by Rob Campbell
“Nobody home,” Sal replied, either ignoring Gooch’s sarcasm, or more likely, missing the point spectacularly. He walked through the open door, beckoning Gooch after him. Once inside the dingy office, Sal immediately made his way over to the window. “Here’s a good place,” he announced, tapping the surface of a small metal table, which was level with the window frame. A sad-looking vase of withered flowers stood in the centre of the table.
“The flowers?” Gooch asked, confused.
Sal shook his head. “Open the briefcase.”
Gooch stared down apprehensively. Although he was trying hard to forget, the violent aftermath of the last time that he’d opened it was the only thing he was able to think about when he looked at the briefcase.
“It’s fine. Trust me,” soothed Sal, in a voice that was incongruous for a large Italian mobster who likely weighed in at nearly three hundred pounds.
“Why?”
“That paperweight that we took from here last week.”
“The one shaped like a carrot?”
“No, the one shaped like my grandmother’s butt. Have we taken any other paperweights recently?”
Gooch shrugged. Maybe Sal did have a sense of humour after all. When he didn’t move, Sal grabbed his arm. “Once you do this thing a first time, it’ll get easier.”
Gooch nodded back, feeling that he had no choice. Taking a deep breath, he snapped open the clasp, prised the jaws of the briefcase apart and gingerly reached inside. To his surprise, nothing happened, and he soon closed his hand around the paperweight. He withdrew it as fast as he could and closed the briefcase.
In truth, it was just an ugly piece of limestone, but Big Sal had been insistent that they risk getting caught by the night watchman to remove it. It had languished in the briefcase for the past week, and he had felt the vibrations coming from within as he’d carried it to work and back.
“On the table,” Sal instructed.
When Gooch placed the paperweight next to the vase, Sal leaned down to ensure it was near the back of the table. As he was straightening up, his fedora fell off his head, onto the carpet. Sal reached to pick it up and slipped it back on his head.
“Can’t lose my lucky hat,” he said with a grin.
* * *
Gooch read the newspaper headline with a mixture of amazement and self-loathing.
The man had only been thirty and had been going about his business when a piece of limestone had fallen out of the sky and killed him on the spot. The report went on to say that it had all been some tragic accident. Apparently, a janitor in the seventh-floor office of Randolph Capital had been dusting and had accidentally knocked a piece of limestone off a table, causing it to tumble out of the window and onto the street below.
Or more precisely, onto Jeffrey Callaghan’s head. In a city with a rising death toll, the matter had been dealt with swiftly by the coroner, and his death had been categorised as a freak accident.
He placed the newspaper slowly down on the table. “You knew this would happen,” he said to Turnbull. “Just like you knew the Wall Street Crash would happen.”
Turnbull simply spread his hands and gave a sickly smile. “It’s the way it works, Charles.”
“Basically, you’re on a mission to spread misery? Turn every bit of good fortune into something bad?”
“That paperweight had brought a lot of good fortune to the guy that had had it in his office for five years. It made him a fortune. And he married his secretary, who is thirty years younger than him.”
“What’s that got to do with poor Jeffrey Callaghan?”
“An innocent caught in the crossfire.”
“It’s sick!” Gooch snarled.
“I didn't hear you complaining when I saved your business!” Turnbull snapped.
It was a fair point, but whilst Turnbull could live with this apparent random slaughter because it evened out previous good luck, Gooch was having a harder time accepting it.
* * *
“Charles!”
Gooch snapped out of his reverie. For what must have been the hundredth time today, he’d been thinking about Jeffrey Callaghan. He’d been thinking about an ugly lump of limestone and Turnbull’s unholy mission. He looked up at Adele.
“That’s the third time I’ve asked. What’s got into you?”
“What?” he mumbled.
“You’ve not touched your chicken.”
“I’m not hungry,” he said, pushing his plate away.
His wife sighed heavily.
Milly looked at her father and then at her mother. “What’s wrong with Daddy?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. He’s been very grumpy these last few weeks.”
