Next of Kin (33 page)

Montignac stared at him in surprise. ‘No,' he said. ‘What do you mean?'

‘But you're bleeding,' he said. ‘Look at your arm.'

Montignac looked down and saw a thin line of blood, perhaps two inches long, running along the white sleeve and cursed himself for not collecting his jacket before answering the door. ‘That's nothing,' he said. ‘A slight accident with Jason and a frame cutter earlier.'

‘Oh dear. Was he all right?'

‘He'll live,' he replied quickly. ‘Had to bandage him up and send him on his way. I'll have to throw this damn thing out, though, and it didn't come cheap either.'

Gareth nodded, accepting the explanation, and waited while Montignac ran back upstairs to collect his jacket. He walked into the storeroom and looked around to make sure that he hadn't forgotten anything.

Lying on the ground, his arms tied behind his back, his legs bound together, his mouth covered with masking tape, lay the unconscious body of Raymond Davis, the young man who had had the temerity to propose marriage to Stella. Montignac leaned down and placed a hand against his chest; his breathing was perfectly normal.

‘Right,' he said, running back downstairs having locked the storeroom door behind him. ‘Let's go.'

*   *   *

THEY LEFT THE GALLERY
and walked towards a pub near Piccadilly Circus where Montignac ordered two steak and kidney pies at the bar and brought a couple of pints of beer to the table.

‘I better just have some water,' said Gareth, eyeing the glass nervously.

‘Nonsense! We're celebrating, aren't we?'

‘Yes, I know but—'

‘Oh one won't kill you. Come on. Your very good health,' he added, raising his glass and holding it there. Gareth picked his up, torn between reluctance and desire, and they clinked glasses.

‘And yours,' said Gareth, taking his first happy sip.

‘Before you get even more anxious about it,' said Montignac, handing across a thick envelope. ‘Here's your share. It's all there but don't open it in here, all right? You never know what kind of people are lurking around.'

‘Thanks,' said Gareth gratefully, sticking the money in his inside pocket. ‘You've seen the newspapers have carried articles about it every day?'

‘Yes,' said Montignac. ‘It's rather funny, isn't it?'

‘I'll say. My mother says the London constabulary are in a state of constant bewilderment.'

‘She's not far wrong.'

‘Apparently the Clarion are going to be sued for the cost of the paintings.'

‘Oh that's ridiculous,' said Montignac, dismissing the idea. ‘The insurance will cover it.'

‘Well they're not very happy.'

‘No, I wouldn't imagine they would be. No one likes to be robbed. Here, let's have another drink.'

‘Steady on, Owen,' said Gareth. ‘I haven't finished this one yet.'

‘Well drink quickly then, this is a celebration.'

Two more drinks arrived and Gareth finished his first in a couple of quick mouthfuls before bringing the second to his lips as well. He felt giddy with excitement and thrilled with the amount of money in his pocket; his nervousness about alcohol had disappeared as quickly as that first pint.

‘So what's next?' asked Gareth.

‘Next?'

‘Yes. There must be other ways to make quick money like this. Haven't you got contacts?'

Montignac laughed. ‘My dear Gareth,' he said. ‘You must disabuse yourself of the notion that I am some sort of underworld operative. Opportunities like the Cézanne job don't come along very often, you know.'

‘Oh,' said Gareth, disappointed, for he had imagined earning a thousand pounds a week and had already put it to good use in his mind.

‘Well that's not to say there won't be others. You're a valuable part of my plans, you know, Gareth. In fact I wouldn't be able to imagine the next few months without you being part of them.'

‘Is that so?' he asked, brightening up. ‘So I should just wait to hear from you then?'

‘Oh no,' said Montignac, shaking his head. ‘That would look far too suspicious. I'll give you a regular job in the gallery to begin with and we'll see what comes along. I was looking for a way to get rid of Jason anyway. He's a liability. Not half as much use to me as you.'

‘I wouldn't want to put him out of a job,' said Gareth.

‘That's not for you to worry about.'

‘No, but…' He frowned slightly, wondering how to phrase this best. ‘I can't tell you what all this means to me, Owen,' he said.

‘All what?'

