“Mmm, sounds like fun,” Melvyn said, not sounding in the least bit excited.
“Okay, so there you are, Mel. You’ve got more of an idea of our plan now; I’ll leave you to get yourself organized.”
“Okay … speak tomorrow,” Melvyn mumbled.
With that, Oliver wandered out and left.
Chapter 16
“Right, he’s in,” Constanta said, coming into the kitchen as Tarquin pulled a tray of ice out of the freezer.
“In? Already? How in the hell did he do that?” Tarquin said, utterly perplexed.
“It’s called experience, darling,” Constanta said, smiling cheekily. “To you it probably seems like magic, but when you’ve had a lot of experience in something, you learn a lot of tricks. Locks have their weaknesses, and if you have the right tools, you can take advantage of that.”
“Bloody hell, this makes me very nervous. It’s just not me. I mean, the poor guy doesn’t deserve this. He’s more than likely completely innocent and here he is with a bloke sneaking around in his house because of me!”
“Let’s wait before we feel sorry for Clasping; he may not be so innocent. And if he is, no harm done. Petru is careful; I told him to keep his urges under control, if you get my drift!”
“I most certainly do,” Tarquin said, giving her a direct look.
“Relax … relax … it won’t take long. He’s taking photos of anything which looks suspicious, and yes, he’ll be closing the curtains; flashes going off in a dark room may attract attention.”
“Too bloody right it might! I just want him out of there as fast as possible.”
“Okay, I’m going back out to keep an eye on things; I don’t like sitting in your car in the dark, it looks a bit odd, but I can have the radio on and make some calls. See you in a while.”
“Lock the doors from the inside and call me if there’s a problem,” Tarquin said, pouring himself a powerful whisky and slumping down on the sofa to watch the news.
Petru moved like a cat through the house. His slight, wiry frame was perfect for sliding through small spaces and his movements were sharp and precise. The alarm system wasn’t active, which made the whole operation much easier, and it was just light enough to see around inside, whilst also remaining discreet. It was obvious that Clasper had left in a hurry as there was a half-finished cup of coffee on the kitchen table with some leathery toast and a jam called marmalade. A dribble of water coming from the cold tap irritated him, so he turned it off.
A notepad had fallen on the floor by a kitchen chair, possibly suggesting Clasper had suddenly jumped to his feet. He picked it up and flicked it onto the most recent page. The tight surgical gloves he was wearing made the paper very obedient. There was a series of dates, times, and days written down in a very rough way as though he had been holding the phone and writing, whilst the pad skidded around on the polished surface.
He pulled out his camera and took a close-up of the writing; he then flicked to the page behind. It was much neater here and he could easily make out the words. Paris, ferries, and some place called Portsmouth and another called Troyes. There was some more writing at the bottom, but this was very scribbled and he couldn’t make it out. The word at the top of the page, “Itinerary,” he didn’t recognize. So he photographed this page as well and looked at the one behind. Here, it just had in large writing: Parking Permit and Cleaner. He nudged the pad over the edge of the table, where it took up something like its original pose on the floor.
He was just about to leave the kitchen when he noticed a large book underneath a copy of the Financial Times. Lifting the paper he looked intently at the cover for a moment or two and then felt a little prick of curiosity. The book was called Drawn to Trouble by someone called Eric Hebborn. But what caught his eye was the word “fake” in the top right-hand corner with a little question mark after it.
Petru was well accustomed to the word “fake” as it had a warm connection in his mind with his large collection of watches. He took out his camera and took a quick photo of the cover before glancing proudly at his own “Rolex.” He had to hurry now; his thirty minutes was almost up.
Springing up the stairs, he went straight to the bedrooms. One had just a bed and mattress, and the other was obviously the man’s room. It smelt stale and unused and empty apart from some jackets hanging in one of the wardrobes and a pair of dusty black shoes with wooden stretchers. A large lorry suddenly appeared in the street below throwing a fan of unwelcome light into the room. He crouched for a few moments to let it pass. As he left the room, his eyes fell hungrily on a pair of silver foxes and a silver cigar case on a chest of drawers: He picked up one of the foxes and bounced it in the palm of his hand; it was reliably heavy. He replaced it with a sigh.
