Plastic (20 page)

‘What about the neighbour in the corner penthouse, on Malcolm’s far side?’

‘What is this? Are you conducting some kind of survey? I’m not going to find my comments turning up on Facebook, am I?’

‘I just wondered.’

‘I think he’s Eastern European, doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile, hardly ever at home. But there’s someone else in his apartment, his wife or girlfriend maybe, young and rather sexy. She never goes out. I think there’s something wrong with her.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Dr. Marac told me. He has the flat directly below this one. The Eastern European heard he was a doctor and called him up one night in a frightful panic. The girl was apparently having some kind of seizure, ranting on in a language he didn’t recognise. Marac couldn’t do anything because it turns out he’s a doctor of philosophy. I asked him what happened but he wouldn’t tell me. She sounded a bit messed up, you know... ’ He pointed back at Maurice’s sectioned face and single staring eye. ‘... in the head.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Apparently there’d been a lot of screaming and shouting from her, then later she was fine, came to the door as if nothing had happened, couldn’t understand why people were complaining. Maybe she suffers from Tourette’s. It’s nothing to do with me, of course. I told you, we keep to ourselves. You pay this much for privacy.’

‘But Malcolm’s right next door, he must have heard things, seen things.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Elliot looked at me shiftily. ‘Well, maybe they’re all involved together, in and out of each other’s flats.’

I couldn’t tell if he was making a point or being sarcastic. His robe had opened further, exposing a testicular sac like a fortnight-old peach. I wondered if he did this with all his female guests, in the same way that baboons exposed their backsides to mates. He lazily flicked the robe back in place.

‘Only captains of industry can afford to live here, and it’s never a good idea to put them all in a group. Do you know what the rates of mental abnormality are in this country? One in five among the general populace, one in three among senior corporate executives. The higher you go the screwier it gets, psychologically speaking.’ He began to clean his nails, demonstrably bored. ‘These people aren’t for you. Especially while the lights are out. I think you’d be better off away from here, back in your little terraced house.’

‘Why are you staying here?’

‘My dear lady, I’ve nowhere else to go. I spent every penny I have on this place. Home for me was Zimbabwe, and I’m not about to go back there. You ask an awful lot of questions. Is there any particular reason?’

I wasn’t about to explain myself. It was time to leave before Elliot’s entertainment arrived. I wondered if the girl could have been kept prisoner in the corner penthouse. And the whereabouts of Malcolm’s valuable watercolours was still preying on my mind. Julie had given me her number in case of an emergency. I hated to consider the option, but it seemed best to call New York, just to make sure they had been safely hidden.

I left the building and waited until I was clear of the Ziggurat’s deadening shadow, then used the last bar of my phone’s life. The line was faint, not helped by the traffic churning past outside.

‘Room 1727 please.’

After a few moments, a woman answered.

‘Julie?’

‘Yeah. Who is this?’

‘June, Lou’s friend. I’m really sorry, but I had to ring.’

‘Wait, let me take this in another room.’

I held, listening to the rustle and snap of distant connections. ‘Malcolm’s working in the lounge. It’s supposed to be a soundproofed suite. We’re twenty floors above the traffic but I can still hear it. I thought we weren’t going to talk. Is there anything wrong?’

‘No, the apartment’s fine, I just needed to check something with you. It’s been preying on my mind. About the paintings.’

‘What about them?’ Caution crept into Julie’s voice.

‘Where are they?’

‘What do you mean? They’re where they always are, on the lounge walls.’

‘Yes, I know the big pictures are there, the oils, but where are the watercolours, the valuable ones? I wanted to check that you’d stored them away somewhere.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, they’re on the walls right beside the others. You must be able to see them.’ The tone had notched up to one of panic now.

‘What am I looking for, exactly?’

‘This is what you called me for? Wait, let me think. Six ‘Don Quixote’ lithographs by Salvador Dali, four French watercolours from around 1850, I forget the artist but they’re all blues and greens, a Matisse sketch, a study for Orpen’s ‘The Absinthe Drinker’ and two small ink drawings by Millais.’

My stomach turned. ‘I didn’t know –’

‘Wait, I haven’t finished. There are two Delauneys, a Chaim Soutine, a pair of small drawings by Villon I think, four Hockney sketches, a Wesselman and a matching set of eight Warhol prints.’

