by John Luxton
“Look we have to go out and I’m just getting ready. It’s something of a shot in the dark but I’m up for it, if you are.”
“Up for what?”
“Gate crashing a preview at an art gallery; it’s a champagne and caviar lig for the friends and trustees and it starts in about twenty minutes so we have to go like now. So while clean up, you need to ...look it’s easier if I show you.” He gestured for her to follow him to what was obviously the sleeping area. “We need to look the part, choose something to wear from here. You need to look older and …” he trailed off.
Lorna was suddenly self-conscious; opening the wardrobe she saw dozens of colourful dresses. She felt very unsophisticated in her jeans and muddy sneakers.
“These belong to my girlfriend, but she really wont mind.” He started to walk away. Lorna stared at the frocks.
“Are you sure she won’t mind, I would?” she called out after him.
“No. She’s in Brazil anyway at the moment; and nothing too glitzy, we need to look like we are from the press.”
She continued to look at the dresses, then carefully reached in and pulled out a couple of the most sober. Brazilian, she was thinking, dancing, football and sex; I can’t compete with that.
Dulwich Art Gallery was a period building set in it’s own grounds; dating back to the seventeenth century it was the oldest gallery in the country and Agim parked as close as he could, then they walked briskly towards the gate.
They were apparently following the money trail. Tonight’s preview was of recent acquisitions that the gallery had made, and for some reason that he had not disclosed, Agim seemed to think they could learn something here.
Lorna had her part to play; she was the photographer, Agim the journalist, he had press credentials that identified him thus, she had none. They were relying on the security being a little leaky, so if they played it right they could gain access and mingle. To this end she had a camera slung around her neck and he was armed with a video cam. There story was that they were covering the story for a Paris based internet news service.
Agim seemed to approve of the slate blue two-piece that she had chosen. Feeling confident in black leather pumps, with her hair piled high and wearing cerise lipstick she trotted after him.
“By the way, I think it would be good if you pretended to be French,” he said over his shoulder as they went through the rotating entrance door.
The lobby was practically empty so they were subjected to the two security guards full scrutiny.
“Where’s your invitation? You must have an invitation.” The weaselly faced, blue shirted jobsworth lisped camply.
“Eammon Sharpe, I’m here to interview your director for Artnet. It’s all arranged.” The two guards looked at one another and smirked.
“Oo, all arranged he says.”
Agim folded his arms and said nothing else. There was a loud surge applause coming from another part of the building. Agim took advantage of the noise to whisper in Lorna’s ear. It momentarily confused her when he asked her who she was going to be tonight. Then she cottoned on and whispered back.
“Tonight Eammon I’m going to be Coco Regal.” That seemed to satisfy him and he turned his attention back to the guard who was faffing round with the telephone. He leaned forward and said something in a low voice to the man, who suddenly looked as if he was about to burst into tears. Then a sly look came into his eyes and looking past Agim and Lorna he said in loud voice.
“Well that is very fortunate because here is our Director right now.” They turned to see a worried looking man in a business suit.
“Problem, is there a problem?” he said. Agim stepped forward. Five minutes later Lorna was feeling entirely brilliant as she moved through the gallery, with the camera slung casually over her shoulder; she could tell people were thinking ‘whose that girl?’ Coco Regal, you losers.
Agim obviously had balls of steel. He was still with the Deputy Director and was being toured around and introduced to the great and the good prior to the interview opportunity with the Supreme Director. There was a queue to shuffle up and see the acquisitions and Lorna joined it. The foreignness of her alter ego successfully communicated itself to the elderly lady waiting alongside to the extent that Lorna received an only slightly patronising lecture about the artwork they were about to view delivered in carefully enunciated nursery-speak.
The famous sketchpad consisted of watercolour and pencil drawings of wild flowers dating from shortly before the First World War. The object of tonight’s attention was a companion book that had never before seen the light of day having been in a private collection for many years. What made this new discovery so appealing to the management and trustees of the gallery, was that with the slim notebook came the right to reproduce and market the images contained within it. Lorn’a new friend showed her some of the images in the catalogue; the drawings truly were beautiful.
The queue was barely moving and Lorna was beginning to feel trapped, so she was grateful to see Agim beckoning to her from across the room. So she made her excuses and ducked out.
“Au revoir, Madame,” she murmured with a smile.
“How are you doing?” Agim asked after she had crossed the crowded room.
“Tres bien, Eammon; who the hell is Eammon anyway?” she said reverting to being Lorna. Ignoring her questions he began guiding her by the elbow, back towards the reception area.
“Need a drink, then we can go. Nobody seems to know anything in this bloody place. And if we stay much longer we really will have to do that interview.”
There was a room set off to the side that Lorna had not noticed before, where drinks were being served. There was no queue at the bar. He asked for an orange juice and turned to ask for Lorna’s preference. But she had seen a grey haired man sitting at a table close by whom she recognised.
