CAUSE & EFFECT

by THOMPSON, DEREK

  By five o’clock there were more ticks under ‘to be continued’ than ‘evidence completed.’ Karl was mightily pissed off about it.

  “Think I might go back to the delivery address tonight. Pity you’re not available.”

  Thomas felt a pang of . . . jealousy? Yeah, something like that. Karl was on to something and meantime he was back over at Andrea Harrison’s for dinner and deception. At least he had Miranda for company.

  He managed a quick shower at home and put on the ‘going out’ clothes that he’d ironed that morning before leaving for work. Miranda picked him up at eighteen forty-five sharp, and let him drive her Mini.

  On the way over they talked about RT’s rogue sculpture.

  “Other artists have done it as well,” Miranda insisted. “I was chatting with Sheryl today and she looked it up on the net.” She caught his look of disapproval. “You know you can trust Sheryl. Like I was saying, Andy Warhol used to sign blank canvases and so did Kosabi.”

  “Yeah, but were the punters — and the investors — in on the act?”

  “Dunno. All I’m saying is that maybe this is all part of the modern art experience.”

  He sighed, unconvinced.

  Miranda had planned in advance, ringing ahead to know which wine to bring. She’d also arranged for flowers to arrive earlier in the day, which Thomas would be paying her back for. He told her that Jack Langton would be picking up the tab, courtesy of the initial £500 John Wright was holding for him. She looked surprised, proof that even their family had its secrets.

  As they walked up the street together, he started playing house in his head. These properties were way out of their league. Even so, his flat in Walthamstow and her flat in Bow, combined, would surely pay for something decent. The sight of an Aston Martin, one of his dream cars, brought him down to earth with a thud. He was an interloper — a peasant in paradise — and about to be the bearer of very bad tidings.

  “All set?” She took his arm for the last twenty yards.

  The upstairs curtains were drawn and glowing golden. He imagined Andrea up there, plumping cushions and tending to her coq au vin.

  Miranda rang the bell and peered through the glass. “All tidied up; you’d never know there’d been a show. It’s a better job than the cleaners we use at Caliban’s — maybe I should get their number.”

  He knew she was making small talk for his benefit. She could always read his mood. This was smoke and mirrors territory. Andrea seemed like a decent person, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t use any leverage to get information out of her. He rationalised that it was all for little Jacob, although that was only half the story. They were bent — no two ways about it — and he would get to the truth.

  RT came downstairs to let them in. Miranda handed him the wine and his eyes lit up when he saw the label. RT carefully locked up after them, which made Thomas smile, and then led the way upstairs. He gabbled on about the show and a couple of media interviews that he had lined up, speculating about what the critics might say and how it all created a trail to the money.

  RT clutched the Rioja Reserva to his heart; clever of Miranda to fetch along some quality Spanish plonk. Upstairs, things were a little more formal than his last visit. Andrea had dressed up as well. She seemed genuinely happy to see them both. Then again, she had no reason not to be — yet.

  He still hadn’t figured out how to play his ace. This would be far from easy.

  “How did you meet Jack?” RT fired the first salvo.

  He skipped the prison visit by royal command, and started talking about Miranda’s parents, following it up with a familiar version of how he and Miranda hooked up together. It was painting by numbers — two runaways in Leeds and love’s young dream. He didn’t mention the bloke whose nose he’d broken on Miranda’s behalf, or the Bladen family feud that bubbled along like a river of discontent.

  At the point when he felt he was on the ropes Miranda cut across them.

  “How do you find living in Spain?”

  She talked about going there a couple of times with the family when she was younger, though not in Cuenca; and once, it had to be said — and she bloody well said it — when she and Thomas had needed some cooling-off time.

  Naturally, the artist in residence loved all that and began waxing lyrical about the light and the warm evenings and the ladies there. Thanks to RT’s self-promotional tour, dinner was a little late. No matter, Miranda and the wine had oiled the wheels.