‘All this. What you've done for me.'

‘I'm not sure I've done very much,' said Montignac. ‘Other than get you involved in a criminal conspiracy, that is.'

‘Well no one got hurt, did they?' said Gareth, justifying his actions. ‘And, well you've given me some focus in my life. Something I was missing before.'

Montignac nodded. He took a sip from his own drink, uncomfortable with the confidential tone that Gareth had adopted.

‘I know we haven't known each other very long,' he continued, his voice betraying a little nervousness. ‘But I have to say I'm glad I met you.'

‘As am I. Now should we order some more drinks?'

‘I could tell the night I first laid eyes on you,' he said, refusing to be put off. ‘The night of my birthday. I knew when I looked at you that you were someone who could help me achieve something. Someone who could break me out of the … out of the soul-destroying lethargy that my life had become. Do you realize that, Owen? Do you realize how much you've done for me? How you've changed things for me?'

Montignac looked away and shook his head; he didn't want to hear this. ‘You're responsible for your own actions,' he muttered, unhappy to be the focus of so much undeserved adoration.

‘I know I am. But you've shown me the way. I really…' He laughed and his hands curled into fists on the table top. ‘I really want to tell you, Owen, how much I admire you. How much I respect you. You … you're a person I—'

‘Barman!' Montignac called out before another embarrassing word could be uttered, raising his hand and pointing at the glasses. ‘Two more of these please.'

‘My God, Owen, you're going at a pace tonight aren't you?' he asked nervously as more beer and whiskies arrived; he seemed to have snapped out of his dreadful speech and was preparing to embarrass himself no further. ‘I'll be drunk within an hour at this rate.'

‘And when was the last time you had a thousand pounds burning a hole in your pocket?' he asked. ‘Let's make it a night to remember, what do you say?'

Gareth hesitated, knowing what a bad idea it was for him to drink, especially to excess like this but shrugged it off, putting his fears to the back of his mind. He would be sober from tomorrow, he decided. Sober, rich and employed, with a great future ahead of him. A great future and a great friend. He lifted his glass and held it in the air.

‘To the future,' he said.

‘The future,' said Montignac. ‘May it bring everything we deserve and more.'

*   *   *

TWO MORNINGS LATER, MONTIGNAC
rose early in the hotel room he had taken the night before and felt a mixture of relief and anticipation. Relief that the murderous hangover of the previous day had finally abated overnight. Anticipation that the morning's newspaper would bring the news he was hoping for. The clarification of where things stood. He shaved quickly but carefully and took a quick bath, dressing exactly as he always would for work, and left the hotel, walking without haste to a corner shop a few streets away. There he purchased a copy of
The Times
and used all the willpower he could summon not to look at the front page until he was back in his room with the door firmly locked behind him, sure of his privacy.

He laid the newspaper out on the desk and the headline jumped out at him immediately; he gasped in a mixture of excitement and panic at the sudden truth of it. The fact that he had actually gone through with the plan and things were starting to work out already.

Judge's Son In Murder Probe

said the headline in large font across the top of the page. Montignac settled into the chair and read the opening paragraphs quickly:

The son of a prominent high court judge was arrested yesterday in connection with the murder of horticulturalist Raymond Davis. Gareth Bentley (24), a recently graduated student barrister, was taken into custody after the body of Davis (28) was found at a flat where the accused was staying, his head apparently beaten in with a candlestick. Bentley is the son of Sir Roderick Bentley KC, best known for presiding over the trial this year of Henry Domson, third cousin to His Majesty King Edward VIII; the judge was both criticized and praised in equal measure for sentencing Domson to death after his conviction for the murder of a policeman. With his own son standing accused of a similar crime and facing the same punishment, Bentley was unavailable for comment yesterday evening. The victim, Mr Davis, a fellow of the Royal Horticultural Society, was rushed to Charing Cross Hospital within minutes of his discovery but was declared dead on arrival. His family were being contacted last night.

Montignac set the paper down and closed his eyes for a moment, breathing heavily. He held his hand out flat in the air and was pleased to see that it sat there perfectly still, not a nervous flicker in sight.

