The Freiburg Cabinet

by Thomas Charrington

  “What on earth are you jabbering about?” Tarquin said, peering over his menu at her and casting a furtive glance at the other diners. “And what’s this about Sherlock Holmes?”

  “You look like him, darling, so serious, and with that … that big tweed coat with the tartan design,” she said, giggling uncontrollably and wiping her eyes with a tissue.

  Tarquin shook his head and continued with the menu.

  “You know … I don’t get you,” he said suddenly, staring at her again. “You’ve just kicked the living daylights out of a pair of bruisers in a scary life and death struggle on the road, and here you are, giggling like a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl who hasn’t a care in the world. It just doesn’t add up!”

  “Oh come on, old man … loosen up! I just letting out some bad energy. You English … so fucking stiff!” With that, she burst out laughing again at the indignant expression on Tarquin’s face.

  An hour and a carafe of red wine later, they sat back from the table, replete and relaxed. Tarquin went ahead and collected Percy for his evening walk, and the trio then drifted back onto the street. Not ready for bed, they took a stroll to see the famous Cathedral of Notre-Dame in all its floodlit splendour. Late as it was, the streets were pulsing with life. Young couples in their best clothes meandered tipsily along the pavements exchanging noisy insults with each other, laughing and shrieking in the balmy night air.

  Eventually they reached the Rue du Tresor, and turning a corner were confronted by the walls of the Cathedral rearing up before them—a gargantuan edifice of sculpted stone. The dark gargoyles, both hideous and magnificent, stretched out from their bleached stone anchorings above them with a demonic ferocity to defend their bastion. In his elevated mood, Tarquin gazed up in awe at these loyal guards and fancied he had two such entities of his own, red in tooth and claw, ready to spring into mortal combat to protect him.

  Reims was alive, vibrant, and Tarquin felt a rush of exuberance at wandering so far from his cosy London life. He was on an adventure, a mad road trip with an even madder purpose; to discover whether his seemingly respectable neighbour was in fact an antiques fraudster. Diana would have scoffed at such an absurd course of action, and this made him smile. He realized he wasn’t missing her much … if at all. He had other priorities. More acutely engaging to him now was his predicament. Someone was hunting him, and the creatures this puppet master employed were dangerous and driven.

  * * *

  Viktor stood in a warehouse in St Petersburg with a small group of men looking at a printing press when he felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket.

  “Zoltan, why so late? I’m in the plant; I can’t hear you in here! Wait a minute.”

  Barging through some swing doors into an office, he slumped down in an easy chair.

  “You still there?” he shouted.

  “Yes, Father, I can hear you fine, you don’t need to shout now,” Zoltan replied with trepidation. “I … er … wanted to let you know how things were shaping up regarding Oliver and the cabinet … there’s been a bit of trouble … not serious.”

  “What trouble?” Viktor said, his face hardening.

  Zoltan described how Oliver had taken an unexpected route out of London and it wasn’t until the last moment that they realized he was heading across the channel.

  “So you are idiot as well?”

  “Why should I expect him to go in that direction?” Zoltan said nervously.

  “Zoltan, never presume to know what people are going to do! If he’s gone to France, he’s gone for a reason, and we should be following him to find out what that reason is. But the two idiots you are controlling … or supposed to be controlling … did not have their passports, so they stood on quayside and waved them good-bye!”

  “No, Father. Because they are dedicated men and prepared to take risk, they decided to ram them before the port … force Oliver off the road and confront him,” Zoltan said, swallowing, “which they did.”

  “And ruined my vehicle!”

  “No, it is unharmed. But we think Oliver had some protection.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was not alone in that car. He had two other people. One was a tall blond woman and the other was a guy. The boys said she was a Russian, and a martial arts expert.”

  Viktor remained silent, so he felt compelled to continue.

  “She took out Gus, and … and then she did the same to Bob. They weren’t expecting it, Father … our boys are not used to fighting women. She had surprise on her side … they could do nothing. They managed to get away this time.”