  “Thomas takes urban photographs,” Miranda announced, swinging a wine glass wildly over her food.

  He followed her lead and told them about his early morning shots of London and the failed attempts to get on one of the dailies.

  “I did say I’d be happy to take a look at your portfolio,” Andrea insisted. “It’s the least I can do.”

  He ignored the momentary scowl from Miranda and decided there were some roads he didn’t need to go down. Besides, Andrea might feel differently before the night was out. He had a vague sense of how he wanted to do it. Cosy up to RT and Andrea a little more, ask for another look at his new creation and then go straight for the jugular.

  Dinner was followed by more wine — which he declined because he was driving, and which Miranda declined because she had an early start for stocktaking. That didn’t put the brakes on either RT or Andrea. By the time the chocolate torte was a pleasant memory he was beginning to wonder if they’d manage the stairs okay.

  “I’d love a private view of your work.” Miranda tapped RT’s arm and he flickered into life like a Christmas tree. “We couldn’t stop talking about it after we left your show.”

  Andrea was happy to bestow the favour. She led the way with RT bringing up the rear behind Miranda, charm dripping from every syllable. Down the stairs they clattered, Thomas gripping a tiny torch from his pocket. They started at the Crocodile in the main gallery room. It was all very jovial until he noticed Andrea steering the conversation round to the decor at Caliban’s — ever the saleswoman. A good deal of time was spent beside Naked Heat and Naked Ambition, so that Andrea could regurgitate the tale of Thomas’s bravery and the damage to the works. Her delivery was sales pitch perfect.

  “And that’s what makes these pieces of urban art truly original. They’ve literally been impacted by their environment.”

  RT found it hilarious. Thomas bit his tongue. Laugh on, while you still can. He felt his pulse quicken as they passed through the beads and approached the side room.

  “I hope you don’t have a secret camera on you.” RT was drooling all over Miranda.

  “Girl Guides’ honour.” She saluted with three fingers.

  RT mumbled a glib remark about seeing Miranda in uniform and Thomas seriously thought about giving him a slap.

  “Here we are then.” Andrea swayed a little, having long since made her peace with Bacchus and the sacred grape.

  She unlocked the door. Thomas couldn’t so much as look at Miranda. RT ushered them in, still in shadow until Andrea flicked the switch and the strip lighting clicked into life. The sculpture was covered again, only this time RT was without his magic button so he had to settle for a switch on the wall. The tiny motor whirred, drawing the silvery cloth to the ceiling, where it juddered to a stop and flapped gently, suspended on a fine metal cable.

  RT unclipped the rope to let everyone draw close. “I haven’t thought of a proper name for it yet.” He took Miranda’s hand. “Maybe you could come up with something?”

  Thomas unclenched a fist and moistened his lips. Christmas had come early this year. “Actually, I think I can help you there. How about fraud?”

  RT gave a chuckle but didn’t get the joke. Miranda passed Thomas the portable UV light from her bag and then cut the lights so he could deliver his coup de grace.

  “So there’s no way this came over with you from Spain.”

  Miranda threw the lights back on. The colour had drained from RT’s face. Andrea was looking a little peaky too.

  “I warne
d you . . .” RT began, before thinking better of it.

  Andrea was slower off the mark, but soon several steps ahead of him.

  “What do you want? Name your price.”

  Miranda came to the rescue. “Why don’t we go back upstairs and discuss it?”

  Black coffee was now the order of the day, with the two giant sofas territories around a negotiating table. RT hunched up, hands tightly together, unwilling to say the first word. Andrea made a couple of false starts — it was no big deal; other people did it. And besides, no one benefited from the truth coming out whereas everyone stood to gain if the genie stayed in the bottle.

  Thomas swirled his coffee, in no doubt now that Jack Langton knew nothing about it. Miranda jumped into the fray.

  “If there’s a problem, maybe Thomas can help.”

