A Place of Safety (2 page)

The Cork & Bottle was more crowded than a rush-hour tube station. As Trish peered down from the spiral staircase and across the jumble of heads, she saw an elegant arm waving. Looking more closely over the thin iron banister, she followed the arm down and saw Henry Buxford’s face.

As usual, she was amazed at how young he looked. She knew he was at least sixty, but no stranger would ever guess.

There weren’t many lines on his broad-cheeked face; just enough to show the places where his smile creased up the skin around his dark brown eyes and strong, still-sexy mouth. Only his silver hair betrayed the fact that he was more than middle aged. He moved his arm so that he was pointing to an empty chair opposite his own.

Trish waved back and negotiated her way through the press of bodies. It was typical of Buxford to have kept a whole table to himself in a place as popular and informal as this. She sank into one of the free chairs in relief. There was an opened bottle of Gicondas in front of him and a plate of different cheeses to eat with it.

‘You’ve changed your hair,’ Buxford said, pouring wine into the empty glasses. ‘It suits you.’

Trish still felt self-conscious about the loss of her short gelled spikes. The story she’d told her colleagues was that once pop stars and actors had started to adopt a style very like hers she’d
had to have a new look. In fact, she’d had it done in case David should be teased about her eccentricities at school.

The resulting geometric cut took much more time to keep tidy than the old spikes, but it didn’t make her beaky nose look as idiotic as she’d feared. And the style was still sharp enough to stop anyone thinking she’d been domesticated. She would have hated that. But she didn’t want to waste any time discussing it now.

‘Sir Henry, Antony said you have some kind of private research you want me to do for you.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t indulge in all that “Sir” stuff,’ Buxford said, with a glinting smile. ‘It doesn’t suit an Angry Young Woman like you. Call me Henry.’

‘Thank you.’ She tasted the wine, liked its spiciness, and waited to hear what he wanted.

‘Have you ever heard of the Gregory Bequest?’

‘Of course,’ she said, surprised. ‘It’s that private gallery near Southwark Bridge that has somebody-or-other’s lost art collection in it. Wasn’t there something in the papers about it the other day?’

‘Yes, there was,’ he said with a grimness that surprised her even more.

‘George and I keep meaning to go and have a look because it’s only just across the river from my flat, but we’ve never found the time.’

‘You and most of London,’ Buxford said. ‘Still, that’s the least of my problems at the moment.’

‘I had no idea you were involved.’ She drank again. ‘I thought music was your thing, not art.’

‘It is. I got roped in because of old Ivan Gregory, whose collection it was. We were friends in the City.’ Buxford paused, looked at his perfect fingernails, then added: ‘I owe him a lot.’

More favours, Trish thought crossly. I should have known.
And I should have said no at once and stayed at home. She took a huge swig of wine and almost choked herself. Buxford waited until she had got the mouthful under control, then said:

‘As I told you on the phone, it’s a long and complicated story, but I’d like you to hear it in full because it’ll make you understand why I need you.’

‘OK,’ she said, avoiding a surreptitious glance down at her watch.

‘My involvement started about five years ago, after Ivan Gregory had had a stroke. As soon as I heard he was back from hospital, I went round to his house to see how he was getting on.’

Buxford looked over the top of Trish’s head, as though staring back into the past. She waited, not sure where the story was going.

‘I found him huddled at the bottom of his attic stairs in tears. His nurse-cum-housekeeper couldn’t understand a thing he said and he wouldn’t let her touch him, so she’d had to leave him sitting there in a heap on the floor. She practically fell on my neck, poor woman.’

He wiped a drip of wine from the stem of his glass with one finger, as gently as though he was mopping up a child’s tears. Trish, who had always thought his charm hid total ruthlessness, was intrigued to see how much the memory still moved him. Some of her irritation leached away, and she settled more firmly in her chair to listen.

‘I hadn’t expected anything so bad,’ Buxford went on, ‘even though I’d known Ivan would be fragile. At first I couldn’t make out what was worrying him so much. He kept muttering about betraying his father, and debts he wouldn’t be able to pay, and wasting his life’s work, over and over again. It took hours to tease out what he meant.’

