‘Mine’s not nearly as bad as that. And I couldn’t miss a sale like this,’ Toby said, sure that his smile must look like the rictus of a corpse. ‘But I’ll be fine. I’m all drugged up.’
‘Sensible fellow. But you ought to find yourself a seat soon or you’ll pass out, drugs or no drugs.’
A stranger was sitting in Toby’s usual seat at the aisle end of the fourth row, perfectly placed to catch the auctioneer’s eye, so he had to make do with one on the wrong side of the room, and six rows further back.
Looking around, he could see six of the younger members of Goode & Floore’s staff behind the telephones that were ranged to the right of the auctioneer’s rostrum. That meant a lot of interest from absent buyers. Dealing with phone bidding was expensive. The auctioneers never allowed it for trivial sums. Several people were looking at their watches. Any minute now.
The chatter round him quietened. A slim man in his forties walked unobtrusively into the room and took his place on the rostrum. He was wearing a perfect but inconspicuous suit. Some of the auctioneers behaved like conductors of major orchestras, expecting flurry and fuss to greet them wherever they went, but not Marcus Orgrave.
Toby believed he was the best in London: he knew a lot; he never went in for theatrics; and he never faked a bid. There were plenty of his rivals who would pick non-existent bids out of the air to encourage the real punters. But not Orgrave.
Trish relaxed as she watched Toby sit down. She’d been afraid he might pass out after he caught her eye and all the blood drained away from his face. Now she understood why Buxford had been so worried. She had never seen anyone pale so quickly and sway like that. Who did he think she was? And what on earth was he up to that scared him so much?
She saw Henry Buxford stroll into the big room and watched him walk unhurriedly behind the auctioneer and choose a seat in the second row. Toby flinched and shrank back in his seat, almost as though someone had hit him.
Trish didn’t think Buxford’s choice of seat was very sensible. He wouldn’t be able to watch anything Toby did from there, unless he twisted round like an ill-disciplined guest at a church wedding. But then from her position, she could see only the back of Toby’s head and about a quarter of his face, as well as the movements of his hands on the catalogue.
Watching carefully, Trish saw nothing useful until the auctioneer knocked down lot 48. Then Toby’s shoulders tightened and his head lifted, which made him look like an animal that has felt its hunter’s breath on the back of its neck.
He’d never make a poker player, she thought, wishing she could see his eyes as well.
Toby felt almost paralysed by terror. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to bring this off. And when he failed, Ben would turn on Mer. The thought of what they might do to him sent Toby’s guts into spasm, as though he really had been poisoned. The icy needles were sharper, too, as though Ben was coming closer.
Lot 49 was knocked down for five hundred and forty thousand pounds. Toby forced himself to check his catalogue to see what painting had just been bought. That’s not a bad price, he told himself, fighting for calm. Mark Sapton had been right: there was money in the room today. Thank God for that. At least it should mean he wasn’t going to have to fling a bid of several million pounds into an empty auction.
He braced himself. Any minute now he would have to do his stuff, convincing Ben and the auctioneer and Henry and the other trustees that he was acting in everyone’s best interests, while still not betraying his bids to anyone else in the room.
Trying to keep the familiar bored expression on his face, he looked up towards Orgrave to make sure he understood that there would be gestures of interest later. Orgrave gave his usual, almost imperceptible signal of acknowledgement and Toby looked down again, leafing through the catalogue, as though he was looking for some later lot.
What a stupid pantomime it all was! He’d never seen that in the past, only enjoyed the brilliance of his own performances in salerooms like this, buying or selling for other people. He’d never had the money to buy anything for himself.
‘And now we have a very exciting painting. Lot number 50, ladies and gentlemen. A very fine Hieronymus Bosch of the Holy Family.’
The blue-aproned porters brought in the panel and hoisted it up on to the easel.
‘Paintings of this quality do not come up very often. So who will start the bidding at one million pounds?’