  There was a long pause, and then Viktor’s voice came back quieter, more measured and infinitely more menacing.

  “Zoltan, am I hearing you correctly? You just said that Oliver … that Oliver had protection?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “And they got better of our boys?”

  “Yes … so it seems … this time.”

  “Are they all right?”

  “Yes, just superficial … bad bruising, cuts. They chased them all the way to the ferry terminal after that, but … but …” Zoltan said quietly.

  “So Oliver and his protection are in France, and we don’t know where or why they’re there?” Viktor said, thinking aloud. There was another long pause.

  “Right, Zoltan, it’s obvious to me that Oliver has something big up his sleeve.”

  “Exactly what I thought,” Zoltan agreed, with a sense of relief.

  “Something that he needs to protect. Oliver is becoming more of a man these days … coming up through the ranks. Good. He must get ready to fight like an officer. If he’s away, then we will pay his ‘empty’ house in Gloucestershire a little visit and see what we can find. Sammy is unfortunately our best man for discreet break-ins, and I need him elsewhere … and those two idiots will go and get themselves caught.”

  He went silent for a moment, and Zoltan heard him thinking.

  “All right, I’m going to send him with them, but just for twenty-four hours,” he said at last. “He’s got a flight on Sunday evening, so let them know they’ll pay a heavy price if he misses it. Let’s just hope Oliver is away for a week or so; it’ll make our lives a bit easier.”

  “Okay, Father. Sorry to bring you bad news. I’ll tell the boys.”

  “Zoltan,” Viktor said firmly, “whatever Oliver is doing … it is big; I can feel it in my bones. I’ll call you when I have done some thinking.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he closed off.

  Chapter 24

  The next morning, as planned, Oliver and Melvyn arrived at Frederic’s house in a small village outside Laval a little before ten o’clock. Melvyn had never seen Oliver in such high spirits, his normally taciturn nature having given way to a torrent of conversation from the moment they left the port. Customs hadn’t so much as given them a second glance, and with this hurdle behind them, another worry had evaporated. They parked the van behind a high hedge on the street outside Frederic’s house to try and stifle his urge to inspect their cargo.

  “Just let me do the talking, Mel,” Oliver said quietly to Melvyn as they approached the front door. “We’ve got to be a little careful here.”

  They knocked, and there was the muffled shout of a woman inside. A few moments later the door flew open and Frederic stood there grinning.

  “Bonjour, Oliver!” he said, embracing him warmly on the doorstep. “And bonjour to you too, Melvyn. I don’t often have the pleasure of seeing you; Oliver likes to keep you hidden!”

  “Hi, Frederic,” Melvyn replied awkwardly.

  “Come in and have some coffee and something to eat. Where are you parked?” he said, looking quizzically over Oliver’s shoulder towards the road.

  “We’re just down there behind that hedge. I didn’t want to block the drive,” Oliver said in a carefree way.

  Frederic moved across the grass to get a peek.

  “Oh yes, I see … a Toyota, mmm … reliable, very good.”

&nb
sp; They wandered through his front door.

  “So you have nothing to show me this time, how disappointing!” Frederic said, taking a good look at Oliver.

  “I’m sorry, Frederic. Perhaps on the way back from Paris,” he said apologetically.

  “No problem … let’s get the coffee going.”

  Isabelle started gathering some cups and saucers noisily.

  “But you’ve brought a van, my friend, so you intend to use it for something, I presume?”

  “You’re quite right there!” Oliver said, looking furtive. “As I mentioned on the phone, a friend has bought a largish house near Chavenay—you know, just this side of Paris—and wants me to collect some of the pieces she doesn’t want. A couple of wardrobes, I believe, and a side table. She wasn’t very specific. Nothing of great value, but I should be able to make it worth my while plus have a little break. And Melvyn here needs a bit of time off, don’t you, Mel?”

  “Yeah, sort of,” Melvyn said, looking out of the window. “I like France.”

  “You English are buying up all our beautiful ’ouses, Oliver!” Frederic said with a chuckle. “But I don’t blame you; property is so expensive over there, especially in London. It’s gone crazy, uh? All those people crammed into such a small space! Whereas ’ere in France we still ’ave empty roads!”

