As I closed the front door the office phone rang. My friends call me on my mobile, so this was either someone trying to sell me something, or a potential customer. I answered it hopefully.
“Hallo?”
“Is that Caz Tallis?” The pleasant, civilized voice was familiar… “This is Phil Sharott.”
He’d looked up my number like Ric said. He knew where I lived. I felt instantly on my guard.
“Oh, hallo.”
“I’m sorry to bother you when you’re probably very busy, but I’m in London today and I wondered if it would be possible for us to meet?”
“Uh…why?”
“I’d like a word with you about Ric, if that’s okay. Without him there. Perhaps you could meet me at a bar near your workshop? I can be in Hoxton Square in half an hour.”
I did not want to meet Phil Sharott that afternoon. Not when I’d turned down an outing with Ric, not when I should be working, and not on my own. It would be embarrassing after our last meeting. I hadn’t even said good bye to him that day; normal social conventions had gone missing soon after we were introduced. But here he was, sounding calm and urbane, heading my way and wanting to talk to me. At least he seemed unaware of my visit to Dave Calder. I thought of the five horses Ric had sold. I’d better find out what Phil had to say. A sidekick’s duty.
“Okay, if you can make it an hour. I’ve got a job to finish. Where shall I meet you?”
“Do you know Hoxton Square Bar and Kitchen? I’ll wait for you outside.”
The sky was grey when I left Fox Hollow Yard, as though it might rain at any moment. Dog came with me for the walk. I was pleased to have his company, as I’d got absurdly nervous about the meeting over the past hour. I paused in the narrow alleyway that fed into Hoxton Square, and switched on the recorder I’d brought with me. I wasn’t sure it would work properly through the bag, but thought it worth a try. It would help when I wrote up my notes. As I emerged from the alley and walked down the pavement, I saw Phil’s tall figure in the corner to the right of Hoxton Bar, under cover between the charcoal brick wall and the glass etched with an enormous LUX. His elegant suit was lighter than the bricks, and darker than the sky. He moved forward, smiling.
“Thank you for coming at such short notice, Caz.”
His use of my name seemed wrong, somehow, though ‘Miss Tallis’ would have been ludicrous, unless, I suppose, I’d been a client of his. We didn’t go into Hoxton Bar; he led me a little way back to a cafe with railings and three tables squashed into the space outside. No one was sitting there. The red awning wouldn’t help a lot if it rained. I sat while he went inside to order coffee.
He joined me, and there was a pause while I added sugar and stirred. I’d have preferred tea. Dog sniffed his trouser legs, then settled well away from him. Phil Sharott could only have been seven years older than Ric at most, but he seemed more, as though he belonged to another generation. Maybe it was the conventional clothes and haircut. And his manner…
“I had a look at your website. D’you know, I was most impressed. I had no idea of the craft skills that went into the sort of work you do. It took me back. We had a much-loved rocking horse when I was small; it fell apart in the end.”
“What make was it?”
“I don’t know.” No one ever does. “Quite old, it had been in the family for generations.” Probably an Ayres, and they put it on a bonfire. “I’d love to come and have a look at your studio some time. I don’t have children, but when I do I’ll definitely be buying them a rocking horse.”
I didn’t feel I had to say anything as I listened politely to these niceties. He’d get to the point eventually.
Phil Sharott glanced at the sky. “I hope it won’t rain, I thought if we sat out here we could talk privately.” He hesitated, then said, “It’s lucky for Ric that you’ve taken him under your wing. You didn’t know him before, I take it?”
“No.”
“How did you meet?”
“Oh, we just bumped into each other.” I’d decided on a policy of telling Phil as little as possible.
“Very kind of you to help him out - and he’s not an easy man to help. So few people these days are discreet…it really would be a disaster for Ric if it became known he was in London. I’m not sure he fully realizes that. I’ll come clean, Caz; I’m hoping you’ll agree to support me in persuading Ric he’d be safer in Scotland. He might listen to you.”
“Ric will do what he wants to do. It’s up to him.”
“If he’s recognized, the decision will be out of his hands.”
“It might be for the best. The police might find the real murderer.”
