Buttoning up his coat against the autumn chill, PC Pilbeam made the ten-minute walk to his local Tesco Express, where he filled a recyclable bag with tins of soup, vegetables and cooked meat. These items did not constitute his normal diet, and indeed he was not buying them for himself. He was on his way to the food bank. Normally he would have taken unused and unwanted items from his own kitchen shelves, but he didn’t have any of those left. The fact was that he had learned, on the evening of their dinner together, that Lucinda Givings had started to help out at the food bank during the evenings and weekends, and for this reason he had started to visit it regularly — although so far his timing had been unlucky, and he hadn’t encountered her. This would be his fourth visit in three days, and he had reached the point where he was having to buy food especially for the purpose.
And yet today — joy! — his civic altruism was rewarded, for there she was, standing behind the counter and looking as radiant, as desirable as ever. She was wearing a thick woollen jumper which would have made Marilyn Monroe herself look like a sack of potatoes but, even so, Nathan felt that he could not possibly have conceived a vision of purer loveliness, of sweeter, more crystalline beauty.
‘Hello,’ she said, with a smile — he was sure — of genuine affection. ‘How good of you to come down.’ She began to remove the tins from his bag. ‘And with such generous donations!’
‘I feel I must do what I can,’ he answered. ‘The terrible thing is that there should even be a need for places like this.’
‘I know.’ Lucinda sighed. ‘It’s very depressing, and I’m sure there’s some perfectly terrible explanation, but I don’t know what it is. I’m afraid I’m not really one of those angry, political types.’
Her colleague, however, a middle-aged woman in denim jacket and jeans, had definite views on the subject.
‘Essentially,’ she said, ‘this is what happens when the ruling elite uses a crisis of its own making to legitimize attacks on the poorest and most vulnerable people in the country.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Caroline, by the way.’
Nathan shook her hand, but he was not really in the mood for further conversation on this topic. His real objective was to find out whether Lucinda was busy tonight, and whether she’d like to go out with him. Turning back towards her, he casually ventured:
‘I was walking past the cinema just now, and couldn’t help noticing …’ Then he stopped, and frowned. Something in Caroline’s last remark had suddenly set off a strange, intriguing echo in his mind. Talking more to himself than anyone else, he mumbled: ‘Yes, of course. That’s right. That’s perfectly right.’
‘What do you mean?’ Lucinda asked.
‘What you said,’ he repeated, addressing Caroline now, ‘was perfectly right. I don’t mean your comments about the economy, although I don’t disagree with you there, exactly. But I’m referring to your choice of words. You said “Essentially”. Which, of course, is the correct form of expression.’
Caroline was glancing in puzzlement at Lucinda, as if silently to enquire whether her peculiar friend usually carried on in this way.
‘You’re not making yourself very clear,’ said Lucinda, trying to put it tactfully.
‘I’m sorry. This is the way it is, when you’ve got your teeth into the meat of a case. You forget how to communicate properly. I’ve been holed up in my flat for days, reading and reading and reading. It’s just that the last thing I read — I’ve realized now that there was something a bit odd about it. A quirk of expression. Whenever he meant “essential” or “essentially”, the writer put “quintessential” instead. I’m sure there’s nothing in it. But you can’t help noticing these things, you see. Your brain starts to fixate on little details and … well, you start to go a bit mad, to tell the truth. Forget I ever mentioned it.’ Lucinda was staring at him, her eyes getting rounder and rounder. He wanted to dive into them and drown. ‘What I really meant to ask you,’ he stammered on, ‘was — I mentioned the cinema, and I was walking past it only a few minutes ago when I noticed —’
But once again, Nathan never managed to get any further with his invitation. This time it was the ringing of his mobile phone that interrupted him.
‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’ Lucinda asked.
‘No. Not until I’ve —’ But then, unable to resist glancing at the screen, he realized who was calling. ‘Actually, yes. I’d better take this. Sorry.’
He withdrew to a corner of the hall and cupped the iPhone to his ear.
‘Hello? DCI Capes?’
‘Afternoon, Pilbeam. Glad I caught you. Is this a good moment to talk?’
‘Of course. What is it? Have there been … developments?’
‘Not yet. But I’m pretty sure there will be, very soon. Tell me, Pilbeam, have you heard of the Winshaw Prize?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then you know that this year’s winner is going to be announced next week. The ceremony’s up in Birmingham. Well, Josephine is pretty much the only surviving member of the family, as you know, so she’s going to be there. So is Sir Peter. But get this … who do you suppose is the celebrity they’ve chosen to present it, this year? None other than — our good friend Mr Quirky. And he won’t just be in the same room as them, but sitting right next door. I’ve seen the seating plan, you see. They’re on table 12. Quirky will be on number 11.’
Nathan let out a whistle of alarm. ‘An explosive situation,’ he said.
‘I know, but don’t worry. We’re going to be there in force. And the reason I’m calling — well, as the person who brought all this to my attention, I think you should be there.’
‘But … but, sir, this is such an honour.’
‘Never mind honour, Pilbeam. I could do with your input. The dinner is on Tuesday week. Don’t worry, I’ll clear everything with your station, and make sure you get off for the night.’
‘Thank you, sir. This is … This is a big step for me.’ And then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Lucinda. Watching her walk from one end of the hall to the other, her lustrous (he assumed) blonde hair pulled back more uncompromisingly than ever, her slender (he imagined) arms filled with cans of baked beans, tomato soup and spaghetti hoops, he felt himself propelled forward by waves of lust. ‘There’s just … There’s just one thing, sir. If I might make a small … official request?’
‘Of course, Pilbeam. What’s on your mind?’
‘I was just wondering: would it be all right if I bring a date?’
5
The Winshaw Prize, by now established as the most prestigious and valuable in the country, was named in honour of Roderick Winshaw, the famous art curator, who had died on the terrible night of 16 January 1991, in the massacre which had also claimed five other members of his family.
A few months after Roderick’s death, once the shock waves it sent throughout the art world had partially subsided, a committee of friends and admirers gathered to discuss how the great man’s memory might be preserved. A prize was the obvious solution. But there was already a major art prize, the Turner. How could this new prize distinguish itself from its competitors?
A steering committee was set up, under the chairmanship of Giles Trending, the highly successful director of Stercus Television and owner of the Recktall Brown Gallery in Shoreditch. His first notion was that the Winshaw Prize should be the ne plus ultra of cultural accolades, and as such should be open not just to paintings, sculptures, videos and installations, but to novels, films, poems, ballets, operas, pop songs and even advertising campaigns. Pretty much everything, in other words. The fact that none of these things could be sensibly compared with each other would be precisely the point.