Toby didn’t move. Everyone else seemed to be holding back, too. He couldn’t be the first. The auctioneer said something else, but Toby didn’t listen. He was waiting for the numbers to start rising. You had to come in once the money had begun to get big, but not until then. One of the women taking phone bids raised her hand and they were off.
The bidding moved quickly through two million eight hundred thousand pounds and Toby raised his head. He knew Orgrave would have been looking towards him as each new sum was reached. There was a rare air of excitement about him today, which suggested that a lot of people were bidding. Thank God for that.
They were already past four million now and Toby knew he had at least two rivals in the room. He wished he knew who they were and what their resources might be, but he couldn’t look round. In any case, there would be no point; they’d all be hiding their interest in exactly the same way he was hiding his. But he could see that three of the phone bidders had dropped out.
‘Four million five,’ Orgrave said, beginning to look happy. They must be way past the reserve now. ‘And six. Thank you. And seven,’ Orgrave said, looking back at Toby. ‘Four million seven?’
Toby gave his signal, but when Orgrave came back to him with the bidding way over five million he had no idea what to do. He could see Henry’s face, twisted round to look at him. And in his mind he could see Mer and Tim bleeding and broken in front of him. He could even hear their screams. But how could he bid more? There was no more money to spend. Even at four million seven hundred thousand pounds the collection would be badly out of pocket, paying buyer’s and seller’s premiums on the two paintings, with VAT added, on top. He had no credit anywhere to cover the shortfall. He couldn’t do it. And then there was the tax to pay on the de Hooch sale, too.
Ben must understand. Toby tried to believe he wouldn’t mind much in any case. After all, today’s auction had already served his purpose. The fake was now established in everyone’s mind as genuine and extremely valuable. Even more important, the name of its supposed owner had also been established in public as that of a serious collector.
But would Ben see it like that? The chills and pain in Toby’s spine didn’t give him any confidence.
Orgrave was still looking at him. He couldn’t have moved, even if he’d known what movement to make.
‘Any more?’ Orgrave said, pushing him to bid again. ‘We have five million six for this superb example of the work of Hieronymus Bosch. Ah, thank you.’ He was no longer looking in Toby’s direction. ‘Yes, five million eight, and nine, and six million. And one and two and three. Any more? All done? We’re all done at six million three hundred thousand pounds.’ The gavel came down.
Toby knew his legs wouldn’t hold him up if he tried to stand now. Had he just signed his son’s death warrant?
Trish watched Toby battle for control and felt all the admiration that any display of real courage aroused in her. Whatever he was doing, it terrified him, yet he was fighting the fear with everything he had.
He hadn’t looked like any kind of money-launderer today, and certainly not a voluntary one. No one tough enough to have chosen to be involved in organized crime would let himself appear so vulnerable in public – or draw so much attention to himself.
Trish still didn’t see what she could do to help him or Henry Buxford. He should have gone to the police in the first place, or even Customs & Excise, who dealt with all forms of smuggling and their financial implications. Only they had the power to bug a suspect’s phones or have him watched. She didn’t think anything less would turn up the evid
ence of whatever Toby was doing now. Or being forced to do.
Toby could see Henry shifting in his chair. Would he have the wit to wait? Or would he storm out, letting everyone in the world know that he had some connection with either the seller or one of the bidders for the Bosch? No, he obviously knew better than that.
The bidding on the next few lots was desultory, as though no one had any interest left, but it picked up again at lot 56, which was the iffy Dürer drawing. At last Toby could go. He ostentatiously flicked through his catalogue and made a mark against a very much later lot, idly looked at his watch, shrugged and got up to shuffle out of the row. At the doorway, he looked back and saw Henry hold up a hand. Toby nodded. He waited at the top of the wide staircase. Henry caught up with him two minutes later.
‘You had me frightened in there,’ Henry said. ‘Would you really have paid several million for that rather ordinary-looking religious picture?’
Toby wasn’t sure he was going to be able to speak, but the words came out without conscious thought. ‘For a Hieronymus Bosch? Of course. They’re bloody rare, you know, and we ought to have one if we’re to be taken seriously.’
