‘Frankie?’
Not Isabella. But he recognized the woman’s South African accent straight away.
‘Viollet Coetzee,’ he said. ‘And to what do I owe this dubious pleasure?’
‘Dubious? Well, that’s not very friendly,’ she said. ‘But perhaps I’m to blame, eh? Because maybe what I should really be doing is whistling . . .’
‘You what?’
‘To make you come. I don’t mean sexually, you understand. I mean like a dog. Because that’s what Dougie says he’s done . . . trained you to heel.’
‘How about you just get to the fucking point.’
‘Tut tut.’ This from Xandra. She was pointing to the jam jar next to the till that she’d Sellotaped a note to, saying, ‘F-ing Frankie’s F-ing Swear Box: All Proceeds To The F-ing Staff’s F-ing Xmas Outing’.
‘The fucking point,’ Viollet’s voice crackled down the line, ‘is that you need to get your arse down to the Royal Academy to meet Mr Hamilton.’
‘The where?’ Had Frankie heard right?
‘The Royal Academy.’
‘As in the art place?’
‘The very same. And now . . .’
‘As in now now?’
‘Oh, yes, as in exactly then. He’s waiting for you there already. Oh, and Dougie said to wear something smart. I think his exact words were, as if you had a real job.’
What a bellend. Frankie put the phone down. Didn’t bother with a goodbye. Just because her boss got to treat him like shit, it didn’t mean she got to rub his nose in it too.
He tried to breathe deep, to push his heartbeat down.
‘You OK?’ Xandra asked.
‘Yeah, yeah, sure.’ But he wasn’t, was he? Because why did Dougie want him there? What was he going to order him to do?
5
Frankie was sweating like a pig on a spit as he walked down Piccadilly in the blazing sunshine ten minutes later on his way to the Royal Academy. He probably looked about as happy as well. The skin on the backs of his hands was the colour of crackling. His whole body felt like it was burning up.
Still, at least he was feeling better than Spartak, who him and Jack had just wrestled into the Old Man’s dressing gown, which had been the only thing big enough to fit him, before sticking him in a cab to go home and sleep it off.
Frankie passed Hatchards bookshop. Some paperback called Into Thin Air was stacked high in the window around a giant photo of a snow-covered mountain. Alongside was a poster advertising that new kids’ book, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, which Xandra said was so good that even adults were reading it. Frankie sighed. He could have done with being magicked away from here himself. Or even a frozen mountaintop would be preferable to whatever it was Dougie Hamilton had in store.
He ducked into Fortnum’s a couple of doors down. He was already running late, but screw it. A man had to eat and, thanks to Viollet’s call, he was now missing out on Slim’s gourmet cheese and tomato toasties, goddammit. He grabbed himself a pork pie at the deli counter. Well, a venison and cranberry pie, at least. Fortum’s never did anything by half. He bagged himself a brace of their Scotch eggs to take away too. Slim’s favourite. He’d once told Frankie they’d even been invented here.
Leaning up against the wall outside, he scoffed down one of the Scotch eggs. A poster on a billboard opposite caught his eye. Oasis’s new album, Be Here Now. A Rolls sinking into a swimming pool. Another poster next to it was advertising some big new modern art show coming to the Royal Academy. Sensation, it was called. Underneath the word was a photo of what looked like a giant shark, of all bloody things, in a tank.
And just like that – boom – Dougie Hamilton was snapping away back in his head again . . . telling him to sit, telling him he had sources, cops on the inside who could still reopen an investigation into Frankie if Dougie just gave them the word. Shit the bloody bed, he had to somehow get that ruddy pistol back.
A mix of tourists and art students was already funnelling in and out through the arched stone entrance of Burlington House, the RA’s main building. A bunch of lorries were parked up on the pavement outside with covered crates of all shapes and sizes being unloaded and carried in by teams of workers. Two cop vans were parked alongside, with several coppers watching on. A proper show of force. Whatever was inside those cases must be worth a mint.
