by J C Williams
“What??” exclaimed Sam, with clear panic in his voice. “Is he laying people off?” He cradled his face in his hands. “I need this job. Nobody else would ever employ me.”
Abby shook her head. “Don’t worry, Harry called over the weekend to let me know. He said he’d tried to call you. We’re the only ones who actually do anything, it would seem. And, being honest, knowing how little the two us have done lately, it really shows you how much the others have been doing. Or haven’t been doing, rather.”
“Bloody hell, Abby, I don’t think I realised how much I like my job until I thought I was about to lose it. I’m really going to step up my game and bring new business in the door. I’m going to take this more seriously and be more professional.”
Abby rolled her eyes. “Sam, you do realise that you’ve got two different shoes on? Anyway, look what I found out,” she said, typing on her keyboard. She sat back and pointed at the screen.
Sam looked decidedly underwhelmed. “It’s an article about the most powerful women in the art world?”
“Yes!” said Abby, waiting for the penny to drop. “And…”
“And what?” said Sam, staring blankly at the screen.
“Look at number four on the list,” said Abby. “God, do I need to spoon-feed this to you?”
Sam’s eyes widened. “That’s Beth!” He read the contents of the article. “She’s worth over a hundred million quid?? Doesn’t that take the biscuit! I should really have tried harder with her!”
“Are you missing something?” prompted Abby. “Anything?”
Sam screwed his eyes up, on the pretence of thinking really, really hard.
“Anything at all?” prompted Abby a second time.
Sam screwed his eyes up a little harder. He was afraid if he screwed them up any more, he’d pull a muscle.
“Sam,” said Abby flatly. “What’s her name?”
“Beth,” replied Sam, giving her a look. “I may be an idiot. But I’m not a blithering idiot. Give me some credit, Abby.”
Abby nodded towards the computer, pointing at it with her whole head.
“Oh! Wait there a moment,” Sam said, finger at the screen. “That’s Beth, but they’re calling her Emma Hopkins. Why are they calling her Emma Hopkins? Bloody hell, so she lied to me?”
“Exactly! I’m surprised to admit this,” said Abby. “But your gut feeling that there was something further to this whole thing? It may actually be correct.”
“But, what use is the information to us?” asked Sam. “Beth, or whoever she is, has buggered off. So there isn’t any particular reason for us to get involved anymore. We could chase her up for her outstanding invoice, but I didn’t really do anything to warrant getting paid. Anyway, how did you find out about this?”
“I’d like to say it was using my brilliant powers of deduction, but, in reality, the bloke who employed you to follow her called up this morning…” Abby replied, pausing at the end for dramatic effect.
“And?” asked Sam impatiently.
“I told him to sod off, told him that we knew he wasn’t her husband.”
“Did he admit it?” asked Sam.
“He did, and it was him that directed me to this website. He said his name is Mr Justus, but I’d be surprised if it really was. But he also admitted the real reason why he wanted us to find her…” said Abby, making sure to pause yet again for dramatic effect.
“Stop doing that!” said Sam. “It’s not an episode of Poirot, and nobody’s watching!”
“Well, apparently…”
Dramatic pause.
“Out with it already!” said Sam, replicating his happy piss-jig by dancing in place excitedly.
“The mysterious Beth. Or Emma,” Abby continued, to Sam’s great relief. “Is currently in possession of a painting that was stolen from him. A very, very expensive painting. He had word that she’d be on the Island, at some point, which is why he employed us.”
“The plot thickens,” said Sam, doing that stroking of the chin thing again. “But if he’s already lied to us once, how do we know he’s not talking rubbish again?”
“I asked that,” said Abby. “And I wasn’t quite as polite as that, either.” She tapped the keyboard again, bringing up onscreen a further article detailing the theft of the painting.
“The painting’s worth four million quid??” said Sam, reading the article. “Gordon Bennett!”
“It is. You can understand why our chap was so eager to get it back.”
“So why doesn’t he just go to the police, then?” asked Sam.
