The Freiburg Cabinet

by Thomas Charrington

  “And?” Gus said irritably.

  “This guy has a terrier, not a boxer! A boxer is three times the size of that thing.”

  “Okay, you ring Zoltan, and tell ’im the good news, but I’m telling you, my friend, this is our man, and no amount of irrelevant details from you is going to change my mind.”

  Bob clicked his tongue and rolled his stool back to one of the spy holes.

  “We should have nailed him back in Battersea, mate, like we planned to do. This place is teeming with people,” he said, gazing through the spy hole.

  “Of course we should have, but you know as well as me that he come out of his front door at a gallop and jumped straight into his motor! We was caught on the hop, okay. We have to be strategic my friend … just be patient.”

  “Balls to patient, mate … this is getting untidy,” Bob said sullenly. He sat silently for a minute and then felt the need to break the silence.

  “I wonder if he’s armed?” he said, changing tack.

  “Eh?” Gus said absently, whilst scrutinising Bentham and Diana through the tinted glass. “Armed? Are you crazy, mate? These aren’t yer east end gangster types, for Christ’s sake … these are gentlemen crooks. They use brains, not fuckin’ guns!”

  “S’pose so,” Bob mumbled.

  “Now for fuck’s sake, we need to concentrate. What the hell is going on? Our man goes into the theatre with his squeeze, and a couple of hours later, she comes out with a bald gnome, and our man is nowhere to be seen. Something’s going on ’ere. I bet you he’s given us the slip. From what Zol was saying, he’s very slimy. This time pay attentionee!”

  “But he doesn’t know we’re here, G!” Bob said, puzzled.

  “You finished? Now listen up … I’m going round the back of the theatre to see if I can spot Oliver whilst you keep a hawk eye on these two. Follow them wherever. Keep your phone handy and any probs call me. Now, you got that? Comprende, comrade?”

  “Yeah.”

  Gus emerged from the side of the black van and strode off in the direction of the Garrick.

  Three minutes later Bob was “discreetly” shadowing Christopher and Diana. They were evidently in quite a hurry, and he had to strike a brisk pace to stay in touch.

  * * *

  “I really am getting worried now,” Diana said to Christopher as they passed the Coliseum and headed up St Martins Lane. “It’s just not like him to ignore my calls continuously. Where on earth is the idiot? I can tell you, if I wasn’t worried something had happened, I’d be leaving him to his own devices!”

  “Well, frankly, he’s behaved appallingly,” Christopher agreed. “You don’t leave a woman on her own in a theatre without an explanation.”

  “Well, I know! So he embarrassed himself, but what about me?” she said shrilly. “I mean, what on earth was he thinking?”

  “Well, precisely.”

  “This would have to happen to Tarquin. Tarquin, of all people … he’s so damn proper!”

  “Does he fall asleep in the theatre as a rule?”

  “Yes, he does. Says the warm atmosphere knocks him out. But he’s never caused a problem like that. He didn’t even tell me he was going, just got up and left. He’s in a dream most of the time.”

  Christopher sighed sympathetically.

  “I really don’t know what to say, darling.”

  “Right. We’ve tried Flannagans, the Brasserie; he wouldn’t be seen dead in the Fighting Cock. Oh for God’s sake, we could be here all night!” she said in exasperated tones.

  She tripped suddenly on a raised paving stone and Christopher’s hand closed reassuringly on her arm. It felt good and she turned towards him and smiled.

  “Thank you, Christopher, for being here,” she said quietly. “It’s really not your problem. I feel terrible that you’re marching around the streets with me when you could be at dinner with your friends. It really is too bad!”

  “Diana, I’m very happy to be roaming the streets with you,” he said huskily whilst letting his hand rest softly in the small of her back. “Very happy indeed.”

  She glanced at him and smiled. “I guess we could try the Nags Head as a last resort …”

  * * *

  Tarquin returned from the bar with yet another round of drinks. Shirley, who had been dominating the conversation with gossip about their kitchen job in a busy city office, fell silent for a few moments. Claudia took her opportunity.

  “So who was with you at the theatre?” she said to him above the din of music and drunken voices.

  “Oh … er … my girlfriend,” he replied shiftily.

  “You have a girlfriend—but no wife?”

