Andrea was all over him like a polite rash, kissing both cheeks.
“Thomas, it’s so good to see you; let me get you a coffee.”
Amazing what taking a punch could do for trust building. The politicians could learn a lesson there. As Andrea wafted a vapour trail of expensive perfume around him, a couple in the far corner were gazing at Naked Flame and Naked Heat in rapture.
“The publicity has done wonders for the exhibition.” She was all aflutter. “We kept it out of the newspapers — except the local — and word has spread throughout the art world.”
He nodded, eyes still on the punters.
“Suffice it to say there is great interest in RT’s new show.”
“Listen, mind if I use your loo? It was a long walk over,” he added for effect.
“Sure, sure,” she dismissed him, craning her neck to eavesdrop on the art lovers.
He wandered towards the Nakeds to catch some of the conversation.
“. . . And of course,” the leather-elbowed one insisted, reeling his other half in closer, “it would be an investment.”
Yeah, that about summed it up. Thomas sidled past, made his excuses and went through to the gents to take a leak. Washing his hands, he caught sight of himself in the mirror and surveyed his face. The bruise had lingered and he needed a shave. He reached into his pocket for his keys and felt something plastic. It was the UV pen he’d used that morning to mark up his new camera, the case, the additional lens, and the manual.
As he walked back to the main gallery, pondering the amount of money a scumbag like Jack Langton might be earning while sitting on his arse in prison, he noticed that the room to the left was open. Only this time there were no ‘emerging artists’ working — if you could call it that. He couldn’t resist a peek at what passed for creativity in their world bubble. He’d be quick, he promised himself, just a nose around and then out.
The room was strangely sterile, especially with the light off. He flicked on his Maglite key ring and waltzed over to the metal monstrosity, noticing the fierce red slashes up one end. That shade of red was really starting to bug him. It was stupid and childish but he felt like making mischief. He pulled out his UV pen, crouched low where it would be difficult to find, and wrote in tiny letters: FRAUD.
Andrea was in full flow when he returned, the three of them stooped over the Crocodile. Definitely some sort of crock. They all spoke the same language, passing superlatives around like a tray of canapés: challenging, progressive, subversive, and the dealmaker – quixotic. That was the word that finally had them reaching for their credit card and him for a sick bag
Andrea spotted him when they moved to the counter to conclude their business. He kept his distance, busying himself while delivery details were confirmed and plastic money changed hands — how apt. Then Andrea walked them to the door and reminded them about RT’s opening night, assuring them that RT loved to meet collectors of his work. She sighed as she closed the door, like the cat that got the credit card payment.
“Listen, I don’t think I can make it when RT flies in on Sunday. I’ll be at the show though and I’d love the chance to meet him without the crowds. By the way, how come there’s no poster up for the show?”
She threw him a pitying smile. “That’s not how these things are done. And besides, RT doesn’t like to give too much away; it spoils the great reveal.” She made the word sound theatrical. “Would you like to see the pieces we’ve had in storage?”
“I’d like nothing better.”
Chapter 33
“What do you think?” Miranda paraded around the kitchen.
This would be her third outfit and Thomas knew the wrong noise or facial expression at this point could spell disaster.
“Perfect.” By which he meant he’d liked to unzip it in private.
“And you’re going like that?”
He smiled; she’d pretty much dressed him.
“And what are we looking for tonight?”
He squeezed her waist — clever girl. “Just keep your radar on.”
* * *.
It took them ages to find a parking space. They could have taken a cab and claimed it on expenses from Jack Langton, but he liked the security of his own car. He could leave when he wanted and, judging by the thrum of the music as they approached the gallery, that could be any time soon.
Miranda nudged him as he hunched his shoulders a little. “Well, at least the music sounds promising.”
He couldn’t tell whether she was taking the piss. A peer through the glass door confirmed his worst suspicions — he wondered if a copy of the Guardian under one arm might have helped him blend in.
