CAUSE & EFFECT (15 page)

Karl said he’d collect him at Hackney Downs station. It gave him time to collect his thoughts. Why would a jumped-up graffiti artist in Spain send Jack Langton a message by attacking some kid Jack hardly ever saw? DNA — he made a mental note. Could they get a sample of Jacob’s DNA and one of Jack’s? Nah, he was letting his imagination get ahead of him.

He clapped his hands, prayer-fashion, to stop his mind wandering. RT lived in Spain and came over once or twice a year. When was he over? Andrea must know the geezer’s full name; maybe Karl could get a passport number from it. He couldn’t help noticing how much he was relying on Karl’s expertise. John Wright knew what he was doing when he brought Karl on board.

The next logical move was to get a red paint sample. He could nip back to the gallery and wait until there was an opportunity to take a scrape — probably no one would notice on a wooden canvas — or Karl’s people could just buy the thing. Or there was a third option that made him laugh just thinking about it.

Karl wasn’t at the station. Instead, he directed Thomas by mobile to the nearby Pembury Tavern. The shandies awaited.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the art critic of the week!” Karl opened a celebratory bag of crisps as Thomas took his seat. “How d’ya get on?”

“I’m not really sure.”

“Why don’t you tell your Uncle Karl all about it?”

Karl offered him a pen and paper so he could map out the mosaic of the problem. He’d liked Roman mosaics as a child — the way that tiny, insignificant tiles all contributed to a bigger, more imaginative picture.

“This artist, RT; he uses spray colours. Bright red, sometimes.”

Karl seemed less than impressed. “This is the fella you said lived in Spain.”

“Yeah, most of the time. We need a sample of the paint he uses. Also, I was hoping you could find out when RT was last in the UK.”

“Smart thinking, Tommo, except RT isn’t much to go on. Also, how do you expect to get a paint sample undetected?”

“I’m going back to Andrea Harrison’s at nine tonight. We’ll be upstairs, so it’s an ideal opportunity for you to do some breaking and entering.”

“Alarm systems?”

“Probably. I thought you could improvise. I know it’s sketchy but if I can keep Ms Harrison busy — talking,” he added hastily.

“Maybe. CCTV? Tell me that at least.”

“Not that I saw. Can’t imagine anyone wants to be filmed buying that tat.”

“
Concept
tat.” Karl went into screensaver mode, gazing at his shandy for longer than Thomas was comfortable with. “Okay,” he announced, “let’s give it a go. One stipulation: if I make any noise, I want you to come down alone.”

“Deal.” Thomas sat back in his chair, less reassured than he’d expected to be.

The rest of the day’s snooping passed much like every other day in the world of Benefits investigations. Villains, suspects, the misunderstood and the vindicated, all paraded past them to a tedious beat.

* * *

He checked his watch — twenty-fifty — and carried on talking with Karl on his mobile as he walked up the road. And to think Miranda said men couldn’t multitask.

“I still don’t see why you can’t tell me what you’re planning, Karl.”

“Trust me; it’s better that way — keeps things spontaneous and plausible. You have your wee drinky upstairs and remember, keep it zipped up.”

“Funny boy.” He cut the call.

He felt sweat down his back as he rang the gallery bell and blinked at the headlights of a taxi rumbling by. Peering through the door he could see a light at the far end of the gallery room. She seemed to be taking her time; maybe it was a long walk down two flights of stairs. To his intense relief she was dressed casually. Jeans and a cashmere jumper didn’t scream ‘on the pull’ — not in his world anyway. She turned to the wall, out of view, before unlocking the door.

Bollocks — that was probably an alarm. Pessimism turned to joy when she locked up after him and didn’t reset it. Industrial art, he decided, looked very creepy in shadow.

She didn’t say much on the way up, only that the kettle was on and she hoped he was hungry because she had nibbles. He pictured Karl smirking. Of course she did.

Her apartment was a collector’s paradise. There wasn’t a stick of furniture that wouldn’t have graced a high-class glossy. What surprised him was the range of styles and how old and tasteful everything was.

She caught him gazing at the sideboard in her lounge.

“It’s
rococo
, 17th century. You were expecting tubular steel and exposed brickwork? That’s just my day job.”

