“Yuh, you’re right,” he said, his brow furrowed with anxiety. “How long will you be?”
“Perhaps an hour. Shall I get something for lunch?” she asked.
“Would you mind?” he said, pulling a note from his pocket and handing it to her.
“Thanks, darling, I’ll see you soon then.”
She disappeared onto the street, and he noticed her glancing up and down the pavement through the window.
Fifteen minutes later, Tarquin got to his feet, slapped his paper down, and grabbed Percy’s lead from a chair. Constanta wouldn’t approve, but he would not be held hostage by a pair of thugs; Percy lived for his walks. He pulled his tweed cap tightly down on his head, put on a pair of dark glasses, and for that “house occupied” quality, he switched the radio on loudly. His dog would be the give away, but he felt strangely remote, like a man watching a lion charging towards him through the lens of a camera. He locked the door thoroughly and stood on the pavement hesitantly for a few moments, as though summoning the courage to go. Then he was off, his eyes flickering nervously around him as he strode purposefully along Warriner Avenue, across Prince of Wales Drive, and into the park.
It was strange being back in London; everything seemed different, even foreign. It wasn’t home at the moment; it was a place where trouble was slowly tracking him down … a place where he felt the constant presence of adrenaline in his bloodstream. Although they’d only been away for a week, and back in London a couple of days, it seemed like a month. He had changed. He was half in love and half in fear for his life. The very ground beneath his feet had transformed to quicksand. Even Percy looked at him as a stranger.
The park was busy for August, awash with noisy, happy families enjoying a break from the constricting routines of the week. He kept to the trees and watched for pairs of men through suspicious eyes as Percy snuffled around the tree trunks and bushes. After half an hour, he was back on the street again, taking an unusual back route to his house for fear of some sort of ambush. This was just plain crazy, but he was compelled to do it.
Back at home, he shut the door with relief and double-locked it. So this was how it felt to be on the run—edgy and claustrophobic. The worst thing was that the encounter with these men was essential. Without it he would always be on the run. He was like a man who’d been diagnosed with a brain tumour. It had to be removed, but the thought of the operation filled him with foreboding; it could all go so horribly wrong.
He pondered as to whether a Bloody Mary was a good idea, but decided to wait and resumed his perusal of the newspaper to the reassuring sounds of Radio 4. Twenty minutes later, Constanta rapped impatiently on the door. Tarquin unbolted and let her in. She had a couple of plastic bags with her and marched past him to the kitchen like a purposeful housewife.
“Taken up smoking, have we, darling?” she said casually, as she started to unpack the bags.
“Smoking?” Tarquin replied from the sitting room. “I’m not with you?”
“There’s a smell of tobacco in here, Tarquin. Are you hiding something?” she said with a small giggle.
“No!” he said, wandering into the kitchen clutching the newspaper. He did some loud theatrical sniffs which made her burst out laughing.
“You fucking idiot!” she said happily. “If only you could see yourself. You’re meant to be an upstanding member of the upper class, and here you are sniffing the air like a—”
Suddenly there was an unmistakable creak on the ceiling above them. They both looked at each other.
“Where’s Percy?” she said sharply.
Tarquin glanced round the corner into the sitting room.
“He’s on the sofa fast asleep,” he said over his shoulder.
“Have you been out, Tarquin?” Constanta said in a low voice, a shadow of fear crossing her face.
“Well … just a short walk. Percy really needed—”
“Oh my fucking God! Get out of here!” she yelled.
She raced past him and into the sitting room as a man plunged down the stairs followed by another. With two rapid strides, the first man threw his full weight on Constanta before she could react, and they fell, she screaming, in a heap of arms and legs on the floor.
Tarquin flew towards the struggling bodies but was trounced by a heavy blow to his side from the knee of the second man, who came at him viciously. Tarquin yelled in rage as he hit the floor, kicking out at the bulk looming over him, catching him in the stomach. Bob groaned with the force of the kick and staggered back, whilst groping in his pocket. Then he brought it out … a grey handgun. He waved it angrily at Tarquin.