Back in the kitchen he stopped and scanned the room very carefully to make sure all was in order. He then let the blinds up and left as he arrived, through the lavatory window.
Petru and Constanta came back into the house together to find Tarquin glassy eyed in front of the TV, and Percy curled up beside him. He growled as they approached.
“All done,” Constanta said. “He’s taken shots of anything important.”
“Did anyone see you?” Tarquin asked the diminutive Romanian anxiously.
“No, it’s been quiet out there. The people in house opposite are out and nobody’s been taking any interest,” he said shyly.
“Thank you, Petru,” Tarquin said, looking down at him in an avuncular way. “I really appreciate this. I cannot believe there’s anything to find in there, but … well, Constanta seemed to think it was important.”
Constanta leaned toward Petru and said something in Romanian. They both smiled.
“Right. So what have you discovered in Mr Clasper’s house, Petru … anything of any interest?” Tarquin said to the young man whilst glancing at Constanta in a slightly mocking way.
“The man left his house in a hurry, I think. There was a half-eaten meal on the table: a cup of coffee not much touched; a tap running; uneaten toast,” Petru said hesitantly.
“And?” Tarquin said with a false yawn.
“There was a notepad on the floor by the table with some writing in it, so I took some photos so you could see for yourself,” Petru said awkwardly.
“Show him,” Constanta said.
Petru shuffled through his backpack and brought out a camera. He flicked it on and they all peered at the screen.
“Okay, so this is the last picture, of a book I found on the kitchen table under a newspaper. It’s called Drawn to Trouble. You see it had word ‘fake’ at the top there, and I thought this may be interesting to you.”
Tarquin craned forward, frowning.
“Can you get closer, get the image bigger?” he said, suddenly more interested.
Petru pressed a button and the image zoomed in.
“In the centre there, please … underneath the main title,” Tarquin mumbled as he squinted intently at the screen.
“It says ‘The Forging of an Artist’” Constanta said loudly. “So our friend is into fakes and forgeries. This is getting interesting.”
Tarquin blanked her.
“Right, let’s see the other ones,” he said tetchily.
Petru flicked back to the first of the notebook images.
“Okay, so this notebook was on the floor by the table, where he had his meal,” he said.
“Sounds like he was having breakfast,” Tarquin mumbled. “Coffee, toast …”
“Yes. I believe so. Now, you see the writing is here very bad, like he was on the phone and trying to write.”
“Was there a phone on the table, Petru?” Constanta asked.
“Yes.”
Tarquin leaned forward again squinting at the screen.
“These are just ferry times from Portsmouth to St Malo,” he said, “and the trip is—is quite soon,” he glanced at his watch. “In fact, this Thursday!”
“Next one, Petru,” Constanta commanded.
“Itin
erary,” Tarquin mumbled as he soaked up the words. “He’s making a trip to France on Thursday, the first of August, going from Portsmouth to St Malo at 20.30 and heading to a place called Troyes on the second, which I’ve never heard of. Meet Fabien at train station at 6.30pm.”
“You know the other places though?” Constanta asked.
“What, Portsmouth and St Malo? Of course I do … they’re major ports. One on the south coast of England and the other in France. Look, there’s more writing at the bottom, can you zoom that as well, please? It’s like a scribbled footnote,” he said, pressing against Petru’s shoulder in his eagerness to see the screen.
“That’s as good as you’ll get, Mr Tarquin,” Petru said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think it was so important. Did you see he is meeting with someone—Fabien—at 6.30 at train station?”
Tarquin didn’t hear him; he was just able to make out the words in the footnote. “The cabinet must be concealed from Frederic. Tell something to bring sufficient blankets. Something he stays away from van.”