Phil Sharott looked at me thoughtfully through his designer spectacles. They were metallic blue-grey to tone with his silk suit. “Ah. Has he told you he didn’t do it?”
I returned his gaze. “Yes.”
“And you believe him?” he asked mildly.
“Don’t you?”
“I’m a lawyer, Caz. I believe in what can be demonstrated in a court of law. I try to avoid forming opinions based on too little data. In this case, all the evidence points one way. There was a public quarrel, Ric visited Bryan the following day, was seen to leave Bryan’s flat with blood on him; Bryan was found dead, Ric’s fingerprints on the murder weapon. Against that, we have Ric’s assertion that he is not the killer.” He sipped his coffee. “I would not feel confident, were I the barrister putting this case before a jury, that they would find Ric innocent. That is why I suggested to him at the time he should plead guilty with mitigation. Had he taken my advice, he would most likely be a free man by now.”
“With a criminal record for a crime he didn’t commit, while the real killer goes free.”
“Indeed. If your supposition is the correct one.”
It was blowy and spitting with rain now, the road’s tarmac darkening. The bushes in Hoxton Square moved in the wind, and litter blew along the patched and seamed pavement. I shivered and zipped up my fleece. “What I don’t understand is why a reputable lawyer should help an accused man fake his own death.”
A faint smile passed over Phil Sharott’s face. “That’s an entirely reasonable comment. But you didn’t see Ric in prison after Bryan died. I was there. He was in a horrendous state - partly of course the withdrawal symptoms - any long-term illegal drug and alcohol abuser would experience those - but also the horror of what had happened affected him badly. He was terrified, frantic, close to a total breakdown. Quite unable to face the consequences of having committed a grave criminal offence.”
I wasn’t going to let that pass. “You said you avoided forming opinions—”
“Forgive me. Unable to face the consequences of Bryan Orr’s death. He vehemently refused to plead guilty, yet clearly could not cope with a long-drawn-out trial and lengthy prison sentence. Perhaps I was wrong, but I did what seemed best at the time. And Ric’s sister was strongly in favour of getting him away. Paula didn’t think he could stand prison, and I let her influence me.”
That wasn’t what Ric had said - he’d said Paula was against it. Or was it just the faked death she’d been against? And Phil made Ric sound weak, and that’s not how he struck me at all. Ric was tough. Look at the way he’d stopped taking drugs after Bryan died, when he’d lost everything; the very time most addicts would be seeking chemical oblivion. And even before, when by his own admission he was off his head with drugs, I couldn’t imagine his personality radically different; couldn’t see him raving and gibbering in a cell, begging for help.
“That doesn’t sound like Ric.”
“You’ll excuse my saying, you haven’t known him very long. Trust me, like you I want what’s best for Ric. Besides the murder, he now faces additional charges of jumping bail, causing a false police investigation and wasting police time. His running away will not help to persuade anyone he is innocent. And I firmly believe that it’s in his best interests to return abroad, and in the short term he should go somewhere out of the public eye. I’m
really hoping you’ll help me to convince Ric of this, Caz.”
I looked straight at Phil. “You haven’t mentioned the money yet. There’s a lot of money at stake here.” He drew breath to interrupt but I carried on. “You’ve had the use of Ric’s millions for the past year. You’ve just given him twenty thousand pounds. Big deal. The interest on forty million dollars for a year is over a million pounds.” I’d done the sums while I finished stripping Saladin’s stand. “Fifty times twenty thousand. That’s not counting last year’s earnings, either. And it seems to me it’s better for you if Ric’s off the scene, because that leaves you controlling everything, and I’m wondering whether that’s the reason you want me to persuade Ric to leave.”
Phil laughed, but he didn’t sound amused. For the first time, his manner was cool, almost hostile. “Is that what Ric’s been telling you?”
“No, I worked it out for myself.”
“I can assure you, Caz, I don’t need to embezzle Ric’s fortune. Have you any idea how much The Voices have earned over the years?”
He waited for me to answer this rhetorical question. An old trick I wasn’t going to fall for. I stared at him expressionlessly till he went on.
