by Jay Gill
With that, he hung up. I sat in my chair and drew a line under the name “Vladimir (the Wolf) Kastrati.” Was he Delina’s killer?
I spent several more hours calling detectives back, pulling files and learning as much as I could about Vlad the Wolf.
Chapter Sixteen
The gallery had been closed an hour now. Simon Baker watched from across the street as Toby Fielding stood at the front door of the gallery and gazed out of the window, looking up and down Old Potter Street and checking his watch.
“Twenty minutes late,” Baker said to himself. “I’ll give it ten minutes more to really piss him off, then I’ll pay him his visit.”
Nine minutes and fifty seconds later, Baker crossed the road and appeared at the front door of the gallery just as Fielding began to pull down the blinds and close up. He opened the door and scowled at Baker.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. Why do our trains never run on time? It’s me, Richard Money,” said Baker. “We have an appointment?”
Fielding smiled politely. “No bother,” he lied. “I was just catching up on paperwork. Very pleased to meet you, Mr Money. Please come in.”
“Thank goodness for paperwork,” said Baker. “I really thought I might have missed my opportunity. Since I heard the canvas had become available, I have been unable to think of little else. If I had lost it to another buyer, I would have been more distraught than you can ever imagine. You know how it is? Well, of course you do – a man of your extensive experience.”
Baker was enjoying this already, more than he had anticipated he would. This fool has no idea who I am, he thought. I’m standing inches away from him and he doesn’t have a clue.
“Can I get you a tea, coffee, glass of wine perhaps?” said Fielding.
“A white wine, if you have it, would be perfect. Thank you. I really must apologise again for being late. It really is so very good of you to have waited.”
Baker took off his coat and placed his briefcase on Fielding’s desk. He watched as Fielding disappeared into the back office to fetch the drinks. He was a little concerned that in his excitement he was overdoing his performance. He took a deep breath, then unclipped his briefcase in preparation.
“So, what do you do? I mean, what’s your line of business, Mr Money?” called Fielding from the small office. “That is, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I’m semi-retired. For many years I had a successful business exporting British luxury goods around the world. I had very little in the way of overheads and was able to build quite a nest egg. Then three years ago I was forced to reassess my life and change direction. Due to unforeseen circumstances, I had to – well, let’s just say I came to a crossroads and had to rethink my priorities. Fortunately, as I said, I had a little tucked away for a rainy day. Which was just as well because boy, oh boy, did it rain. But you know how it is. We brush ourselves off, pick ourselves up and move on. One door closes, another opens, and all that. I now look at those experiences as being little more than chapters in my life story.”
“Yes, life can throw us all sorts of unexpected challenges, can’t it? But we move on.” Fielding eyed Money’s gold watch and expensive shoes. “You certainly seem to have bounced back from whatever your challenges were.” He handed Baker a cold glass of white wine. “To challenges,” he said, lifting his drink. “And to new chapters.”
“To new chapters,” agreed Baker. Laughing inside, he watched Fielding sip his wine.
“So, Mr Money, shall we take a look at what you came all this way to see? I have it prepared in a private viewing room, which is just through here.” Fielding led the way. He opened a door to a small private room off the main gallery. The limited-edition canvas was on the wall of the warm and brightly lit room. There were two double sofas and a small glass table upon which sat a bottle of champagne on ice and a silver plate of canapés.
“Here we are,” said Fielding with pride. “The latest piece from Meredith Churcher. In my opinion, her finest work to date. It certainly reinforces her position as one of Britain’s finest contemporary artists.”
Baker stood admiring the canvas for a long while. He put on a pair of glasses and stepped closer. He then took the glasses off and stepped back. He stood to the left of the canvas, then moved to the right. He said nothing for as long as he could stand it, savouring every blessed moment. He was having so much fun.
“Is it genuine?” Baker said, deliberately mumbling.
“I’m sorry, Mr Money? I didn’t quite catch that.”
“Is it genuine?” said Baker. “It’s a simple enough question.”
“How do you mean, genuine?”
“How can I tell this canvas is genuine? I don’t mean to be rude, but for all I know you may have knocked this up in your garage.” Baker could feel the excitement rising within him.
Fielding was unsure how to respond; he wasn’t entirely sure he was hearing what he thought he was hearing. Instead, he opened and closed his mouth a few times like a fish.
Baker pressed on with his taunting. “You tell me Meredith Churcher splashed the paint on this canvas in this child-like fashion, but for all I know one of her spoiled grandchildren did it and she is passing it off as her own. I’m looking at the price tag and I want to be sure it’s authentic.”
“I have all the paperwork to verify its authenticity, if that’s what you mean, Mr Money.”
“I’m a very cautious man, Fielding. I once read of this man, I believe it may have even been in an article you wrote, who had his life destroyed by accusations of fraud. Now I come to think of it, it was you who wrote it. What a coincidence. It seems this artist was accused by you of passing off his wife’s art as his own. I believe you said, and I paraphrase, ‘It is talentless fraudsters like Simon Baker who bring disrepute and uncertainty to an otherwise proud art community. Men like Baker should be imprisoned and given very long sentences as a deterrent.’ Did I get it about right, Fielding?”
