Snatched (20 page)

Simberdy opened one eye slightly and saw that Olive was no longer in bed with him. She must be shouting from downstairs. Resentment at being disturbed throbbed in his head. He had been enjoying an inspired dream in which D.Q. Youde's coffin, en route to burial on a purple-draped gun-carriage, preceded by a gazooka girls' band, suddenly tumbled off, burst open, and the body hit the ground with a gloriously rounded but splatty sound, rolled into a ditch and was fed on by lemurs. He did a swift count and decided there were at least eighty-eight of them. The hungriest seemed to go for Youde's balls. In the surreal way of dreams, the words ‘A Right Goodly Number' appeared in red and green neon on what looked like the new electronic scoreboard at Lord's cricket ground, but stood now in the middle of a cemetery that had been serenely awaiting Youde. Simberdy didn't really have much reason to want the worst for Youde – he was not, like Pirie, a rival for love from Penny Butler-Minton – but dreams didn't require reasons.

This one had another sizeable plus. The girls' band wore very tight, short, silver lamé shorts and pushed out their chests and behinds unstintingly with the effort of playing their instruments. As Olive's bellowing intruded, Simberdy tried fiercely to hang on to the totality of his vision. He began to count the lemurs again, while also urgently seeking to redeploy more sets of animal teeth towards that arrogant, would-be Degas phiz. Slowly, though, despite this resistance, he was tugged into almost full wakefulness, not only because of Olive's noise, but also by the stupid pedantry of that bit of his brain already conscious which said lemurs were nocturnal, whereas funerals weren't. ‘What the hell's up, Ol?' he growled.

‘Oh, Vince,' she cried excitedly again. ‘Come.'

‘What do you mean, for God's sake, “Come.” People don't say “Come” except in plays by Terence Rattigan. It's “Come here” or “Come and see” or “Come into the garden, Maud”.'

‘Oh, do come, Vincent,' she replied, her voice ecstatic still.

For a moment he slid half back into sleep again and, to his delight, the dream seemed to resume at once as before, but reverting to the start, with the body still on a gun-carriage. Then, as he waited for that crux moment when it was pitched off, he realized that the shape in the shroud looked much bulkier this time, and he saw that the uncovered face was not D.Q. Youde's, or even Degas's, but his own. Horrified, he simultaneously felt himself rolling towards the ditch. He screamed as an infinite number of punitive, sharp pains began in his genitals and elsewhere, but especially his genitals. He reckoned that at least eighty-eight sets of teeth were having a go at him.

‘Vince, what is it?' Olive said.

He opened his eyes and found himself on the bedroom carpet, both hands clasping his crotch.

‘I heard you call and fall out of bed,' Olive said, standing over him. ‘The impact brought down the light in the kitchen.'

‘What were you making a din about?' Simberdy asked from the floor. ‘It's those fucking paintings again, isn't it? Nothing Known's dumped them as before, yes?' He managed to stop himself giving a long, voluminous, crazed groan.

She nodded, obviously wanting to look grave, but
– more
obviously – entirely thrilled. ‘Why are you holding yourself like that? Did you fall awkwardly?' She held out a hand and, after a moment, he took it and she helped him to his feet.

‘I was asleep, but I'm sure I counted four “Oh!”s. Or was it eighty-eight?'

‘Vincent, what are you saying?'

‘Let's get it clear. There were four “Oh!”s from you, weren't there?'

‘Were there? What's the odds?'

‘There are only three “El Grecos”.'

‘Yes, that's true.' She seemed to be smirking.

‘What do you mean?'

She still held his hand. ‘Come.' She drew him towards the door.

He pulled on a shirt and his jeans. ‘I wish I had a black tie handy.'

‘What?'

‘My dream. And the way I feel.'

Downstairs, the three ‘El Grecos' stood as previously around the dresser. On a chair was
L'Isolement
, the Monet, isolated, alone. Nearby, the extensive wreckage of their British Home Stores light fitting lay scattered interestingly on the tiles, as though someone had mounted a small exhibition in their kitchen, part conventional – the paintings – part modernistic with artefacts.

