Still Waters (21 page)

Grabianski was looking past her, past those famous eyes and over her shoulder at the man she'd identified as Sloane. His head in profile now and Grabianski could see he was nowhere near as young as he'd first thought. The build, style of the hair had deceived. The nose was full, patrician, etched here and there with tiny broken violet lines. The hair, full at the front too, had grown white above the temples; the lips, narrow and wide, were cracked. Sixty, Grabianski thought, sixty if he's a day.

“I'll tell you how good he is,” Faron said. “We was round his place one day, his studio, you know, and I made some joke about Van Gogh, about him slicing off his ear, and Sloane, he got this painting off the wall, turned it round right where he was and done these sunflowers on the back. You never seen nothing like it. They was just like the real thing. Better. But then that's me, I wouldn't really know.”

Grabianski nodded and filed it all away.

When Sloane walked past them and around the angle of the bar, Grabianski saw that he'd been right about the age. Sixty-two or sixty-three, he wouldn't have minded betting. Wearing nothing, nothing Grabianski could see, beneath a pair of paint-patched denim dungarees. Clear blue eyes that saw Grabianski even as they saw right through him. The same eyes that fixed on him now in the fly-specked mirror over the urinal. Sloane's voice, a stony South London shot through with a brace of New York American, saying, “This isn't going to be one of those pick-up scenes, is it? You show me yours if I show you mine.”

Grabianski assured him it was not.

“Thank Christ,” Sloane breathed, piss continuing to stream between his fingers, bouncing back from the shiny enamel. “I'm too old for that will-he, won't-he, kind of shit.”

“You a friend of Eddie Snow?” Grabianski asked.

“Eddie doesn't have friends,” Sloane said, buttoning up, “just mates he uses whenever there's a need.”

Rinsing his hands beneath the tap, ignoring the hot-air drier in favor of wiping them on his dungarees, Sloane walked back out into the pub and when Grabianski followed, not so many necessary moments later, he had gone. Faron was sitting alongside Snow and she had taken what remained of Grabianski's pint with her, placing it across from them, by the place Sloane had vacated.

“Interesting fellow,” Grabianski said, sliding into the empty seat.

“I don't like it,” Eddie Snow said, “when people come sniffing round after me like dogs after a bone.”

“You were supposed to be getting in touch with me.”

“And I am.”

“A couple of days ago.”

“Ah, well,” Snow said, “like the man said, all relative, time.”

Faron looked at him suspiciously, in case he might have said something clever. Eddie Snow dressed today in his trademark leather, white tight trousers and a black waistcoat over a gray ribbed T-shirt, silver Indian bangles in the appropriate places.

“I just want to know,” Grabianski said, “if you're still interested in the Dalzeils or not.”

“Shout it from the housetops, why don't you?”

Swiveling as he rose, Grabianski cupped one hand to his mouth. “I just want to know …”

“All right, all right, you've made your point,” said Snow tugging at the sleeve of Grabianski's coat, “sit your bloody self back down.”

Faron was giggling, pretending not to, and when Snow shot her a glance, she transmuted it into a cough.

“Run along,” Snow told her affably enough.

She ran all the way to the bar.

“As it happens,” Snow said, stretching an arm, “there is a fair bit of potential interest. Qatar. Arab Emirates. Monaco.”

“What are the chances,” Grabianski asked, “of translating this potential into something approaching cash?”

“Good, I'd say. Pretty good.”

“And even while I might take your point about the uncertainty of time, you wouldn't like to hazard a guess as to when …”

“Couple more days.” Snow shrugged.

“Of course, I should have known, a couple more days.”

Snow exchanged a further piece of private semaphore with Faron, who spoke to the barman and brought over fresh drinks.

“So how's old Vernon,” Snow asked casually, “seen anything of him lately?”

Grabianski shook his head.

“Gone to ground a bit, I hear,” Snow said. “Place out in Suffolk. Warbleswick. Snape. One of those. Like Siberia in the sodding winter and you can't turn round without squashing some turd in green wellies underfoot—so nice to get the dust of the city off of one's feet, don't you think?—but if you're into samphire or asparagus, oysters, of course, can't do better.”