“Look Agim! It is that nice Mr Mcluhan, Deacon’s dad. I wonder what he is doing here?” She went to raise her hand in a wave. Agim roughly grabbed her wrist. They back pedalled out of the room and left the building. Cuthbert had been deep in conversation with another man so had not seen them.
“Look,” said Agim as they walked to the car. “Your nice Mr Mcluhan is in the frame for the attack on Sophie’s brother last year. He skipped the country right afterwards, before he could be questioned.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Lorna.
“And he is not so nice. Career criminal would be a polite way to put it.”
“What kind of career criminal? And how do you know all this?”
“Drugs and fencing stolen works of art; passes himself off as a serious collector these days.”
“And you know this because?”
He unlocked the car and climbed in with no indication of even hearing her question. Lorna was monosyllabic as Agim drove her home. She felt like she was paying the price for her earlier exuberance. I feel like I have swallowed a dark heavy stone, she thought.
“You alright?” Agim asked, concerned at her sudden change in demeanour.
“Just tired,” she replied.
“Well that’s it; we have a connection between your friend Sophie, a suitcase full of art treasures and Mr Cuthbert Mcluhan.”
“I guess.”
Agim desisted from further speculation and just drove the car. No music this time. They did however agree to talk the following morning and figure out what to do next.
Alone in the flat Lorna did indeed feel exhausted as she prepared for bed, carefully hanging up the borrowed clothes. An image was lodged in her mind and it would trouble her until the dawn arrived. The man that Cuthbert was so deeply in conversation with, only thirty or so feet away from where she had stood at the gallery bar with Agim, was her father.
Chapter 27
“Buster came out of those bushes with it in his mouth,” said Lorna, holding out the blue toggle.
“And you had ‘borrowed’ this dog, from ‘an old gent in a vintage car’?” replied the policeman, a look of pure d
isbelief on his raw looking face. He did not even bother to look in the direction that she pointed. Then bowing his helmeted head to scratch away in his notebook some more.
Lorna rolled her eyes. It was so much colder today, a heavy frost covered the ground, and the redness of the motorcycle riding policeman’s face was the most colourful element in the monochromatic surroundings. Stamping her booted feet she thought of Agim; they had decided earlier that his presence would confuse the police so he was snug in the Mercedes back at the car park, as any mini cab driver would be, whilst she talked to this doltish cop whose task it was to collect information concerning Sophie’s disappearance.
Lorna had not slept a wink; spending the entire night turning the previous night’s revelation over and over in her mind. Then at seven am she had phoned Agim and he had driven them back to Troy Town to rendezvous police who were finally instigating an MPI.
“And why did you come here, to this er …maze thing?”
Lorna began an internal debate as to whether to begin to explain the whole vortex, vulture’s neck, labyrinth, bridge between dimensions thing, but the policeman spared her the need to decide.
“Actually I was here before, a year ago, strange thing. There was an old brown suitcase right there in the middle.” He pointed with his pencil towards the centre of the maze.
“Really,” Lorna felt a buzzing in her frontal lobe as she answered; must be lack of sleep she thought, as the policeman raised his eyes from his notebook and looked right at her for what seemed like the first time.
“Yes. I was here a while, waiting till a detective arrived. Then they just took the case away and I wasn’t needed any more,” he said almost wistfully, a faraway look coming into his eyes.
“Right,” said Lorna, feeling that he had more to say as he blinked his watery eyes.
“But the detective said something strange; I probably shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“No do go on.”
“Well, when he bent down to examine this case, he said very quietly, to himself really.”
“What?”
“He said – is this the alembic valise?”
She let out the breath that she had been holding in.
“Then straight afterwards a dog started barking down in the woods and two herons came flapping out of the trees.” He was putting his notebook away and starting to walk back towards the car park. Lorna thought she was going to say – what was the detective’s name? But when she opened her mouth to speak she asked, “Which way did they fly?”
* * *
The Crossways Café served the best breakfast in South East London; any of the cabdrivers, builders or parking wardens enjoying their first meal of the working week would attest to that fact. But Lorna only wanted tea. She pressed her index finger onto the stray granules of sugar that had fallen onto the marble tabletop and looked sideways at her and Agim’s reflection in the mottled mirror alongside. They had the booth to themselves and she could see that Agim was looking at her. She could feel a warm spot on her right check where his gaze rested. But she continued to stare into the mirror where they were just a moderately handsome couple quietly drinking tea. If only, she thought. Agim was the first to speak.
“Is something the matter Lorna, shall I take you home?”
“I can’t go home.” Then she turned to face him. “Just who are you Agim? You turn up to help me find Sophie, and I’m really grateful but you seem to know more than you have been letting on. And then last night… ” She trailed off shaking her head.
“Seraphim thought that perhaps Cuthbert was being blackmailed by Sophie,” he said slowly.
“Why?”
“Because of the attack on her brother or something from the past, apparently she knew the family years ago.”