Frankie kept his head down as he walked past. God only knew what Dougie Hamilton had dragged him here for, but he doubted it was anything as above board as cultural enlightenment. And plenty of cops round here already knew his face, from what had happened to both his brother and his dad.
Frankie clocked Viollet straight away in the inner courtyard. She was sunning herself on one of the benches, all shiny black hair and shades, like Uma Thurman on her date night with Travolta in Pulp Fiction.
‘You’re late,’ she told him, as he sat down beside her, not even turning to look at him.
‘I stopped to get some food.’ He offered her the Fortum’s bag. A friendly gesture. The last thing she’d be expecting, right? Might even crack that cool, calm exterior of hers, and maybe even reveal a weakness or two. ‘Scotch egg?’ he asked, shooting her his warmest smile.
‘I’m vegan.’
‘And there was me thinking you were from Mars . . .’
Another flash of mutual recognition in her eyes? No way to tell with those shades. ‘You should work on your one-liners,’ she said.
‘And you on your smile.’
Still nothing. He could have been talking to a shop dummy.
‘Hmm,’ he said, biting into one of the Scotch eggs. ‘This one’s made with black pudding. That’s congealed pig blood, in case you were interested.’
There . . . stick that in your vegan pipe and smoke it. But again . . . nothing. Squinting up at the sun, he loosened his white shirt collar beneath his black suit.
‘You’re sweating,’ she said. ‘Not nervous, are you?’ Ah. So it was her turn now to try and press his buttons, was it?
‘Just hot.’
‘This isn’t hot.’
‘No?’
‘You should try Joburg this time of year.’
‘That an offer?’
‘Just some friendly travel advice.’ She sounded annoyed. Why? Because she’d let their conversation slip into chat?
‘I didn’t know you did friendly,’ he said. ‘Although . . .’
‘Although what?’
Time to give that cage of hers another rattle and see what fell out. ‘Just that I couldn’t help noticing you with Dougie . . . in the back of that car outside the Paradise. You two seemed . . . how shall I put this? Snug.’
‘You talk too much.’
A trace of irritation in her voice But why? Because what he’d spotted between them was secret? Or something more complex than that?
‘You’re not the first person to tell me that,’ he said. ‘They used to call me motor mouth as a kid. But don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.’
No reply. But that in itself was enough. Because she hadn’t contradicted him, had she? Meaning he was right about what he’d already guessed – that the two of them would be spending a lot more time together, like it or not, before whatever this deal with Dougie was done.
‘This way,’ she said, standing up. In her heels, she was taller than him. And in her black skirt and jacket every inch as smart as their sophisticated surroundings.
Frankie followed her as she set off for the entrance.
‘So are you going to tell me what this is about?’ he asked.
‘All good things come to those who wait.’
Good things? Fat chance. Frankie could already tell from the glint in her eyes, as they entered the cool of the building and she took off her shades, that whatever was about to go down here was bad. And not as in Michael Jackson bad either. Not as in cool. But as in real bad. Rotten to the core. And more than likely highly detrimental to his health.
*
‘What time do you call this then?’ de
manded a posh City boy voice.
Dougie Hamilton was sitting on an ornate stone bench in the oddly poky entrance of the Royal Academy, beneath an ancient, threadbare tapestry and in between two decapitated Roman marble busts. The place was already buzzing with a hum of voices. A steady flow of tourists and students filing back and forth between the various galleries and staircases beyond. Dougie was sporting pale suede loafers, a white suit and a panama hat with a black band. Who did he think he was? The man from bleedin’ Del Monte?
‘Eleven forty-five,’ he answered instead.
‘Forty-seven,’ said Dougie, glancing up through his big black sunglasses at a great big grandfather clock near the bottom of the stairs. ‘Next time someone telephones you on my behalf, you need to think of it as a dog whistle that’s been blown, do you understand?’
Frankie was half tempted to tell him to fuck off. Because the twat with the bat wasn’t here now, was he? But maybe that was the point. With that Browning Hi-Power pistol in his possession, Dougie didn’t need thugs any more to make Frankie do what he said.
