Pandora (63 page)

‘Good people, good people!’ Dame Hermione clapped her hands, accepted a glass of champagne, took a hefty slug, then waited until as many people as possible had crowded into the room.

‘It is with the greatest pleasure that I unveil this important work.’

Slowly the blue curtains slid back to reveal first a massive pink belly like the globe in the days when everything seemed to belong to England. Then the rest of Hermione appeared, naked except for her gold halo, her hands clasped together in prayer, each arm supporting a massive blue-veined breast. There was a gasp of amazement, a stifling of laughter, then everyone leapt out of their skins as the smiling red lips parted and Hermione’s voice launched fortissimo into: ‘Once in Royal David’s City’.

Finally, as the fibreglass Hermione sang: ‘Mary was that Mother mild, Jesus Christ her little Child,’ a mighty whirring followed, as if a giant cuckoo clock were about to strike. Then an invisible door in her vast belly shot open and out popped Baby Jesus, complete with halo, and, having smiled and waved, popped in again.

There was a stunned silence. Then Hermione clapped her hands.

‘Bravo, Jonathan. Bravo!’

So everyone clapped and cheered too and the press went berserk. Even Jonathan, who’d been looking apprehensive, smiled and posed with Hermione. Baby Jesus popped out over and over again. A beaming David kept getting into shot beside Hermione, which irritated the hell out of Geraldine.

‘Why didn’t Jonathan do an installation called
Cuckoo Cock
?’ grumbled an upstaged Trafford. ‘It pops in and out of his trousers enough.’

Having witnessed her brother’s triumph, Sienna went in search of more champagne. On the way, she was unnerved to see Zac studying
Slaughterhouse
.

‘You lot kill animals just as cruelly,’ she snapped.

‘Oh, come on, honey, give us a break.’ Taking her arm, Zac walked her back to the press room, where the YBAs were getting hammered again.

The indefatigable Slaney was already on her mobile revving up a high churchman.

‘You really disapprove, Your Eminence. That’s terrific. Could you bear to fax the
New York Times
? . . .

Yes, the Virgin Mary in the buff and the Christ child shooting out of Dame Hermione’s belly, deplorable, isn’t it?’

At that moment, Geraldine rushed into the press room.

‘Sienna, where’s Sienna, come quickly,’ she cried excitedly. ‘Some religious maniac’s slashing your painting.’

‘What!’ whispered Sienna in horror.

‘Looks like some Arab, clearly upset by your attacking the way they kill animals.’

‘What a fantastic story,’ yelled Slaney, hanging up on the Cardinal.

But Sienna had gone, Wrath in the Seven Deadly Sins, hurtling into the hall; seeing a man in white robes with a long, curved knife, she leapt on him, screaming, wrestling, trying to knock the weapon out of his hands.

‘Pack it in,’ yelled Zac, who’d raced after her, attempting both to grab the knife and pull Sienna off the man.

Next moment, Jonathan came running in followed by the world’s press and Dame Hermione, screeching with horror at such a loss of limelight. Still grappling on the floor, Sienna felt the sinewy power of the Arab’s body, the stench of his breath, the mad loathing in his rolling brown eyes.

‘Leave my picture alone, you sadistic fucker,’ she howled, ‘I’ll kill you, kill you.’ As she kicked him with her steel-tipped boots, the Arab howled with pain. Only when Zac, Jonathan, Trafford, Slaney and several security guards had dragged them apart and slapped handcuffs on them, and David had crept out from behind
Tampax Tower
and Somerford Keynes from behind
Assholier
and Hermione had stopped screaming, did Micky Blake the curator sidle nervously forward to assess the damage.

‘Leave it,’ sobbed Sienna, tugging frantically at her handcuffs, ‘I can do a copy, I’ve got drawings. Please leave it.’

Slaughterhouse
was in ribbons. Underneath the picture, a grey protective layer had been scraped like the underside of a child’s new shoe. To the right at the top it had been sliced open. Sienna gave a moan of despair and collapsed briefly against Zac. Then his hand clenched on her shoulder. For as the protective layer was peeled back, there, out of its frame and in all its shining beauty, lay the Raphael.

‘My God!’ Startled out of his slug-like languor, Somerford waddled forward. ‘It’s Pandora. How divine she is.’ The press also surged forward, frenziedly photographing both picture and combatants.

‘Get back,’ yelled Jonathan, then, cool as an Arctic January, he turned to Micky Blake. ‘That picture belongs to my father. It was stolen last summer. Some joker, knowing my sister was part of Commotion, obviously decided to smuggle it into America behind one of her pictures.’

Zac seemed to wake up.

‘I guess your sister did the smuggling,’ he snarled. ‘She was so worried about not being able to show Pandora to her children.’

As Sienna winced and leapt away from him, there was a wail of sirens and the police roared in. But as Micky Blake began to explain the situation, Zac, still quivering with rage, took over.

‘That is my picture, stolen from my great-grandfather in Vienna in 1938,’ he told the police and, from his inside pocket, neatly folded, he produced copies of photographs, stats of the documents and even a neatly folded ‘Buyers’ Beware’ page from the
Art Newspaper
, which showed a photograph of Pandora.

‘It’s the Raphael,’ the policemen told each other in wonder.

Si was so well known in America and looted art such a hot subject here that the theft of the Raphael had been huge news. What a coup it had come to light in New York.

‘It’s my father’s picture,’ sobbed Sienna.

The police, however, had been pulling in YBAs for disorderly behaviour all week. Taking one look at Sienna’s unhealthily grey face with its rings and studs, her black grunge clothes, and her steel-tipped boots, Sergeant Rubin decided she looked infinitely dodgier than the Arab, and arrested them both.

‘And I’ll take the painting,’ said Zac.