Gooch went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. He took a long, slow drink, staring out of the kitchen window into the city beyond. It might have been his imagination, but it seemed a little darker than it had ever done before. He drained the rest of the water before walking swiftly through the dining room, ignoring the two pairs of eyes that followed him – Max was more interested in his chicken and potatoes – and into the bedroom.
Shutting the door behind him, he was aware of Milly’s sobs and the soothing sounds of his wife trying to comfort their daughter.
He knew what he had to do to make this right. It was the only way.
He put on his hat and coat, and reaching into the wardrobe, he removed the briefcase before striding purposefully back into the dining room.
“I need to go to the office for an hour,” he announced.
“It’s five past eight,” Adele said incredulously. “Can’t it wait until morning?”
“I’m sorry, I’m afraid it can’t,” he replied stiffly, sounding like he was addressing some client.
“So, you’re going to leave us like this.” It was more of a statement than a question. Adele hugged Milly, who continued to sob into her mother’s cardigan.
“I won’t be long.”
* * *
All he had to do was let go.
Gooch stood on the Michigan Avenue Bridge, his gloved hand holding that infernal briefcase out over the freezing waters that ran below. Knowing what it held, what it symbolised, and the misery that he’d helped impart in the brief time that he’d carried it was almost too much to bear.
Almost.
He’d walked purposefully through the city, determined to end this nightmare, yet when he came to the crucial moment, he couldn’t let go. He just stood there like some ridiculous statue, offering a sacrifice to the Chicago River that he would never be able to give.
After two minutes, the ache had made its way from his mangled hand and up his arm. To drop it now would be a sweet relief, yet still, he could not will his fingers to relax enough to let go of the handle and send the briefcase to the bottom of the river where it belonged.
Whether he was losing his mind, or there was something in Turnbull's words, he could not say for sure. But it was only when a voice inside his head directed him to withdraw the briefcase that he finally eased it back over to the pedestrian side of the rail and walked home.
When he arrived, the house was dark, everybody in bed. He curled up on the sofa and sobbed himself to sleep, the briefcase by his side.
Chapter 19
As I got out of the car, I couldn’t help but notice the look of awe on Victoria’s face. By now, Monkey and I had become used to the grandeur that greeted visitors as their cars swept up the gravel driveway to arrive outside Lester Hawkstone’s house. Somehow, I’d become immune to the spectacle of the perfect lawns, well-tended shrubbery and the elaborate façade, but given that I could still remember our first visit here, I had a pretty good idea how my teacher was feeling.
“It’s beautiful!” she proclaimed, turning in a slow circle to take in the sheer spectacle of her surroundings. Her mouth hung open for a few seconds as if further comment was some difficult task that was beyond her ability. “Thank you for the ride, Mr Norton,” she finally managed.
“Pl
ease, call me Frank.” Victoria smiled back, walking slowly towards the steps at the front of the house, giving the impression that rushing would lessen the experience. “Mr Hawkstone is expecting you.”
Frank watched her take the steps one at a time. Looking at the high heels that she’d chosen for this evening, I didn’t blame her for taking it easy. One false step could easily lead to a broken ankle. When he caught me staring at him watching Victoria ascend the steps, Frank gave a nervous cough, as if embarrassed.
“She’s quite something,” he said. “Is she seeing somebody?” he added hopefully.
“I don’t know.” The thought hadn’t occurred to me. But I could understand Frank’s interest. At school, she was always well presented, but tonight she seemed to have made an extra effort: a smart blouse, a skirt just above the knees, plenty of red lipstick and hair that shimmered under the light that spilled from the glass-fronted house. It seemed a bit much for what was effectively a chance to look at some old paintings on a rainy Wednesday evening, but maybe she felt somehow intimidated at being invited to the house of a famous millionaire.
We walked up the steps after Victoria, the scent of her lemon perfume hanging in the cool evening air. Lester was waiting in the hallway as we arrived at the front door.
“Miss Halfpenny, I presume?”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr Hawkstone.”
“Lester, please,” he replied, echoing Frank’s earlier instruction.
