Killing the Emperors (18 page)

It took only a minute to persuade her to pack her toothbrush and come over. For the next few hours they watched news channels, which offered interviews with distraught people from the art world and so-called experts droning on about kidnappings and hostage-releases they had known. From time to time Amiss took stock on his computer and tried to make Mary Lou laugh by reading out particularly ludicrous extracts from appreciations of Fortune and Pringle. Now that he was dead, and was no longer a competitor, European curators had queued up to be interviewed about the breadth and depth of Fortune’s cosmopolitanism. He was a curator who refused to be bound by national or cultural barriers. There was, apparently, nothing Little Englandish about Henry Fortune—unlike, they were implying, his London-based equivalents.

‘Heaven forfend that at a time when Jack Troutbeck is in mortal danger I should say anything good about Sir Nicholas Serota,’ said Mary Lou. ‘But when I listen to these patronising tossers implying that what happens on the Continent trumps what happens in London, I want to confront them with the simple fact that even if the contemporary art here is crap, at least people are trying to do something. The French don’t even bother any more. They just live off the past. Like the Italians.’

And so, with periodic lapses into invective, nostalgia or frightened speculation, the two friends whiled the hours away.

***

Now happy about another successful foray and the promise of celebration to come, and geared up to murder five people who would not pose a problem, the four Zekas were quite cheery as they were deposited at the entrance to the basement. Not until the key had turned in the lock and the burglar alarm been disabled, did four men in balaclavas emerge from the shadows, stick knives in the backs of their necks and push them through the door. They were joined in short order by Akim and Diran, both with knives pressing on their necks. Four other men with covered faces stood watching from the sidelines, and a small man stepped forward and asked: ‘Who’s the leader?’

No one said anything.

‘Tell us, or we’ll kill one of you at random,’ he said. ‘And we mean it. We are SAS.’

Five Zekas looked imploringly at Akim, who stepped forward. ‘OK. I’m leader.’

‘That’s good to know. Now, this is what I want you to do.’ Cavendish beckoned to Rogers, who showed his machine gun. ‘You see, we’re not just SAS, Mr. Zeka. These people are our family, Mr. Zeka. We feel about them as you do about yours. Now listen to me, tell me what I want to know and do what I say, or you’ll all be dead. And you won’t die slowly.’

***

Milton and Pooley were so occupied with last-minute details for what was informally known as ‘Brothel Watch’ that they didn’t have time even to take five minutes out to leave the Yard to look at the fourth plinth. What mattered to them—but what they didn’t admit except to each other—was that the corpse was male. Both of them were tormented by the fear that now Sarkovsky knew the police were after him, he might stop dragging out the killings and see everyone off at once. All they had was the brothel tip, so they were giving it everything they had.

They were furious, though, when it hit the wires that there was another
hommage
murder and that, amazingly, the corpse was displayed right in the centre of London, less than a mile from the mighty Scotland Yard. Even at that time of the morning, there were angry commentators complaining that there should have been surveillance on such an obvious target as the plinth and the National Gallery. The police remained tight-lipped about what they had removed from the plinth, but Morrison’s leak got the media going on the Chapman Brothers and their
Fucking Hell
exhibition about Jesus and Nazis.

***

The Cavendish crew, as they liked to describe themselves, had an unexpectedly easy time. Akim Zeka was no quitter, but he was a realist, and he could see no way out. If these guys were family, they were serious. They had already shown that they knew what they were doing, and he knew from the way the little guy talked that he wasn’t bull-shitting.

Akim didn’t enjoy the idea of ending up in jail, but he even less wanted to be dead and even less than that did he want his mother cursing him because he’d left her short of a couple of sons and several nephews. The British were mad, so even if they had to go to prison, they’d be out in ten or fifteen years. Edona would be past it then, but there would be others.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’

***

Half-an-hour later, a small man opened the door of the Emin bedroom, switched on the light, went over to a snoring, smelly figure, shook her and whispered, ‘Ida.’ The baroness woke instantly and put her arms around him. ‘Ssssh, Ida. Come outside.’

He helped her out and hugged her.

‘I knew you’d get here in time, Myles. I didn’t know how. But I knew you would.’