Even so, he noticed one or two miniatures with RT’s signature on them.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

She led him to a pair of large sofas, one each side of a pale blue coffee table, like two banks of a river. She sat opposite. The food was arranged in small dishes. Moroccan, by the looks of it, or something Middle Eastern. He recalled trying a Moroccan restaurant with Miranda once in Leeds. Gave him the trots, although that could have been the beer.

“I used to travel a lot,” she explained. “Dealing in furniture and room decor. I do a great lamb tagine — do try the borek.” She lifted a plate of pastries; the aroma alone made it hard to concentrate.

“How did you meet Jack then?” He figured he’d start at the beginning.

“You first,” she teased, threatening to draw the plate out of reach.

“Like I said,” and sighed with relief as his fingers wrapped around a borek, “we have mutual friends. I’m not part of Jack’s circle and that’s what he wanted, someone objective.” He opened his hand; now it was her turn to share.

“Oh, I met Jack years ago.” There was a glow to her face as she recollected. “I saw him at a club a few times and there was something about him. You never quite knew where you were with Jack — he never tried too hard. Made a change from the other regulars. But you’re not here to rake over the past.”

Now that she looked straight at him, Karl had a point. She was an attractive woman, educated by the sounds of it, although clearly happy to mix with the peasants. And she was waiting.

“Alright, I’ll level with you.” He reached for some couscous, hoping he looked au fait with the cuisine. “I first met Jack in prison — he, er, asked me to go and see him.”

She smiled a little and nodded, as if she knew what Jack’s requests felt like.

“Anyway, you were on Jack’s list. You
know
about his business, Andrea?”

“I know not to ask. Jack’s very loyal to those who show him loyalty. That’s good enough for me.”

He regrouped. “Does he get involved much in the arts scene?”

“Yes, to some extent.” She lifted a bottle of wine from a cooler but he shook his head and settled for juice. “Some people meet Jack and form the impression that he’s a philistine — don’t quote me on that. They’re wrong and I think he trades on it. He takes a genuine interest in the gallery and the artists we promote — he even comes to a show once in a while.” She raised an index finger and took a gulp of wine. “Take RT. Jack’s been out to Spain to visit his artists’ commune more than once.”

“I liked his stuff. It had . . .” He searched for a word, and was mortified by the dead-end he’d arrived at, “. . . authenticity.”

“You mean you liked the nudes. I modelled for him once, actually.” She paused dramatically and held her breath.

“I could see that working.” He looked away for an instant, wishing he could think of something else to say. Time for more food. “I mean, I could see RT’s artwork working on the street.”

“Exactly!” She slowly turned her glass. “Contemporary and yet naturalistic.”

It was easier to stay on safe ground, so when the lamb tagine appeared he turned the conversation to photography. Now he could talk about the Merrion Street Gallery in Leeds, the pictures that inspired him and the ones he still liked to take.

“I sell photography occasionally. If you have anything special I’d be happy to take a look. Any friend of Jack’s . . .”

Except he wasn’t a friend. He couldn’t tell whether she was humouring him or trying to buy him off. When the wine bottle rattled again he stuck with mixers and let her gradually fill herself up. A few more eats, Middle Eastern music in the background, and he could almost relax. It was all turning into a pleasant evening, right until he heard glass smashing somewhere below stairs.

Now he understood Karl’s reluctance to share the plan.

“Stay here.” He glanced around the room and grabbed a small metal sculpture in his hand, holding it like a cudgel.

“Not that!” She gasped.

He put it back down and picked up a poker from the fireplace, just in case it wasn’t Karl downstairs.

“Are you going to ring the police?”

He thought he knew the answer already; her face confirmed his suspicions. She didn’t want the Bobbies prying into her affairs, or Jack’s. Table for one, then.

He crept down the stairs in twos, the blood pounding in his heart. As he peered through the doorway, poker at the ready, Karl, all in black, in a ski mask, was scraping paint off
Naked Heat
.

“I hope this is the one you meant; I couldn’t see any other red ones like this.”

“Jesus.”

The glass door at the front looked like it had imploded. Other pieces of artwork had been damaged by Karl’s entrance. He was an equal opportunity desecrator.

“Right, all done. Just one more thing, Tommo,” Karl stepped clear, motioning him to one side. “Sorry about this and stay down for a bit.”