There were no such pictures anywhere in the apartment. I had checked every cupboard after returning from Elliot’s. Nothing was locked away.

‘I think I’d better to talk to Malcolm,’ I said faintly.

‘Why? Don’t tell me there’s one missing.’

‘No. That is... there aren’t any at all. No lithographs, no watercolours, no sketches.’

‘What are you talking about? Jesus, the place is stuffed full of them, why do you think he was so paranoid about leaving the apartment this weekend?’

‘You don’t understand, there were none when I arrived, not a single one. There are just four big ugly oil paintings.’

Julie wasn’t listening; she’d gone into some kind of fear spin-cycle. ‘I don’t know anything about the other pictures. It’s the small ones you’re there to look after. You’re telling me they’ve gone? Oh Christ. Oh Christ.’

‘You’re sure he didn’t put them in storage?’

‘Of course I’m sure. He didn’t want to draw any kind of attention to them, they’re not –’ I suspected she was going to say
legitimate
.

‘Listen, Julie, someone came into the apartment last night, two people actually, three if you count the paramedic, but they didn’t steal anything.’ Unable to hold back any longer, I found myself telling her the full story, piecing it together in the wrong order of events, knowing that this was absolutely the worst thing you could do when someone was far from home.

‘This is crazy, you’re telling me some tart dropped dead in the flat? A complete stranger?’ Julie all but shrieked.

‘I think she came to me for help, but it was too late by then.’

‘How did you meet this person?’

‘I was out on the balcony and looked across to the next penthouse, and there she was.’

‘Wait, back up, what the hell are you talking about?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The apartment has no balcony.’

‘What?’

‘Malcolm’s apartment hasn’t got a balcony. You’re talking about the penthouses on the top floor, do you know how expensive they are? He couldn’t afford one of those. It costs him a fortune to insure all the art he inherited from his family.’

‘Well, what could he afford?’

‘The next floor down. The sixth.’

‘I’m on the seventh.’

‘Then you’re in the wrong apartment.’

‘Oh my lord.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Move

I
THOUGHT BACK
to my meeting with Madame Funes. The old woman had handed me the key while arguing on the phone. This was the same person who had confused Elliot’s mail. For all I knew I could be living in the apartment Jeffrey Archer had earmarked. ‘That means your paintings are still in the flat below,’ I told Julie. ‘I thought I was seeing things.’

‘You’d better get down there quickly and check to make sure that everything’s intact. He’ll kill me if anything’s missing. God, that means you have the wrong key. Malcolm wanted to get a better lock fitted, it wouldn’t hold if someone put their shoulder against it.’

I apologised profusely and rang off, breaking into a run as I crossed into the lee of the bridge.
Go back to the suburbs before you make things worse,
the city was saying, but I was determined not to obey.

A heavyset woman with strong Slavic features was disconsolately sliding a broom around the atrium. I examined the latch holding the glass doors of the concierge’s office shut. The one thing I had in my pocket that would fit between the panels was my World Of Wood discount card, but the steel latch was held in place by a hand-turned ratchet. There had to be another way in. At the rear of the office was a narrow wooden back door, new and still unpainted but barred shut. The unsealed lobby entrance meant that any passer-by could get this far into the building. If I broke into the office and simply switched the keys, nobody would ever have to know.

I had seen people kick doors open on TV. Half-heartedly booting the lock, I nearly broke my foot.
What am I doing?
I thought,
I’ve never broken a law in my life, unless you count Barclaycard repayment terms and the odd Winona Ryder incident in department stores.

Hobbling over to the cleaning woman, I eyed the roll of keys at her waist. ‘I’m sorry,’ I lied, growing a touch more glib with each attempt, ‘I’ve left my key in the concierge’s office. Could you let me in?’

‘I’m not supposed to.’ The woman leaned on her broom. If she was waiting for a tip, she was out of luck.

‘But surely if someone’s locked out of their own apartment.’

‘Building’s empty. Nobody here this weekend.’

‘You’re wrong, I’m staying here and there’s at least one other person. Please, I can call Madame Funes if you want to check on me.’