“Good point, and I asked him that very same question. He says he wasn’t interested in arrests — he just wants to get his painting back.”
“Sounds a bit dodgy, all this,” said Sam. “We should just tell him we’re not interested.”
“Sam!” shouted Abby. “You’re the one who keeps telling me you want to get involved in something other than chasing up outstanding parking tickets! This is your chance, our chance, to get involved in a proper investigation. Plus, he’s giving us twenty-five thousand pounds up front, and another seventy-five if we reunite him with his picture.”
“I think I need to sit down,” said Sam, the colour draining from his face. “That… that would pay the wages around here for a fair bit, I should think.”
“Exactly! If we don’t do this, it’ll be a few weeks before we’re taken into the old man’s office as well, only to be told the office is closing down. This could be the only chance we have to save the business.”
“What sort of name is Mr Justice, though?” said Sam, musing. “Not the cleverest of false names.”
“No, not Justice. Justus,” Abby said, correcting him.
“But that’s what I just said,” Sam protested.
“No. Justus. As in, not everyone else. Just–us.”
As if on cue, Frank walked through the office, looking forlorn.
“Hey, Frank, I’m sorry to hear you’re leaving us,” said Abby, trying, not entirely successfully, to sound sincere.
Frank packed the contents of his desk into a small cardboard box. “I can’t believe that he’s letting me go,” he said dismally. He looked over at Sam. “And he’s keeping a halfwit like you? You haven’t even got matching shoes on.”
“Don’t let the door hit you in the arse on the way out, Frank,” Sam answered.
Abby moved in for a closer look at Sam’s footwear once Frank was gone.
“You’ve seriously got to do something about your shoes, Sam. They’re not even the same colour.”
Sam shrugged his shoulders. “Abby, when you’re this good-looking, the last thing people are going to notice are your shoes. Besides, we’ve got work to do — we’re looking for an art thief!”
Chapter Three
The Irish Sea
I ’m sure it was your turn to buy lunch?” said Sam, placing a tray on the wobbly metal table.
“Don’t you just love eating al fresco?” said Abby, avoiding the question.
“It’s only a plate of sausage and chips, Abby. You really are a cheap date.”
“I know, but look at that view!” said Abby. “And what’s wrong with sausage and chips? I love sausage and chips!”
The sun glistened on an Irish Sea as calm as a millpond. Contented tourists enjoyed the walk along the promenade clutching an ice cream as they’d done for generations. Abby smiled as she spied a toddler on the beach strike the base of a bucket and squeal with delight when the bucket pulled free, revealing a perfectly formed sandcastle.
“Don’t you just love it when the sun shines?” she said enthusiastically.
“The sun always shines,” Sam replied. “We don’t always see it, is all.”
Abby was a couple of years younger than Sam, and, unlike him, was born on the Island. She’d worked in finance and qualified as an accountant. It took her exactly two years to realise that sort of life was not for her. She’d tried every career path that would keep her out of an office, including a nursery
(both children’s and the flower variety), a blackjack dealer, and a vet’s assistant.
She had an expressive, cheery face and had a healthy glow for someone who rarely wore makeup.
“Are you wearing dungarees?” asked Sam, when quite plainly she was. “I didn’t realise they were something that people still wore?”
For most women, denim dungarees with a white t-shirt would look too casual, but Abby looked interesting, especially with her brown curly hair tied in bunches.
Abby looked slightly offended as Sam backtracked. “No, sorry, I wasn’t being rude. I think it looks good. It’s a good look. You look nice. It looks… nice.” His face turned crimson.
“Are you alright?” asked Abby. “You suddenly look ill.”
“No, it’s just, em… the vapours,” Sam sputtered, scrambling for an explanation.
“The vapours?” Abby replied, not believing what she was hearing.
“It happens sometimes,” Sam answered, committed to the lie now, despite having no actual idea what in fact the vapours even were.
“Maybe you should pay your GP a visit about it?” Abby suggested, her eyes twinkling with mirth.