‘I’ll take your retarded silence as a yes,’ Dougie said, adjusting the brow of his panama. Leaving his empty takeaway coffee cup down on the bench, he got up. ‘Right then, Fido, time to take you for a little walk.’
On all fours? But, no, it seemed like for now at least Dougie was content for Frankie to remain vertical, as he set off without looking back. Which was just as well, because, pistol or no pistol, Frankie wasn’t sure how much more of this he could handle, and the only canine action he felt like performing right now was cocking his leg all over this smug little bastard’s sockless ankles.
‘No, not you,’ Dougie said, as Viollet fell into step beside them. ‘You go and enjoy the sunshine. I’ll come find you when we’re done.’
Turning on her heels, she headed for the exit. Interesting. So it seemed like Frankie wasn’t the only one Dougie had at the end of a leash.
‘Excuse me, sir. I think you’ve forgotten something?’ A security guard had just stepped in front of him and Dougie, blocking their path.
‘Who, me?’ Dougie glared at the guard as though he must have mistaken him for somebody else.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Over there. On the bench.’
Dougie glanced back at his drained coffee cup and the remnants of his Pret A Manger sandwich like he’d never seen them before, then turned his head to face the security guard again.
‘No,’ he said, ‘you’re mistaken.’
Dougie made to walk on, but the guard just blocked him again. He was late-sixties, tough-looking, with a long, curved half-moon scar on his neck. An impasse. Dougie’s cheeks flushed with annoyance. But Frankie just smiled. Go on. Do it. Make him pick it up.
‘I said you’re mistaken,’ Dougie repeated, taking off his shades.
Only this time, instead of blocking him again, the guard just moved aside, his cheeks reddening. What the hell?
‘In that case, please accept my apologies then, sir,’ he said, staring down at his shoes.
Dougie walked on. ‘My father always told me to stand my ground,’ he said, ‘no matter what, and to get your way, even if that means telling someone that black is white. Because most people, they’ll back down, because most people, no matter how hard they think they are . . .’ He glanced sidelong right into Frankie’s eyes. ‘. . . they don’t really want to fight.’
Yeah, most people, you arrogant bastard, but not me. Just you wait until I get my mitts on that gun. Then we’ll see who backs down.
Dougie reached a doorway marked ‘Tibor Gallery’. The entrance was roped off with a sign saying that cleaning was in progress, but Dougie just unclipped the rope and let it fall. ‘Don’t worry,’ he told Frankie, ‘I’m friends with Crispin Entwistle. He’s the Director of Artistic Development here.’
Huh. So that was probably more likely why the security guard had let him off, because maybe he’d seen Dougie here before with this Entwistle geezer. Frankie followed Dougie into the gallery. Polished wooden floors. Classical sculptures. What looked like seriously old oil paintings covering the walls. And no one in here but them.
‘As part of my initial investigation into you,’ Dougie said, walking on, ‘I learned that you’d been in the middle of an art A-level when your father got arrested.’
Frankie nodded. He’d even used to come here on school trips, before dropping out after the Old Man had been nicked.
‘And?’
‘And I’m guessing that, as part of that course, you would have studied art history?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Including classical artists like those currently being exhibited here?’
‘Maybe.’
‘As well as more modern artists too?’ he said as they walked on.
‘I suppose.’
‘Like who?’
Frankie thought back. That whole part of his life – school, art, the person he’d been, the life he’d hoped to have – it felt now as though it had belonged to somebody else.
‘Dalí,’ he said. ‘Picasso, Lichtenstein, Warhol . . .’
‘As recent as pop art then,’ Dougie said. ‘And what about the market? Did you learn anything about how the modern art market works?’
‘No, it was more just stuff about the artists themselves and the techniques they used.’
‘All well and good,’ Dougie said, ‘but it’s the contemporary art market I want to talk to you about today. I take it you do know what contemporary means?’
‘Recent,’ Frankie said.
‘Yes, but how recent?’
‘I don’t know. Last year. Last month?’
‘Go on.’
