Gold Digger (17 page)

‘And you, Jones,’ Di said. ‘Speak up.’

Jones looked shifty and, deciding he had nothing to lose, saluted his audience and spoke as if reciting a police report in a court of law having taken an oath of limited truthfulness.

‘Ex PC Jones, never rose further, retired copper, ever so lightly bent but not broken. Retired non-voluntarily, briefly in prison. Familiar with family Quigly: arrested Mrs P here, when was it, nearly ten years ago, when she was found in here and took the fall for the others, although there were other things going on in here on that particular night. Said officer acquainted with DQ when she was knee high, and conversant with fact she had a bloody bad deal and apologises for failing to keep her out of prison. Was flabbergasted when she came home and took up house with Mr P, even more when she married him. Reason I want to stay here? I don’t like my own home, especially now, and I want to be
needed. Miss Q has never needed me, but it may appear she does now, because Mr Quigly, her old dad, may have hit me on the pier. Besides, the cops are going to come back for Miss Q sooner or later. She isn’t out of the woods there, and I’d better be here when they do.’

Jones was ever economical with the truth and always knew more than he was prepared to say. He spoke in his own code, and was about to say more but wilted under Di’s stare and looked away.
Don’t talk about my dad; he’s my problem.

‘And,’ he added, ‘I know this house. Was one of the last kids to go to school here. I could catalogue the ghosts. Make an archive.’

Jones finished without a single fuck and turned to Saul.

‘What about you then? Who the fuck are you?’

Saul inclined his head, graciously.

‘Me, darling? I’m a long term acquaintance of one Thomas Porteous.’ Saul was all flourishes; so camp he was sending himself up. ‘It seems I share something with all of you, i.e. a criminal record from a not entirely misspent youth when I was a fairly nifty dealer in stolen goods, although ‘goods’ is too broad a description for the finer works of art which are my speciality. I specialise in the relatively obscure, the anonymous and I only deal with persons of taste.’

He adjusted the scarf round his throat.

‘I am now an almost respectable dealer, one who abhors theft, except when strictly necessary. I simply want things to fall into the right hands, rather than the wrong ones. I want things of beauty to be honoured for what they are. And as such, I loved and admired Thomas, it was a joy to work with him and I knew what he wanted to do.’

‘And what was that?’ Jones asked.

‘Don’t you know?’ Saul said incredulously, as if it should have been perfectly clear. Jones watched Di’s face break into a grin and realised he was seeing her in a whole new light. Di, a fucking scholar.

‘He wanted to put together a fine collection of English paintings, one of the finest. He wanted it to rescue the unloved, the unfashionable, things prone to destruction and neglect. He wanted to create an art gallery for this town. To educate and inspire.’

More flourishing of hands. Jones liked it.

Di turned her head away and blew her nose. ‘Educate and inspire,’ she said, fiercely. ‘Just like he did with me.’

Jones laughed, embarrassed, because this was all too many fine words and pretentious crap for him. The man Saul was the kind of thief he liked, and Di Quigly might just be a sucker for daft talk and big ambitions, but he was moved all the same, giggled nervously and said,
fuck me
.

‘Don’t laugh,’ Saul said, ‘It’s a noble ambition and what the hell’s wrong with that? How else did we get the fine col -lections that civilise us, except through the efforts and passions of Collectors? Anyway, Thomas was exactly the kind of client I adore and they’re rare as hens’ teeth. His were the right kind of hands to hold precious things. A person in pursuit of quality rather than vanity, who collects what might not otherwise survive, let alone be seen, with a view to passing it on. Thomas knew nobody ever owns anything. So does she, I mean Di.’ He looked at them all, especially Jones. Jones was getting the point. ‘Collecting works of art and giving them a good home is a bit like fostering children, don’t you think? You don’t own them, either, but you have to make sure they’re safe. You have to be ready to kill for them.’

Peg was falling asleep. Jones was staring at the wall and Saul buffed his nails on his scarf.

‘Steady on,’ Jones said. ‘I’d kill for a child, but I fucking wouldn’t kill for a painting. Fucking collectors, bloody mad. Do you reckon,’ he asked Saul, ‘that Thomas might have blown his marriage by this collecting malarkey? Left his missus right out in the cold by it? Women don’t like that.’

