CAUSE & EFFECT (14 page)

“Next up is Dorothy Kinley; elderly and living with her niece, Monica.”

It sounded like a far cry from the usual ‘shysters and innocents’ they’d been dealing with for the past few weeks. Karl read the case notes aloud and he clapped his hands in glee.

“A proper challenge, Tommo — at last!”

The ‘case’ as Karl kept referring to it, in Sherlock Holmes fashion, hinged on whether the niece was a full-time carer. On the face of it, a bugger to prove or disprove, but — once again — a tip-off had activated the Department of Works & Pensions radar.

“It says here Dorothy was completely housebound for a long time, and now she pops out occasionally, mostly to pick up her pension.”

“So, does she actually need the carer?” This one was making Thomas really uncomfortable.

Pension day. They set up and waited for the procession to the elephants’ graveyard. Mrs Kinley left her maisonette on schedule, as if she’d read the file. Her ambling gait was hard to detect under her oversized coat; she reminded Thomas of one of the Sand People from
Star Wars
. She kept her head down — or else it was osteoporosis — clutching a handbag to her chest and concentrating on every step.

He waited until he was past her line of sight and then took to his camera, capturing the rest of her journey.

“This one’s a sod for details. What else can we do, other than time her?”

Karl considered that for a moment. “Tell you what, how about you go and get me a couple of stamps? Would you mind? God knows we’ve got the time and I’ve got bills to pay this week.”

Thomas smiled at Karl’s legendary distrust of the direct debit system. The banking system, he’d said, was at the dark heart of the European Shadow State. Then again, he also said that prawn cocktail crisps were an aberration.

Outside, Thomas slowed his pace so that Dorothy didn’t think he was stalking her; the effort was exhausting. There was a queue in the post office, almost to the door. Some of them were chatting, putting the world to rights. As he took his place a couple of spots behind the target he listened to a litany of complaints, largely about the speed of the post office queue.

Dorothy collected her pension and moved past him, without so much as a smile — the miserable so and so. He managed to get to the second counter, avoiding the woman with her lethal shopping trolley immediately in front of him. He grabbed Karl’s stamps and nodded to the ladies in the queue, who clucked like a flock of hens. Good to know he still had appeal.

This was all starting to feel like a monumental waste of time. Old Ma Kinley was up ahead on her return journey, approaching her nearest point to the car, filling the frame if Karl was taking a secret photo. He took his eyes off her for a couple of seconds, to negotiate some dog shit, and when he looked back she was down on one knee. He legged it and caught up with her, pronto.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded, mumbling away, her handbag clutched in a death grip. No wonder she fell; she had no way to steady herself. Despite her protests, he insisted on helping her up and seeing her home. He didn’t bother to explain how he knew the address. He could hear her breathing heavily, her arm shaking in his hand.

When they reached her gate, she wriggled free and thrust out a hand to bar him at the threshold. There was gratitude for you. He waited until she’d slammed the door behind her.

He was feeling pretty pleased on the way back to the car, until he saw Karl walking towards him.

“Ready?” Karl was rubbing his hands together.

“For what?”

“Mild-mannered Dorothy just dropped to the ground.”

“I know, I helped her home; I think she was in shock.”

Karl smiled. “In shock? She will be. When I ask for my £30 back. Like I was saying, she
dropped
to the ground and picked up thirty quid in marked tenners wrapped up in a rubber band.”

His eyes widened. Karl had just set her up. Not quite the ‘collect evidence impartially’ the Benefits Investigation Team recommended.

“How did you come to have marked banknotes on you?”

Karl shrugged. “Force of habit.”

There was no time to talk tactics, so he let Karl take control of the situation. Karl lifted the latch on the gate delicately and the two of them stood at the door. He rang the bell and nothing happened. Karl ducked below the frosted glass and whispered instructions.

Thomas rapped the letterbox and peered through. “Hello! I was with you when you had the fall. I just want to make sure you’re okay.” Crouching low, he could make out two stockinged feet at the top of the stairs. They weren’t in any sort of hurry.

“Shall I get you a doctor?”

“No!” The voice sounded more like a yelp.