‘Yesterday . . .’
Dougie nodded at him to continue.
‘Even today?’
‘Correct. And even tomorrow too. And that’s kind of why we’re here, Frankie. Not just because of where the contemporary art market’s at right now, but because of where we want it to be.’
We . . . Frankie slowly shook his head. There was no we. Dougie Hamilton had always been, was now and always would be a them. Frankie felt the sweat start to prickle on his skin. What was this all about? Where was the sting?
‘You see, Frankie, putting a current market price on an old piece of art, like this Van Eyck here, it’s comparatively easy, because we know what someone paid for it the last time it was put up for sale and what it’s insured for.’
‘Right.’
‘But deciding the price of a truly contemporary piece of art, by which I mean something so brand new that it’s never even been seen in public before, that’s not so easy. So what do you think an art dealer does there? How do you think they decide on what price should be set?’
Frankie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Just chuck out a number and see if anyone’s mug enough to pay it?’
Dougie smiled. ‘Not quite. Because whatever number they do decide on, it needs to be realistic, by which I mean a number that somebody actually might pay. Or else the sale will be considered a failure and the artwork in question a dud. So how do you think they decide that? What do you think that would depend on?’
‘I suppose how good it was . . .’
‘Spot on. But who decides if something is good or not? Or how good it is?’
‘I dunno. Critics?’
‘Yes, but not just them. Getting the right art dealer to handle the sale can make or break a young artist’s reputation too. Being collected by the right collector can do the same. It’s all about perception, you see. All about getting so-called experts to endorse something. And then there’s who’ll show your work . . . which galleries, and museums and venerable artistic historical institutions, like this.’
Dougie led Frankie out of the gallery and across another hallway to a further roped-off doorway with uniformed security guards either side. He presented a laminated ID card and the elder of the two guards inspected it, before unclipping the rope and waving them through. Meaning Dougie really was connected here then. They passed
a large sign saying that photography was strictly prohibited.
‘Welcome to the beating heart of the contemporary art scene,’ Dougie said.
Frankie gawped. Hard not to. Because, what the hell? It was like he’d just stepped into some kind of mad, messed-up dream. Or nightmare.
‘They’re calling it Sensation,’ Dougie said, with a dramatic wave of his arm.
‘No kidding,’ Frankie said, because, yeah, he could see where they – whoever they were – were coming from on that, all right. Because his own senses were reeling. Blam. A massive head on a wall with its top missing. Blam. A bunch of naked shop dummies glued together wearing trainers. Blam. Blam. Blam. Even what looked like an unmade bed in a corner. All by artists he’d never heard of. Rachel Whiteread, Damien Hirst, Richard Patterson, Jake and Dinos Chapman, Chris Ofili.
‘This place is mental,’ Frankie said, but he was smiling too. Because it wasn’t just crazy, all this stuff, some of it was pretty funny too. And pretty beautiful in its own way. And pretty cool.
‘You like it?’ Dougie said.
‘Some of it. Some of it I . . . just don’t bloody get at all. Oh, shit, look.’ He pointed over at where a couple of blokes in white overalls had just finished pulling a massive dust sheet off a giant perspex box. ‘It’s that bloody shark.’
‘You know Hirst’s work?’ A look of mild surprise and pleasure crossed Dougie’s face.
‘Who? What, no, it’s just that I’ve see a picture of it before.’ On the billboard outside.
‘The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living,’ Dougie said, standing beside him.
‘You what?’
‘That’s what it’s called.’
‘Say that again.’
Dougie did. And, yeah, Frankie got it. Because it kind of made sense, didn’t it? Because it didn’t look dead. Not really. Sure, not alive, but not dead either. Too . . . somehow alert, like at any second now it might flick back into life and suddenly smash free. Frankie walked around it, his heartbeat racing as he stared into the creature’s pitiless eyes. But it wasn’t just the shark’s eyes he felt on him. It was Dougie’s too. Boring into him from his half-reflection in the perspex. Every bit as predatory and cold.
The Break Page 6
