by Rob Campbell
“Shhh! Don’t make him more nervous than he already is,” I said under my breath, making sure that Lester was still out of earshot.
“Mr Hawkstone, how about we make a deal?”
“Deal, what kind of deal?” Lester responded, his eyes narrowing.
“Open up your vault, let us take a look around, and unless we find some drugs, guns or rocket launchers, we’ll leave you in peace.”
“Guns? Drugs? You think I’m some drugs kingpin?”
“I didn’t say that, sir. So how about we have a look?”
All eyes were on Lester. He seemed torn on what to do. I assumed that he didn’t want the police poking about in his vault and asking awkward questions about why he had a variety of odd objects locked behind a door that was more suited to guarding millions of pounds worth of gold. But the way that he was fretting, I began to worry that things had changed since we’d last visited and maybe he did have something sinister to hide.
“Fine,” he said finally, sounding like a petulant child that had agreed to tidy his bedroom.
“This way, sir,” said the policeman, holding out his hand. When Lester descended the steps with the senior officer, I noticed that three more policemen went with them. Frank, Monkey and I followed close behind. Lester covered his hands as he punched in the code, and the large vault door popped open.
The vault was exactly as I’d remembered it, with its wooden-framed pigeonhole arrangement that accommodated each of the objects on their own velvet cushion: objects that Lester deemed important enough to keep under lock and key until somebody in his organisation was able to give a definitive answer on whether each possessed the seemingly magical properties to change a person’s fortune. He never explained how he would go about performing such an assessment, and I wondered whether The Frenchman – the small miniature of Napoleon that had once belonged to Winston Churchill, and that Monkey had rescued in a daring rooftop raid – would stay here forever, his fate unknown.
“What is all this stuff?” asked the senior officer, gazing in wonder at the objects.
Lester was about to answer when he saw one of the constables reaching for a violin. “Don’t touch that!”
The constable immediately backed off, a sheepish look on his face – his boss giving him a withering stare.
“It’s my art collection. Most items are extremely valuable. Some are priceless,” Lester added, gazing surreptitiously at the figure of Napoleon.
“I see,” said the officer, nodding his head in understanding. He took a walk down the row of objects, stopping to look at a calculator.
“Calculators can be part of an art collection?” he threw back over his shoulder.
“You’re not into modern art then, officer?”
The policeman sighed. “If it’s not a painting, a sculpture or some piece of fine craft, then it’s not art, at least that’s what my wife says, and I don’t often disagree with her,” he added, smiling.
“Very wise,” Lester said amiably. “For the most part, I agree with your wife, but I’ve come to appreciate some, shall we say, more avant-garde pieces recently.”
“Each to their own, I suppose.” The policeman made one final sweep of the far side of the vault before stepping back through the thick steel door. “Come on, boys. The fun’s over.”
“That’s it?” Lester said, eyes wide in hope.
“For now. But we may have to call again sometime if new information comes to light.”
From where I was standing, I got an excellent view of Lester grinding his teeth. He nodded stiffly, obviously deciding that he could live with this outcome for now. The police constables filed out of the vault, but just before the spotty-faced policeman – the one who had first alerted his boss to the location of the vault – stepped out, Monkey pushed a hand into his chest, stopping him in his tracks – an impressive feat for one of such small stature.
“Are you looking to get arrested?” the young policeman said menacingly.
“I could say the same to you,” Monkey shot back, not in the least bit intimidated.
“Monkey!” I hissed, feeling a sudden embarrassment at his actions. “What are you playing at?”
“Ask him to turn out his pockets.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! You think that I’ve nicked one of these so-called pieces of art?”
“I don’t think. I know.”
“The Frenchman. It’s gone!” Lester gasped.
In the blink of an eye, the policeman had bowled Monkey over and was heading up the steps. Frank reacted quicker than everybody else, managing to catch the fleeing man by the arm as he passed. There was a brief tussle before Frank got the better of his adversary, pinning him to the ground.
“Get your hand off me!” screamed the man from his prone position. “I’ll have you arrested!” He tried to lever his body off the ground, but Frank was in the dominant position and kept him firmly in place.
“Let’s have a look in your pockets, son,” the senior officer said wearily. He reached into one pocket, coming up empty, but a surprised look crossed his face when he reached into the other pocket. He withdrew the miniature Napoleon.
“He tried to steal it. One of my priceless artefacts!” Lester was incensed. “What is the meaning of this?” he bellowed. “Call yourselves police officers? You’re nothing but common thieves!”
“I can assure you, sir, this was not part of the operation.” He looked down at the prone constable. “What’s your name, son?” But all that he received in response was a sneer. He turned to one of the other constables. “Wilson, is this man with you?”
“Don’t know him, sir. I thought he was with you.”
“Lawrence?”
“Never seen him before, sir,” came the response from another constable.
Whilst the senior officer was busy arresting the impostor and reading him his rights, I helped Monkey off the floor. “Are you okay, Monkey?”
“I think so,” he winced. “Probably have a bruise on my backside in the morning though.” He dusted off his black jeans.