He stood up, shocked, and realized his back ached.
“Can you see what that said?” Constanta asked, her eyebrows raised.
“It says …” Tarquin hesitated. “It says the cabinet must be concealed from Frederic.”
“The cabinet!” she said, giving him a piercing stare. “Must be concealed! I told you, Tarquin. I fucking told you! He’s trying to hide it!”
“There’s more, but I couldn’t make it out,” he said. “I … I really think we need to see that. It’s vital.”
“You’re going back in, Petru,” Constanta said sternly, turning to him. “You’ll get more money, but we have to see that notebook page with the … the ‘tinery’ word at the top really clearly. Sorry.”
Petru swore vehemently in Romanian and picked up his rucksack. Constanta handed him his camera.
“Just get a good close-up of that page, darling,” she said, pulling him towards her and hugging him warmly. “When you’ve finished, Tarquin’s going to take us both for a megaburger!”
Tarquin looked momentarily irritated and then smiled in acknowledgement that this was all being done for his sake.
“Do you like Chinese or Thai food?” he said. “I really can’t drive, so we’ll order in.”
“Thai is good,” Petru said as he slipped out of the door.
* * *
Gus and Bob sat in their black van in Fulham drinking tea from a flask. The vehicle exuded a menacing quality which even made the police uneasy. With its cluster of aerials, they seemed to suspect it as a shadowy member of their own pack, and preferred to give it a wide berth. The wheels were fat racing alloys and there were only three windows, the windscreen and the two side windows, which were darkened glass. There were none in the rear at all, just the discreet spy holes with their telescopic lenses custom built. The van glittered like Darth Vader’s helmet in the cold orange streetlight.
“All right now, listen up,” Gus said to Bob, having been subjected to half an hour of chat about Bob’s niece who, at sixteen, was running three boyfriends at once.
“Zoltan has got the hump big time with our man in Battersea, and we need to be right on the pulse, okay? We fuck this one up, B, and we’re going through the slicer. As you may remember, they used to be in business years ago, and it seems Oliver is doing some fancy footwork, which is pissing Zoltan off. So it goes like this.
“Z has given ’im till Thursday night to get in contact and do a deal. What it’s all about, I don’t know and I don’t bloody care. As you know, our man has a house in Battersea and a place out of town, like towards Bristol way, and he seems to go from one to the other on a regular basis.
“Now, if our man doesn’t do the sensible thing and call Z, we’re going to give ’im a right going over, i.e. we’re going to kick ’im to hell and back, and he’s going to wish he was never born! Comprende, comrade?” Gus said, grinning.
“Yeah, all right then, G, if it’s got to be done, let’s do it. We’re the pros, aren’t we!” Bob said chuckling.
“So … I’m going to drop you off at yer place, and you’re going to get some clothes together and yer washing stuff as per normal on a job like this, and yer going to get some big time shut-eye, because I need you sharp, okay? Real sharp. That means not watching films or playing games till four in the morning, okay? It means tucked up in yer bed by twelve, all right?”
“Okay, okay. Yer made yer point,” Bob said, staring out onto the street.
“Good! Now we know what our man drives—an old Merx—so we’re going to park up in his street tomorrow morning at nine and we’re going to watch what’s going on and stick to ’im like glue. Where he goes, we follow, unless of course he’s just taking his yapper for a stroll in the park. If we see ’im getting into his motor, we need to act fast, so for Christ’s sakes make sure your phone is charged and ready and bring yer charger as well.”
“It’s here in the van.”
“Right, let’s get you home, and I’ll be round at eight in the morning to collect you. Remember, we could be away for a couple of days or more, so get yourself ready,” Gus said, trying hard to get the information through Bob’s skull.
“Okay, got it,” Bob said blankly.
Gus started the engine and revved it as though bolstering his words. The van moved away, and the orange streetlight slid silently over its black shiny skin..