When Grabianski walked up the Hill toward his flat, clutching a bag of cherries from Inverness Street and a copy of
Mariette in Ecstasy
he'd picked up in Compendium, there, smug and unmistakable, was Vernon Thackray's dark blue Volvo estate, parked right outside.

They went up onto the Heath: Grabianski didn't want Thackray in his home. The sun was behind them, broken shafts of it still bright through the scattering of trees that lined the south side of the Hill. They were sitting on a bench, looking down over the running track and the pale brickwork of the Lido, Gospel Oak. Squirrels flirted with fear across dusty ground.

“I was beginning to think something had happened,” Grabianski said.

“Happened?”

“To you.”

“Hoped, then, that's what you mean. Hoped.”

Grabianski didn't reply. Up to a point, let him think what he wants.

“This business,” Thackray said, “it's necessary sometimes. A low profile, you understand. Minimum visibility.” He was wearing a pale blue Oxford shirt that shone almost violet when it was caught by the sun, beige twill trousers with a definite crease, tasseled shoes. In certain parts of Suffolk, Grabianski mused, it was probably
de rigeur
.

“The paintings,” Grabianski said, “the ones you wanted. They're available, you know that.”

“Still?”

Grabianski half-turned on the bench toward him. “Japan, you said there was a buyer in Japan.”

Thackray made a small gesture with his shoulders, too indefinite to be called a shrug. “Things fluctuate, change.”

“Such as?”

“The yen against the dollar, the dollar against the pound.”

“One of the beauties of art,” Grabianski said, “I thought it maintained its price.”

“I may not be able to get as much now.”

“How much?”

Thackray smiled, rare as frost in July.

“How soon can you let me know?” Grabianski asked. “A definite price. And don't tell me a couple of days.”

“Is that what he said?”

“Who?”

Thackray's hand alighted on Grabianski's leg behind the knee, squeezing tight. “You know the line, ‘Human voices wake us, and we drown'? Listen to Eddie Snow, that's what happens. Eddie's hand on your head, holding you down.” Relinquishing his grip, Thackray patted Grabianski gently on the thigh, a caring gesture, designed to reassure; learned, Grabianski imagined, from Thackray's housemaster at school. “The kind of things he's into, Eddie, in the end all they'll bring are grief and aggravation. Take my word, Jerzy, it's not what you need.”

“What I need is to get these Dalzeils off my hands.”

“Exactly. And now we've resumed an understanding, that's where I'll direct my attention: making sure that happens.” He was on his feet, brushing dust, real or imaginary, from his clothes. “Nice here; you've done well. You'll have to drive out and see my place some time. Stay over. There's a guest room. Two. You could bring a friend. Lie in bed at night and listen to the waves lifting the pebbles from the beach, setting them back down.” He gripped Grabianski's hand. “Early-morning swim before breakfast, quite safe as long as you stay in your depth, don't fight against the tide.”

Twenty-nine

Closed for Private Function
read the sign, chalked to a board near the top of the stairs, an arrow pointing down. In the main bar, an early-evening crowd was preparing itself for a night of Old Time Music Hall; rumor had it that Clinton Ford was making the journey over from the Isle of Man. Not paying too much attention, Sharon Garnett missed the sign and walked straight ahead, pushing her way through the reproduction Victorian glass doors to find herself face to face with mine host, decked out for the occasion in purple shirt, striped waistcoat, and raffishly angled straw hat. Behind him, forty or so punters, set on an evening of tepid beer and nostalgia, nibbled peanuts and Walkers crisps and, first one and then another, turned their heads and stared. Sharon, her hair spiked out around her face like a seven-pointed star, stood there in a body-hugging lime green nylon dress and smiled back.

“I think what you're looking for, me duck, it's downstairs.”

“Quite likely,” Sharon said. Then, with a cheery wave to all and sundry, “Nice to meet you. Have a good night. And remember, don't do anything you can't spell.”

“Comedy night,” the landlord said, “it's Sat'day. You're a day early.”

“Better than being the usual four days late.” Sharon had had two large gins and the residue of a bottle of New Zealand Chardonnay before leaving home and she wasn't about to take prisoners.