“If this is what yer want, yer fucking bastard, then it’s coming your way!” he screamed, kicking Tarquin hard. “I’ll make Swiss cheese of you yet, you piece of shit.”
Tarquin froze. The gun mesmerized him and triggered a rationality to his behaviour.
Constanta had also gone quiet, and Tarquin saw in horror that she had a knife to her throat.
There was suddenly a silence amongst the human beings in the room—a sort of tacit realization that the game was up—but this didn’t extend to the dog. No, Percy was barking hysterically from the arm of the sofa, darting in to nip Bob’s leg at every opportunity. Bob swung his foot angrily at the terrier, but his focus was firmly on Tarquin. He moved towards him with hatred in his eyes.
“Get up, Oliver! Any funny business and it’s curtains for you, my friend!” he jeered, swinging the gun menacingly in front of him and kicking him again. “I said get up!”
Tarquin got shakily to his feet.
“Go and sit in that chair … now!” Bob yelled, pointing to one placed against the wall.
Tarquin went and sat down, his eyes glazed.
Gus, who’d been whispering obscenities into Constanta’s ear as he lay on top of her, slowly gathered himself to his feet whilst holding her tightly by her hair. The blade lay flat against her neck, but with the point pressed into the soft skin.
“Such a pretty girl,” he snarled. “But we really shouldn’t go kicking strangers in the ’ead, should we? No! That’s just plain nasty. It’s so sad that this has to ’appen, but we have to learn our lessons the hard way, don’t we, my pretty Russian tart?”
He sliced through a chunk of her hair and it fell to the floor.
“And this,” he chuckled, slicing another chunk off and throwing it down. Then another … and another. Suddenly she looked misshapen … punkish. Her character was changing before Tarquin’s very eyes. Constanta was ebbing away and a street urchin was replacing her. Her eyes blazed like a snared eagle.
“Now, girl,” he said, gazing at her new look with some pride. “You go and sit in that chair. Yeah, the comfy one with the cushions. Yer know, I didn’t have to jump on yer. Could have just waved the bloody gun, but no! I wanted to squash you, you Russian bitch. I wanted to show you that yer not the Kung Fu princess yer think yer fucking are, okay?”
She walked silently over and sat down.
“Now, you need to do some explaining, don’t you? But not to us. Oh no, you have to have a little chat with the boss! And you better have some fuckin’ good reasons … oh yeah! But first we need to make sure you’re not gonna do something silly, okay, so Bob ’ere is going to tie your hands and legs together, all right?”
Bob handed Gus the revolver and then brought out a bundle of nylon ties from his jacket pocket.
“These make life so easy,” Gus smirked, waving the barrel first at Tarquin and then at Constanta. “No messy tape, just a simple tighten and you’re caught! Now no funny stuff, or I’ll fucking shoot you, okay?”
Bob crouched down and tied Tarquin’s ankles together with a forceful wrench.
“Right, cross your hands in front of yer … palms down.”
He did the same with his hands, and even though the plastic tie dug into Tarquin’s flesh, he refused to acknowledge any pain.
Then it was Constanta’s turn. She didn’t flinch.
“Right, you’re trussed
up like a pair of Christmas turkeys, so it’s time to call the big man,” Gus said, pulling out his mobile and wandering back into the kitchen. “For fuck’s sake, B, turn off the bloody radio, will yer … it’s doin’ me head in,” he shouted back.
Bob yanked the lead out and threw it on the floor.
“Yes, Z, they’re ready and waiting for your arrival,” Gus said in the background. “Yeah … yeah … okay twenty-five minutes is great. See you then.”
He sauntered back into the sitting room.
“I am not Oliver Clasper,” Tarquin said in a voice which was aiming at authoritative but ended up as a quavering croak.
“Sure you’re not!” Gus sneered. “You’re Bill Smith!”
“My name is Tarquin Stanhope,” Tarquin resumed.
“Oh my Gawd!” Gus said with a loud snort. “I’ve ’eard some goodens, but that … that’s a fuckin’ cracker!”
“Why not just go for Marmaduke, mate,” Bob added with a spiteful grin. “Go the whole hog! It’ll give the boss a reason to kick yer even ’arder!” He laughed loudly at his own joke.