* * *
Petru came urgently through the door behind Constanta and quickly shut the door. Exchanging a few jokes on the pavement before coming in, they’d been startled by a car which had suddenly entered the street and driven quickly to a parking spot opposite Oliver’s house. Petru hurried to the curtains and scanned the street outside through a tiny crack.
“Shit! It’s the man, I think. Yes, he’s going into the house,” he said in a loud whisper.
“Wow, that was close! Ten minutes before, and I would had to hide in a cupboard!”
“Are you sure?” Tarquin said, his brow furrowed with concern.
“I don’t know what the man looks like, but someone certainly went in,” Petru said.
“Has it arrived?” Constanta interrupted, sniffing the air like a dog. “I’m hungry.”
Tarquin paced around the kitchen ignoring Constanta and wondering whether to confront Oliver.
“Look, it’s all a bit suspicious,” he said, trying to work it out in his own head, “but we don’t know anything for certain yet. I need to be sure before I … well, bang on his door and spill the beans.”
“He’ll deny it, Tarquin,” Constanta said, “and it’ll leave you feeling stupid. I even think you might start apologizing to him in that stupid English way, and then I’m gonna puke. Let’s eat.”
“Mmmm. Guess we could leave it till the morning, then I can nail him. It’s in the oven.”
Tarquin and Petru sat at the table nibbling crackers as Constanta noisily gathered some plates and cutlery and began pulling the lids off the array of silver foil containers.
“Right!” Tarquin said, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. “Let’s take a look at the spoils.”
“Petru!” Constanta said, giving him a friendly slap on the back as he drained the last drops of beer from the bottle. He leaned over and unzipped his bag.
“As you told me, I made some more photos of the notepad, especially that page. Some close-ups, so you can see the writing much better, I think. Oh, and I took a better look at that book. There was a card inside it which I also photographed.”
“Great. Well, let’s take a look,” Tarquin said impatiently.
Petru pulled out the camera and switched it on. They both peered over his shoulder at the screen.
“This is the last one I took, of the card in the book.”
Tarquin stared unblinkingly at the words.
“What this man did in two dimensions, with paper, ink, and paint, Melvyn, we are about to do in three dimensions with wood and sheer audacity!! Do you realize this man’s ‘work’ adorns
some of the most celebrated museums and galleries in the world?! Onwards and upwards, my old friend. Enjoy! We are in good company.”
“Good God!” Tarquin said, stepping shakily back from the camera. “I just don’t believe it! I just don’t bloody believe it! He’s obviously giving this book to someone called Melvyn as a present and … and … well, he’s basically implying he’s creating his own forgery, isn’t he? ‘With wood and sheer audacity.’ I just can’t believe what I’m seeing.”
“Tarquin!” Constanta said, giving him a hot look. “Don’t start that.”
“I’m not, I’m not. I’m just completely and utterly amazed … that … that … my neighbour is a crooked bloody antique dealer!”
“Petru!” Constanta said, trying to smother Tarquin’s indulging. “Let’s see the other pictures.”
“I’m getting a copy of that book tomorrow. Waterstone’s will have it,” Tarquin said to himself.
“This is the page in the notepad with that … er … ‘Itinery’ word at the top. This is for you to look at, Mr Tarquin, and see what it means. I have not looked very much. I just wanted to get out.”
Tarquin came up and peered over his shoulder once again.
“Here, take it,” Petru said, handing him the camera and stepping away.
Tarquin squinted at the screen.
“Ah yes. That’s a lot better,” he said absently.
“The cabinet must be concealed from Frederic. Tell Melvyn to bring sufficient blankets. Imperative he stays away from van,” he muttered softly, almost to himself.
He let his arms drop and looked expectantly at Constanta.
“Look, he’s got his cabinet in the van,” she said assertively. “His fake cabinet worth a lot of money, and he doesn’t want this man Frederic to see it! Simple. So where is he going to see Frederic?”
The Freiburg Cabinet Page 12