  “No … no … long-term girlfriend,” Tarquin floundered.

  “And you left her in there?” she said, raising her eyebrows.

  “Well … er …”

  “Clauds, get with it. He had a barney and he’s come here to drown his sorrows!” Shirley said with an evil twinkle. “Am I right or am I right?”

  Tarquin hesitated and then clutched the opportunity.

  “Yes, you’ve got it in one, Shirley. We met … well, she met an old boyfriend.”

  “Say no more, Tarq,” Shirley said, holding up an admonishing index finger and pushing herself against him cosily. “Been there, walked the plank, written the bloody book! Best thing to do … just get away. You did the right thing, mate. You don’t need to be a spectator to their canoodlings!”

  “This is true?” Claudia said, looking hard at Tarquin.

  “Yes … yes, it’s true. He’s a bloody property developer. She’s got the hots for him,” he said, embracing his new status as a cuckold.

  “Right, that’s it!” Shirley shouted. “You’re going to have fun with us tonight, Tarquin. Sod the lot of ’em!!”

  Claudia gave Tarquin a conspiratorial wink as she brushed past to get to the bar.

  “You forgot Cliff, Shirley,” she said, putting a hand on Shirley’s shoulder. “He’s on the lime and lager.”

  “Oh blimey! Sorry, Cliff!” Shirley shouted. “You keep disappearing into the crowd, love.”

  A minute or two later Tarquin took the lager from Claudia and stretched over Shirley into Cliff’s gang.

  “Gawd help me!” Shirley giggled as Tarquin leaned over her. “You’ve got arms like a gorilla, Tarq!”

  They carried on in this vein for the next hour, but Tarquin had lost all track of time. In his mind, Diana was still in the theatre and the play was still in full flood.

  As the liquor flowed, so too did Tarquin’s inhibitions ebb. Shirley, who was by far the more oiled of the two girls, was taking every opportunity to touch, rub, and scrape against him, and he was enjoying the escapism.

  “Tarquin,” she said at a certain point, “do you think I’m a bit chubby, if you know what I mean?”

  “You’re a hefalump!” Tarquin replied with a brazen lack of tact, which in the circumstances was well received.

  “Why?” said Shirley with a leery grin.

  “You’re top heavy, girl … and I’m not complaining!” he said with a huge laugh, whilst throwing his arm around her shoulders.

  “How much do you think I weigh, Tarq?” she challenged, disentangling herself from his grip.

  He stroked his chin and took another slurp of whiskey.

  “I would say … I would say … as a man who’s not unfamiliar with the weighing of sheep … a hundred weight!”

  Claudia kicked him, and Cliff burst out laughing.

  “You’re a rude man … and a toff!” Shirley giggled drunkenly. “Now pick me up and tell me what I weigh!” she demanded.

  “Pick you up? Are you sure?” he said laughing.

  “That’s exactly what I mean, you bloomin’ ponce … are you a man or a mouse?”

  Tarquin put his glass down and got behind her. He locked his arms around her waist, which meant he had to bend his knees and press his pelvis against her in a rather obscene pose. She wriggled suggestively and her pink skirt rose even higher
as Cliff clapped enthusiastically.

  He was about to flex upwards, when a screech ripped the air like a scalpel.

  “Taaaarquin!!”

  “Ooh! I think your missus has just turned up, Tarq!” Shirley giggled loudly, looking at the auburn woman who had just walked in.

  Tarquin spun round to face Diana, as though he’d been stabbed by a cattle prod.

  “Daaarling! Daaarling! I … er … I … what …” he stammered.

  His facial features now seemed to lose all allegiance to each other and went in strange directions quite independently. One eye was fixed in terror on Diana whilst the other seemed ready to make a dash for the street. Meanwhile, his lips had twisted upwards into a grotesquely synthetic grin, making him look like a deceitful politician.

  “This nice man has been entertaining us ladies for the last two hours,” Shirley said boldly as Diana approached, “and he has behaved like a true gentleman. You’re a very lucky lady, and you need to appreciate him more!”

  “Yes, he’s the best-looking boy in here,” Claudia added, curling her hand over Tarquin’s shoulder. “You could do a lot worse.”

