Having finished the joint, Westie, arms folded, took a stroll around the room. Alice didn’t come in here very much any more. She stuck to the kitchen and bedroom. The mess irritated her, yet she was reluctant to tidy up in case it interfered with his creativity. She’d explained about a poet she’d been friendly with at college whose flatmates had done this big spring-clean of his bedroom one time and surprised him with it. He’d tried to be grateful but hadn’t been able to write poetry in there for weeks afterwards. Westie had considered this, then had asked just exactly how ‘friendly’ the two had been.
Cue another lovers’ tiff.
When the doorbell sounded, he realised he’d been practically asleep, staring out of the window at the passing traffic for at least a few minutes. Bed was one answer, but Alice would be expecting him to have achieved something with the day. The doorbell rang again and he considered who it might be. Did he owe money? Would Alice’s parents want a quiet word, maybe slip him a few quid to clear out? Someone rattling a tin for charity or needing to know his political leanings? Last thing he needed in his life were these constant interruptions. He was meant to be working… putting the finishing touches… surfing the junkyards and bric-a-brac merchants for cheap gilt frames into which to place his Stubbs, his Constable, his Raeburn…
Instead of which, he found himself opening the door to one of those people whose marks counted most: Professor Robert Gissing, in the flesh, and apologising for the intrusion.
‘Looked for you in the studios, and then in your allocated exhibition space…’
‘I keep most of my paintings here, tend to work on them at night.’
‘Hence the bleary expression, eh?’ Gissing was smiling. ‘Would it be all right with you, Mr Westwater, if we were to come inside for a moment? Rest assured, it won’t take long.’
‘We’ because there were two other men with him. Gissing introduced them as ‘two friends’, but didn’t mention names, and Westie didn’t recognise their faces. Dealers, perhaps, or maybe collectors, here to make pre-emptive bids on the contents of his degree show? He didn’t think so, but he led the way into the living room. Gissing had taken charge and was gesturing for them all to be seated. One of the ‘friends’ made to remove the covering sheet from the sofa.
‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ Westie warned him. ‘Got it from a skip… a few interesting stains.’
‘And the aroma of turps,’ the visitor decided.
‘To cover the more interesting smells.’
Gissing was sniffing the air. ‘It’s not turpentine I’m detecting, Mr Westwater, it’s something much more akin to our old friend Cannabis sativa.’
‘Guilty as charged,’ Westie said. ‘Helps my brain to get moving.’
The three visitors nodded slowly, and silence descended. Westie interrupted with a cough. ‘I’d offer tea or something,’ he apologised, ‘but we’re all out of milk.’
Gissing waved this aside, then rubbed his hands together, making eye contact with the classier-looking of the two strangers. It was this man who eventually spoke.
‘What we’d like to do,’ he said, ‘is help you buy yourself a new sofa – and maybe a few other bits and pieces besides.’ He hadn’t sat down, and was inspecting some of Westie’s work instead. The accent was local and hadn’t travelled too far from the tenements.
‘You’re in the market for a painting?’ Westie shifted a little. ‘I didn’t think the professor was my biggest fan.’
‘I can see you have a talent,’ Gissing objected with a thin smile. ‘And I’m enough of a “fan” to ensure that you pass the course with distinction. You know what that would mean – a real chance of being accepted for something in the postgraduate line.’
‘Is this some sort of… what do you call it…?’
‘Faustian pact?’ Gissing offered. ‘Not a bit of it.’
‘Though there would be that cash incentive,’ the stranger reminded him.
‘As head of the College of Art,’ Gissing added, ‘I’ve taken a look at your file, Westie. Each year you’ve applied for every bursary and hardship grant going.’
‘And been turned down for all of them,’ the student reminded him.
‘So what’s your debt up to now? Five figures, I’m guessing… Fresh start, clean slate – that’s what’s on offer here.’
‘Well, I’d be happy to show you some of my work…’
‘I’m looking at your work, Mr Westwater,’ the talkative stranger said.
‘Everyone calls me Westie.’
The man nodded. ‘I’m pretty impressed.’ He had picked up the Stubbs horse. Its coat shone like a freshly peeled chestnut. ‘You’ve an eye for colour. Besides which, we already have it on the professor’s authority that you know what you’re doing when it comes to copies. But we wouldn’t be buying off the peg, Westie…’
‘A commission?’ Westie was almost bouncing on the spot, even though he still didn’t feel comfortable. Why didn’t the other stranger say anything? He just kept checking his phone for text messages.
‘A secret commission,’ Gissing was correcting him. ‘No questions asked.’
But now the talkative stranger was looking at the professor. ‘Thing is, Robert, I can see that Westie here’s not stupid – he’s suspicious, and rightly so. We can hardly keep the project a secret from him, can we? He’ll find out eventually.’ He was homing in on Westie now, still holding the Stubbs in one hand as he walked to within a foot of the student. But when he spoke, Gissing still seemed his target. ‘We need Westie to be part of it, and that means trusting him.’ He smiled for the young man’s benefit. ‘The professor tells me you have an anarchic streak – you like to poke fun at the art establishment. Is that right?’
Westie didn’t know which answer would serve him best, so he just shrugged instead. The man who had yet to talk made a show of clearing his throat. He had finished with his phone and was holding up a used stencil, which had been teased out from below the sofa.
‘I’ve seen these around town,’ he said – posh Edinburgh tones – keeping his voice low as if fearing being told off.
The other stranger examined the stencil, and his smile broadened. ‘You want to be the next Banksy?’
‘There was a story in the papers,’ the second stranger said. ‘Police seemed very keen to talk to the artist responsible…’
‘That’s the anti-establishment stance I was talking about.’ The first stranger faced Westie again and waited for him to say something. This time, Westie decided to oblige.
‘So you want me to copy a painting?’ he blurted out.
‘Half a dozen, actually,’ Gissing corrected him. ‘All of them from the national collection.’
‘And it’s to be done without anyone knowing?’ Westie’s eyes were widening. Was he stoned and imagining this whole thing? ‘They’ve been stolen, is that it? And the gallery doesn’t want any of the public to get an inkling…’
‘I told you he was smart.’ The visitor was leaning the Stubbs back against the skirting board. ‘Now then, Westie, if we’ve whetted your appetite, maybe we can take you to the professor’s office and show you just exactly what we’re after…’
8
The four of them sat at individual desks in Robert Gissing’s room. He still gave occasional tutorials, hence the chairs with writing surfaces attached. His secretary had left for the day – at Gissing’s request. Mike and Allan had eventually introduced themselves to Westie by their first names, having decided that it would be too cumbersome to use aliases. After all, it wasn’t as though Gissing could use one, and if Westie went to the police with the professor’s name, it wouldn’t take a Columbo or a Frost to connect Mike and Allan with him.