The feet disappeared and he let the flap go. At least she’d heard him and responded — now what? Karl started counting down from ten. At zero, Thomas lifted the letterbox again and caught sight of someone squatting on the stairs and looking back at him. The niece, he presumed, and blessed with the same level of social skills.

He waited; she’d soon realise he wasn’t going anywhere and she could hardly expect the old lady to come downstairs.

The niece took her time about it but gradually approached the frosted panel.

“We’re fine,” she said through the glass. “Aunt Dot’s in bed, resting. You’ve got to go now. It’s upsetting her.” She hovered by the door.

Karl scribbled on a piece of paper and passed it up.

Thomas mouthed the word
twat
at Karl but delivered his message anyway. “Look, your aunt picked up some money that was my friend’s. He wants his thirty quid.”

This was starting to feel like harassment. He looked down at Karl, who mouthed the final script.

“The notes are marked. I want them back or I’m calling the police.”

He cringed. This was a new low — worse than following a disabled man into the pub. Maybe they’d been on this assignment too long.

The letterbox flap popped open and three ten-pound notes were ejected. Then he heard footsteps galloping upstairs.

Karl collected his money, examining each note carefully. “One’s different — not to worry.” He took out a small notebook and wrote in the new bank number. “Anyway.” He folded the money into his wallet. “It’s all job and finish, and I’d say we’re done here.”

Conversation resumed back at the car.

“Shall I start?” Karl walked around to the passenger door. He got in and waited for Thomas to join him, then grabbed imaginary lapels, as if he were a barrister. “One — the speed with which Dorothy Kinley rushed to get the cash. Remember, you didn’t see her from my vantage point. It wasn’t a fall; she knelt down and shoved the readies in her bag just before you showed up. Two — Dorothy went to bed quicker than a one-night stand. Three — and this is the killer — the niece had the money on her when she came to the door. Maybe she filched it out of the old dear’s coat, I dunno. But there’s something wrong there, however you look at it.”

“So you’re saying that if Aunt Dorothy can move that fast — with the aid of gravity — she doesn’t need a full-time carer?”

“Now who’s judgemental? All I’m saying is it merits further investigation — by the grown-ups. I’ll let BIT know later, maybe
after
work.” Karl winked.

“Dawn Yeates? Surely you’re not fraternising with our temporary boss?”

“Merely socialising.”

It occurred to him then that Dawn Yeates might be another of Karl’s contacts. Perhaps that was why they’d been picked for the assignment. Karl was giving nothing away, so he checked his mirrors and set a course for the nearest café.

“So . . . where are you taking her tonight?”

“Well, it’s a toss-up between the Roundhouse Theatre, or a pub.”

“And Dorothy Kinley?”

“I doubt she’d join us — she finds it hard to get around, unless money’s involved.”

“Dick.”

“I’ll tell Dawn about our concerns, only I’ll skip the finer details.”

“What d’you think will happen?”

“More surveillance, probably. Or they’ll call in the niece for an interview. Even if she is stealing money from her aunt, it’s hardly dawn raid material.”

“I see what you did there . . .”

“So when do you plan on speaking to Ray Daniels, Tommo?”

“I’m seeing Andrea Harrison tonight, but Ray Daniels is on my list. Why the interest?” He stared across the table. “Do you know something?”

By the look on Karl’s face, whatever it was it was toxic.

The sign said it all:
Andrea Harrison
. Not even the word ‘gallery.’ The lettering screamed modernity and Thomas knew instantly that he wouldn’t like whatever she was selling. He pushed the glass door and stepped into her world.

Andrea Harrison was leaning on a counter, set along one of the longer walls. Mobile in hand, her finger pointed down at a catalogue.

“I suggested seventeen thousand, but he won’t budge.”

She looked over, as if sizing him up. A flick of the head told him he’d failed the assessment. He should have brought along a camera — maybe an Olympus OM1 with a sizeable lens that looked the part.

He turned his back on her and browsed through the industrial sculptures and something made out of rounded glass that looked like a child’s nightmare. Moving from exhibit to exhibit, he picked up snippets of conversation and filed it all away. At the far end of the main gallery room there was an open doorway. Discordant synthesiser music plagued his memory — something from the eighties probably — music from Thatcher’s dream. He grimaced, peering through. Footsteps quickly followed behind him.