The conversation was now between the two men. Saul thought about it seriously.

‘I’ve known one or two collectors who would cheerfully burn the whole family for a square inch of Matisse. I gather that the late, drowned Mrs Porteous was insanely jealous of Thomas’s interests, but far more jealous of his success. So jealous she was barking mad. A lot to do with being a failed artist herself.’

Di was silent, watching the dialogue between two disparate men like watching a tennis ball in play.

‘Bored wives are jealous of a husband’s jobs and outside interests,’ Jones said. ‘It’s why so many police marriages go wrong, because the Job’s so much more important and fucking interesting than anything and anybody else.’

‘It wasn’t his collecting, was it, Saul?’ Di said, breaking into the circle.

He shook his head, smiling at her.

‘No, it wasn’t. He simply didn’t have enough money and his daughters enchanted him and that wasn’t a way of life Christina wanted. Only she couldn’t admit it. She had to pretend there was a nobler reason for leaving.’

‘I don’t fucking get it,’ Jones said.

‘No reason why you should,’ Saul said, smoothly. ‘Now, Di darling, will you let us get some sleep? Tomorrow is another day and all that. This collection has to survive and thrive. Di,
I think you and I should go on a spending spree. It’s time you came out of the woodwork as Thomas’s successor. Collections have to grow. They can’t stay static. You have to spend.’

He rose from the faded blue chair, knocking over a cup.

‘A
spending spree
?’ Jones shouted. ‘That’s the last thing she should do. She’s being watched and she should keep her bloody head down, at least until after the inquest. She’s under suspicion, she’s got his daughters stirring the shit and waiting for a chance to pounce, she’s got skeletons in cupboards … ’

‘What did you say?’ Di said quietly.

‘Oh Di, love, Di, why did you wait those two fucking hours before you called the ambulance? I saw him on the pier in the morning, I saw him go home. I saw the ambulance go. You said he’d only just come in, but he hadn’t. He’d been inside two hours. I had to tell them that. Why did you wait?’

There was anguish in his voice. Silence fell in the room. Saul was watching her closely. Di was pale.

‘He was dead,’ she said patiently. ‘He was dead as soon as he came in the door and sat in the chair. He’d bought me a bunch of flowers.’

Jones remembered the flowers. Purple daisies, dying in a corner.

‘He was dead in his own chair. I didn’t want them jumping all over him and breaking his ribs to bring him back, so I waited. I wanted to talk to him.’

Jones closed his eyes. Three beats passed. He believed her, knowing that the doubts would return.

Saul settled back into the chair, hugging himself into it. Di left Saul asleep there, wrapped in a blanket. She took Jones and Peg up to the top dormitory and showed them where to wash and sleep. She was acting like a school matron, welcoming
pupils at the beginning of term. Then she wrote to Thomas. Then she took her bike out of the back yard and pedalled down the back road to the bay.

She had been nursing him for so long, she was used to sleepless nights.

She paused to touch her head as she rode, felt a slight amount of soft stubble at the back. Flying along the coastal path on her old bike, feeling childlike and giddy with freedom, going faster and faster, on her way to the other bay, a hidden place, sheltered by the road and invisible from it, the domain of birds. Marshland stretched for a mile; Thomas loved the sound of the curlew as much as the cackling of the November geese and the crazy mewing of the seagulls and there was a purpose in coming to this place. This was where he wanted his ashes to be scattered – among the birds, because for all that he was an avid collector of art, Thomas valued nature more.

A cackling of bird noise filled her ears and she looked skywards to see a battalion of migrating geese flying far above her head, calling to each other, maintaining an effortless formation as they headed away, the sight and sound of them delighting her with the optimism of their pilgrimage and the energy of it. She stared at them until they passed, sick with anxiety for the stragglers on the edge, satisfied only when they regrouped, clapped her cold hands softly to celebrate and wish them speed.

Don’t look down, Thomas; look up
, she told him.
You got ten minutes to see this; look at them! They make you think you can fly and then you can.