“And it’s gone up since Ric ‘died’, even though that put an end to performing or recording. I’ve found other ways to develop The Voices’ earning potential.”
I knew this. There had been bootleg releases, ‘classical’ orchestral arrangements by the City of Prague Philharmonic, an instrumental from a Voices’ song used behind a Toyota commercial…Ric was not happy about it.
Phil said, “I’m a very good manager. I always was. I’ve been earning fifteen per cent of the band’s takings for all those years. Investing the money, not pouring it down my throat, injecting or inhaling it. Think about it. Why would I defraud Ric when I’m rich already?”
“Why do multi-millionaires work hard to make more money than they can ever spend? I don’t know.”
His eyes flicked over my clothes and rested on my canvas handbag, five pounds down Leather Lane. “Perhaps one needs to be wealthy to acquire an insight into that. Personally, I do it because I find it more interesting than being idle.”
I didn’t feel I was getting anywhere with this. I’d got a horse waiting for me. I pushed my chair back. “Anything else you want to say? Anything I can pass on to Ric for you?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t find it necessary to tell Ric about this meeting. Could I ask you, as a favour, not to?”
“No. Sorry. I like to keep things open. I can’t see why you don’t want him to know we’ve met, anyway.”
“On second thoughts, you’re right, it’s unimportant.”
We both got up and stood together on the pavement before going our separate ways. Phil Sharott fired a parting shot.
“One thing perhaps I should say. I’m sure you are aware you are currently breaking the law, and have considered the possible consequences to yourself, so I won’t bore you with that. But if you’re thinking Ric’s a reformed character, Miss Tallis,” he said, fixing me with a beady eye, “then I would warn you; that’s a dangerous assumption to make. You don’t know as much as you think you do about Ric. I bid you goodbye.”
I bid you goodbye? I bid you goodbye? No one talks like that. Stuffed shirt. And what about him breaking the law?
He crossed the road to White Cube 2, and got into a black cab as its passenger got out. The taxi disappeared down the narrow cobbled street going west.
I turned and headed back to Saladin, the dog trotting beside me. “I didn’t like him, Dog. What did you think?”
Dog agreed with me, I could tell.
Chapter
12
*
“Yes! This is how we do it, Caz.”
Ric’s voice was triumphant. He had been tapping away for most of Saturday morning on my laptop. I looked up from Odds Against, a paperback so ancient it had lost its cover and spine; the rubber band holding it together was broken and stuck to it. All the pages were there, though. I’d checked before I started reading.
“Do what?”
“Get Jeff to cop an eyeful of you, so he’ll be helplessly attracted like a dog to a lamppost, and you can give him the third degree about the murder.”
I wasn’t sure I cared for his simile. “I thought he had a wife? And children?”
“If you think that’s stopped Jeff’s single-minded pursuit of anything in a skirt, then you haven’t the first grasp on his character and you’d better do some research. I’ve finished with the laptop.”
“I’m reading. Doesn’t his wife object?”
“I think Janey accepts it. She keeps out of the way, on their farm in Devon, breeding rare sheep. Hardly ever comes to London. She’s quite ordinary looking, a bit older than Jeff. And his turnover of women is so fast, none of them are around long enough to pose a threat to her.”
“So what is the plan?”
“Brit Art.” Ric’s gaze was severe. “If you took being my sidekick a bit more seriously, you’d know Jeff collects Young British Artists. Their nastier stuff, mostly; dead animals in formaldehyde, blood, guts, that sort of thing. You used to teach Art. You’ll know all about Brit Art.”
“It’s one of the reasons I left, having to teach children of an impressionable age about rubbish artists.”
Ric turned back to the screen and scrolled down. “Jeff goes to all the new exhibitions. He dragged me along once in the early days, to the Royal Academy, because he said it was a seminal show I mustn’t miss. I refused to go to any others with him. He’s a real enthusiast, a collector, spends serious money on it. All you’ve got to do is go to a private view and bond with him over a fish tank of dead embryos, or whatever. Discuss your mutual love of the current art scene, then tell him who you are. Well, tell him you’re Vikki Wilson.”
“Do they let anyone in? Wouldn’t the galleries open just for him, if he’s a big buyer?”