“It’ll pass. It always does,” Sam assured her.
“You are a very strange man,” Abby opined, though not unkindly.
A rude seagull with minimal table manners broke the brief silence that followed by swooping down and taking a sausage off Sam’s plate. Sam jumped back in his chair. “Little bugger!” he shouted, as the bird struggled to get airborne with its meal clutched firmly in its beak. Sam’s arms flailed as he tried to defend the rest of his meal. “The beaky blighter has got my lunch!” he shouted, to the amusement of two elderly women walking next to the outdoor cafe.
Amidst the ensuing battle of wits between man and bird — in which Sam was clearly outmatched — the precariously balanced table was tipped over, sending its contents spewing over the paved terrace. The bird took its leave and flapped furiously as it tilted up its beak defiantly and gulped down the sausage in one go like a gannet.
Sam reached for his remaining sausage before it rolled under Abby’s seat. In one fluid movement, he launched it in frustration at the bird. “Have another, then, you thieving little devil!” he called after it, releasing the sausage like a javelin thrower.
The porcine projectile flew perfectly, though missing the bird by inches, and unfortunately continued its trajectory towards the old women that had been chuckling at Sam’s misfortune. Sam watched in horror as his lunch headed with the speed of a tomahawk missile, homing in on the back of their heads. It came to an abrupt halt as it landed in the bluish hair of the fragile-looking woman on the right. Her gentle perm welcomed the sausage like a hair clip. She shuffled forwards. “Bloody birds coming after me!” she said in reference to the jarring on her head.
Sam hopped on the spot, unsure whether to retrieve his lunch, but on balance decided it was perhaps better time to settle the bill and take his leave.
“You can’t leave her like that!” cried Abby.
“She’ll be fine,” insisted Sam.
“Sam, she’s got tomato sauce running down the back of her coat.”
“Oh, it’s okay, you can’t even see it… maybe it fell out...?” Sam replied. “Oh, okay, fine, I’ll go and get it,” he said, relenting.
Before he’d moved an inch, however, the elderly pair were set upon by a flock of gulls looking for an easy meal. “It’s nineteen sixty-three all over again!” one of them shrieked, and, for ladies of a certain age, they certainly knew how to run when it mattered.
“Well, that was interesting,” said Sam.
“Things certainly took a tern for the worse,” Abby offered.
“I’m still hungry,” Sam answered, the joke flying right over his head. “Come on, I’ll buy you an ice cream instead.”
With that accomplished, Sam licked his mint choc chip with one cautious eye looking out for flying invaders. Then he took a notepad out of his pocket, which surprised Abby as he’d never used one before.
“I’ve been making a few enquires with contacts in the art world,” he said. “The thing that’s been bugging me is why Emma Hopkins’s over on the Island in the first place.”
“Maybe she’s got family here?” suggested Abby, using her tongue to prevent a drip down her cone.
“I thought that,” said Sam. “But the bloke who employed us didn’t know why she was going to be here.”
Abby shook her head. “No, he just knew she might be here, but didn’t say why.”
Sam took a torn-out newspaper fragment from his trouser pocket. “Seemingly, this Emma Hopkins is a serious player in the art industry. She’s got galleries in Milan, New York, and London. And as well as selling art, she’s apparently an accomplished artist herself. The interesting thing is that her experience extends beyond painting. She’s also a collector and seller of ancient artefacts.”
“Ooh, like Indiana Jones?” asked Abby.
“Exactly! Take a look at this,” said Sam, thrusting the newspaper cutting towards her.
She read for a moment. “That cannot be a coincidence, can it?”
Sam smiled. “An art thief on the Island at the same time as one of the most important Viking artefacts comes up for sale. It does seem a little strange.”
“The auction is tomorrow!” exclaimed Abby, getting more animated and waving her ice cream like a wand. She continued to read. “The auction estimate is one-point-two million pounds for the Viking cross. Shit, Sam, she must be here to steal it!”