“And you should call me Victoria. Not Vicky, mind,” she added in a mock serious tone.
Victoria offered her hand, which Lester kissed theatrically. Monkey stifled a snigger, causing Lester to look up sharply, but if he was annoyed, he quickly hid the fact, busily engaging in small talk with his new guest. He led us into his plush lounge and wasted no time in serving drinks.
“So, Lorna here tells me that you are a keen student of Abernathy,” Lester said.
Victoria smiled demurely, angling her face downwards. “Well, I wouldn’t say student. I appreciate his works.”
“Late or early period?”
“Late is my favourite. His landscapes and buildings. I’m only interested in his early work for completeness sake. Portraits of pottery and studies of flowers are not really my thing, to be honest.” She looked up then, seemingly worried that she might have said the wrong thing. “Of course, if you prefer the pottery—”
“Nonsense,” Lester put in. “You’ve taken the words right out of my mouth. His landscapes are my favourite too. In fact, I’ve selected a couple of his later works for your perusal.” With that, Lester casually reached down by the side of the coffee table, withdrawing a painting and offering it to a startled Victoria.
“That’s pretty small,” Monkey commented.
He was right. When people talked about paintings, I imagined a broad canvas that could sit above a grand fireplace, but the piece that Lester had passed to my teacher was roughly the size of a small TV screen. Watching Victoria was like watching a small child receive a precious gift. She held the frame delicately as if she was afraid of breaking it. Her eyes widened slightly and moved slowly from left to right and then back again, drinking in the image portrayed on the canvas in front of her.
“The Barn at Brent Fold,” she cooed reverently. “Eighteen Fifty-Nine?”
“Eighteen Fifty-Eight,” Lester corrected. “But you’ve got a keen eye. That’s one of his lesser-known works – I’m impressed that you recognised it immediately.”
“I’ve seen it in a book at one of the libraries at Oxford University. I remember the image of the milkmaid coming around the corner of the barn, and the man chopping wood in front,” she explained, pointing out the details with her finger. “It captures the time and place so well, don’t you think?”
“Indeed,” was all Lester said.
To me, it looked like any other canvas that you might see in an old second-hand shop or on the wall of some family dining pub that was mocked up to look like an old coach house.
“What do you think, Lorna?” Victoria asked, passing the portrait across to Monkey and me for closer scrutiny.
“It’s… a nice picture,” I replied. I stared down at the painting, trying to hide my shame at not being able to conjure some more suitable words, but art wasn’t really my thing. At that point, I noticed Monkey pointing towards the bottom right-hand corner: D.A.A. It was the signature that Abernathy put on all his works, the same signature that could be found etched into the base on the underside of The Frenchman.
Victoria’s knowledge of all things Abernathy was repeated a further two times as Lester brought out some more paintings. In each case, she knew the name, the year it was painted and was able to engage Lester in a conversation that spoke of mutual appreciation between two aficionados.
“Remarkable,” Lester commented. “In all my years, I don’t think that I’ve come across anybody with such an in-depth knowledge of Abernathy.” He nodded ruefully, before turning to me. “Why didn’t you introduce me to this marvellous woman sooner, Lorna?”
I was about to explain that I’d only met Victoria recently when I realised that Lester’s question was probably rhetorical. For her part, Victoria brushed her hair behind her right ear and took a large swig of her Martini, blushing once again.
“Lorna is working on a project about a local artist. You’ll have to come up with a description better than ‘a nice picture’ if you’re going to get into art.”
I couldn’t tell if she was being playful or trying to cover up her own embarrassment, but it made me feel uncomfortable. In truth, I felt a bit annoyed with myself: me, a supposed wordsmith, and the best that I could do was say that it was ‘a nice picture’.
“We visited Abram’s grave, didn’t we, Lorna?” Monkey said, coming to my rescue.
“Really? Sounds interesting,” Victoria said.
“Well, not really. It’s just an old lump of stone. But I thought that it would be useful for the project,” I said.
“You’re right,” Victoria replied. “He’s a local artist buried in the local churchyard. It gives a bit of perspective to the whole thing.”