“I think you had better leave, Mr Money,” said Fielding. “I am not sure what is going on here or what you are all about, but I think you had better leave right now.”
Baker moved quickly to lock the door and remove the key, which he held up for show and then put into his pocket. Fielding stood paralysed with fear and could only stare at Baker while his mind raced with possibilities. After some time processing the situation, he now found his eyes beginning to fill with tears.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
Baker moved to his briefcase and opened it. “Have a think. Have a guess. Take a wild shot. Who do you think I really am? Have you been looking over your shoulder? You should have been.”
“You’re not Richard Money?”
“Nope.”
“So, you’re not here to buy the painting?”
“Nope.”
“Do I know you?”
“Yep.”
Fielding looked hard at the face of the man in front of him. The answer was there somewhere. Did he want the answer? If he worked out the name, then what? Eventually, from a lost vault somewhere deep inside his brain, and after a lot of frantic processing, a name was served up.
“Simon Baker?”
“Bingo! Right first time. That was fun.”
Fielding changed his approach now and became chummy. “It’s you, Simon Baker. So how have you been? Ha – the beard fooled me. You’re looking good, considering – well, considering all that nonsense that went on. It’s good to see you. So, what’s this all about? Some sort of prank, I suppose. Just you wait until I tell everyone I bumped into you. They won’t believe me. It’s so good to see you again. You had me really going there for a while. You know, I thought I recognised you, but you know how it is; people change. And that beard – yes, definitely the beard.”
“Save it,” Baker said coldly. “We weren’t friends. We only ever met twice. That didn’t stop you joining the pack when everyone was out for my blood, though, did it? Well, now I’m here for yours.”
“Look, I can exp
lain,” said Fielding hastily. “It was my editor, Guy Lyons. You know Guy. He asked me to write that article. Everyone was talking about you at the time, how you – well, you know. With what happened and the arrest, and the court case and how they said you kept your wife prisoner and passed off her work as your own. We were all taken in. Everyone was talking about it, so Guy said he only wanted an article about what was happening with you. I never believed the stories coming out about you, of course. I just had to write an article on what I was told. Anyway, no harm done – look at you now. You’re doing all right.”
“You should listen to yourself,” Baker sneered. “‘No harm done! Guy made me do it, blah, blah, blah.’ Don’t worry. I will visit Guy as well, but all in good time. Today I am visiting you.”
Baker opened his briefcase and took out a pair of eye protectors. He then put on some latex gloves. Next, he held up a cordless power drill, whizzed it few times and put it back in the briefcase. Next, he held up a taser, then a hammer, a screwdriver and a pair of pliers.
“First things first, Fielding. Today you and I are going to create a very unique piece of art. It may not be to your taste, but I know I’m going to like it.”
Fielding stepped back, putting the two-seater sofa between himself and Baker. He began to beg. Then, as Baker closed in, he screamed, then he cried, and then he bled.
All of which was exactly what Baker had hoped for and imagined for so long.
Chapter Seventeen
I called to check everything was okay at home. Mum was babysitting tonight while Monica taught her evening class. When she answered, she sounded concerned.
“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, James,” she said. “But Monica’s not back yet.”
“Perhaps she went for a drink after class, with colleagues or some of the students,” I said.
I was trying not to sound concerned myself and was racking my brain, trying to remember whether she’d told me she was going out after class.
“She always calls if she is going to be late. Always,” said Mum. She went quiet for a moment and then said, “I didn’t like to try her mobile like some worried old woman, but I wish I had. I think you should. Will you call her for me?”
Monica’s mobile went straight to voice mail. I left her a message and called Mum back. She sounded very anxious now, so I made a suggestion that I thought might calm her nerves.
“I didn’t get an answer on Monica’s mobile, so what I’ll do is head over to the school to see if she’s still there. She’s probably just talking to friends; you know how she likes to talk. If she’s not there, I’ll go to the King’s Head pub just down the road from the school. That’s where they usually go if they are have a drink afterward.”
“You’ll call me as soon as you have any news, won’t you?”
“Of course I will. Now don’t get yourself worked up. I’m sure she’s fine.”
Chapter Eighteen
I went to the King’s Head pub first and looked around. It was a quiet night and the barman assured me he’d not seen Monica or any of the teachers that evening. I drove the mile or so to the school, half expecting to get a call from Mum telling me Monica had arrived back home.
It was dark now, and my headlights lit the driveway as I approached the school. The car park was empty and I was getting a little more concerned. I sat in the car and decided to call some of Monica’s girlfriends. They all told the same story: None of them had seen or heard from Monica, as it was her teaching night.
I was turning the car and starting to head out of the car park when I saw tyre tracks across the playing field, close to one of the teaching blocks. I pulled over close to the grass and grabbed my Maglite torch from the glovebox. I stepped out, clicked the torch on, shone the light on the tracks and followed the tracks.