“Look at my post … it’s all over there,” Tarquin said, pointing with his chin.
“Please, please, Oliver, do not take us for a pair of assholes,” Gus said with a warped smile. “Even if yer had a truck load of post with this Mr Tarquin guy’s name, it wouldn’t wash with me. For all we know, yer probably have loads of aliases. We’re grown-ups, Oliver. We know these little tricks. Don’t waste yer breath, mate.”
The room fell silent, Percy included. The fact that his master and Constanta were no longer struggling made him assume things were getting back to normal. But when Gus crouched down to stroke him, he snarled and bared a set of impressive teeth.
“Yer got a good dog there,” Gus said, straightening up. “That little animal’s got guts, and I admire that.” He went on wistfully, “Yer know what, I can’t wait to hear what you people are up to. I mean, we just do our job, but it’s always fun to hear the story unravel. I’ve ’eard that you’re into furniture, and that you’ve been making a copy of something important in your little workshop, Oliver.”
Tarquin and Constanta, with their hands tied in front of them, didn’t say a word.
“Your mistake was to use Zoltan’s idea,” Gus continued. “And that’s why he’s going to kick the shit out of yer. He gets right bitchy, he does, when he thinks he’s not getting respect. And oh my … yer both have taken the piss big time. Not calling him when he asked yer to. Not replying to his letters, which we personally have dropped through yer door.”
“If I don’t know who sent the letters, how can I reply?” Tarquin said, looking straight at Gus.
“Yer know, mate, I really feel like walloping yer right now,” Gus said angrily. “Yer sit there with yer posh fucking accent and innocent face, spewing this bullshit. I tell yer, yer got it coming, mate! B, take this and shoot them if they try it on, okay. I’m going outside for a puff in the garden. He’s winding me up.”
Bob went over to the sofa and sat down whilst keeping a wary eye on the other two.
Fifteen minutes later, Gus came into the room looking flustered.
“Yer can’t be, Z. We’re right here in the sitting room and no one’s knocked or rung,” he said, looking out of the window. “Keep watching them, B,” he said sharply to Bob.
“Yeah, yeah … number nine … what? Five? No, it’s number nine. I don’t understand, Z,” Gus said, getting more and more agitated. “We’ve got ’em ready for yer, but it’s number nine, not number five!”
Gus looked down at his screen which now showed “call ended.”
“What’s up, G?” Bob said.
“Erm … er … he’s confused, talking about number bloody five,” Gus said, his face a mask of worry. Twenty seconds later, there was a loud rap on the door.
“Watch them, Bob,” Gus said as he strode to the door.
A young blond man came into the house followed by another huge man. Percy started barking again.
“Why are you here?” Zoltan said icily to Gus.
“’Cos … ’cos this is where Oliver lives … number nine,” Gus answered nervously.
“Gus, this is not Oliver’s house. Oliver lives at number five,” Zoltan said, giving him a piercing look.
“Well … well, why is he here then?” Gus said, without understanding.
Zoltan pushed past him and into the room where he saw Tarquin and Constanta tied up.
“Who is this man?” Zoltan demanded, looking at Tarquin.
“Oliver,” Gus muttered behind him, but with rapidly diminishing confidence.
“This is not Oliver, you crazy idiot!” Zoltan yelled. “You’ve got the wrong man! I don’t know this person!”
There was a pause.
“Bob,” he said, shaking uncontrollably. “Watch these people; they mustn’t move. Gus, come with me.”
The three of them left the house and went out onto the street.
“For the love of Lenin,” Zoltan shouted uncontrollably, once they were out of earshot. “We’re in a heap of trouble here, a heap of fucking trouble, Gus!. Have you been … yes, you’ve been tracking the wrong man all this time. Oh Christ, no!”
“Keep voice down!” the huge man accompanying Zoltan ordered.
Zoltan steadied himself and tried to marshall his thoughts.
“This must … must not get back to Viktor, okay, or we’re all dead,” he stammered, his eyes fixed intensely on Gus.