  “Unfortunately, Frederic, we have a very generous welfare system over the channel which draws people from all over the world like moths to a flame,” Oliver said with a sigh. “But I think there’s a storm brewing on the horizon.”

  “Possibly,” Frederic agreed. “Let’s ’ope it doesn’t affect us too badly. Anyway, your trip sounds good … wish I was coming with you,” he said wistfully. “Nothing I like more than sifting through old ’ouses. Come on, let’s go through to my showroom and sit down. Isabelle will bring the coffee soon.” He led the way through a broad doorway.

  “And you can give me your opinion on these pieces I just bought,” he said, pulling open a drawer on a small dresser.

  They stayed with Frederic for a further hour discussing his latest purchases and the state of the antiques trade in France in general, and then bade their farewells.

  By twelve o’ clock they were back on the road and heading for their true destination, which was certainly not Chavenay. It was Troyes.

  * * *

  A few hours earlier, Fabien had awoken with a start and noticed his heart was pumping fast. He’d had a night of fitful dreams, even though he and Cecile had enjoyed a romantic evening in the Place de Republique at her favourite fish restaurant. She lay asleep in a maelstrom of crumpled sheets and pillows, breathing deeply, her auburn hair tousled like a rag doll. Her petite white bottom displayed itself cheekily in the dim morning light and made him smile as he headed quietly to the kitchen.

  But as he waited for the coffee to brew, the full enormity of his decision to aid Oliver in this, his most brazen of forgeries, flooded his mind like an electric current. This was it! The day had dawned, at the end of which he would be irrevocably involved in a crime of monstrous proportions. He looked at his hands and noticed they were trembling.

  Cecile loved him because he was an honest, upstanding man; a decent human being with a good job, who by sheer chance was the recipient of an unexpected windfall. To be blunt, Cecile loved him for someone he was not.

  She had no idea he was in cahoots with a fraudster who could at any moment get caught and ruin her future husband’s life and, by default, her own, and her children’s. Yes, he, Fabien, was the fraud! The real test must surely be whether her love for him would remain true once she was furnished with all the facts, and he doubted that. There would be no gasp of admiration followed by smouldering passion from Cecile; there would be a blazing row and a hasty farewell. No, he couldn’t tell her … not yet. That would be suicide.

  He just had to pray that Oliver knew what he was doing. At some point in the future, he would probably confess. By that time she would have grown used to the lifestyle and would be more inclined to accept his motivations; besides, she would have to admit that it had been an outstanding success and all risk of exposure was now minimal. But was it? Sometimes fraud took years to be uncovered. He looked out over the grey Parisian dawn, his face furrowed with concern as these contradictions once again raged inside his brain.

  Suddenly some slender fingers slid through the curls at the back of his head and made him jump. The sleepy, smiling face of Cecile greeted him as he turned guiltily, like a child caught doing something he shouldn’t. Standing in a short silk negligee, she looked up at him with innocent, loving eyes.

  “Bonjour, mon cheri,” she said giggling softly. “Mon tigre! The bed is chaos … what did you do to me last night!”

  “Ah, cherie! You gave me a fright! Was thinking about work; didn’t hear you sneaking up on me,” Fabien said, wrapping his arms around her and trying to appear carefree. “Yes, it was a good evening. I hope you enjoyed yourself as much as me.”

  “Enjoy myself, Fabien? What’s happened to you suddenly … so formal? Have you become all English with an iron post up your bottom! I haven’t seen you let go like that since we first started dating. You were a wild animal … and I loved every minute of it!” she said, slapping his backside.

  Fabien pulled away and began to pour the coffee.

  “Now, cherie, you’re heading to work now, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” she said with a sigh. “They’ve been so good to me at work and didn’t mind when I mentioned I’d be a little late. What time are you meeting the architect, bad boy?” she said, wriggling up against him and gazing adoringly into his face.