‘Gavin Truss is gone too, but the rest of you are safe.’

‘Are the evictees dead?’

‘’Fraid so. Now I have to go, Jack.’

‘Go? What do you mean, go?’

‘I just wanted to tell you you’re all safe and the police will be along shortly when we tip them off. But we need to get away. You don’t want me to land in jail, do you?’

‘Sarkovsky?’ asked the baroness.

‘You sound nervous.’

‘Nervous? Yes, for once, I admit to being nervous.’

‘He’s dead.’

‘The Albanians?’

‘Securely locked up. Now you need to go back to bed and stay there until the cops arrive. Then you act surprised. I’ll be disappearing again for a while but I’ll be in touch when I can. And, of course, you won’t mention you’ve seen me.’

The baroness gave the only real laugh of the week. ‘As if I would, Myles. As if I would.’

***

Mary Lou fell on her phone so enthusiastically that she pressed the red button by mistake, but before she could cry with frustration, Pooley rang again. The call was short and Mary Lou almost collapsed after it. ‘She’s definitely alive,’ she told Amiss, as she began to cry. ‘He’s seen her. The police got an anonymous tip-off to search the basement of a huge house in Hampstead, they found the door open, five survivors, several Albanians bound, gagged, and locked in, and a dead Sarkovsky.’

‘And no superannuated SAS people?’

‘Certainly not. Why should there be any?’

‘Jack has always instructed me to be an optimist,’ said Amiss. ‘That’s why I keep champagne in the fridge. Open it and I’ll wake Rachel.’

Chapter Fourteen

It was a week after the rescue and Pooley and Mary Lou were at home having their first evening alone since the baroness had first disappeared. ‘I’m only just grasping that it’s all over,’ she said. ‘I feel almost normal. And I can’t wait to see her tomorrow night. It’s a pity you can’t be there.’

‘I’d love to be at her dinner, darling, but she’ll understand why Jim and I should stay away from her for the moment until it’s all blown over. She’s still being papped wherever she goes and there are a lot of unanswered questions we don’t want anyone to ask us.’

‘She understands, hon. I’ll be going in and out the back door of ffeatherstonehaugh’s so it’ll only be Robert and Rachel they’ll be able to photograph.’

‘Myles?’

‘Yes. You know Robert wasn’t able to reach him until after the whole drama was over but he finally got back from Iraq this morning.’

Pooley leaned across the debris of the celebratory dinner Mary Lou had ordered in and took her hand. ‘You remember we always agreed to have no secrets from each other?’

‘I do.’

‘So I should confess that I checked the texts on your phone and found one that was incriminating.’

‘What did it say?’

‘“She’s OK.”’

‘That was it? Doesn’t sound very incriminating to me.’

‘It was sent about five minutes before we had the tip-off about where to find them.’

‘Did you check the number?’

‘No. I deleted it. Besides, I’m sure that number is no longer obtainable.’

‘Are you asking any questions?’

‘I’m not. I’ve been able to tell my superiors that I know nothing about who the rescuers were. I’d like to keep it that way. We made a balls of the entire investigation and some mysterious people didn’t. I just wanted you and Robert to know that I’m not a mug. And that I understand why and what I don’t know. In fact, to misquote Donald Rumsfeld, you might say it’s a known unknown.’

‘What happened to my correct policeman?’

‘Even correct policemen have feelings and understand moral dilemmas.’ He leaned over and kissed her.

***

Even by her standards, the baroness was dressed exotically. Her crimson silk robe had a deep purple lining and after she had greeted Amiss and Rachel she turned around and displayed the large yellow dragon climbing up her back. ‘After wearing a stinking shell-suit for what seemed like years, I had to get something to obliterate the memory,’ she told them, as she waved them to seats between Cavendish and Mary Lou, handed them glasses and settled in the empty chair between them.

‘To the Marines,’ she said. ‘And to those who sent for them.’

‘Keep it discreet, Ida.’

‘That’s why I got a private room, Myles. I promise to be careful when the waiters are here.’

‘I genuinely have only just arrived here from Iraq,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in and out illicitly, so my passport shows I’ve been there all along. Now what’s been happening?’