“Seems like you were in the right place at the right time once again, young Master Arkwright,” said Lester gratefully, shaking Monkey’s hand.
The police left soon afterwards, the officer in charge promising to do everything in his power to get to the bottom of the matter. Lester stood on the steps in front of his mansion, staring impassively at the convoy of police vehicles as they departed, the sound of their wheels crunching on the gravel of the driveway, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.
“I don’t need them to get to the bottom of this. It’s got Charles Gooch written all over it.”
Lester had a point. It did seem to fit with Gooch’s usual method: hire a local thug to do his dirty work. That way, if it went wrong, it would be difficult for the authorities to trace back to him. It didn’t seem like much of a plan on the face of it, but if it hadn’t been for Monkey’s observant eye, Gooch would have pulled it off.
“I want the Reverend back here ASAP,” Lester said to Frank.
“But I thought that he was—”
“I don’t care,” snapped Lester. “He needs to finish up his investigation into this so-called lucky umbrella and get back here sharpish. Can you see to it, Frank?”
“Consider it done.”
Whilst Frank headed off to make the call, Lester beckoned us into his study. After pouring himself a neat brandy, he finished it in two gulps. He was halfway through pouring a second measure when he turned to us. “Did you want anything to drink?” he asked as if we’d just arrived and he was offering us a complimentary drink.
“No, we’re fine, really,” I assured him. “But there is something that we need to discuss.”
“I’m sorry about all of this business. Not what I had in mind tonight.” He settled into the chair behind his mahogany desk, motioning for Monkey and me to sit opposite. We pulled up a couple of padded chairs that stood against the far wall.
“Now, what can I help you with?” he sa
id, his elbows resting on the desk’s polished surface.
“Did Frank tell you about the other night, at the theatre?”
“Yes,” Lester replied, his mood improving somewhat. “From what I hear, good old Henry Bannister-Reeves made a splendid speech on the subject of this Abram chap.”
“I wasn’t talking about that,” I replied, getting the nagging suspicion that Frank may not have told Lester what had happened. “I meant the man he chased out of the theatre.”
Lester looked confused, confirming my earlier thought. “Chased out of the theatre?”
“He says that he recognised somebody who was there, somebody who used to work for your organisation.”
“Said his name was Dylan Fogg,” Monkey added, beating me to the punchline.
“Dylan Fogg,” Lester repeated robotically, slowly easing back into his chair. “Now there’s a name that I haven’t heard for a few years.”
“So you do know him then?” Monkey pressed.
“Oh yes. I certainly know Dylan Fogg.” Lester’s tone suggested that not only did he know the man, but his very name conjured up some disturbing memories.
At least he wasn’t denying anything. I half expected the shutters to come down – a swift denial before he shifted the conversation to firmer ground. I looked Lester directly in the eye, “Frank says that the two of you had some falling out. When was this?”
“About five years ago. I remember it well.”
“Is he dangerous?”
Lester seemed to consider my question for a moment. “Not like Charles Gooch, but maybe in his own way. Let’s just say that he was too big for his boots.”
“How did he come to work for you?” I asked, changing tack.
“Recruited him straight out of university. One of the smartest guys I ever employed, no question about that. But he had trouble concentrating after a time. I’d give him a task, he’d finish in double-quick time, but then he kept pushing for more info – always wanted to be three steps ahead of where he was.”
“Frank says that he worked in your data centre.”
“Yes, he did. But sitting in front of a computer, sifting through bits of information, didn’t seem to be enough for young Mr Fogg.” Lester laughed bitterly. “He kept coming to me and the Reverend with his big ideas – said he wanted more fieldwork.”
Monkey looked confused. “Field work?”
“He doesn’t mean working in a field, Monkey. He means getting out and about, talking to people, going here and there.”
“A pretty good description of our Mr Fogg, Miss Bryson.” Lester shook his head sadly. “In the end, I had to let him go, for his own good, and for the good of the organisation.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that he was getting in way above his head. For one, I was worried that the kind of information he was asking for would put our mission in grave danger. Then there was his health to consider. He began looking more drawn, pale, sickly. In short, he was obsessed.”
“Obsessed?”
“Obsessed, possessed, call it what you will. This whole idea about the pieces of heaven and the Wardens of the Black Heart – it’s a lot to take in. I have to say that you and Monkey seem to have coped better than most. It’s one of the reasons why I’ve confided so much in you.” He smiled across at us, and Monkey smiled back.
“But Dylan Fogg.” He shook his head once more. “Let’s just say that his departure was acrimonious.”
“Before, when you said that you were sure that Charles Gooch was behind all this, you don’t think that there’s any possibility that this Dylan Fogg might be involved?”
If Lester thought that this was the case, he did a good job of hiding it. “I don’t think so. This has the foul stench of Charles Gooch.” Lester drummed his fingers together in front of him, seemingly lost in thought. “Dylan Fogg. I wonder what he’s been up to?”