Lynn met Sharon at the foot of the stairs and gave her a quick, welcoming hug.

“You look amazing,” Lynn said, stepping back for the full effect.

“So do you.” It was a lie and they both accepted it; in fact, Lynn, in a cream high-neck dress and heels, looked fine. She'd had her hair done that afternoon at Jazz, and for once had thought about her makeup for more than five minutes.

“The bar's free,” Lynn said, “for now.”

Sharon grinned and made her way in search of more gin.

Half an hour ago, Lynn had been in the same throes of panic experienced by anyone who ever threw a party of whatever size; she had been certain no one would turn up. And then, suddenly it seemed, they were all there—the team she was leaving, the squad she was joining. Even her new boss had put in an appearance, shaking hands with Lynn, as she looked round the room to check who else was there.

Helen Siddons had planned to bring her present affair with her, scotch any persisting rumors and spell it out for Skelton at the same time; but the man in question, an assistant chief constable from a neighboring force, was due to deliver the keynote speech at a Masonic dinner and could only offer to meet her afterwards. Knowing that meant he'd be snoring red-faced on her pillow within fifteen minutes, Siddons had declined.

The sound of conversation was already sharpening, voices liberated by alcohol; laughter, raucous and short-lived, rose up from around the room like a Mexican wave. The buffet was laid out along the rear wall, between the toilets and the bar, the usual quartered sandwiches and slices of yellow quiche, though the pakoras and samosas were less expected and going down a treat.

Helen Siddons was settling a prawn
vol-au-vent
onto her paper plate when Skelton appeared beside her, tobacco on his breath, his hand heavy upon her arm.

“You're here on your own,” Skelton said, not a question.

“And Alice?”

Skelton shrugged.

“I don't know, Jack. It's not a good idea.”

“It always was.”

“Yes, well, that's as may be.”

Watching them from across the room, Resnick wondered whether he shouldn't go over and interrupt, play chaperone. He decided it was none of his business, and went in search of Hannah instead, finding her sharing a table with Carl Vincent, Anil Khan, and Khan's girlfriend, Jill, a receptionist at Central TV. He was about to join them when he spotted Divine, swaying a little maybe, but as yet still on his feet.

“Mark,” Resnick greeted him, concerned but genuinely pleased. “Glad you could make it. How've you been? All right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Never worry.”

“Well, take it a bit easy, okay?”

“Right.”

Divine tugged at the knot of his tie and headed for the bar. Moments later, lager in hand, he collided with Sharon Garnett, carrying a tray of drinks toward a corner table. The crash momentarily stopped most conversation, Sharon squatting down among the broken glass, the front of her dress dark and wet.

“Here, let me,” Divine said, lowering himself shakily onto one knee.

“Tell you what,” Sharon said. “Why don't you fuck off instead?”

“Black bitch,” Divine said, the words out of his mouth without hindrance or thought.

The back of Sharon's hand caught him full across the face, the edge of her ring opening a cut alongside his left eye. For a moment, he was stunned and then he lashed out, one of his feet kicking her hard in the thigh, a fist whistling close by her head.

“Hey, Mark! Enough.” Naylor had been the first to react, pulling Divine back, Resnick quick to seize hold of his other arm, the pair of them hustling him over toward the door and through onto the stairs.

“Are you all right?” Lynn asked, shepherding Sharon toward a seat.

“Stupid bastard,” Sharon said. And then to Lynn, dredging up a smile. “Yes, I'm fine.”

“I thought,” Khan said, “things were a little on the quiet side.”

Vincent looked at his watch. “Early days.”

Out on the street, Resnick propped Divine up against a wall, while Naylor called for a cab.

“I'll go with him,” Naylor said, “make sure he gets indoors okay. Tell Debbie I'll not be long; I'll get the driver to wait.”

“You're sure?”

“No problem.”

“Good lad, thanks.”

Resnick was scarcely back in the room before he saw Helen Siddons headed straight toward him. “Just got a call. There's a body, Charlie. In the canal. Not far from here. I thought maybe you'd want to come along.”

After a quick word with Hannah, Resnick followed the new DCI from the room.