Only when they disappeared did she lower her eyes to sea level, dragging her gaze back across the distant sand of the beach to look for the earthbound wading birds she loved
almost as much. Long-legged creatures, stalking and pecking, vulnerable and determined, picking their way like models on a runway, foraging with patient grace. And then she saw a figure walking across the marsh, invading their territory, moving towards the sea, a pin figure of a man with a cap, trespassing on sacred territory.

She knew it was her father, from his own peculiar gait, half limp half affectation rather than a real disability affecting his shuffling speed, like a Long John Silver. A bald head hidden by a cap because the slightest hint of sun burned his scalp, long sleeves and dark coats at any time of the year to shield his pallor. A visitor, a stranger returning, drawn back like the geese to home territory, a man who once lived in these parts and went away, where the real work was. The unofficial undertaker, who knew how to conceal the bodies, always homesick, seeking revenge for disappointment. Sometimes looking for the daughter he blamed for the wreck of his life, sometimes not. Wanting to help, perhaps.

Di looked at the striding limping figure, remembered another time when he had brought her here. Saw herself putting her hands over her ears and begging him not to shoot the birds in the bay, screaming so hard that they got up and flew and ruined his chance and then he had hit her.
What’s wrong with it?
he said.
It’s only practice.

He had no air rifle now, simply the speedy, limping step, going north.

She felt a need to scream, stifled it because it would disturb the birds.

I am NOT that child. I am a Collector, a grown-up, a person with a mission. I cannot afford to be afraid of you, but yes, I am.

She looked towards the empty space left by the figure on the landscape, turned away and went home.

Whom should she fear most? The one who shot the birds, buried the bodies, locked her in cellars and gave her away? The one who knew her, and was also afraid of her?

Waste time on fearing Him, whom no one would ever believe, or fear the ones with the greater power in the world, such as Beatrice, Gayle and Edward?

One at a time. Concentrate on them.

The two sad bitches.

W
hat Patrick registered from the picture and the room was the kind of little girl he didn’t like and the smell of patchouli which he didn’t like either. Not that he really minded where he was as long as he could sit on the floor and scribble in his book and they all behaved as if he did not exist.

Edward and Gayle sat across the kitchen table in Beatrice’s north London house which they did not like either. Beatrice’s two children, Alan and Edmund, sat upstairs acting as young teenagers crossing the gulf between childhood and beyond, crouched over mobile phones, embarrassed by their elders as much as they were by
weird
Patrick who didn’t talk much and always stayed with the adults and wasn’t allowed his own phone. It irritated Beatrice that Patrick, in whom she had no interest either as a nephew or otherwise, should always be
present at siblings’ meetings, but the child was always there and since he was always preoccupied, she usually ceased to notice. He would sit cross-legged on the floor if there was not the luxury of a table, with a book propped up against his feet, silent and insignificant. The adults were gathered around the laptop, looking at an email from Raymond Forrest. Gayle was noticing that the surface of the kitchen table was grubby and, like everything else in this dark little house, sticky. Beatrice affected a martyred, biodegradable kind of poverty that was not quite true.

‘Shall I read it out?’ Edward said.

‘Please,’ Gayle said, trying to admire him. Edward did so love the sound of his own voice and she was trying to avoid the thought that that was all he had left. The good looks had run to seed: the jowls had grown, and his once handsome face was lined with petulance. Too bad he had not quite fulfilled his promise, dissipated what he had got on one get-rich scheme after another, gobbled the silver spoon with which he had been born and relied on finding another. It was never his fault that business ventures never worked; there was never the instant profit and no one understood his vision. Gayle had married him when he was full of promise, schemes and a voice; they had managed the last years by borrowing in anticipation of another fortune that she had promised and now he faced a chasm. Gayle had misled him; so had her mother. She had always said it was in the bag; she had blown it and she owed him.

Edward did not care whom he pushed over which cliff as long as he did not fall himself; he was trying to see what he could retrieve and, above all, he wanted the respect he knew he had lost. He wanted his wife to remember the man he was, not a man with a bitter spouse and a dysfunctional boy who
should have been an athlete, but a man of decision, ready to take charge, go into battle, a man who made things happen. So far, he had failed. And all he had was a powerful body and a powerful voice, which could not sweeten the pill of what he read out loud.