Snatched (26 page)

‘
Ah, this would make a hell of a difference. Thanks, Lepage, I'll tell them. That's half the battle, then. As to the other, there's no reason why you shouldn't have
two
busts of Flounce at the Hulliborn. They wouldn't need much space. He can take the double exposure. He has the prestige, somehow.'

‘Identical?'

‘Haven't thought.'

‘By the same sculptor?'

‘Stop nit-picking, for God's sake.'

‘Two? But the Conclave has already said we don't want
one
.
I'm afraid my colleagues—'

‘Sod the Conclave. This is major, Lepage. Nothing must disturb the present state of balance. I've sent Lionel to Jimma to get those tapes, and no muck-up this time. He'll do a fair job. His defeat in the Raybould wasn't typical. Politically, one of Clode's great assets is that he looks a prat but isn't, not altogether. Like Crossman or de Gaulle. Those two women – Lady Flounce and Trudy – could upset not just Tokyo but Washington-stroke-Kalamazoo as well. If that happens, where do you think the Hulliborn is? No-bloody-where, cock. We've all got to learn that culture in this country certainly has a place in government thinking, but it is a place that needs to be earned, day in, day out.'

‘Would Tokyo and Washington-stroke-Kalamazoo wear it – each providing a bust? Sharing the honours?'

‘They both have to realize that Butler-Minton was, indeed
is
, the prized property of the whole world, the princely shit. Everyone's entitled to do obeisance to him.'

‘I'm driving past, see the light on, thought I'd come and find how you doing, Fatman. Why up so late?'

‘I don't sleep too well recently, Wayne,' Vince Simberdy said. ‘I have some worries.'

‘The art?'

‘That kind of thing.' It was just after three a.m. Simberdy rolled out of bed half an hour ago and had been doing a bit of pacing in the living room. The curtains on one window weren't properly drawn together and, on one of his little journeys, he'd become aware of a saintly-type, elongated face outside in the gap, and the gleam of unnaturally blond hair. Oh, God. But he'd gone and let Nothing Known in. ‘I thought you were abroad in hiding, Wayne,' he said. ‘Your letter said so. To me, that seemed very wise.'

‘And you're worrying about how you can get my share to me and can't sleep? It's OK. I'm in this country again.'

‘What share?'

‘“What share?” he says! Oh, nice. Brilliant!'

‘Not so loud.'

‘Cool, Fatman.'

‘There isn't any share.'

‘Is that so? No share for Wayne, you mean. Just one big fat share for the big fat man. Through and through is what you are, Fatman. I'll give you that. Crooked through-and-through. A true professional.'

‘Why are you out at this hour?' Simberdy replied.

‘I've gone back to that timetable I told you about in the Blague. I see a friend late, after her work. We're thinking of doing a runner. So, I need the funds.'

A runner with George Lepage's Julia? But Simberdy didn't ask. No more complications, please. They sat in easy chairs. Simberdy poured a couple of whiskeys. ‘Wayne, I don't think you understand.'

‘You sure about that, Fatman? I think I understand pretty good. I seen some life, you know, and watched what money can do to people. It's not always very lovely.'

Simberdy turned to face him square-on and gave him the special smile he liked to think of as brave and frank, the one he usually kept for members of the Museums Inspectorate. ‘There aren't any funds,' he said. ‘We returned the Monet and the cash. Yes, hung them back on the wall of the Raybould. I put them there myself. It seemed an inescapable decision. We'd have done the same with the other paintings, too – the “El Grecos” – but we knew the Hulliborn didn't really want them. This is the kind of people we are, Olive and I – always conscious of duty, and always terrified of the law, which Olive, of course, knows quite a whack about.'

For a second, Passow was quiet. Then he had a big, admiring giggle. ‘Yes, you're real through-and-through, Fatman. You can lie like you done a varsity degree in it, face wide open and sunny, like a field of wheat.'

‘What I'm telling you is true. The return of
L'Isolement
has been in the Press. A photograph with the Arts Minister.'

Passow thought about this. ‘So, the museum people bought it back from us, did they – paid a ransom without knowing who to? Like Nothing Known, you could say. You let them have a bit of a discount, did you, for old-time's sake and your love of the Hulliborn? It goes far, far back that love, doesn't it, when the other Bossman was there? I heard he's dead and the widow's gone gay and emigrated or something. But, anyway, you adore that museum. This is all right. I'd expect that. Life can't just be about business and making a packet. But there should still be plenty for a good team split. I found out about the real price of that painting, didn't I?'