“Has to be,” said Sam smugly. “Abby, we’re going to our first art auction!”
“It’s not my first,” said Abby.
“What?” asked Sam.
Abby looked slightly apologetic. “I know you said, Abby, we’re going to our first art auction, for maximum impact, but, I thought I should mention it, you know, and that I’ve already been to one.”
“I’m not going to lie, Abby, you have taken the tarnish from my moment, and I’m not sure it’s that important,” said Sam, with a half-smile.
“It is, because my Nana took me with my mum, and we…”
… The ice creams melted long before Abby came to the end of her not-entirely-relevant anecdote about her first visit to an auction. Sam wasn’t overly interested in who bought or sold what, but he was enjoying this; he was enjoying working, as part of a team. He enjoyed working with Abby.
For a small island, the heritage on display — including the Manx Museum — was enviable, proudly showcasing the Island’s ten-thousand-year history. Since she was a small child, Abby relished a visit to the museum. There was something enchanting about the experience — the smell, the lighting, the feeling you were looking through a porthole into a different time.
The Art Gallery was a fascinating visual insight of Manx history spanning hundreds of years. Resplendent oil paintings of the ancient Lords of Man kept company with pencil drawings created by prisoners housed on the Island during WWII. Today it was host to a high-profile auction of antiquities and art that had caught the attention of collectors the world over.
The substantial room was teeming with row-upon-row of plush red velour seats with gold trim. A stage stood at the head of the room with a wiry-looking auctioneer with mad-professor hair making last-minute preparations behind his lectern — gavel in hand, ready for the day’s action.
“Sorry, that’s taken,” said Abby, again, looking anxiously at her watch. The room had filled quickly, and keeping the reserved seat open was proving a challenge. She checked her phone, once again, to make sure it was silent, but also to see if Sam had been in contact.
“Where the hell is he?” she muttered under her breath. And, then, “Sorry, that seat’s taken,” she said aloud to a disappointed lady.
The auctioneer brought matters to order and there was a hushed silence as the crowd listened intently to the introductions. Abby was pleased with her position — discreetly at the rear — which gave her visibility over the audience. Key
to the operation was her ability to remain unseen. And being inconspicuous was certainly the order of the day here.
At the opposite end of inconspicuous, the imposing entrance doors opened with a cringe-worthy screech as the ageing hinges protested the weight like an arthritic knee. It was akin to fingers down a blackboard, resulting in a large number of people turning in frustration. Shoe heels then proceeded to clomp heavily as they made their way across the highly-polished wooden floor, interrupting the solemn occasion and causing even more people to turn their heads.
Abby didn’t even need to look. She just knew.
“Abby?” said a voice whispered, though projected well enough that all could hear.
She buried her head in her coat.
“Abby?” the voice persisted.
At this point, the auctioneer was about to throw his gavel at Sam.
“Ahem! If there should be present an Abby, would you be so kind as to raise your hand and let yourself be known so that this, em… gentleman, as it were… could locate you?” he announced, with no attempt to hide the annoyance and disdain in his voice.
Abby reluctantly raised her hand, allowing Sam to find and take his seat — only after those already seated had to slide their chairs back on the polished floor, creating even more noise.
“Sorry, oops, sorry, excuse me,” he whispered, waving discreetly at Abby as he made his way over to her. “Sorry I’m late,” he said through the side of his mouth once sat beside her. “Good seats,” he remarked. “At least no one will see us.”
“Shhh!” said a shrill voice from behind.
Abby eventually removed her head from her coat and looked Sam up and down.
“What the hell are you wearing?” she said through her teeth.
Sam brushed his hand with his jacket. “A tuxedo,” he said proudly. “You told me to dress smart.”
“Sam,” she said, exasperated. “I meant only to not wear a t-shirt, and make sure you were wearing matching shoes for a change.”
“I look smart, though?” said Sam, fishing for a compliment.
Abby was starting to lose her composure. “Sam, you’re wearing a bloody tuxedo!”