‘But how do you know we haven’t already got one? There are still tubes you haven’t yet been able to open, which means you can’t yet have identified all the paintings inside them. Mightn’t there be a Bosch among them?’
Toby recognized the answer emerging whole and convincing in his brain. Perhaps this ease with Henry was the payoff for fighting the terror Ben had inflicted on him. Perhaps today had been a kind of rite of passage, through which he had at last achieved the toughness he’d always wanted.
‘Bosch painted on panel – wood, you know – not canvas, which is presumably why our Jean-Pierre didn’t include any in his rolled tubes.’
Henry laughed. ‘That would certainly explain it. But perhaps that’s a reason for us to avoid anything on panels, too. We can’t possibly expect to cover every aspect of European art, whatever Jean-Pierre Gregoire wanted when he started collecting. Shouldn’t we confine ourselves to works on canvas, too?’
‘That’s definitely something I’d like to discuss,’ Toby said, wondering whether Ben would see the point, too. He was somewhere close by. Toby could feel it. He had to get rid of Henry fast. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t stay to talk about it now. I’ve got to get back straightaway.’
‘But we agreed we’d talk this morning,’ Henry said, just as the familiar tall, thin, dark-haired woman brushed past him, murmuring ‘excuse me’.
‘I know. But I really can’t do it now,’ Toby said, fighting his urge to kick the woman down the stairs and scream obscenities after her. ‘My secretary’s holding the fort this morning, and I don’t like leaving her on her own for too long. She’s not exactly reliable. I’m sorry, but there’s no option, Henry.’
‘Well, as I said, I need to talk to you. What about dinner tonight? The Garrick perhaps. You’d probably enjoy that more than Brooks’s.’
Henry was looking so suspicious that Toby knew he wouldn’t get away with refusing a second summons.
‘Thank you. Yes, I like the Garrick very much.’
‘Good. I’ll book a table for eight o’clock. Margaret and the boys all right?’
Shut up, shut up, shut up, Toby said in his head, even as his mouth produced the usual polite sounds. ‘Yes, yes, they’re fine. Staying with friends. I must dash. See you tonight, Henry.’
‘Hi, Toby!’ Ben’s sickeningly familiar voice made him freeze.
A second later Ben appeared in front of him, dressed and sounding like every other denizen of Bond Street and St James’s.
‘Pity you missed out on that lot in there. Are you leaving? I’ll give you a lift.’
Toby said nothing, but he looked from Henry to Ben and back again. He longed to beg Henry to save him, but he knew he couldn’t. With his spine almost crumbling under the assault of the icy needles, Toby followed Ben down the stairs. Halfway down, he turned back to see Henry watching them with a dangerous expression in his eyes.
‘Oh, don’t,’ he whispered under his breath. ‘I need you on my side.’
‘Careful, Toby. Careful,’ Ben said, putting his hand under Toby’s elbow. Toby shuddered.
Ben didn’t comment, even though he must have felt the tremor, or say anything else at all until they were sitting side by side in a taxi, heading down towards the Embankment.
‘What the fuck is going on, Toby?’ Ben’s voice was completely different now. There was no jaunty charm, only a harshness that made Toby cringe against the back of the seat. ‘You were told to buy that Hieronymus Bosch. Why did you drop out of the auction?’
‘I had to. You told me to bid up to what I got for the—’ He thought of the driver, listening in, and mumbled, ‘You know, for the other one.’
Ben slapped Toby’s face, hard enough to knock his head against the side of the cab, missing the window only by millimetres. Dreading the next blow, Toby gazed at the driver, trying to will him to turn and see what was going on. There was a movement. Any minute now, he would be safe. He put everything he could into his expression and stared at the driving mirror, silently begging for help.
In its reflection, the cabbie caught his eye and laughed. Oh, God! He must be one of Ben’s heavies.
Miraculously, just then, Toby saw a couple of police officers strolling towards the cab along the pavement. He reached up to bang on the window.