‘The Albanians have all pleaded guilty but presumably their lawyers will come up with mitigating circumstances,’ said Mary Lou. ‘Anyway, with Sarkovsky dead, it’s pretty well all over. No one has a clue who were the mysterious rescuers who got there before the police and never took their balaclavas off. And no one’s mentioned you.’

‘And Sarkovsky?’ asked Cavendish. ‘How do they think he died?’

‘Looks as if he blew his brains out, Myles,’ said the baroness.

‘That’s the view of the pathologist, Ellis tells me,’ said Mary Lou.

‘That seems satisfactory, then,’ said Cavendish. ‘From what I’ve heard, the chap was in a tight spot. He probably felt he had no option.’

‘Though of course there is a school of thought in the liberal press that thinks he was a victim of some rogue paramilitary outfit.’

The baroness snorted. ‘You mean the human rights lawyers are looking to get in on the game?’

Mary Lou smiled seraphically. ‘Maybe if Sarkovsky had anyone that cared about him there might have been a case to pursue, but no one does. He was effectively bankrupt, his ex-wives hated him, and his children are indifferent.’

‘Was he really bankrupt?’ asked Rachel. ‘Wasn’t he supposed to be taking off for South America? Presumably he had plenty of money there.’

‘I have a friend who works in Inland Revenue,’ said Cavendish. ‘He tells me that it’s fruitless trying to track down money in South America. Now tell me, what’s happened to your other companions in tribulation?’

‘Anastasia’s gone back to Australia with her parents, taking Charlie with her. Since they got out, they’ve had a torrid week in the Dorchester, since Charlie decided it was time he spent his money in a way he would enjoy. As Anastasia confided to me, even in the depths of the chamber of horrors, she quite fancied the idea of him putting his roaring roger into her laughing tackle.’

She took another draught. ‘I do like Anastasia. Anyway, Charlie’s resigned from his job, asked his sister to sell his art collection and is going to give some months to thinking what to do with himself. She’s doing the same. After all, she explained, when you’ve come within a bee’s todger of death, it changes your outlook. Her parents are ranchers; she thinks maybe that’s the way to go. She’s decided he needs taking in hand and she should probably marry him though she hasn’t told him yet. But I’m proud to say that I’m to be Matron of Honour.’

‘So the experience has been good for them,’ said Amiss.

‘Indeed. Even if it wasn’t much good for the rest of us, particularly the dead ones. I doubt if the lives of Marilyn and Chester will be drastically altered. They know only one world. Although I doubt if Marilyn will ever again put money into conceptual art. She is, however, I’m pleased to say, giving a considerable gift to St. Martha’s.’

‘Because?’

‘Because a kindly policeman called Ellis Pooley mentioned that an Albanian had said they’d all have been dead three days earlier if it hadn’t been that the fat woman made Sarkovsky want to watch them play games and have arguments.’

‘You mean you weren’t to be knocked off night after night?’

‘Apparently not. He had a grand plan for emulating Anthony Gormley by having figures appear all over London on the same day. But then my suggestion of games got the better of him.’

‘What do you mean figures all over London? Weren’t the last of you to be seen off in that fly box?’

‘That was a last-minute substitution. The head Albanian said he had planned some sort of porn Koons death for Anastasia and Charlie. I was to be the
pièce de resistance
. Hirst’s golden bull. In a glass tank, on all fours with a gilded head, hands, and feet.’

‘And Marilyn and Chester?’

‘History doesn’t record.’

The door opened, and the head waiter arrived. ‘Lady Troutbeck,’ he said. ‘I just want you to know that the staff of ffeatherstonehaugh’s are all delighted that you are safe and well.’

The baroness stood up and bowed. ‘Thank you, Vittorio. I appreciate that sentiment. And I’m sure they have outdone themselves to ensure that we have a good dinner tonight.’

***

‘Thank God it’s Friday,’ said Rachel, as she finished the fifth course and the sixth glass of wine and leaned back exhausted in her chair.

‘Of course you’re the only one among us who keeps regular hours,’ said the baroness. ‘Good. Now you’ll be able to drink some port.’