The cleaner thought for a moment, then made her way to the office with a weary sigh. She stood watching me muddling at the telephone. ‘Do you have her number?’ I asked, stalling for time.

The cleaner pointed to a printout stuck on the wall. I punched the numerals but kept my finger on the cut-off.

‘You’ve not got a line,’ said the cleaner. ‘Press nine first.’

To Hell with it,
I thought.
I’ll have to call her.

‘Madame Funes? June Cryer, we met yesterday afternoon.’

‘No, I met no-one yesterday afternoon, I was busy.’

‘Yes, we did meet. You meant to give me the key to Malcolm Phillimore’s apartment but gave me someone else’s by mistake.’

‘Yes, maybe I remember you but I no make mistake,’ shouted Madame Funes.

‘Yes, I’m afraid you did.’

‘I never make no mistake,’ she yelled. ‘They always say I make mistake but they lie, they all lie.’

I wondered how long this was going to go on. ‘The key you gave me is to apartment 701.’

‘IS IMPOSSIBLE,’ Madame Funes explained loudly in a tone reserved for times when she could not imagine being wrong. ‘701 is Dr. Azymuth and he is away in China. He tells me if anyone stay with him.’

‘He’s a doctor?’

‘That’s right, he does the plastic for the faces. A-Z-Y-M-U-T-H. A plastic surgeon,’ Madame Funes explained.

‘And you’re sure he’s away at the moment?’

‘Yes, I tell you already, he is in China, he call me to ask if the electric is fix this weekend. Who is this?’

‘She said it’s okay to get the key,’ I smiled at the cleaner as I replaced the receiver. I unhooked Malcolm’s set and was going to replace the others, but the headline of the Ziggurat’s brochure caught my eye.

DREAMING OF LONDON LIFE?

The Ziggurat is a city dream come true.

State of the art construction that combines classic architectural elements with cutting-edge design in the heart of London
.

I picked up the sales leaflet and studied the computer-rendered illustrations. Beneath a fierce cyanic sky more suited to Luxor than London, an impossibly sleek computer-rendered building rose beside the Thames, unencumbered by scaffolding, transit vans, plastic rubbish sacks, yelling drunks, sleeping-bag-people or abandoned washing machines. Other colour photos showed Harrods, Hyde Park, a guardsman’s busby and Buckingham Palace. Leafing through the glossy pages, I realised I had yet to discover the sauna, swimming pool and basement gym that would be used by these royalty-obsessed Harrods-shopping high flyers. A car park on the great flat roof was operated by a hydraulic lift; this was presumably out of action, as was the ‘eco-unit’, whatever that might be. I studied the map on the back of the brochure. Apparently the basement housed the eco-unit, an automatic electronically-fired incinerator capable of flash-burning the building’s rubbish within minutes and compacting biodegradable ashes for collection, with vents accessible from the end of every corridor.

Suddenly I was sure I knew what had happened to the girl who had been tagged outside Dr. Azymuth’s apartment. I slipped the correct Yale, 603, into my pocket along with a brochure and the key to 701. The cleaner relocked the office behind me.

Back upstairs, I unlocked Dr. Azymuth’s door as quietly as possible and checked that the flat was still empty. My clothes took just a moment to repack. I remade the bed and hung the doctor’s dressing gown in his wardrobe. I had intended to leave immediately, but when I sat on the end of the bed, the girl’s face returned to prevent me. If 701’s occupant was out of the country I could afford to take my time, but his call to the Funes woman meant he could be planning to return home at any moment.

I carried my bag down to Malcolm’s apartment. The Yale unlatched the door, but I could see why Malcolm had been worried; it would have been easy to break in. The rooms on the sixth floor were smaller, darker and yes, filled with little pictures. Dali’s etchings of Don Quixote, scratched scars in copper and black, lined the lounge, a beautifully simple Matisse, the sumptuous Delauneys, some innocuous Hockneys. No balcony, no separate kitchen, just a steel counter in a corner, but the same vast windows dominating the lounge.

The storm was moving in fast across the river. The water of the Thames now had a brownish pummelled look, like flooded flagstones. I paced the apartment, unsettled and unsure of my next move, knowing I must do something. I felt stranded between two worlds, belonging in neither the vacuum-sealed lifestyle of my past or the shifting shadows of the present.