They ran the length of the school building. As the torch lit the side of it, I noticed the wall was scratched and chipped as though something heavy had run up against it and scraped along it. Further on and at the corner of the building I noticed blue paint and then glass from vehicle lights.
I began to move faster and then I began to run. I quickly passed the end of the school building and came to some tennis courts. Still shining the torch on the tyre tracks, I followed them up and around the tennis courts, and then, through the darkness, I caught sight of Monica’s blue Ford Fiesta. I could see the doors were open and the car looked empty.
My heart was beating out of my chest as I ran at full speed over to the abandoned vehicle. I couldn’t see Monica. I began to panic, cursing under my breath as I frantically searched the car. What had happened?
I ran around the back of the car, and there on the grass was Monica. She was on her knees, trying to get to her feet. I sat her down and checked her over. I was thankful there seemed to be no serious injuries.
Her face and blouse were bloodied from a cut to the head, and her blouse was torn. She looked pale – so very pale. I was scared of what might have happened to her. So many thoughts ran through my mind. She told me about the two men and Anya.
“They weren’t interested in me. They wanted Anya. We both fought, but they were so strong. They took her. There was nothing I could . . . I tried to fight, but one of them hit me.” She touched the cut over her eye. “That was the last thing I remember. Then you arrived.”
I held her close and then got her to her feet and helped her to her car. I got into the driver’s seat and drove her to the car park at the front of the school, where we got into my car and I drove her to the hospital. She didn’t want to go; she wanted to go home, but I insisted she get checked over.
I called Mum, and she stayed to look after Alice and Faith that night. I stayed at Monica’s side while she got checked, and the following morning, after assurances from doctors she’d sustained no serious injuries, she was allowed to go home.
Chapter Nineteen
The room was white and sterile in appearance. There were two fold-up chairs and a microphone stand with a microphone. The microphone went nowhere, it was simply for appearance, but they both knew that.
Vlad had explained that he was only interested in real talent, and in this room, one to one, he would know instantly whether or not Clara was the real deal. If she was, then not even the sky was the limit. He’d make her a global superstar. He had both the money and the connections.
Vlad had been very attentive while he listened to her sing. She could tell he was impressed. Why wouldn’t he be? Her mum, dad, grandparents, friends and the rest of her extended family had told her many times since she was about four years old that she was amazing and that she had a gift.
By the time she was eighteen, they were saying it was shocking she hadn’t been snapped up by a record label. By the time she was twenty-one, she’d had a top ten hit as part of a girl band, but the band had folded when the lead singer got caught up in a sex and drugs scandal with a rapper named RIPPEMUP. Back when they were flying high in the music charts, she and the other girls in the group had secretly called him “Flippin’ Muppet.” That was back when they thought the dream would never end.
The record label had blamed their being dropped on poor sales. They also suggested it was to do with the minor incident in which a small quantity of cocaine was found in one member’s hand luggage before a flight out of Canada. That was, of course, complete rubbish; drugs were handed to them freely at the time and considered almost a perk. The truth was, all record labels were struggling, and piracy was to blame. Illegal downloads were killing the music industry and, until a new business model was found, even the most talented artists were being dropped.
She still remembered them saying during the final tearful meeting, “This isn’t the end of the road for you girls. You’re so talented. This will all blow over and we’ll be in touch. Think of it as a time to recharge your batteries. This isn’t about you; it’s about the changing face of the music industry.”
Well, screw them, she’d thought. She was a fighter. What most people didn’t know was that
every successful singer is first and foremost a successful businessperson, and Clara intended to become just that.
She never heard from them again, and that was fine; she was over it. Eventually they’d be begging to take her back, and when they did, she’d dictate the terms of the contract. She’d be the one with the power. In her heart, she knew one way or another she’d be front-page news again.
Her time was now – she could feel it. Today was just a business transaction, nothing more. And for this type of transaction, she wouldn’t need cash. So many artists these days were breaking into the music industry independently, and she knew she had as much talent as any of them. She couldn’t remember, though, who had told her this guy Vlad was well connected. He was certainly wealthy, which meant he was successful. All these Russian types were rich. Oligarchs, most of them.
The house was huge. He’d given her a tour, and he’d been a real gentleman. He dressed well and smelled gorgeous. Her priority now was to make sure she was top of his to-do list. And if that meant she had to do him, then she was comfortable with that.
Soft music played through speakers in the ceiling, and she swayed seductively to the beat. She knew she was hot. She worked out every day, she hardly ever ate carbs, and she drank more water than a fish.
After a few moments, Clara moved in to close the deal. She ran her fingers through Vlad’s hair and began to unbutton his shirt. She wasn’t a big a fan of tattoos, but she’d make an exception on this occasion. Just as well; this guy was a walking gallery. She slipped her hand inside his shirt and ran her nails over Vlad’s hard chest. Someone else works out, she thought.
She unfastened her dress and let it fall to the floor. She gave him her best and most innocent smile, one that said, “Whoops, look what just happened. Now what shall we do?” She’d read somewhere that most famous women had to kiss a few toads to get the top. Fortunately, this guy was hardly a toad, and her mantra these days was “Whatever it takes.”