This time Trish supplied a prompt, saying: ‘And what was it? What had he done?’

‘Nothing, in fact.’ Buxford looked at her, as though making sure she was still prepared to listen. She nodded and watched his face relax into a more natural smile. He wiped his finger on a paper napkin, making sure every trace of wine was rubbed away and paying particular attention to the cuticle.

‘The collection belonged originally to his father, Jean-Pierre Gregoire, who was French, obviously, and had met Ivan’s mother when she was a nurse during the First World War. He was killed at some time before the Armistice, but we don’t know exactly when or where because no body was ever found. That wasn’t an uncommon story at the time.’

‘I understand what you’re saying,’ Trish assured him, in the phrase she’d used so often with clients who needed encouragement that it had become a reflex action whenever anyone waited for her to say something.

‘Good. At some point he must have decided that the Germans were going to overrun France because he had his paintings shipped over to London for safety and put in the care of his wife.’

‘We’re still talking about Ivan’s mother, I suppose.’

‘Yes; she anglicized their surname to Gregory after the war. According to the account I eventually heard from him, she never touched the paintings herself in all the fifty-odd years she had them under her control. She refused to accept that her husband must be dead. In fact, she seems to have convinced herself that he would come back one day and that it was her duty to keep his collection exactly as he’d sent it – right down to the original packing – until then.’

‘She must have been mad.’

‘Deluded, anyway. And unhappy.’ Buxford’s eyes had softened again. ‘When she died in the late 1960s, no one knew anything very much about the paintings, and Ivan simply left them where they were.’

‘But
he
must have known his father was dead.’ Mental
arithmetic had never been one of Trish’s skills. ‘He’d have been about a hundred and ten by then.’

‘Not quite. More like ninety-something. The First World War isn’t exactly ancient history, Trish.’

‘It is to me. I was born in 1965.’

‘Good lord!’ Buxford laughed. ‘One forgets. Anyway, Ivan told me that he barely gave the pictures a moment’s thought. The probate valuers who’d had a look at them after his mother’s death hadn’t been impressed, so that didn’t give him any incentive to do anything. And he was always so busy. It was only after his stroke that he remembered them and panicked.’

‘Why panic?’

‘He was depressed. It often happens after a stroke, I gather. I eventually found out that he was spending half the time terrified that he would die and the other half that he wouldn’t. He thought his executors might chuck the paintings out as so much rubbish after his death, destroying his father’s life’s work. But he also thought someone might discover they were worth millions after all, and accuse him of conspiring to defraud the Inland Revenue when he inherited them from his mother. For a man of his integrity, that was the real killer.’

Trish had had her own brush with depression in the past and could see exactly how such contradictory fears might feed on themselves until they had overtaken every scrap of normal rationality.

‘He could barely walk at that stage,’ Buxford went on, ‘but he’d tried to get up into the attic to unpack the pictures and see what they were. Of course he fell. Then he couldn’t get up again. He was in a terrible state. The only way to calm him down was to promise I’d take over. I said I’d deal with the Revenue if the collection did turn out to have any real value, and that I’d make sure it was properly exhibited and due credit given to his father.’

The casual announcement took Trish’s breath away. She had
a pretty good idea of how much work must have been involved. This was no trading in favours.

‘I’d like to help,’ she said at once, ‘if I can. But what is it you want me to do?’

‘I haven’t quite got to you yet.’ Buxford refilled her glass. ‘I’m sorry it’s taking so long.’

‘That’s OK,’ she said, liking him much more than she’d expected.

‘Good. Once I’d got an expert to look at a few of the paintings and discovered that Ivan’s instincts had been right and some of them were worth really quite a lot, I cleared the position with the Revenue. Eventually Ivan set up a trust, with three of his other friends joining me as trustees, to preserve the paintings and ensure their permanent public exhibition.’ He picked up his glass.

Trish watched the corners of his mouth turn down after he’d swallowed, as though the mouthful of wine hadn’t pleased him as much as usual.