The heavy door swung in and they eased through the throng. A pseudo-punk in a carefully torn and repaired jumpsuit zeroed in, introduced herself as Citizen Virtue, and ushered them over to the drinks.
Miranda muscled in before Virtue could finish her ‘what can I get you’ speech, grabbing a glass of white wine. “An orange juice for the boy.” The women laughed and Thomas let them enjoy the joke. He took a couple of sips as he gazed around. It was impressive — laser light across the ceiling, someone’s idea of a musical joke on the hi-spec speakers and the heady scent of money in the air. No wonder Jack Langton was a patron of the arts.
He gave Miranda’s elbow a gentle tug and they moseyed around the exhibits. He pointed out the Naked series to her and paused at the latest addition — Naked Ambition, a nude wearing a crown. And where was the great artist?
They left the main gallery room and wandered out back, through the fluorescent bead curtain that now adorned the doorway.
Andrea was easy to pick out. To her credit, she hadn’t gone down the ‘apocalypse at C&A’ route that many of her contemporaries favoured. And the metal bow tie and diamante waistcoat were nice touches.
He worked his way over gradually, wondering what Miranda thought of it all. She was savvier than him; more cultured, less uptight about all the razzamatazz. Maybe that was why she had her own business, while he was a peasant holding a camera.
Ah, the camera. He missed the anonymity of being behind a lens, where every face became a willing victim, unwittingly revealing something else about themselves.
He contrived things so that she’d spot him first. It wasn’t difficult.
“Ah, Thomas.”
He turned his head on cue, motioning to Miranda, like they’d arranged in the car. He’d barely got the cheek kisses over when Andrea blossomed again.
“You must be Miranda. You take after Diane but you’ve got John’s eyes.”
That was a surprise — on first name terms with her parents. Andrea wasn’t finished with her charm offensive.
“What a stunning dress. You’d better keep an eye on her tonight, Thomas!”
And there it was again, that little laugh that told him she was already merry. RT arrived at her side like a bad smell. They swapped stiff introductions and Miranda put in a few comments about his work that seemed to please him, while he fiddled with the tassel on his ethnic hat.
“Andrea suggested we talk tomorrow evening about Jack’s . . . concerns. Perhaps we could make it dinner for four?”
He could see that RT was much more interested in Miranda than the conversation. Miranda seemed to pick up on it as well.
“What drives your passion for urban art?” She sparkled under the gallery lights.
RT was soon in full flow about urban decay, cultural identity and other toss. Andrea drew Thomas to one side.
“What do you think?” She waved a discreet hand around.
“Seems like a good crowd.” He floundered, unable to read the question.
“The unveiling is in fifteen minutes. RT likes to do something dramatic.”
Thomas drifted back to them, guiding Andrea and depositing her there.
He put his arm over Miranda’s shoulder and eased her forward. “We’d better have a good look around before the main event.”
“I was just getting somewhere,” she
hissed.
“Yeah, that’s what it looked like.”
She shook her head. “No, stupid; he was telling me about his trips over from Spain. Jack’s very generous, apparently — pays for everything.”
“How come he told you that?”
“I think he wanted to impress me.”
He had to admit, it really was a stunner of a dress.
By now the place was so crammed with people that a full circuit was impossible. Instead, they went with the flow, moving inexorably towards the side room where RT had placed four burly security guards — two male and two female — one at each corner. Looking at the wires, he figured it was going to be one theatrical push of a button and then the cloth would fly to the ceiling.
The crowd eased apart to let RT approach the veiled exhibit. Thomas was suddenly bursting for a pee and trying to remember the location of the gents, now that the decor had changed. He decided to stay for the big reveal and then answer the call of nature. Miranda stood close by, grabbing his arm.
“This had better be good,” she whispered.