It took a moment to process this new information and all it did was create another question in her mind; “but if Cuthbert donated those pictures to bail out Sophie’s charity why would he kidnap her afterwards?”
“Dunno, but if you’re uncomfortable with carrying on let’s just allow the police get on with things, now that they have got themselves into gear,” said Agim in a conciliatory tone.
“Actually it’s not you, it’s something else.” Lorna took a deep breath, “something I have been avoiding telling you.”
“Why you can’t go home?” The concern showed in his face.
“Yes. The man we saw Cuthbert talking to last night was my father,” said Lorna finally unloading the painful truth.
“No shit.”
“And he was investigating the attack on Dave,” she said and then sighed.
“Uh?” Agim shook his head uncomprehendingly.
“He is supposed to be in Kenya on his honeymoon. That’s why I don’t want to go home. Is he involved in something dodgy? What am I supposed to say to him?”
Agim’s silence indicated that he had no idea. As they stood up to leave she felt glad they had been open with one another; she was however exhausted and knew that Agim could see this as he held the door open for her.
“You can have a rest at my place then we will go and see Joel. He’s back tonight and is bound to know what to do,” he said to her quietly as they walked to the car.
* * *
Early afternoon and he hadn’t even tried to kiss her and here she was in his bed, She had awoken after a ninety minute snooze and went to get a glass of water wearing only one of his shirts, her hair artfully mussed; and found him absent, a note on the kitchen table saying – gone shopping back soon. She drank the last of his Sunny Delite, threw the empty carton towards the bin, missed, and then stalked back to the bedroom, to get dressed properly.
Later as she stood looking through the barred window to the yard below, waiting for Agim to return, she heard a digital bleep and saw the yard gates swinging open. The black Mercedes cruised into her frame of vision. She turned away, looking to find her handbag and quickly apply some make-up. The redefining of Lorna continues, she thought.
Chapter 28
Even though he now had the Euro star app on his phone that allowed him to choose a seat and book it from where ever he happened to be; in a cab, eating lunch in a Seine side café or recovering from an afternoon love-making session on Mai’s divan: Joel had decided to fly. And so had arrived in what seemed like almost unseemly speed at Heathrow, with no time at all to savour the journey. This was not a pleasure trip though; the alarming news of Sophie’s disappearance was foremost in his mind as he trudged along the embankment to see Alembic Valise looking empty and a little sad, laying on the green river mud of the low tide. There was a basket of split logs covered with a plastic sheet on the deck and Joel selected a couple for the stove. His priority was to get the boat warm, that and to make a decent cup of tea.
It felt strange to be back, things were going so well in Paris. He had rented a room in the tenth arrondissement and went there every weekday from nine to five to write, the rest of the time he spent with Mai. Being in Paris had pushed his imagination out from beneath the shadow of his earlier creations; he was taking his hidden worlds out into the mainstream. The storyline of his new book involved secret cults controlling multi-nationals, governments and religions. Less fantasy more reality, in fact in the words of his publisher; a conspiracy thriller. No title yet though which troubled him a little as in the past the name of the story somehow defined and guided the story itself. The first draft was complete and he was keen to start the revision stage, so coming to London to search for a missing ex-girlfriend was not exactly on his current wish list. He was not even sure what kind of assistance he could contribute but felt guilty about leaving Lorna and Agim to do whatever it was they were doing. What were they doing, in fact? Joel had no idea having being so immersed in his writing that they had only communicated by text. But he was meeting them tonight, upriver in Mortlake. The stove was now beginning to take the dampness out of the air and the tea was brewing; Joel yawned and lay down on the couch.
Chapter 29
“G
ive me your car keys,” said Lorna, as soon as Agim pushed open the flat door. “I need to play with your satnav.”
Agim reached into his pocket and tossed the fob to her, then began to put the contents of his shopping bag into a massive pale blue fridge-freezer.
“Why are you putting cans of beans in the fridge?” she shouted over her shoulder but the flat door closed, cutting off any answer.
Once downstairs she unlocked the car and slid into the driver’s seat then brought up Troy Town on the screen, noting the approximate location of the labyrinth she then zoomed out the display, then took from her pocket a folded piece of A4 paper that she had earlier printed from Agim’s computer. She compared the two maps. Surprisingly there was additional detail on the satnav version; to the west a green area was marked as Reservoir Works complete with an access road, whereas on the other map it just said Golf Course. It can’t be both she thought; and it may be important because this is the direction that the herons were flying in. She locked the car and looked up at the window of Agim’s flat to see if he was watching her. He wasn’t, and the building door had closed; she considered re-opening the car and sounding the horn, but instead grabbed a handful of gravel and threw it at the first floor window. Dust flew into her eyes.
It did not look like a golf course or a reservoir. They had followed the works access road until their way was barred by a large iron gate next to some neglected looking buildings. Through the gate was a large area of elevated grass, and in the distance a grey brick villa with an ornate gable roof. It reminded Lorna of her great aunt’s summerhouse in France; she had called it her ‘Gloriette’.