“We’re going to have a look at some of his paintings. Henry Bannister-Reeves said that there are a couple hanging in the local pub.”
“Sounds worthwhile,” she said distractedly, her attention drawn back to the latest Abernathy painting that Lester had brought out. Victoria immersed herself in the oil painting, whilst Lester looked on with a hint of satisfaction. Being here and discussing Abernathy recalled the times last year when Monkey and I had helped track down The Frenchman. It seemed odd that the Reverend wasn’t here. On the night when the police had raided Lester’s house and Monkey had helped Frank catch the impostor who claimed to be a policeman, Lester had ordered Frank to get the Reverend back as soon as possible. Frank had made some comment about the Reverend being busy investigating some lucky umbrella, yet it seemed strange that we still hadn’t seen him for a long time.
“Has the Reverend been around recently?” I asked casually.
“Not recently,” Lester mumbled.
“Are you a man of the church, Lester?” Victoria asked.
“I used to be. But I don’t see eye-to-eye with the church anymore.”
“Who’s this reverend then?” Victoria pressed.
“The Reverend’s just a friend of Lester’s,” Monkey said.
“Nobody you need concern yourself with, my dear,” Lester said. “Another drink, Victoria?” he added cheerfully.
“Yes please, but first I’d better powder my nose.”
Lester pointed across the room. “Just down the corridor, there.” He watched her grab her purse and head towards the door, her heels clicking on the wooden floor. When he was sure that she was out of earshot, he turned to me, a wolfish grin written across his features.
“What a classy lady,” he remarked. “Is she married?”
“I don’t think so. She isn’t wearing a wedding ring,” I responded. I hadn’t expected this when
I’d invited my teacher here tonight. I saw this as a way of getting two art enthusiasts together, and instead, both Frank and Lester seemed more interested in her romantic status!
I watched Lester drop a couple of ice cubes into a tumbler full of brandy.
“Have you decided what to do with The Frenchman?” I asked.
“Keep it down,” Lester hissed, looking towards the corridor as if afraid that Victoria would re-appear at any moment. “Not yet. He’s still safe in the vault. I need to discuss the next steps with the Reverend when he gets back here.”
Any further discussion on the matter was put on hold by the sound of a toilet flushing and the clip-clop of Victoria’s heels as she returned to the lounge. Lester passed her the Martini, half of which she downed in a single swig. When she saw Lester looking at her, she said, “School tomorrow. I need to be going soon.”
“Of course. But you must visit again. Maybe for a meal, and we could discuss art,” he added hopefully.
“I’d like that very much, Lester,” she said, flashing him a dazzling smile.
We said our goodbyes, which included a parting gift from Victoria to Lester: a peck on the cheek that left him with a huge red lipstick imprint. As Frank pulled the car out of the driveway and onto the wooded country road beyond, Victoria turned to me with a smile.
“That was a pleasant evening,” she commented, leaning back in the seat, her head resting on the headrest, eyes closed. Monkey turned to me with a knowing look. He was usually two steps behind on reading people’s emotions, so if even he could see what was going on here, then the mutual attraction that I’d sensed between my teacher and my employer must have been real. Lester seemed smitten, Victoria happy to play along, and I wondered what I’d set in motion by bringing the two of them together.
Chapter 20
Due to a mountain of homework, it was Friday night before I made good on my promise to view Abram’s paintings that hung in the pub.
The Lamb and Shepherd stood on the high street, just towards the west end of town. Despite the wattle and daub effect around the second-floor windows, the building looked much newer: probably no more than fifty or sixty years old. It was just before seven, and although the autumn air was particularly cold this evening, there were a few bikers sitting at the tables outside. There was more leather on show than at the local furniture store, but I guessed that the assorted jackets offered good protection against the dropping temperatures. A young biker wearing an AC/DC T-shirt, oblivious to the cold, stood discussing the finer points of his bike’s engine and chrome exhaust with a much older man. The old-timer, clutching a pint of some murky brown liquid, nodded sagely, the look on his face suggesting that he’d seen it all before.