Next thing he knew, a fist had swung out of nowhere, connected, and sent him flying backwards until the floor kicked him in the spine. Still conscious but dazed, he heard Karl retreating into the night, an apology wafting behind him.

Taking Karl at his word he lay still, eyes closed, listening to the sound of his own breathing. He tried counting up to five thousand, only he kept losing the thread. At some point he heard a voice, echoing through the semi-darkness, growing louder. When he opened his eyes Andrea was standing in the doorway, arms limp at her sides as she surveyed the scene.

“I’m okay.” He lifted his head on the off chance she was interested.

She stepped over the debris and helped him to stand.

“We’d better get you to A&E.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for the police?”

“No need. I phoned Ray and he’s on his way. Did you see them? Did they take anything?”

Her Florence Nightingale act needed more work. He danced around the details — two people, probably, and no one spoke. Maybe they just wanted to cause damage, or else he had scared them off.

“I’ll make some coffee.” She seemed to be talking mainly to herself.

They remained downstairs, sipping caffeine in the wasteland. He got it together enough to rescue
Naked Heat
from the mess, found a broom and started sweeping up. It wasn’t like forensics was going to make an appearance and it helped tidy away anything incriminating.

Naked Heat
looked a little rougher around the edges now.

“I don’t suppose it’ll be worth as much.”

“Don’t you believe it!” She lifted the artwork and hung it back on the wall. The frame was cracked and some of its gloriously red paint was scuffed and chipped. “This will make wonderful publicity, especially with RT coming over for a new show in three weeks.”

“RT?” He pressed fingertips lightly to one side of his face. “You never told me what his actual name is.”

“Rodrigo Tollinger — RT to those who appreciate his work.” She wobbled a little, a sure sign that the coffee hadn’t straightened her up. She nodded, as if agreeing with herself. “Tell you a little secret, Thomas. It’s not his
real
name. Changed it by deed poll years ago, a good career move.” She opened the cupboard where the little biscuits lived and brought out a brandy miniature, shaking a little as she siphoned its contents into her cup.

In the spirit of generosity he put it down to stress.

“Somehow Rodney Tompkins doesn’t quite cut it.”

He never liked to be around drunken people. Drink made people do funny things. Many of the worst arguments with Miranda had been a three-way affair between the two of them and a bottle of something.

He did the chivalrous thing and saw to another couple of coffees; Andrea poured the dregs of her first into the second. Then he made himself useful again with a dustpan and brush. Full marks to Karl for taking pride in his work.

By the time a Range Rover pulled up outside, depositing Ray Daniels and a nameless thug on a lead, all that was needed was a 24-hour glazier and the briefest of explanations. He kept things simple, taking the lead as Andrea seemed in no fit state to answer Ray’s questions. No, he hadn’t seen the bloke clearly before he laid him out, and now that he thought about it there were two of them, possibly three. The geezer who hit him seemed to be looking for something; said nothing, and then it was lights out. End of story.

He allowed Ray to drop him off at Accident & Emergency, along with Andrea who insisted on exorcising her guilt by waiting with him at the hospital for two hours. By the time he’d been patched up and received some painkillers he’d also bagged an invite to RT’s opening night. It’d please Miranda, hopefully.

After the once-over from A&E, he loaded Andrea into a minicab and phoned Karl.

“How’s the face?”

“Sore — you shitbag. I need picking up.”

“I’ll be there in minutes.”

He laughed. “You don’t know where I am!”

“Ha! You don’t know where
I
am. I’m in the hospital car park – I followed the Range Rover from the gallery and I’ve been bored stupid waiting for your call.”

The journey to his Walthamstow flat provided ample time for a debrief. He went first, passing on Rod Tompkins’ name, plus the Rodrigo Tollinger alias. Karl promised to follow it up with a passport check.

“There’s something dodgy there — I just can’t put my finger on it yet.”

“What, Tommo? You think he attacked Jacob with paint from his own studio?” Karl’s voice of reason sounded like the case for the defence.

Lea Bridge Road flickered by, strung together with orange streetlights. He watched them for a while before replying.

“He’s coming back over in three weeks. I’ll confirm the date and maybe you can get me the flight details?”

Karl gave a mock salute. “Aye, aye, skipper. I’ll add them to my to-do list. You did some great work tonight, Thomas. And all it took was a smack in the face.”

He gave Karl a crooked smile and touched his throbbing jaw.