‘Oh, no, you don’t.’ Ben seized his arm and bent it agonizingly behind his back. ‘Keep still, arsehole, or it’ll hurt even more. You’ve seriously pissed off my boss. You know what that means, Toby.’
‘Don’t hurt the boys,’ he said. His eyes closed, as though if he couldn’t see Ben, that might make him less real, less dangerous. ‘Please don’t hurt the boys.’
‘You’ve left me no choice. Here we are,’ Ben said. ‘Get out. And next time I tell you to do something, fucking well do it.’
Toby couldn’t move. He thought of Kathmandu. Even vomiting up his very guts and shitting nothing but bloody water hadn’t been as bad as this. Oh, why hadn’t he died then?
‘Get out.’ The viciousness in Ben’s voice made him move and he stumbled out of the cab.
A moment later, he was inside the gallery and racing upstairs to the private flat, ignoring Jo, who came out of the office as he passed the open door, looking as though she was about to say something. He fled on upstairs.
The flat was still locked and the alarm activated. But that didn’t mean much. At last he got himself inside his own front door.
There was no sound and no smell he didn’t recognize. Even so, he went through every room, searching for any sign that Mer or Tim had been brought here. There was nothing. He took the mobile from his pocket and rang Margaret’s.
As always, the voice mail clicked on. As soon as it started to record, he said:
‘Margaret, for pity’s sake, phone me. I have to know you and the boys are all right. I can’t bear this silence. It’s driving me mad. Please, please phone.’
‘Toby? Toby?’ Jo was shouting up the stairs.
The garage, he thought suddenly. What if they’ve got Mer in there?
He flung himself down the stairs, wanting to swear at Jo for shouting at him. Couldn’t she see this was important and just sodding well wait a moment? His right hand was shaking so much as he reached for the key to the garden door that he had to grip it with the left for a moment. At last it seemed functional again and he slid the key into the lock.
It jammed. Was he going to have to get some oil now? No, there it was, turning at last. He pocketed the key and ran across the mossy York stone towards the garage, slipping twice. The second time he actually sprawled on the ground, cracking both knees against the stone. Scrambling up, dusting down his trousers, he saw they had green stains on them now.
Here was the pedestrian door, the only way into the garage from the gallery itself. You walked in here, then drove out under the up-and-over door opposite, straig
ht into the backstreet. His fingers slipped on this key, too. At last it turned. He wrenched open the door, tearing a strip of skin off his hand as it caught on the harsh spines of Rosa filipes ‘Kiftsgate’, which Margaret had insisted on planting when they first arrived to cover the ugliness of the brick garage. He stuffed the side of his hand into his mouth to suck the wound and gagged. He’d forgotten the thin but sickly taste of blood.
Wrenching open the garage door he grabbed for the lightswitch. There was nothing to see except a broken chair and a few bits of waste paper. It was just a bare concrete box, with old oil stains on the floor and no screens or cupboards to hide anything.
‘Have you gone completely mad?’ Jo’s voice was heavy with contempt. He turned to see her standing on the garden path behind him. ‘First you tell me to give you your messages the instant you come through the front door, then you charge all over the house, ignoring me when I try to tell you about them.’
‘What?’ He knew he was on the point of crying. ‘What are you talking about, Jo?’
‘Today’s phone calls,’ she said, hating him just as everyone else had always hated him.
‘Has Peter rung?’
‘No. But Margaret phoned just now to say she and the boys are fine and she’s getting fed up with all your messages. She’ll phone you soon. But she wants you to wait until she’s ready.’
‘Oh, Christ!’
Jo backed away from him as though he had really gone mad.
Chapter 14
Toby’s taxi drove away as Trish waited for Henry. After a while he emerged, pulling on his gloves. Another taxi appeared at the end of the street and he raised his hand in the familiar imperious gesture. She called his name and he turned. Waving off the cab, he came towards her.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Good. I assumed you’d gone.’
‘No. But I couldn’t talk to you while you had Toby with you. I think—’
A Place of Safety Page 14