‘No, Wayne. We put it back secretly. No deal. No ransom.'

Again Passow considered. The skin of his face had begun to shine almost as much as his hair. Simberdy couldn't be certain whether it was sweat or rage. ‘You put it back – you mean for free, and it's worth millions?' he said. ‘You made it a gift?'

‘Please don't shout. You'll wake the household. No, not a gift. It belonged to the Hulliborn, didn't it? As I said, we felt a mixture of fear and duty.'

Wayne sat hunched up in the armchair, hands gripping his face and head. He'd put the empty glass on the floor. Simberdy saw Passow's fingers spasmodically kneading his scalp as he tried to cope with this new concept, duty. It would be like trying to learn Mandarin Chinese in a day. For a few moments Simberdy thought Nothing Known might attack him physically. But then it looked as if the shock had drained Passow, disabled him, at least temporarily. They both stayed quiet for a time.

In a while, Passow began to straighten out his body in the chair. ‘Well, that's how it is,' he said. ‘Wayne don't believe in making a song about what can't be changed.' His long, saintly face seemed to get longer and registered appalling pain, yet pain that he accepted must be borne. ‘Is that fucking blue water-lily thing hanging in the same place again near the window? If you put it back personal, you'll know. The exact spot like before?'

‘What? Yes. But listen, Wayne, you can't.' Simberdy was almost yelling himself. ‘You'd be mad to try it again. They've got extra security electronics on the windows and all round. Trying to crack the Hulliborn now is hopeless. It would be the end of nothing known about Nothing Known.'

Wayne nodded slowly in grief, like someone hearing of the death of a fine friend. ‘Yes, you could be spot-on, Fatman. And, of course, you'd worry that if they got me it might lead to you and Olive.'

‘That's not a consideration.'

‘Not much it isn't.'

‘I don't believe you'd ever squeal.'

‘You think I'd be like that
omerta
thing in the Mafia, do you?'

‘Absolutely.'

‘Thanks, Fatman.' Wayne touched his hair in a bit of a preen. ‘Really, thanks. What about the others?'

‘The “El Grecos”? We've kept them, naturally. The Hulliborn doesn't want those three. They'd be a damn nuisance – upset their account books. Olive likes them, so everyone's content.'

‘Not quite everyone,' Passow said.

‘I'm sorry, Wayne.'

Passow punched the air warmly. ‘I trust you and Olive implicit, Fatman. If you say that's how it is, that's how it is. This is still a team, yes?'

‘True. So, what about your plans, Wayne – doing a runner with your late-night companion?'

‘Plans got to be fluid, haven't they? This is a setback, no denying. I mean, to come expecting millions and find only your busy conscience. That got to be upsetting. Crucial? Maybe.' He stood and went out into the hall. Simberdy followed. Passow turned and shook his hand. ‘Look, Vince, this Lady Butler-Minton I mentioned – her house got nobody in it now, that correct? I mean, if she's abroad.'

‘Well, yes, the house must be empty.'

‘They'd have some fair stuff, I expect, her and sir – all the collecting their sort do, foreign and home, and I don't mean beer mats.'

‘Passow, she's a friend of mine.'

‘Fatman, I can't be doing all this travel and taking risks for nix can I? There got to be earnings. Wayne's not a museum, don't cop no grant. Wayne's not duty. Wayne is catch-as-catch-can. Wayne is what built the British Empire so them others could give it away owing to conscience. I done a bit of art work myself, you know.'

‘What? How?'

‘Antibes way. France? Work called a mural, I believe, meaning walls. I signed it, like artists should.'

‘You what?'

‘Initials only. Don't worry.'

‘Which initials?'

‘FBM – Fatman's Best Mate.'

‘Why, Quentin!' Lepage cried as Youde rushed unannounced and radiantly angst-flecked into the room. Lepage was conducting an interview with Keith Jervis, who'd requested the meeting, and, until interrupted by Youde's arrival, had been exhaustively describing how undervalued he felt by the Hulliborn.

‘I'm sorry, Director, but I had to see you at once,' Youde said. ‘An extremely private and urgent matter.'