‘First,’ said Amiss, ‘I want to propose another toast with whatever you have in your glasses. To Rachel and Mary Lou, for triumphing over the forces of educational darkness yesterday!’

Mary Lou’s visit to Rachel’s school had been an uproarious success. The murders had coincidentally put art so centre-stage that the entire school attended her presentation. According to Rachel’s account, Mary Lou had excelled herself. She had shown them conceptual art from every angle and persuaded them to laugh at it. She had shown them slides of the Sistine Chapel and told them of Michelangelo’s struggles with the sheer physical challenges. She fascinated them with several Rembrandt self-portraits along with stories of some of tribulations he faced in his private life and enchanted them with his
Lion Resting
. Along with some Van Goghs, she told them of how his mental problems brought about suffering and finally his suicide. She told them simply the story of Icarus, showed them Breugel’s
Landscape with the Fall of Icarus
and read them Auden’s poem.

Then she spoke about home-grown genius, told them of Stubbs’ anatomical dissections and how they had enabled him to produce
Whistlejack,
and of Turner’s life of experimentation with illustrating such intangibles as weather and light.
The Fighting Temeraire
elicited oooohs and aaahs and led her into talking of the Turner Prize with a few choice specimens of winning entries that got them all scoffing.

Finally, she told them the story of the emperor’s new clothes and told them that grown-ups and clever people could be very silly and that they should trust their own judgement. ‘And the result,’ said Rachel, ‘was a demand from the kids to be taken to see what they called “real” paintings and a promise from their now very own celeb that she’d go with them. The head and several of the teachers were furious, but they’ve had to cave in.’

When the acclamation had died down, and to the baroness’ delight, everyone was drinking port, Rachel asked her question. ‘There’s something really bugging me, Jack. I looked up the most famous names that have come up in all these discussions, and far too many of them are Jewish for my comfort. I had a look at the ArtReview Power 100, and it’s laden with Jewish curators and dealers and critics and collectors. It’s only the artists who are mostly gentiles.’

‘Good grief,’ said Amiss. ‘You didn’t tell me this. It’s another international Jewish conspiracy.’

‘I know we get blamed for everything from the killing of Jesus to the collapse of the financial markets,’ said Rachel. ‘And I’m inured to that. But is conceptual art really our fault?’

‘Stuff and nonsense,’ said the baroness. ‘You’re being wet, Rachel. You know perfectly well Jews are smart, disputatious, and free-thinkers, and what with being persecuted everywhere they go for those reasons, their skills tend towards the portable. Like ideas and finance and the arts.’

‘I know. But then I looked up even more and found the Frankfurt school that started all this cultural relativist nonsense was dominated by them.’

‘Look here, Rachel. It’s called swings and roundabouts. You buggers are obsessed with education and art, you never stop thinking and arguing and sometimes you get it wrong but mostly you give us great scientists and musicians and thinkers that have a disproportionate effect on business and finance because you’re so bloody brilliant.

‘Although I think the Irish are up there with you when it comes to being good company—and, unlike you, they understand the attraction of alcohol—you are the most entertaining, funniest, warmest and stimulating crew on earth.’

Rachel opened her mouth and the baroness waved at her dismissively.

‘There are downsides, of course. You also produce innumerable clever sillies, like Marx and Freud and Trotsky and, indeed, Serota. Israel fights for its life as much with loud-voiced enemies within as with Jew-haters outside. And because most people are less clever, less successful, less perverse, and less open to new ideas than you lot are, that gets you hated, especially by poor bastards stuck in the intellectual rigidity of radical Islam.

‘There has to be someone to blame for everything. It’s your people’s burden. Live with it, stamp on your tribal propensity for angst and guilt, however much you might revel in it. And for Christ’s sake, lighten up.’

She had another sip of port and looked straight at Rachel. ‘Your choice, Rachel. Do you want to follow this perverse tribal trail in a dreary neurotic search for reasons to beat yourself up, or might you just exult in being alive?’

No one said anything.

‘Have I made myself clear?’ asked the baroness.

Rachel looked back at her and laughed. ‘Abundantly clear, Jack. It’s good to have you back.’