  “Thank you,” Diana said icily, before turning back to Tarquin. “It’s time to go … we’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “I’m sorry, darling … seems I—”

  “Shut up!” Diana hissed.

  “Bye, Tarquin!” Shirley said, kissing him on the lips. “Thanks for the drinks, darling. You’re a lovely fellow. Take care!”

  Claudia then embraced him and gave him a peck on the cheek.

  “Good-bye, nice man,” she whispered intimately with a wink, and then raising her glass, “until we meet again!”

  “Come on, Tarquin,” Diana snapped. “Christopher’s bloody waiting.”

  “See you, Tarq,” splurged Cliff in the background, dribbling beer onto his trainers and hanging on to another customer for support.

  Christopher was standing at the back of the bar with his arms crossed firmly over his chest. His head seemed shinier than ever, and his neck looked like it had frozen solid. Even his bow tie had lost the self-confidence of earlier and was drooping forlornly at the tips. A rough-looking man with a ponytail and forearms emblazoned with tattoos was watching him like a hungover celebrity chef might watch a cockroach which had strolled casually onto his chopping board.

  “Let’s go!” Christopher said anxiously, wiping a handkerchief across his forehead. “This place has got a malignant feel.”

  He catapulted out of the door followed by Diana and then Tarquin.

  “Don’t you … ever … ever … ever do that to me again,” Diana said, seething with indignation. “I’ve never felt so humiliated. What a pair of witches!”

  “They meant no harm, d … darling,” Tarquin blustered drunkenly. “Bethides, I needed some company.”

  He extended his arm in Diana’s direction, but she twisted out of reach and moved in close to Christopher, who was walking like a man possessed.

  “Blimey! Thlow down, folks,” Tarquin said as he stumbled behind. “What’s the big rush?”

  “We’re being followed,” Christopher said, his voice trembling and looking furtively over his shoulder. “The bloke in the baseball cap—the big bloke in the baseball cap—has been behind us for some time.”

  “What? Being thollowed? Are you paranoid or something, Christopher?” Tarquin slurred whilst gazing blurry eyed behind them.

  Suddenly Bentham broke into a run, waving his arms frantically.

  “Taxi! Taxi!” he shouted.

  The vehicle came to a halt.

  “Who’s coming with me?" he said breathlessly, whilst holding the cab door open.

  “I am!” Diana replied, climbing in without so much as a glance in Tarquin’s direction. “He can sort himself out!”

  “But my car! I can’t drive it like thith, darling. I can’t leave it. It’th bloody Friday tomorrow!” Tarquin whimpered pathetically.

  The cab door slammed shut, then opened briefly for Bentham to shout, “Call Scooterman. Good night!!”

  Tarquin stood drunkenly watching the red taillights merge into the traffic.

  “Thuck!” he said loudly. “Thuck, fuck, fuck!”

  He turned round, and a fist like a sledge hammer slammed into his solar plexus. Then, as he doubled up, a knee whipped into his chin. Completely winded, he fell to the pavement groaning.

  Next he felt a hefty boot in his groin, which mercifully hit his bunched fists and missed its main target. Tarquin yelled as his little finger snapped.

  “Read this, Oliver, an’ you’ll make your life an’ ours a whole lot easier!” a gruff voice above him said. Another kick from behind caught him in the lower back and he heard another voice. “That’ll teach ’im.”

  An envelope was shoved in his pocket, and he was dimly aware of two men walking casually away.

  Tarquin groaned and fought for breath. With his cheek on the cold, callous pavement, he felt scared—scared like he hadn’t been scared in years. There was no reassuring hand, no sympathetic, “That was a tough tackle, old fellow. You okay?” He was down where the lowlife lives, viewing the world from a low dangerous perspective; the perspective of a rat.

  Gradually his focus moved from his pain to his predicament. How quickly he’d changed from a respectable, charming human being, to something animal and alone—something quite unclean. He rolled over and stood shakily on his feet. He felt stickiness around his cheek. People were crossing the street to avoid him; he didn’t care. He was dislocated from “them” now. He was marked, dubious, of suspect nature—in short, he was an outsider.