‘I don't know which I like best now,' Olive said.

‘How the hell did he get the Monet back? Is it real? Should it be “Monet”?'

Olive cleared some of the debris and went closer. ‘Well, I think genuine.'

Simberdy sat down. ‘What's his game this time?'

‘Darling, do you feel all right?' she replied.

‘Of course I don't bloody well feel all right. Would you?'

‘If?'

‘If somebody left paintings that might be worth millions in your kitchen.'

‘Somebody has.'

‘Yes, well.'

Gazing lovingly in turn at the works, she said: ‘He's a very complex laddy.'

‘Which? El Greco or Monet?'

‘Wayne Passow. The paintings do brighten the room wonderfully.'

‘We'll still need to get the light repaired. Did he phone? Has he called at your office to explain? Nothing?'

‘Nothing. The Monet could be shown off better, I feel.'

‘We don't want to show the fucker off. We want to hide it. We're not a gallery.'

She went to the chair and lifted
L'Isolement
,
ready to transfer it to a clear shelf high on the dresser. Then she said: ‘Wait a minute,' and fiddled with something on the back of the picture. ‘There's an envelope stuck here with tape, Vince.' She pulled it off and replaced the Monet on the chair. ‘It's addressed to you. Well, to “F. Man Esq”.'

‘Oh, God, do I want to know, Olly?'

She tore the buff envelope open and handed him the letter. Olive read it with him over his shoulder for a moment but then moved off.

Dear Old Fatman,

When you get this and the choice items with it, I'm going to be a long way away and God knows about the phones out there, so I thought I better write even though I hate putting certain matters on paper you can bet. Eat this as soon as you've read it. You got the digestion.

‘Here,' Olive said. She'd done a tour of the kitchen, looking for signs of Nothing Known's entry, and was now calling from the living room. ‘It's very neat, almost imperceptible, but that's what we'd expect from Wayne boy, isn't it?'

‘I never know what to expect from the sod.'

Olive came back and resumed reading with him.

This will be a bit of a shock to you I know and most special, this Monet, called
L'Isolement
, which if you puts it into Anglospeak becomes
Lonesome,
or something like that they tell me.

Simberdy felt his heart start fighting its moorings.

I'll be telling you concerning the Monet in a minute, worry not. There been some very big snags, Fatman, and maybe I don't know so much about the art game as I thought. This would give a new fucking meaning to ‘Nothing Known', wouldn't it, meaning
I
don't know much, not the courts? Look then, the nice dealer who is doing so nice by me and slagging off the others turns out to be a cop. Yes, you heard right, a cop. This sweetheart is just stringing me along. So, ten mill today, twelve tomorrow, and twenty next week, just so I'll keep in touch. No real loot anywhere in sight, just words. What this is called is ‘a sting'. How did I find out? This ‘dealer' keeps saying he got to meet the rest of the team before he can clinch things proper. I say why is that, and he says because he's afraid I might of pinched the paintings from other members of the team, who would come after him. He said he needed all my mates to be with me giving the orders to sell, and most important he wanted to meet the man in charge. That was going to be needed defenight before any money could come my way.

Well, that gave me a shock, as you can understand, and I nearly said, ‘All right,' and I would of brought him round to your house, Fatman—

‘God,' Simberdy said.

—
but then one day when I'm out on the town with a bird I notice him tailing me. He's very good at it, but not good
enough.
I seen that kind of thing before, it might not surprise you to know. And not just him. He got other lads on it, too, some with very short hair and trainers. This is an operation, Fatman. This baby – Wayne Passow – puts two and two together, don't he?

Glowing happiness as well as scorching fear took hold of Simberdy. ‘So the “El Grecos” could still be phoney,' he chortled to Olive. ‘Well, of course they could. Quent Youde's involved, isn't he, for God's sake? It follows. This “expert” who said they were real and worth super millions is actually only a snoop from Scotland Yard's Arts and Antiques brigade setting up a bit of entrapment. Youde – he should be eaten by lemurs.'

‘Should be what?'

‘It's a robust but jokey saying among zoologists.'

‘Lovely.'