“Sorry about that; I’m Andrea Harrison — welcome to my gallery. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

He smiled, mostly at the reply he wanted to share with her. But no, he was here on business.

“I’m Thomas — Jack Langton sent me?” He posed it as a question, but he knew it had all been arranged through John Wright.

She took a moment and then led him back to the glass counter.

“What can I do for you, Thomas?”

He gave her the Bladen smile, along with a sanitised version of his meeting with Jack Langton. As icebreakers went, it cut through the glacier. She offered coffee and when he agreed she took out two pouches from a drawer. The machine was as stylish and over-engineered as everything else in the gallery, including her.

“What do you think of it?” She gazed around her domain, soaking up his attention.

He noticed the faded streak of crimson in her hair, glittering in the spotlights.

“It’s . . . different.” He saw no sense in bullshitting her.

She seemed amused. He figured it gave her a sense of superiority. So this was art? He couldn’t imagine any of the stuff here getting past the door at Leeds Art Gallery. Londoners — they’d put up with any old shit.

“Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

“Here’s fine. Besides,” she glanced over to the doorway, “I have artists working on-site — they prefer to stay in the shadows.” She patted a leather stool beside her.

The coffee was good, much to his surprise; although the ginger biscuit with it was so small it was frivolous. Maybe it was some sort of statement, like everything else around him — style over content.

“I suppose you already know about me and Jack?”

He blushed in ignorance, which she, in hers, misinterpreted.

She blew across her coffee. “It’s common knowledge; we used to be an item, back in the day.”

He waited for her to continue, noting how she flicked her hair, as if to brush away the memory; fat chance of that.

“We’re good friends now — and partners too. Jack came to my rescue when I started the gallery — he found me some backers . . .” She changed topic abruptly. “John said you were coming because of some poor child.” She sipped her coffee, eyeing him all the while. “But I don’t see what any of that has to do with me.”

He shrugged. “Jack asked me to speak with you — and others.” She nodded; satisfied she wasn’t the only fish in the net.

“So what do you want to know?” She raised her empty coffee cup for seconds, which was a perfect excuse to ask for the loo.

He stepped through a doorway at the back and kept on walking. Two welders in a side room paused from their work and nodded to him. He found the gents, took a leak and then phoned Karl.

“Have you cracked the world of modern art yet?”

“Industrial and urban street art, actually —
specialised
bollocks. Honestly, Karl, you wanna see some of the prices. I’ll be at least another half an hour; all I’ve learned so far is that Jack Langton bankrolled her in the beginning.”

“Drug proceeds, most probably. A bit of a punt with the gallery but a great way to launder dirty money, especially if you own the building.”

“Good point. One last thing, Andrea Harrison and Jack used to be an item.”

“How quaint you Yorkshire folk are. Ring me when you’re free. Over and out.”

The welders were away on a tea break now; probably Earl Grey. A pity — he wanted to ask what it was supposed to be, although he imagined that was part of the sell.

Andrea had the next coffees lined up and offered him a quick tour.

“The Crocodile is one of RT’s more experimental works.” She quoted from a script she knew too well. Every artist was reduced to initials; he supposed the important ones had earned their three letters. It mostly washed over him, like a timeshare presentation he and Miranda had once been to in the West End. He made a mental list, in case she asked him anything: sculpture, metalwork, permanence and impermanence, decay, contrast, urban . . . He stopped walking, mesmerised by two artworks, placed side by side. The piece on the right was electric blue, sprayed flame streaks against a painted wall, flowing down into the shape of a supine form.

“Ah, yes —
Naked Flame
. A lot of men like that one; some ladies too.”

He nodded agreeably, but his eyes were on the frame next to it.
Naked Heat
: a flame dissolving into entwined lovers — in blood red spray paint.

“Are these by RT as well?” He turned and studied her reaction.

She smiled, tour over, and returned him to his coffee. Now that he’d shown genuine interest, her demeanour changed, even if the biscuits didn’t. This time he grabbed a handful.

“I noticed that some of the pieces don’t have a price tag.”