  “Who?” Fabien said without thinking. “Oh, the architect! Thought you said something else,” he said quickly. “Er … between ten and eleven tomorrow morning.”

  “Don’t know why I couldn’t have been there … you’re only discussing things with him at this stage. I could have got on with measuring curtains and other things. I certainly wouldn’t have eavesdropped … I want this garden house to be a surprise!”

  “I know you wouldn’t, Cherie, but … but something may have slipped out by mistake and given the game away. Besides, how often have I given you my card to go and buy some beautiful shoes, uh? Isn’t that more exciting than measuring some silly old curtains?”

  “Fabien,” Cecile said sternly, “you need to realize that curtains as well as shoes are very close to a woman’s heart and should not be treated flippantly!”

  She burst out laughing at the look on his face, and turning like a ballerina on her bare toes, disappeared back to the bedroom.

  * * *

  Tarquin felt ghastly as he manoeuvred the Voyager onto the A4 out of Reims. His head was thick from the wine and his neck was much stiffer than the previous evening. He couldn’t turn it properly and was heavily reliant on the wing mirrors. Although now clean and in a fresh set of clothes, his ear was extremely painful if he so much as brushed it by mistake.

  With the time at 12.55pm, they would arrive at Troyes somewhere around 2.30, which was much too early for their rendezvous with Oliver. But they wanted to get a feel for the geography of the place prior to his arrival so that they had a better chance of tailing him when he did show up.

  Constanta and Petru sat in the back chatting, so Percy had the front passenger seat all to himself. He stood with his back legs on the seat and his paws on the dashboard looking forward eagerly. A small globule of egg yolk hung on his whiskery black chin, the remnants of his master’s breakfast, which had been secreted back to the hotel room earlier.

  Tarquin looked ahead to the evening when they would all converge on Troyes train station. Would the red Toyota van that Constanta’s detective work had revealed show up at the right time, or had there been a change of plan since Oliver wrote his “itinerary”? Was Oliver on his own, or did he have accomplices? Who was the man, Fabien, they were meeting at the station at 6.30pm, and where had he come from? Were they getting themselves into even more danger by
closing in on this gang of fraudsters? What if they were spotted? Judging by the naked brutality he witnessed only yesterday, it seemed highly probable that all these people were of the same ilk—vicious and violent. They would think nothing of dispatching a pair of Romanians and an English oaf who stuck his neck out a little too far.

  He imagined the headlines in the local paper.

  “Three bodies found in the Foret d’Orient, badly disfigured. Police are checking dental records with missing persons in the region.”

  “You okay, darling?” Constanta said from the backseat, putting her fingertips on his shoulder. “You look a bit long in the face. If you’re worried about things, then that’s good; we need you on your toes now. Here, take these two ibuprofen tablets. They’ll make you feel a lot better and help your neck.”

  She handed them to him with a small bottle of water.

  “Okay, thanks,” he said, tossing them back without a thought and gulping some water.

  “No, I was just thinking about meeting up with these people, that’s all,” he said. “Wondering what they’ll be like … you know, whether we can carry out our plan and get photos of the cabinet and so on.”

  “Look, Tarquin, this was never going to be easy, but we’re gonna do it and we’re gonna do it well. Have faith! You have two very smart people behind you,” she chuckled. “Literally … but we will not be in the backseat, darling, we’re gonna be right beside you, kicking their arses!”

  “Speak for yourself, Constanta,” Petru chuckled. “I think I prefer backseat. You are liability!!”

  “Oh yeah? Well, let me tell you both something,” Constanta said fiercely. “When all this is finished, you’re both going to be kissing my arse!”

  She threw her head back and laughed; a deep growly laugh that seemed to demonstrate to Tarquin an innate confidence. Suddenly his mind took him back to the previous night and he saw the Cathedral of Notre Dame standing gigantically before him, the gargoyles thrusting forwards, angry and fearless against the night sky. It seemed to stand in judgement over him, like a looming intolerant member of his ancestry waiting to see if he was up to the task. He flexed his jaw and shifted slightly in his seat.