“The thing is, Z, from the beginning we thought it was number nine … yer said numba nine!”
“No, Gus! I said number five!” Zoltan roared.
“Voice down!” the big man demanded again.
“Well, we both ’eard nine, and the guy had a dog. It all seemed to fit in nice,” Gus said with an apologetic flavour.
“We’ll go over this later,” Zoltan resumed, shaking with fury. “We … we now have the problem of what to do with these … these two people.”
“Well, it’s obvious, innit, without being funny or nothing, we have to … well … we have no choice,” Gus said solemnly.
Zoltan went silent and marched ahead of the other two. The man accompanying Zoltan was six-seven and massively built. Gus looked diminished next to him. They walked along the side streets that form a network between Battersea Park Road and Prince of Wales Drive, until Zoltan steered them back to the house. He pressed the bell, and Bob let them in.
“Gus, I want you and Bob to go and wait in the van so I can speak to these two alone. Well, almost alone. Sergei will stay with me.”
“Does he want this?” Bob said, proffering the revolver.
“No, he’s armed.”
Gus and Bob hurried outside, and Sergei closed the door behind them.
“Okay,” Zoltan began, turning to the captives, “we need to … er … have a discussion.”
Sergei pulled the curtains shut and settled himself onto the sofa with his own revolver on blatant display. Tarquin felt a shiver go down his spine. Was this how it was going to end? A clinical shot through each of their heads. Zoltan strode over and stood in front of them.
“You people have been mistaken for another … unfortunately,” he continued. “We have an issue with a neighbour of yours.”
“Oliver Clasper,” Constanta said crisply.
“Oh? You know him?” Zoltan said, surprised.
“We know a lot about Oliver Clasper,” Constanta resumed. “We had to make it our business to find out, because we realized early on that you thought he lived here.”
“No! I certainly did not think he lived here,” Zoltan snapped. “There has been … er … misunderstanding.”
“Whatever the reason, this man,” she gestured toward Tarquin, “has been wrongly targeted by your men. He’s been attacked by them on three separate occasions: once in Covent Garden, once on the way to France, and then an hour ago here.”
“Well, this is true, and I extend my …”
“We don’t need your
apologies,” Constanta riposted fiercely. “We want payment.”
“You want what?” Zoltan spat back, “You are in no position to demand anything!”
“In that case, you will never know where is the cabinet,” she retaliated.
“The what?” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“You heard me … the cabinet,” she continued boldly. “You mentioned it in one of your letters to Oliver … which, of course, we received.”
Zoltan paused for a few moments. This discussion was taking an unexpected turn.
“So … so you realize we want … er … there is a cabinet involved?” he said.
“Yes, we do. And we also know where it is,” she said sourly.
Zoltan looked at her quizzically. She seemed sharp and had a manner he was familiar with.
“Where are you from, your accent is not English,” he said.
“Romania,” she answered, looking at him defiantly.
“Romania … mmmm. Yes. That figures.” He looked at her … a long hard look. “Okay … let’s get talking. You’ve made some claims … I am listening.”
Constanta took a deep breath.
“Tarquin is a friend of mine,” she began. “We were out at a show in the west end a month ago, and went for a drink afterwards. At a certain time he wanted to leave and I wanted to stay, because we had met other friends. He left, and after say half an hour, I left too … to meet with these friends. But we found him beaten up on the street. He was dazed and said he’d been robbed. But nothing was missing, which was strange. I made sure I got him home and he showed me the letter … the letter presumably from you.”
“Okay,” Zoltan said, listening intently.
“As you know, that letter mentioned a cabinet. We didn’t understand what this meant. We were not even sure if you were chasing a real cabinet or an idea of a cabinet or a design of a cabinet. But I figured out that Tarquin was not who you were looking for … for a start, he is not called Oliver! So who was this man? We couldn’t contact you—there was no number or address on the letter—so what could we do? I noticed the next morning before I left, a card on the board in the kitchen—it was from an antique dealer called Oliver Clasper, who just happened to live at number five in this street. This people deal in furniture—in cabinets—so I mentioned it to him.”
The Freiburg Cabinet Page 29