  Ouch. That wasn’t in the script. RT and Andrea held a staring contest until finally Andrea cleared her throat.

  “Jack was instrumental to RT’s success.”

  The word reeked of something more suspect.

  “I was hiding away in Spain, pretty much. I’d got into some difficulties down in Kent, so I decided to start afresh. Anyway, I met Jack out in Spain and we got chatting. I told him more than I should have, but he said he might be able to smooth things over for me. And when he found out I was an artist and he saw my work, well, he couldn’t do enough for me.

  “All he wanted in return was for me to keep an eye on things for him in Spain. Most of the work is actually mine; sometimes, though, I only provide the ideas and the outline; maybe some sketches too. I had a couple of new pieces exhibited in Japan like that, because of the distance. Jack’s been fine with it in the past . . .”

  Another pause; things were going down a notch.

  “. . . But this time there were problems in Spain. What you might call distribution issues. I knew Jack would want me to prioritise sorting them out, so the artwork had to wait.”

  “It’s what he pays you for,” Andrea chipped in.

  “What about Natalie Langton?”

  RT looked over to Andrea for moral support. He didn’t get any.

  “Natalie doesn’t get involved with Jack’s business,” he continued. “Ray’s the man, only he and I don’t really see eye to eye. So this sculpture . . .”

  “Fraud.”

  “Yeah, fraud.” RT’s laugh was hollow and heavy. “It was supposed to herald a new phase of my work. There’s been a lot of interest since Jack went to prison — notoriety by association, I suppose.”

  Miranda placed her coffee cup next to his. “We’re just trying to find out who might have a grudge against Jack Langton, because of the attack on the boy.”

  RT nodded like he understood, or cared. Thomas suspected neither was the case. He finished his coffee and eased forward. Time to go. He nudged Miranda and they stood up to leave. Andrea tried a last ditch attempt.

  “How about this: you say nothing to Jack about the sculpture’s provenance and I’m sure we can find a couple of pieces of RT’s work. One each?”

  “There’s a couple of smaller works,” RT conceded. “Naked Trust and Naked Need.”

  Andrea went to fetch their coats. “Why not sleep on it?” Her Turkish slippers made no sound on the rugs. “And if you wanted to realise their value, we could arrange a private sale. No one outside this room would ever know about it.”

  Thomas helped Miranda on with her coat.

  “And these two pieces are your own work?”

  RT didn’t say anything. Maybe he couldn’t remember.

  * * *

  Thomas passed the walk back to the car wrapped up in thought. Modern art was everything he’d expected — artificial and bogus. No, give him a decent landscape or a Pre-Raphaelite: that was real art.

  “Do you want me to drop you back, if you’re stocktaking first thing?”

  “You really are naïve. That was for their benefit. I couldn’t very well get plastered, now could I? Your place will do very nicely; maybe I should leave a bag there or have a couple of drawers to myself. What do you reckon?”

  “Have you ever considered a career in intelligence, Ms Wright?”

  “Well, the intelligent thing would be to take up Andrea Harrison’s offer.” Before he could object, she added, “the pieces could stay in the gallery — on loan. They’ll feel you’re properly on-side then, so you might learn more about Jack. What do you think?”

  “I think maybe we should swap jobs and I’ll run the bar.”

  “I’m sure Sheryl would enjoy working under you.”

  He blanched. “Let’s not go there. For what it’s worth, I doubt either one of them is connected with Jacob, but Karl is taking more of a personal interest in Jack than I expected.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “For me? No.”

  “Me neither.” She brushed her hand down his arm. “We all want this sorted as soon as poss, so do whatever it takes.”

  Chapter 35

  Ken stared out of the passenger window. The driver of the 4x4 wouldn’t look him in the eye and had hardly spoken to him since he picked him up after midnight. The rifle was in the back somewhere and now a scratched up pistol nestled in Ken’s gloved hand. The other held a set of keys.

  “You’re clear about where to go?”

