know exactly how much time he has over us because he won’t know how soon Helen freed herself or how quickly she got on to us. That’s our one chance. He can’t have got to Lewell before dark and, if he feels safe enough, he may prefer to leave his search for the tile until daylight tomorrow.’ Isobel looked at her watch. ‘It’s now coming up to half past midnight. From here to Dorset will take . . . what? . . . five or six hours in the dark?’
Michael nodded.
‘Are you ready?’
‘Just like that? You want to leave, just like that? We arrived barely half an hour ago, Helen’s been attacked and locked up, for God’s sake . . . we can’t just leave her.’
Isobel looked at Helen and smiled. ‘Helen’s in better shape than you are, Michael. At least mentally. And the best thing you can do for her is not sit here and mollycoddle her. All she wants from you is an assurance that you don’t need to go to the police. Right?’
Helen smiled and nodded. ‘Your man Molyneux’s not going to come back here, is he? I’ll go to bed and tidy up tomorrow. Don’t worry about me, Michael. I’m exhausted and I’ll sleep like a baby. I just hope you get your picture back. Go on, Michael, get going. Isobel’s right. It’s your one chance to catch him now. The more you delay, the more likely it is that you’ll miss him. Phone me tomorrow some time and let me know what happened. Move!’
Reluctantly, Michael allowed himself to be led outside to the top of the stairs. ‘If Molyneux were to come back, I’d never forgive myself –’
‘He won’t,’ hissed Helen, and gave him a gentle shove.
Inside the car he flashed the headlights as a farewell and nosed out into Aldeby High Street. There was no sign of movement. Michael judged that it was quicker, at that hour, to stick to motorways, rather than cut directly across country. By twenty to three they were west of London, had reached the M3 and were hurrying past Runnymede. It began to rain. Then it began to teem – so bad it was dangerous to travel at mor
e than seventy. Michael managed eighty for most of the way. They were both on edge and barely spoke. Stonehenge flashed by, barely visible in the rain. Around Sherborne it began to get light. They approached Higher Lewell just after half past five. It was still raining.
They pulled up alongside the monastery. ‘No sign of anyone?’ said Michael, twisting round in his seat to survey the ruin. ‘Are we too late or too early, I wonder.’
‘Let’s hide the car,’ said Isobel. ‘Then find a place where we can keep a lookout while one of us hunts for the tile.’
They drove on a little. About a third of a mile beyond the village there was a barn set back slightly from the road. Michael was able to manoeuvre the car behind it. The farmer who owned the land would hardly be pleased, if he were to notice, but at least the car couldn’t be seen from the road.
They walked back.
‘What’s our plan?’ said Michael.
‘One of us keeps a lookout, in case we are ahead of Molyneux. The other searches for the stone slab or tile.’
‘Okay. You do the searching.’
They reached the entrance to the monastery, where there was a stone arch standing all by itself. Michael hovered there, where he could see the road in both directions. The rain gusted against the walls of the monastery, forming dark, whisky-coloured stains of damp. The wind whipped tiny waves on the puddles in the road. Michael used the arch for what shelter he could but even so the rain had soon numbed his cheeks. He glanced at his watch. He had been waiting nearly fifteen minutes. How many stone slabs could there be, for Christ’s sake –
Suddenly, he heard a car engine.
He looked west, in the direction of the sound. In the distance, a dark blue van was coming towards him. He turned and swiftly followed the path inside the monastery, calling softly, ‘Isobel! Car!’
He hid in what was left of the nave. There was no sign of Isobel.
He heard the blue van approach. Then it stopped. Michael couldn’t see where but it must be nearby. Had Molyneux seen him as he ran to hide? Was he coming the rest of the way on foot so as to take them by surprise? Didn’t Molyneux travel by motor-cycle anyway? Michael shivered, not simply from the cold.