The music stopped, electro-jazz giving way to a murmuring that reverberated around the room. RT unzipped his top and fingered a pendant with a bright red centre. The four guards stood to attention and crossed their arms, hip-hop style. Without any preamble RT hit the button and the silvery fabric ascended to the ceiling. The crowd went wild before they’d even seen what was on show. Everyone seemed to join in with the hysteria — all except one person. Thomas stared at the piece, open-mouthed. It was a sculpture of metal and brick with bright red slashes.
He smiled a mile wide. The same piece he’d seen several days ago, when he’d signed his name on it in invisible marker. A piece RT couldn’t have created because he was in Spain, and couldn’t possibly have brought over because Thomas had already tagged it. Yep, modern art really was bollocks.
They stuck it out until just after eleven, when the first wave of guests started leaving.
“Thank you so much for coming, Thomas.” Andrea teetered by the door, drawing a shawl around her shoulders.
“I really enjoyed it, especially the unveiling.” The build-up of glee was killing him.
“See you tomorrow evening then. RT is so looking forward to it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He escorted Miranda off the premises. A breeze stirred, but inside he was glowing. Secrets, he loved them — as long as they belonged to someone else.
She pulled him a little closer. “What’s gotten into you tonight? When we arrived you looked like this was the last place on earth you wanted to be and now you’re like the bloke who found a tenner in the gents.”
“Better than that.”
He waited until they were in the car before he spilled the beans.
“Seriously?”
“One hundred per cent: fake. Not only did I see it before, I can prove it.” Now he told her about the security marker.
She grinned. “Can you vandalise a piece of rubble? I love it — that’s priceless! What does it tell us though? How does it help with Jacob?”
“Well, it’s a reason to distrust RT and Andrea Harrison. Plus . . .” He held up a finger. “We don’t know whether Jack Langton is in on this scam or not. We’ll find out tomorrow.”
He turned to Miranda, expecting her to look impressed. She wasn’t.
“What? You think I should keep schtum about it for now?”
“I dunno, babe. Just remember you’re about as good at cards as Dad.”
She nodded, yielding him that. She patted his thigh. “So, you see, you don’t always need Karl around.”
“Not for some things.” He pressed his hand on hers.
Chapter 34
“You look shattered.” Karl slurped tea from a polystyrene cup. “That girlfriend of yours shouldn’t take you out gallivanting on a school night.”
Karl had already heard the fruits of their discussion with Andrea at RT’s big night. One stewed tea later, he was ready to say his piece.
“We know conclusively that RT wasn’t in the country when Jacob was attacked, based on his passport.” He broke off for a bite of a fried egg sandwich, leaning forward in time to save his jeans from the drips, if not the floor of the car.
“And the red paint wasn’t a match, so he’s not our man.”
“Not directly, anyway. But this art scam changes the landscape.” Karl churned his breakfast with every syllable.
“I don’t see how.”
“It’s another reason to wonder what else is going on in Jack Langton’s universe.”
“He’s really got under your skin, hasn’t he, Karl? I mean, I know he didn’t do you any favours when you went over the water . . .”
Karl took a savage bite of his egg sandwich and didn’t reply.
Thomas turned his attention to the world beyond the windscreen. “We’ll see what RT says tonight. I can’t wait to hear his explanation.”
“Quite the little team we’re building up, huh?”
* * *
His heart wasn’t in the day job — not today, anyway. Collect the evidence, log the details and document any observations; all for someone else’s evaluation. He knew the drill so well he didn’t have to think about it. In fact, the predominant thought was that this was his SSU career low point. Sometime in the not too distant future he’d take that up with Christine.
Lunch was an extra-large bag of chips, shared.
Karl scooped up the deep fried ambrosia of the gods. “All I’m saying is that Jack Langton’s not an idiot — far from it. Look at the evidence.” He waggled a vinegar soaked chip in the air. “Drugs, clearly; art and property; and let’s not forget the gun he supplied to Miranda’s Dad.”
“For me.” Thomas added.