“It’s possible…but there must be somewhere he mixes with the rabble.” Ric was still clicking away, concentrating on the screen. “You can tell them you’re from La Vista. We’ll have to work out which private view he’ll be at, so you can turn up looking hot like you did for Dave. Has Dave rung you, by the way?”
“Yes, he did actually. Yesterday. He was on the phone for ages. I think he wanted someone to talk to.”
“You see? Irresistible, that’s you. Jeff doesn’t stand a chance.”
Monday morning Saladin’s eyes arrived in the post. Clear glass with black glass pupils, twenty-four millimetre diameter. (Amber glass is prettier, but not authentic.) I painted the backs red-brown, matching the remnants of paint in the eye sockets, and set them in with Rustin’s filler, so Saladin could get his first sight of the twenty-first century. His aristocratic face sparked into life. We looked at each other.
“Now you can see where you’re going, you handsome animal. Gesso next.” I patted him, and went to get ready for my next bit of sleuthing.
I stepped out of the taxi, paid the driver, and crossed the road to the minimalist facade of Loop X, Grant Atherton’s gallery. Grant Atherton is the biggest mover and shaker in Brit Art, now that Jay Jopling’s gone over to painting. He’s very good at setting up profitable cycles of discovery, investment, promotion and sales; he’s the Emperor’s tailor. His gallery is in Clerkenwell, at the end of one of those narrow roads off Old Street. I’d often biked past it on my way to Cornelissen’s, where I buy pigments for my paints. It’s never occurred to me to go in the gallery. Even if I was an admirer of the sort of art they sell, I couldn’t afford it.
I wore a compromise between what I thought a journalist might wear, and what, in Ric’s opinion, most turned me into eye-candy. The shortest skirt I possessed, sheer black tights, my highest heels that seldom see the light of day on grounds of practicality, and a low-necked top were Ric’s choice; a sharp cropped jacket added, I hoped, a professional air. The security men eyed me as I walked through the open glass doors. We’d got it right; I wa
s hot.
A group of people were hanging around the bare and white-painted reception area. They all looked at me. Perhaps we’d overdone it, made me too conspicuous. And Ric could have got it wrong, though he’d been so certain; Jeff Pike might not be there. My heels clicking on the concrete floor, I headed for a girl sitting behind a high white counter.
“Vikki Wilson, from La Vista,” I said, trying not to sound nervous. Actually, I felt calmer than when I’d been to see Dave Calder; partly because that time had gone okay, and partly because this meeting was in a public place. Ric had rung and told them I’d be coming, and he said they hadn’t raised an eyebrow. What was the worst that could happen? Jeff Pike could be really rude then have me thrown out, that’s all. Not that bad. And it probably wouldn’t happen… The girl smiled, ticked her list, and handed me a catalogue and a badge with my name on. I clipped it to my waistband, where it wasn’t too obvious, and strolled into the main exhibition room, helping myself to a glass of wine on the way.
One quick look told me Jeff Pike wasn’t there. A dozen people were studying the paintings on the walls, and consulting catalogues, or standing in groups chatting. I know a lot about art, and I know what I like…and it wasn’t this sort of thing. Each canvas was very like the last, painted in shades of black, containing a smaller white square with tiny squiggles in. Sometimes the white square was at an angle. Right. I read the press release I’d been given.
‘Darkness Assaults the Soul’, comprising four series of canvases, is a cry of anguish and despair that reverberates from the disintegration of the here and now to the furthest limits of the universe. By re-interpreting multifarious references from fractal geometry, physics, astronomy, Egyptian hieroglyphs, and the story-telling of pre-Renaissance literature, Gareth Hallows creates a metaphor for the human condition. The elaborate structural dichotomy of the dominating allegory…
I stopped reading. Who writes this stuff? A computer programme? As far as I’m concerned, there is one test for art; if it was dug up thousands of years in the future, long after our civilisation was dust, would the digger-up pounce on it and say, “Wow! Look what I’ve found,” or not? If not, it’s not art. And no amount of pretentious semi-literate guff will make it so.
Remix (2010) Page 7