  Ken nodded and closed his fingers, engulfing the small weapon. It looked old, second world war or fifties, and there wasn’t an identifying mark on it. The 4x4 pulled in and the driver put on the interior light. Ken could see the sweat on his face now.

  “I’ll be here for fifteen minutes. After that you’re on your own.”

  The light blinked off.

  * * *

  He pocketed the gun and let himself out, closing the car door behind him with a chunk. Having studied the map several times he knew the route by heart, winding his way through the alleys of the housing estate. There was no name this time, just an address, keys and a time limit. It didn’t sit well with him, but another £10,000 in the account would help to ease the pain.

  The back gate was the only one with PERV painted across the front. Someone had tried to paint it over but what was left shone a garish green in the ambient light. He inserted the key and teased it round by degrees until the lock clicked. The gate swung in, silent as night; someone had seen to that. The ground floor maisonette was pitch black with heavy curtains that kept the world at bay.

  He set to work on the back door with the two remaining keys and slipped inside, taking a moment to orientate himself. The bedroom was second on the right and a thin strip of light beckoned at the end of a short corridor. In a couple of breaths he was at the door, listening, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He smiled; he’d always had an instinct for the kill.

  The handle gave way under his touch, releasing more light around the door; his other hand slipped the pistol free, ready.

  There was a man sitting at his computer; his back was towards him and the screen betrayed his depravity: kids.

  “Jesus!” Ken gasped.

  The man turned around and made a grab for something behind him. Ken was dazzled by a flash of silver as a hunting knife swung out towards him. He bumped back against the door, closing it. In a split second he made a decision and pocketed the gun.

  The blade slashed wildly but he could tell it was for defence. When it came down to it most people had a natural aversion to blood — even someone else’s. Ken wasn’t most people though. He sought his moment, waiting until the blade was the furthest distance away and rushed in, one hand up to block as he punched him in the throat with the other.

  The man dropped to the floor choking, fighting for breath with the blade still in his hand, and tried to scrabble backwards until the computer blocked him. Ken grabbed the hand with the knife and squeezed the fingers tight against the handle. He felt the body shuddering uselessly as it struggled against the inevitable. He forced the arm in at the elbow and levered it under until the blade glimmered beneath the victim’s ribcage.

  K
en didn’t speak and he didn’t hesitate, using his whole upper body to thrust the man’s hand against his abdomen, tearing through his flesh in the process. He maintained the pressure and stared into his eyes, watching the agony and recognition on his face. Then he twisted the blade and tried to remove it. The victim’s body sagged but he didn’t die easily, lurching forward with the last of his strength to end up in a bloodied final embrace.

  Ken felt the dying breath against his face and shoved him away in disgust, smashing him against the computer stand. He stood up and gazed at the blood; so much blood. Time to leave. He drew a cuff over his hand and turned the door handle, fighting the urge to vomit. As he reached the back door he grabbed a long coat that hung there and pulled it tight around himself, wearing the skin of his enemy.

  It would have been quicker to just leave, but he locked the back door carefully and opened the gate. There were four people waiting across the way, three women and a man. Ken touched the pistol through the coat; the people never moved. One of the women called out.

  “Is he dead?”

  He nodded, turning to lock the gate behind him.

  “We’ll give you ten minutes before we ring the police.”

  There was nothing more to be said. The 4x4 was waiting, although he was sure he was late. As he opened the door and climbed inside, his coat opened. The driver stared at him in horror.

  “What did you expect? It’s done. Take me home.”

  Chapter 36

  Whoever said take refuge in dreams had never spent time in Thomas’s nightmares. Childhood — again. Caught out in the front room with the gun he’d found wrapped up at the back of the greenhouse. Only this time he knew it was loaded.

  Dad lurched forward and Thomas retreated, waving the pistol from side to side to warn him off but it only made Dad more determined. He could smell the booze on his father’s breath and the stench choked him. His arm twitched, the pistol rattling in his hand.