‘Because none of us knew anything much about art,’ he went on, ‘we advertised for a director to run the gallery and oversee the whole rolling process of conservation. Eventually, after three rounds of interviews, we took on Toby Fullwell, the art historian. He’s been doing a good job, and we’re about three-quarters of the way through the unpacking and cleaning of the paintings now.’

‘Why is it taking so long?’ Trish made an effort to stop frowning. She’d heard far too much from George about how ferocious she looked when her forehead tightened and her eyebrows clenched across the top of her nose. Ferocity could be useful in court, but not when dealing with something like this.

‘It’s not that long. Ivan had his stroke five years ago and we’d got enough paintings restored and ready to open the gallery with two years later. I think that’s positively speedy myself.’

Seeing that she’d insulted him, Trish put an apology into her smile to save time.

‘There’s a hell of a lot involved, you know,’ Buxford went on, as though he hadn’t noticed. ‘First, the paintings have to be unpacked, which is such delicate work it has to be done slowly and in controlled conditions. Then the good stuff has to be sorted out from the dross, which is disposed of through provincial salerooms straightaway. The more valuable canvases are sent for cleaning and restoration as necessary.’

‘How is it all funded?’ Trish said because her usual gap-filling phrase seemed overworked.

‘Ivan donated a sum to get it started, then, as soon as we realized what we were dealing with, the trustees sold a couple of seriously important paintings. They raised enough to convert his house into a gallery – he had moved to a nursing home by then – make a flat for Toby and his family in the attics, and—’

‘So where are you keeping the packages that still haven’t been unwrapped? I thought they were in the attic.’

The skin around Buxford’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. ‘Antony always says you listen well. We tanked the basement and moved them down there. They don’t need daylight; Toby and his family do.’

‘That makes sense,’ she said, itching to tell him to get a move on.

‘I’m almost there, Trish. Be patient a little longer. When we set up the trust, we made sure that there was a provision to allow the director, whoever he or she might be, to sell not only the dross but also better stuff, if and when funds were needed.’

‘Ah, of course,’ she said.
‘That’s
what I read in the papers. He sold a painting a couple of weeks ago, didn’t he? And raised a fortune.’

‘Five million pounds.’

‘Wow!’

‘It was a Pieter de Hooch. You know, the not-quite Vermeer
bloke who did street scenes with fat women sweeping and a lot of sunshine.’

Trish smiled. Buxford was laying it on a bit thick, even for a man who professed to know nothing about art.

‘And that’s where you come in, Trish. I want you to find out why he did it.’

‘But there must be all kinds of reasons.’

‘None that makes sense. There’s enough cash in the kitty to last for years at the normal rate of expenditure.’ Buxford pushed both hands back over the sides of his immaculately cut silver hair. ‘And so—’

A woman in very high heels lurched past their table just then. Trish grabbed her glass to keep it out of the way of the woman’s swinging shoulder bag. The movement distracted the woman and she tripped, flinging the contents of her own glass of red wine all over Henry Buxford’s impeccable suit.

‘Oh, Christ!’ she said, lurching the other way and bouncing off one of the people leaning against the bar. ‘I’m so sorry. God! I don’t know how that happened.’

She grabbed a paper napkin from under the cheese and was attempting to dab at his suit, depositing smears of Reblochon on the wine stain.

‘Will you please leave me alone?’ he said in a voice so harsh it made Trish stare at him. He produced a rueful grimace and pushed back his chair. ‘Shall we go?’

‘Sure. Whatever,’ Trish said.

He thrust three twenty-pound notes under the wine bottle and waved to the man behind the bar, who nodded. As Buxford urged Trish through the crowd towards the exit, she heard the woman who’d emptied her wine over his suit telling her friends what had happened.

‘And he looked at me like a complete psychopath,’ she said. ‘I feel sorry for his girlfriend.’

‘I’d feel sorry for her anyway,’ said a new voice. ‘She must
be half his age. Still he looks rich. That must be some compensation.’

‘Ignore them,’ Henry said from behind Trish. ‘They’re plastered.’