He wondered how much Andrea really knew about Jack’s past. Karl listened without interrupting; partly, Thomas surmised, because he was still focused on the chips. Had RT been forced into the arrangement? Did that put him back in the frame for Jacob? Some sort of retaliation and in a way only Jack would understand?
“You’re neglecting another possibility, Tommo. Uncle Jack might not know anything about the art scam. Now,” he cupped his chin with a greasy hand, “imagine how pissed off he’d be should his investment be exposed as a fraud. You might want to test that theory tonight over dinner.” There was a hard edge to Karl’s voice.
“You don’t like these people any more than I do, which is saying something.”
The remnants of the chip bag were offered over.
“It’s different for me though, Tommy Boy. The English class struggle is your fight, not mine. Jack Langton . . .” His eyes narrowed a little at the name. “He’s the enemy. Same goes for Charlie Stokes.”
This was new; calm and controlled Karl making it personal.
“I’ve told you before, Tommo. Drug trafficking is just one of the ways the Shadow State funds its activities.” Karl’s lips curled into a sneer. “It’s all big business — and big businesses cross national borders. They’ll invest in anything that favours and furthers their interests. If I had my way I’d take them out of business permanently. Unfortunately, my orders are to gather enough information to turn individuals in the distribution network and track it back to source.”
“And you’re fine with that?”
Karl didn’t answer.
* * *
The Dolan brothers were a joint investigation with a difference: identical twins. A logistical nightmare; they dressed alike with the same hairstyle and mannerisms. Karl’s suggestion that they forcibly tattoo one of them didn’t find any takers at the briefing.
So far they’d spent an hour watching a pizza delivery back door.
“Roland Dolan, Tommo. Jesus, that’s practically child cruelty, right there.”
Thomas tapped the clipboard. “Is this really a good use of our time? Couldn’t you find out their mobile numbers, ring one and see who picks up?”
“It’s not a crime to carry your brother’s mobile phone
around, or to answer it. Not unless it’s a deliberate attempt to—” Karl stopped speaking.
A car pulled alongside the mopeds; one occupant — Charlie Stokes. The unnamed Dolan approached, leaned his face in the passenger window and withdrew with some sort of package.
“Extra anchovies?” Karl had picked up a discreet pair of binoculars.
The car didn’t wait, and nor did Dolan. He added the package to his rear pannier, revved up and shot off in the opposite direction.
Thomas started the car. The moped had a head start and they had additional ground to cover. But it beat sitting there, reeking of chips. They had two things in their favour: the mystery Dolan didn’t know he was being followed, so he wouldn’t be speeding, and Karl — the human road atlas.
“Cut around and turn left onto the main road. If he’s turned left we’ll catch up, and if he’s turned right we’ll see him go past us.”
“And if he turns off before we see him, we’re buggered.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got a Plan B.” Karl reached into his bag of tricks and pulled out a handheld radio. It was tuned to a police channel. “In case we lose him and want to call it in.”
Thomas hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Police involvement was the last thing they needed. He reached the high street and eased out into traffic.
“Okay, so he’s got a package, but he could drop that off any time.”
“Nah, That’ll be drop number one and I want to see where it lands. Quick, up there – indicating right.”
Karl was spot on. Same last four characters of the number plate. They trailed the moped for another half mile, under Karl’s direction. As the pizza delivery boy pulled up, Karl made Thomas slow down.
“Give me a sec.” Karl unclipped his seat belt and wriggled through to the back seat just in time to take a big, obvious photograph.
Dolan turned towards him, helmet still on, and gave him the middle finger.
“Round the block, not too quickly; I want the little scrote to be on his way. Right now, I’m more interested in identifying the address he’s delivering to.”
* * *
Thomas had done enough surveillance over the past two years to know that there were good days and bad days. This one fell into the latter category. The dice didn’t roll in their favour. The next two claimants on the list weren’t where they were supposed to be — either that or they were masters of disguise — and a quick call to Dawn Yeates came to nothing because she was in a meeting.
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