I looked at Monkey, who simply shrugged his shoulders. On the surface, Lester seemed quite open about his parting of the ways with Dylan Fogg, but when I thought about what he’d said, he hadn’t really given much away. There was definitely something more to this than he was telling, but it would have to wait until another day. I decided that now Lester had recovered from the unexpected police raid earlier, it was probably a good time to broach the subject of Victoria Halfpenny getting a look at his Abernathy paintings.
“Lester, you know you said that Abernathy was not that well known?”
“Hmmmm?” he replied as if I’d distracted him from a more important task.
“Abernathy – he doesn’t have too many paintings in galleries.”
“That’s right. One in Scotland, a couple in London, but that’s about it. Why do you ask?”
I told Lester about my local history project and how the conversation with Victoria had moved onto other under-appreciated artists, including Abernathy. “She seems to know a lot about his work but claims that she’s never seen any of his paintings in the flesh. She wants to know whether she can come and see the ones in your collection.”
“Extraordinary. It’s not often you run into true fans of Abernathy’s work. Maybe she knows something that might be of use in our little investigation.” I got the feeling that Lester wasn’t referring to some specific detail of the hunt for Abernathy’s pieces of heaven – The Sun or The Truth – rather he meant some nugget of information that may be useful somewhere along the line. I’d had the same thought when I’d first discussed the matter with my teacher.
“She’s very keen,” I pleaded when Lester didn’t provide a definitive yes or no immediately.
“Why not? She does sound like a keen student of art, and I’m always glad to meet a fellow Abernathy enthusiast!” he beamed. “What was her name again?”
“Victoria Halfpenny.”
“Victoria Halfpenny,” he said, stroking his chin. “The name doesn’t ring a bell, but I’d be delighted to meet her.”
Chapter 14
Not for the first time, Gooch was second-guessing himself. What he thought had been a simple and straightforward plan had turned out to be a dumb plan, or maybe the person he’d picked to implement it was dumb. Either way, the result was the same; his so-called expert was now in police custody, no doubt trying to explain why he’d posed as a police officer and tried to steal a seemingly insignificant toy soldier.
Gooch scratched at his hand, just beyond the point where his glove covered the skin. He had to stretch the leather so that he could rough up the area that felt irritated, but no matter how much he dug his nails in, the feeling refused to subside.
It flared up from time to time, particularly in moments of increased tension, and he had long since accepted that he’d have to live with the sensation for the rest of his life. It was a feeling that he’d lived with for more than eighty years now.
--- Charles Gooch, 1929 ---
“So, you want me to be a bagman?” Gooch commented sourly.
They were back in the smoky card room, Turnbull having poured both himself and Gooch another Scotch. The others had stayed outside, leaving the two of them to discuss whatever came next. Turnbull obviously found the situation amusing, but now that he’d recovered from the ordeal in the cellar, Gooch was beginning to feel a creeping resentment.
“I wouldn’t drag you all the way across the city for something so base, Charles. What do you take me for?”
“What’s this all about?” He gestured at the briefcase, which he still held. “I thought you were a doctor. This doesn’t feel very much like a surgery,” he added, sweeping out his arm to take in the room.
“Things change. New opportunities present themselves, new compulsions,” Turnbull said as he settled in the seat opposite. He heaved a contented sigh whilst staring at Gooch as if weighing up something of importance. His next words were uttered in the hushed tone of a conspirator.
“We go back a long way, right? You obviously need my help, and to be honest, I could do with a friendly face that I know I can trust.”
“Your business is in trouble, you need bailing out. In short, you’re a desperate man.”
“So you keep telling me.” If Turnbull thought that a desperate man was what he needed, Gooch didn’t relish the prospect of doing whatever it was that he would be asked to do. “What do you want me to do?”
“Go home. Spend time with your family. I’ll call you when I need you.”
“That’s it?” Gooch didn’t like the proposed arrangement. He’d rather know what he was getting into now and not have to stew over it for days or weeks. “What about my business?”
“It’ll all be taken care of. Don’t worry about it.”
At this point, Turnbull reached into his pocket, removing something and placing it on the table between them. A gold ring. “I had a feeling you’d be joining our group, so I took the liberty of having it engraved.”
Gooch picked up the ring from the table, examining it closely. The engraving was on the inside of the band: Charles Gooch, 1929.
“It’s real gold, but don’t get any ideas about selling it. It symbolises your commitment to the cause.”
“The cause?”
“And you’ll need to get a tattoo at some stage, but don’t worry about that for now.”
Gooch held his hands out in exasperation. “I don’t understand, Daniel. I’m not sure about all this.”
“Too late now. You’ve signed a contract.”
“What? I’ve not signed a contract.”
“Well, not in the traditional sense, but in a manner of speaking, yes. Of course, if you’re unhappy with the terms, we could always go back down to the cellar and discuss the matter further.” Turnbull raised his eyebrows meaningfully.
Gooch thought back to the stygian darkness of that space, the unusually cold draft and the disembodied voice. He swallowed dryly, easing the collar away from his neck with his right hand. “What about the briefcase?” he asked, feeling a sudden urge to change the subject.