‘Now, you relax, old Art, and just say whatever you got to say,' Jervis told him. ‘Don't worry about me in the tiniest bit. I have problems, too, and also extremely private and urgent likewise, but if you think you've got exec troubles of a priority nature so you need to push in first with the Director, that's OK by me, never fear. Just you talk as if I wasn't even here. Whatever is said, it will be like I never even heard it, a total blank. Count on me. All right, for controversial and deeply hurtful reasons I'm still only part-time, not staff, which I been mentioning today to the Director, but one thing I'm familiar with is loyalty, and mum's the word. With me, this is a well-known feature.'

‘Director, could we be alone briefly?' Youde replied.

‘It will be like you were just that,' Jervis said. ‘I know how to self-obliterate when the big boys and girls are talking on the larger topics.' He began to gaze about Lepage's office, as though out on a country walk delightedly taking in the scenery, his mind seemingly miles away, and enjoying some of the over-ample leisure he had, through being only part-time at the Hulliborn.

‘What is it, Quentin, so pressing and acute?' Lepage asked. This was turning out to be a rotten morning.

Youde hesitated for a moment, but then seemed to ditch his objections to Jervis's presence. ‘Director, I must have time off, at once. I believe I'm entitled to several sabbatical months. I need to take them.'

‘Yes, you might be, Quent. I'll check. Starting when?'

‘Soonest,' Youde said.

Jervis gave a long and resounding intake of breath, wagged his head twice and stared gravely at Youde.

‘I see,' Lepage said. ‘This is some sudden, scholarly opening, opportunity, perhaps? I know that can happen, and one must take one's chance. Is there, perhaps, new material, requiring further work, to show the authenticity of the El Grecos? This is understandably a topic close to your heart.'

‘Oh, stuff the “El Grecos”,' Youde answered. ‘They're rubbish and they're gone. All say, “Good riddance!” I'm wholly aware of that, Director. No need to play about any longer, pretending to cater for my feelings, when everyone's laughing at me
sotto voce
.' His body twitched, and he closed his eyes for a long moment, like someone who craved merciful sedation.

‘Never, Art,' Jervis cried. ‘Never a
sotto
or, indeed, other
voce
giggle to my knowledge. This is a foul slur on colleagues, who wish you only the very best – with the one or two obvious exceptions. I'm surprised and hurt to see you lose spirit. To be frank, Youdey, you never struck me as someone who would crack that way. Oh, you're pale, yes, very pale, but not sick pale, not feeble pale, you know what I mean? More calm pale, no hypertension, no panics. Maybe even above and beyond calm. Maybe serenity itself. All right, there's your teeth, admitted, but you can't help that, can you, not unless the cost of implants? In any case, they don't really come into it, do they – not part of that interesting paleness?'

‘Well, yes, it's true, I am calm, I am,' Youde replied.

Lepage could hear the bonny fight for calmness in his voice.

‘It's perceptive of you to notice my serenity, Jervis,' Youde said. ‘You're entirely right. People can probably read in my features that I do not panic.' He looked about instinctively, as he often did when in Lepage's room, seeking a mirror, this time to reflect congenital non-panic. Then he seemed to remember again that there was no mirror here. ‘My current opinion of the “El Grecos” is not, after all, some sudden collapse, is it? Hasn't it been forced on me over months by the weight of outside expert opinion?'

Lepage wanted some concreteness. ‘If not the “El Grecos”, what then, Quentin? Why the urgency?'

Youde trembled, almost catastrophically, for a moment. To Lepage it appeared as though Quentin had been shocked to hear him – Lepage – apply the tone of doubt to the paintings, even though Youde had just applied it himself. ‘I'm afraid this goes much deeper, George,' he said. ‘Much deeper than dead relics from the past, false or genuine. This is a vivid, breathing, alive matter. That is why I burst in on you so untypically like this, and why I must go immediately.'

‘But go where, Art?' Jervis replied. ‘Whither away?'

‘Yes, where, D.Q.?'

Youde had not sat down and now took a couple of agitated, significant paces, his lips fiercely set. Lepage had once seen the Degas portrait that Youde was supposed to resemble, but today he looked more like President of the Supreme Soviet, Leonid Brezhnev, really quite late on. ‘I've hurt a woman,' he said, ‘hurt her beyond bearing.'