FIVE

1

THE ONLY THING THAT
made it even slightly bearable was that they had finally moved him to his own cell. During those first three days when he had barely been able to remember his own name let alone piece together what had happened on the night in question, Gareth had been kept in a cell with two other prisoners, both of whom were considerably older than him, and he had crouched quietly in a lower bunk, terrified and filled with horror at what he had been accused of. The rough stone walls felt perpetually damp to his touch, despite the fact that no water appeared to be seeping through.

His two cell-mates had kept themselves to themselves for the most part but viewed him with suspicion as he spoke with a more upper-class accent than they did and yet was being held on a more serious charge. But their very presence had offended him; the dry, stale stink of them, the language they used, the casual threats of violence they threw at each other, the sound of their snores and breathing while he lay there, unable to sleep.

Taken with thirty other prisoners for an hour's exercise in the courtyard the previous afternoon, word had quickly spread that he was the son of Mr Justice Bentley, a man who had been responsible for the incarceration of more than a few of them, and he had been set upon when the warders' backs were turned. Boots had been kicked into his ribs, fists flung into his face. The afternoon was spent in the luxury of the hospital wing and from there he had been brought back downstairs in the evening time where his reward for suffering a beating had been to be given a cell of his own; nothing would have persuaded him to have taken that beating back.

The room wasn't very big, no more than twelve feet by fifteen, and held a cot, a chair, a small table and an open toilet, but when the door was locked the sense of relief he felt at being left alone outweighed the feeling of panic at being locked up in there in the first place. The cell smelled of disinfectant and the sheets of cheap soap powder; he stank of dried-in perspiration and fear.

It had been almost a week since he'd woken up in a strange bed in a strange flat, that familiar thumping behind his eyes threatening to lay waste to his brain at any moment, and cursed himself for getting drunk yet again. So many times he had promised himself that he would not succumb to it and for long periods he managed to resist quite successfully but then there was always a slip. Something happened that made him feel like it could only be celebrated by alcohol, and the first always led to another and a third and then oblivion. He could remember almost nothing about the night before and tried to recall how he had got here. The last thing he could remember for sure was turning up at the Threadbare Gallery to see Owen Montignac and the fact that they had gone for dinner where he had started drinking in copious amounts. But everything after that was a blank.

He shifted in the bed and glanced beneath the dark covers. He was almost fully dressed but he'd managed to kick his shoes off and loosen his belt before falling asleep. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth; he felt desperately in need of a glass of ice-cold water.

‘Hello?' he grunted, turning his head slowly to look around the bedroom as he tried to make sense of things. It was a very tidy room, with no clothes lying around as there were in his own bedroom at home. The wardrobe door was closed and a dressing table in the corner seemed to be very neatly maintained. To the left of the window there was a print he recognized of a painting by Claude Monet. A girl in a white dress with a parasol standing in front of a tree as the sun beat down on her. Other than that, there was nothing in the room of any familiarity to him at all and he couldn't understand where he was or how he had arrived there. ‘Hello?' he called out again but there was no response.

And then the noises started.

He lay in the bed and didn't think much of it at first as what sounded like two cars pulled up noisily on the street outside. Then there was the sound of people rushing up the path towards the front door and a loud banging.

‘Police,' shouted one of the voices from outside. ‘Open up!'

He frowned and closed his eyes, hoping he could either fall asleep again or the noises would go away. He didn't know what neighbourhood he'd ended up in last night but wished he was at home in Tavistock Square.

Footsteps from downstairs in the hallway ran towards the door and opened it and the sound of frantic conversation from the floor beneath drifted up the stairs but he couldn't quite make out what was being said; however by the tone of the voices it occurred to him that the door of whatever flat he was in must have been left slightly open. Feeling a sudden moment of unexpected panic he sat up in the bed, putting a hand to his forehead as the hangover kicked into life, and groaned, turning a little sideways as he thought he might suddenly throw up. But something inside him told him it was important to get outside and close that door as quickly as possible so he twisted in the bed and got out, climbing unsteadily to his feet as his aching body and thumping head competed with each other to see which could cause him the most pain. Standing up with the light streaming through the slightly parted curtains he looked down at himself for a moment and his mouth fell open in surprise.