“Yes, it’s one of RT’s foibles. The purchaser suggests a price and RT considers it. Sometimes he accepts it, sometimes he offers an alternative and sometimes he rejects them outright. It’s how he likes to do business.”

“And a little mystique is good for the brand?”

She laughed. Put on, of course. He decided to play along.

“Those pictures — do you call them
pictures
? — they’ve really got something. Is he a local artist?

“RT? No, not any more. He lives in Spain and only visits once or twice a year with new pieces. How long have you worked for Jack? I’ve never heard of you before.”

“I don’t actually work for him; this is more of a favour for a friend.”

“Yes . . .” She snapped a miniature biscuit in half. “Jack receives a lot of favours.”

“What can you tell me about your dealings with Jack? I mean, would anyone you know . . .” He let the sentence hang there. He didn’t know how to end it without accusing or insulting her.

“A man like Jack makes enemies . . .”

He could hear the pride in her voice.

“ . . . Yes, I think that’s why he enjoys this sort of art; it’s confrontational — not to everyone’s tastes. He appreciates the context and its potential.”

“So Jack is a working partner, as opposed to a silent one?” Now he was digging in the dark. But dig long and deep enough and eventually you’ll strike something solid.

“Jack’s a very private man. Even so, he has a lot of money tied up here, for which I’m very grateful. It’s a cutthroat business and there are only so many seats at the top table. Look at the Saatchis.”

If that was supposed to impress him, it fell wide of the mark — by about fifty yards. All very interesting but it was getting him nowhere.

“Has anyone been in touch with you, here, about Jack — since he went away? Or maybe something out of the ordinary happened recently?”

“The attempted break-in? I informed Jack’s solicitor and Ray Daniels. Nothing was taken; I think it was drunks pissing about.”

He couldn’t help thinking the swearing was for his benefit, to show she was like him. She couldn’t have been more wrong.

“Yes,” she continued, “you’d be surprised at the reaction a gallery like this can generate.” She stopped and looked right at him.

“Does anyone live upstairs?”

“I do. I can show you if you like?”

“Maybe some other time.” He checked his watch.

“I’ll hold you to that, Thomas.”

“And nothing in the post — for Jack, I mean?”

She blushed and he knew straight away this was another of his drugs drops. Interesting — Sheryl, Janey and now Andrea — how Jack kept the ladies at his beck and call.

A postwoman came into the gallery with some envelopes and a small parcel. As he was nearest to the door, he did the chivalrous thing and stood up to collect the mail. The postie smiled and handed over the goods. Andrea leapt from her seat.

“I’ll take those,” she insisted, with the forced politeness that told him something else was going on. She placed them on the glass top, unopened.

Occasionally, he liked to think that lady fortune was smiling on him. It didn’t happen often — meeting Miranda and her family was top of the list. Another had been getting no worse than a flesh wound from one of Karl’s trigger-happy adversaries. When a pair of potential punters breezed into the gallery, fortune gave him a cheery grin.

Andrea left her coffee and her table manners at the desk, winding a circuitous route round to the couple. It looked like a routine to showcase the goods and suggest she wasn’t in a hurry to sell anything. He listened, fascinated, as the three of them talked
texture
and
depth
, throwing
authenticity
and
statement
into the mix. Jesus; if his dad could see him now. ‘Nowt but a lot of middle-class ponces,’ is what he’d say.

As the three culture vultures waltzed around the urban scrawl, he casually leaned forward and fanned out the envelopes. It was hardly a shock to see a letter addressed to Jack Langton at the gallery, but the postmark was a showstopper — Spain, where RT the aerosol artist was based. He tidied the pack and headed off clockwise around the gallery, one eye on the sales party. He picked up that they were restaurateurs on the hunt for some urban degradation. He smiled to himself; they could always move south of the Thames. He was nearing
Naked Heat
, a car key palmed in one hand to get a paint sample, when Andrea zeroed in on him.

“Can we continue our chat some other time?”

He put his key hand in his pocket.

“Sure, name the time.”

“I’m free tonight. Shall we say nine? Would you mind seeing yourself out?”

“Nine o’clock it is then.” He took another glance at the
Nakeds
and detoured around them, patting the Crocodile’s head on his way out.