“What are the chances,” Grabianski asked, “of translating this potential into something approaching cash?”
“Good, I’d say. Pretty good.”
“And even while I might take your point about the uncertainty of time, you wouldn’t like to hazard a guess as to when …”
“Couple more days.” Snow shrugged.
“Of course, I should have known, a couple more days.”
Snow exchanged a further piece of private semaphore with Faron, who spoke to the barman and brought over fresh drinks.
“So how’s old Vernon,” Snow asked casually, “seen anything of him lately?”
Grabianski shook his head.
“Gone to ground a bit, I hear,” Snow said. “Place out in Suffolk. Warbleswick. Snape. One of those. Like Siberia in the sodding winter and you can’t turn round without squashing some turd in green wellies underfoot-so nice to get the dust of the city off of one’s feet, don’t you think? — but if you’re into samphire or asparagus, oysters, of course, can’t do better.”
When Grabianski walked up the Hill toward his flat, clutching a bag of cherries from Inverness Street and a copy of Mariette in Ecstasy he’d picked up in Compendium, there, smug and unmistakable, was Vernon Thackray’s dark blue Volvo estate, parked right outside.
They went up onto the Heath: Grabianski didn’t want Thackray in his home. The sun was behind them, broken shafts of it still bright through the scattering of trees that lined the south side of the Hill. They were sitting on a bench, looking down over the running track and the pale brickwork of the Lido, Gospel Oak. Squirrels flirted with fear across dusty ground.
“I was beginning to think something had happened,” Grabianski said.
“Happened?”
“To you.”
“Hoped, then, that’s what you mean. Hoped.”
Grabianski didn’t reply. Up to a point, let him think what he wants.
“This business,” Thackray said, “it’s necessary sometimes. A low profile, you understand. Minimum visibility.” He was wearing a pale blue Oxford shirt that shone almost violet when it was caught by the sun, beige twill trousers with a definite crease, tasseled shoes. In certain parts of Suffolk, Grabianski mused, it was probably de rigeur.
“The paintings,” Grabianski said, “the ones you wanted. They’re available, you know that.”
“Still?”
Grabianski half-turned on the bench toward him. “Japan, you said there was a buyer in Japan.”
Thackray made a small gesture with his shoulders, too indefinite to be called a shrug. “Things fluctuate, change.”
“Such as?”
“The yen against the dollar, the dollar against the pound.”
“One of the beauties of art,” Grabianski said, “I thought it maintained its price.”
“I may not be able to get as much now.”
“How much?”
Thackray smiled, rare as frost in July.
“How soon can you let me know?” Grabianski asked. “A definite price. And don’t tell me a couple of days.”
“Is that what he said?”
“Who?”
Thackray’s hand alighted on Grabianski’s leg behind the knee, squeezing tight. “You know the line, ‘Human voices wake us, and we drown’? Listen to Eddie Snow, that’s what happens. Eddie’s hand on your head, holding you down.” Relinquishing his grip, Thackray patted Grabianski gently on the thigh, a caring gesture, designed to reassure; learned, Grabianski imagined, from Thackray’s housemaster at school. “The kind of things he’s into, Eddie, in the end all they’ll bring are grief and aggravation. Take my word, Jerzy, it’s not what you need.”
“What I need is to get these Dalzeils off my hands.”
“Exactly. And now we’ve resumed an understanding, that’s where I’ll direct my attention: making sure that happens.” He was on his feet, brushing dust, real or imaginary, from his clothes. “Nice here; you’ve done well. You’ll have to drive out and see my place some time. Stay over. There’s a guest room. Two. You could bring a friend. Lie in bed at night and listen to the waves lifting the pebbles from the beach, setting them back down.” He gripped Grabianski’s hand. “Early-morning swim before breakfast, quite safe as long as you stay in your depth, don’t fight against the tide.”
Twenty-nine
Closed for Private Function read the sign, chalked to a board near the top of the stairs, an arrow pointing down. In the main bar, an early-evening crowd was preparing itself for a night of Old Time Music Hall; rumor had it that Clinton Ford was making the journey over from the Isle of Man. Not paying too much attention, Sharon Garnett missed the sign and walked straight ahead, pushing her way through the reproduction Victorian glass doors to find herself face to face with mine host, decked out for the occasion in purple shirt, striped waistcoat, and raffishly angled straw hat. Behind him, forty or so punters, set on an evening of tepid beer and nostalgia, nibbled peanuts and Walkers crisps and, first one and then another, turned their heads and stared. Sharon, her hair spiked out around her face like a seven-pointed star, stood there in a body-hugging lime green nylon dress and smiled back.
“I think what you’re looking for, me duck, it’s downstairs.”
“Quite likely,” Sharon said. Then, with a cheery wave to all and sundry, “Nice to meet you. Have a good night. And remember, don’t do anything you can’t spell.”
“Comedy night,” the landlord said, “it’s Sat’day. You’re a day early.”
“Better than being the usual four days late.” Sharon had had two large gins and the residue of a bottle of New Zealand Chardonnay before leaving home and she wasn’t about to take prisoners.
Lynn met Sharon at the foot of the stairs and gave her a quick, welcoming hug.
“You look amazing,” Lynn said, stepping back for the full effect.
“So do you.” It was a lie and they both accepted it; in fact, Lynn, in a cream high-neck dress and heels, looked fine. She’d had her hair done that afternoon at Jazz, and for once had thought about her makeup for more than five minutes.
“The bar’s free,” Lynn said, “for now.”
Sharon grinned and made her way in search of more gin.
Half an hour ago, Lynn had been in the same throes of panic experienced by anyone who ever threw a party of whatever size; she had been certain no one would turn up. And then, suddenly it seemed, they were all there-the team she was leaving, the squad she was joining. Even her new boss had put in an appearance, shaking hands with Lynn, as she looked round the room to check who else was there.
Helen Siddons had planned to bring her present affair with her, scotch any persisting rumors and spell it out for Skelton at the same time; but the man in question, an assistant chief constable from a neighboring force, was due to deliver the keynote speech at a Masonic dinner and could only offer to meet her afterwards. Knowing that meant he’d be snoring red-faced on her pillow within fifteen minutes, Siddons had declined.
The sound of conversation was already sharpening, voices liberated by alcohol; laughter, raucous and short-lived, rose up from around the room like a Mexican wave. The buffet was laid out along the rear wall, between the toilets and the bar, the usual quartered sandwiches and slices of yellow quiche, though the pakoras and samosas were less expected and going down a treat.
Helen Siddons was settling a prawn vol-au-vent onto her paper plate when Skelton appeared beside her, tobacco on his breath, his hand heavy upon her arm.
“You’re here on your own,” Skelton said, not a question.
“And Alice?”
Skelton shrugged.
“I don’t know, Jack. It’s not a good idea.”
“It always was.”
“Yes, well, that’s as may be.”
Watching them from across the room, Resnick wondered whether he shouldn’t go over and interrupt, play chaperone. He decided it was none of his business, and went in search of Hannah instead, finding her sharing a table with Carl Vincent, Anil Khan, and Khan’s girlfriend, Jill, a receptionist at Central TV. He was about to join them when he spotted Divine, swaying a little maybe, but as yet still on his feet.