They read the last page of Passow's letter.

So I'm unloading to you, F.M., and giving myself a nice bit of travel for a while. You are still right in the clear, worry not, and I am returning these bits and peices. This Monet – well, I was really ratty about what happened, yes, only thirty grand. I was ripped off, and if there is one thing I hate it is for someone to make a monkie of Wayne Passow. So, I done a little bit of traceing and a little bit of travel out Europe way, which is when I got a taste for new countreys, I should think. Anyway, as you can see, I had a bit of luck and I was able to find the guy who had the lonesome painting and I got it back somehow. Yes, somehow. I don't think I'll say too much about how I done this, in case Olive is reading this letter, too, and it might upset her. Let's just menshun there was a lot of broken glass and some damage to clothes and a neck but he is not going to be kicking up about it to the law, is he, because he should not of had the pic in the first place, this is obvius? I done a little bit of spraying at his place, too. And a signatur – like to say who done it. But not obvius, obviusly. Like a code. You'll see it at the bottom of this letter.

‘What the hell does he mean, “spraying”?' Olive said.

‘Who knows?'

‘What signature? Whose?'

‘His?'

‘What code at the bottom of the letter?'

‘Good question,' Simberdy said.

Yes, so these four little peices should see you all right. When I comes back some time in the far off future, maybe you will have something nice and juicey for me with lots of norts on the end in a locked box at the bank. I trust you, F.M. That's how a team should be.

This girl what Redvers and Crispin menshunned in the Blague the other night is going to be upset because I'm not around no more. You think I sound like a big-head, but I know she will be. This is how things are with love and partings. I did not have no time to explane to her. It was very quick do-a-bunk time, which I am sure you'll understand. I might of asked you to go and tell her face to face, so she could see why I had to do a runner, but then I decided, No, I got to keep things privut for her. Anyway, I only know her first name and where she works. She would not tell me more. She's a carefull one, I expect with a hubby. Maybe she would of told me more later but there can't be no later. It would not be fair to get her too mixed up in all this in case this letter went the wrong way somehow. Letters do sometimes. I am sorry to be loosing her because we had something real nice going and maybe long-distance. But in this sort of line you got to be ready to make sacrifisses, yes. We got to suffer for the job, like all the great did.

So, keep happy and clean and try not to spend it all.

Till some day then,

Fatman's Best Mate

‘He means Julia Lepage?' Olive said.

‘Seems so.'

‘Wayne's got gallantry. Wayne's got a special way.'

‘Yes, Wayne's got away.'

Olive said: ‘“Fatman's Best Mate” – strange way to sign off.'

‘In line with his usual insolence and presumption.'

‘Forgive the hour, Director, but we must go to the Hulliborn at once,' D.Q. Youde said. ‘I came over to your house because I didn't want to discuss on the telephone certain information I've just received. Too many ears.' He had on a beautiful but very severe dark suit with a gleaming white shirt and thin-striped tie. Did he sit around like this at home in the middle of the night, or had he got up and put the gear on especially for this visit?

‘The Hulliborn now?' Lepage said. ‘At after midnight? What information? How did it come to you, if not by—'

‘Well, yes, by telephone. Only half an hour ago. But I feared yours might be tapped, so I'm here in person.'

‘My private phone tapped, for God's sake? Why?'

‘As Director. Simply that. Things are moving. I don't say I understand all aspects. It seemed to me a matter for immediate personal contact.'

‘Yes? I'm sorry, Quentin, I'm keeping you on the doorstep. You'd better come in.'

‘Thank you. This development – I'm suffering from shock.'

They went into the living room. Lepage said: ‘What is it, Quent? Who's ringing you so late?'

‘One has certain contacts, Director, international in scope, built up over the years. Art and its followers keep a communications network which never closes down. We are unceasing devotees, unceasing guardians.'

Lepage had on his jeans and ‘Keep The Hulliborn On Top'
sweatshirt. ‘I sit up late some nights waiting for Julia,' he said. ‘She has to stay on at the Spud-O'-My-Life kiosk. The potato is a nocturnal vegetable, you know.'