‘Oh no you don’t.’ Jonathan leapt forward.

‘Neither of you is taking it,’ said Sergeant Rubin firmly. ‘It’ll go to the District Attorney to be authenticated, and then the asset will be frozen.’

‘Cold Master,’ sighed Jonathan.

‘I had to take it,’ muttered a despairing Sienna. ‘I was so terrified Zac or Si were going to get there first.’

Her worst moment, as the picture was put in a box, was seeing the reproachful look in Hope’s blue eyes as an oilskin was laid over her.

‘Don’t take her away,’ she howled, ‘I’ll never see her again.’

For a second, a grim, shell-shocked Zac dropped a hand on her shoulder.

‘Stay cool, babe, it’s OK.’

‘It’s bloody not,’ snarled Jonathan. ‘You screwed up Emerald, don’t start on my sister. Now fuck off.’

Dame Hermione, meanwhile, had been out of the limelight too long. Seeing the knives had been put away and that Zac was even better looking than Jonathan, she rushed into the fray.

‘May I help, officer?’

‘Why, Dame Hermione,’ Sergeant Rubin blushed, ‘we’ve got everything under control.’

‘They’re arresting my sister,’ protested Jonathan.

‘Surely not, officer.’ Hermione’s deep voice deepened as she beamed round at the frantically snapping media, then, putting her arm round Sienna’s heaving shoulders: ‘This young woman is the daughter of my old friend Sir Raymond Belvedon, a most distinguished art-dealer and television personality. I am convinced of her innocence.’

‘That’s for us to find out, Dame Hermione.’

Even though it was midnight in England, David took huge delight in waking Raymond.

‘Would you like the good news or the bad news? The Raphael’s been found.’

‘Oh thank God.’ Raymond sounded weak with relief. ‘Is it OK? Any serious damage?’

‘Not that can’t be mended.’

‘Where was it found?’

‘Hidden behind one of Sienna’s canvasses. She’s as clever at smuggling as her old dad.’

‘Oh my God, poor child, what’s become of her?’

‘Been arrested. Picture’s been impounded. Zac’s brandishing his documentation. You’ll have a fight on your hands if you want it back.’

The moment a distraught Raymond put down the telephone, the
Sun
rang.

‘The Raphael’s been found in your daughter’s possession, Sir Raymond. Are you going to press charges, or was it an inside job to claim the insurance?’

At first when she reached the police station, Sienna tried to bluff it out. Someone was trying to frame her – not the picture. But she was so tired and shivery from getting soaked at lunchtime, and the cops were too clever for her and she’d kept her secret for so long. It was almost a relief to talk. Conscious of her extreme distress, Sergeant Rubin held one hand, Officer Smithfield the other. Plied with scalding mugs of sweet black coffee and endless cigarettes, Sienna explained about getting drunk at Emerald’s birthday party and suddenly feeling brave.

‘I pretended I needed a pee, then I raced through the garden, switched off the alarm, belted upstairs to the Blue Tower – I knew the combination on the key-pad but I found the door already ajar, so I took the Raphael off the wall and left the door open behind me. Back in my room, I cut it out of its frame, rolled it up, played the Stars and Stripes on it . . .’ Perhaps she was still pissed from her birthday champagne?

‘Then I shoved it under the floorboards,’ she went on, ‘and, racing downstairs, I switched on the alarm, chucked the frame in the rushes, and joined the party. One of the guests was throwing up in the begonias, so fortunately all eyes were on her.’

Sienna gave a ghost of a smile. Hot now, she tugged off her polo neck, and reached for another of Sergeant Rubin’s cigarettes.

‘Sounds like a wild party,’ said Officer Smithfield.

‘It was. Later in the evening, my stepmother discovered the picture was missing.’ Remembering what Anthea and Zac had been up to earlier in the day, Sienna felt suddenly shot through with misery. ‘And my brother called the police. Everyone was under suspicion. Zac whipped out his documentation much too pat. I don’t think it’s his picture at all. He’s after the money. It could be worth ten million.’

Sergeant Rubin whistled.

‘So where did you take your ten-million-pound note?’

‘Rolled up in a magazine, it went with me to Italy. Then I started painting this picture that the Arab slashed. It was such a gruesome subject I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to steal it, so I slotted the Raphael in behind. Customs didn’t bat an eyelid anywhere.’

‘You may well go to prison,’ said Sergeant Rubin sternly. ‘You’ve wasted a lot of police time.’

‘Not that much, they were only with us a day.’

‘And a huge amount of paperwork. The Brits were convinced it was an inside job to claim the insurance.’

‘Oh God, that’ll have to be paid back,’ groaned Sienna, then she brightened: ‘Thank God it was wildly underinsured. My stepmother would have spent the ten million on clothes by now.’

Under her tank top and combats, both policemen could now see the beauty of Sienna’s slumped body. Sexy as hell, yet vulnerable beneath the hard, defiant exterior, they decided.

‘Why did you really take the Raphael?’ asked Officer Smithfield.

‘Because it’s ours. You’ve seen how beautiful it is, I couldn’t bear anyone else to have it.’

‘Would you like something to eat?’ said Sergeant Rubin, switching off the tape recorder.

‘Probably. I’ve always like loathed the police, but you’ve been so kind.’

‘D’you think Dame Hermione’s had a boob job?’ asked Officer Smithfield.

Next morning Dame Hermione the merciful dominated every paper.

Sienna appeared briefly in court and was bailed for a hefty sum by Jonathan and Adrian Campbell-Black. Her passport, however, was taken away, and she was ordered to stay in the States while the American and British police argued over whether she would be tried in England (if at all) or America. Later there would inevitably be a civil case to decide the ownership of the Raphael.