  He reached into his inside pocket and checked his wallet; strange … still there. Next he groped for his mobile and cried out as the broken finger on his left hand gave him a sharp stab of pain. But the mobile was there. Again he felt puzzled. And then he remembered his assailant’s words, “Read this, Oliver.”

  “Oliver? Who the hell is Oliver?” Tarquin glanced down and very nearly lost his balance. His head felt raw, inside and out. With one arm steadying him against the wall, he squatted down and picked up a clean white envelope by his feet. The name OLIVER was written on the front. It was good quality and well sealed. He put it in his pocket for later; he’d had enough pain for the moment.

  Removing his jacket, he tried to brush off the street grime. It was horribly scuffed, but being dark, it would pass. His knee too was torn and showed his white skin beneath. Suddenly he remembered his car—shit! It would be towed in the morning.

  As he began dialling directory enquiries, he heard some drunken voices and high-pitched laughter approaching. Two women and a bloke were teetering towards him, engrossed in conversation.

  Suddenly the conversation stopped, and he heard Claudia’s voice.

  “Jesus! It’s Tarquin!!”

  They clustered around him as he told them what happened.

  “You say your woman just left you and went off with that geezer? The bitch!” Shirley said, putting her arm around his waist.

  “And they took nothing?” Claudia said, the only vaguely sober one of the trio.

  “Nothing at all. Just wanted to give me a good kicking and called me Oliver,” Tarquin said in confusion.

  “And you wasn’t mouthy or nothing with them, Tarquin?” Shirley said.

  “You poor shod,” Cliff mumbled.

  “I hadn’t said a word to them,” Tarquin said in a faltering voice. “I just turned round and wham! Punched straight in the belly.”

  “Look, you’re in a bad way, Tarquin, and I’m gonna make sure you get home tonight,” Claudia said with authority. “You said earlier you’ve got a car here, so can we leave it till the morning?”

  “No!” Tarquin groaned. “It’s on a yellow line. It’ll be clamped or towed in the morning. It’s in Shelton Street … About a five-minute walk in that direction. Use my phone and call ‘Scooterman.’”

  “Who?”

  “It’s a company which drives your car home when
you’ve drunk too much,” he said, steadying himself against the wall.

  “So we go as passengers?” Claudia queried, getting it straight in her mind.

  “That’s right. But it’s small. Mercedes sports. Won’t take us all.”

  “Did you get that, Shirl? We could call the police, but they’re gonna ask a heap of unnecessary questions and keep us up all night. I’m going to call these people and get them to drive his car back to Battersea where he lives … and you know what,” she added, thinking aloud. “I’m going to go with him to make sure he gets back.”

  “Oh yeah!” Cliff said sarcastically.

  “Look, Cliff, he’s in a bad way. He’s a bit dazed, and we won’t all fit in. Get real!”

  “Sure, okay,” Cliff mumbled.

  “So Shirl, you and Cliff go on back and I’ll call you a bit later!”

  Shirley beckoned Claudia aside.

  “Are you sure about this, Clauds,” she whispered. “You don’t know this guy, and it’s a bit odd, this whole thing about being beaten up for no reason. Perhaps he’s done something?”

  “Shirl, I’m going on instinct here. I know what you’re saying, but you know I can look after myself.”

  “Okay, darlin’ … just be careful. Those kicks you was showing me might be comin’ in handy. And what do I tell them in the kitchen tomorrow if you’re late?”

  “I’ll call you,” Claudia said with a wink. She turned back to Tarquin.

  “Now come on, Tarquin. Let’s get on to those people.”

  “Bye, Clauds,” Cliff said, drifting away with Shirley.

  “Speak later, darlin’.”

  Chapter 7

  Forty-five minutes later, Tarquin’s car came to a halt in Warriner Avenue, Battersea. They clambered out and Tarquin fumbled for his keys.

  “Wow! This is fantastic!” Claudia said as she stood in the richly decorated hallway of Tarquin’s house. Percy came rushing up to greet the new visitor.

  “Hello, little dog,” she said, bending down and giving him a cursory stroke. Percy lay on his back, his tail wagging deliriously.

  “Well, it’s home,” Tarquin said wearily. “Come and have some coffee, or something stronger if you want. You’ve been an angel tonight, and I don’t really know how to thank you.” He wandered into the kitchen and opened the door to the garden.