‘No. A friend of Brodie‘s.’
‘I didn’t think she had any friends.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ said Hood. ‘It was a lady — in the technical sense.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I’ll tell you in a minute. But first I want you to tell me something. Where exactly did you get your picture?’
‘The self-portrait? Highgate House — why?’
‘Who lives there?’
‘No one lives there, you fool. It’s a museum.’
‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it. I thought it was a private house. I imagined you sneaking through the window, tip-toeing down the corridors — the folks snoring in their beds. I thought it was pretty cool. She’s a gutsy chick, I thought. But, for Christ’s sake, it was a museum. So it wasn’t such a big deal after all, was it?’
‘There was a burglar alarm,’ she said. ‘There were risks. What are you trying to say?’
‘Just this. You gave me the impression you knocked off a private house — and all you really did was waltz into a museum and rip off a picture. If it had been a private house you might have gotten somewhere, and if you’d chosen the right one you’d have scored in spades — you’d have had them screaming their heads off. But you’re a genius. You went for a museum and came out with one picture — you could have taken a dozen!’
‘What’s wrong with a museum?’
‘Museums don’t have money. They don’t pay ransoms, no one lives in them, they’re empty.’ He sighed and said, ‘How’d you happen to settle on Highgate House?’
‘I told you all this at Ward’s — that first day.’
‘You were drunk. You didn’t have a plan. All you talked about was a picture.’
‘Yes, and I knew where it was.’
‘You sussed it out?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘my parents used to take me there.’
She stated it as a simple fact; but it was a revelation. It was the most she had ever told him about herself, and it was nearly all he needed to know.
My parents used to take me there. He knew her parents, he saw them on a misty Sunday in winter guiding their daughter to the museum, the mother apart, the doting father holding the girl’s hand. They had planned it carefully; they knew they were paying a high compliment to the little girl’s intelligence in the family outing — part of her education, while the rest of her school friends idled at the zoo. A restful, uplifting interlude, strolling among the masterpieces. Privilege. And he saw the daughter, a spoiled child, small for her age, but bright, alert, in kneesocks and necktie, noticing details her parents missed — that Bosch cripple in his leather vest, the thread of piss issuing from the bow-legged man in the Brueghel, the Turner thundercloud and tidewrack of sea-monster’s jaws, the tiger launching itself from the margin of the Indian engraving. Look, dear, an angel. And finally the attentive parents brought her to the Flemish self-portrait and urged her to admire the tall man in black: What do you see through that window? Later, they bought postcards and chatted about them over tea; but the parents never knew how that afternoon they had inspired the girl — made her see the value of art even if she could not see its beauty; how the gentle stress that particular day, the origin of all her careless romance, had made that little girl into a thief.
Hood knew her parents, he saw them, because he could see his own. The same encouragement in a different museum, a different light: a Minoan snake-goddess had marked his eye. They had been taught to respect art, so thievery mattered; and the parents’ legacy was this taste, a hesitation. Only Brodie and Murf acted without hesitation. They could destroy easily because they had never seen what creation was — they did not know enough to be guilty; but Mayo, and he, knew too much to be innocent.
Mayo saw the strain of memory on his face. She said, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You blew it. You’re a flop.’
He told her the version he had promised Murf, and what Lady Arrow had said. Mayo understood immediately, quicker than Hood himself had. She closed her eyes and he could see she was relieved — as he had been, but perhaps for a different reason: he had never wanted to lose the picture and she had worried about jail.
He said, ‘Maybe you’ll listen to me now.’
‘Do you think she’ll cough?’
‘Not a chance,’ said Hood. ‘She’s on your side — whatever side that is.’
Mayo said, ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
‘Really?’
‘Don’t you see? That’s one of the reasons I was held up last night. We expelled someone —’
‘So there’s a post vacant,’ he said.
‘You can put it that way. I was trying to convince them you were clean. Well, they’re convinced.’ Mayo lowered her voice. ‘There’s a problem, Val. They want to talk to you. They think you can help them.’
‘I used to think that.’
‘Oh, God, don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet!’
‘Cold feet,’ said Hood, sneering. ‘Wise up, sister.’
‘I knew it. As soon as things started to go your way you’d begin your consul act — the big, cool, non-committal thing.’
‘I’ll play it by ear.’
‘They’re coming tonight.’
‘I might be out tonight.’
‘I told them they could count on you.’
‘They can count on me tomorrow. I’ve got other plans.’ He stood up and moved towards the door.
‘Where are you going?’
‘That shouldn’t be hard for you to figure out. You’ve got training — you said so! You’re a conspirator, aren’t you? You don’t have to ask questions like that. Get your raincoat and shadow me.’
‘Don’t go now, Val. Stay awhile — it’s nine o’clock in the morning! Don’t make me wait, please.’
‘You made me wait last night, sweetheart.’ He looked at her imploring face. He wouldn’t stay. There was Lorna, but more, he was punishing Mayo for her past, for betraying her parents’ trust; the picture. My parents used to take me there.
‘So that’s it. You’re going to get your own back on me. God, it’s as stupid as a marriage! It’s sickening. You’ve got other plans. All these secrets. You’re hiding something from me. Why don’t you just come out and say it — you’re not interested in me anymore.’
‘But I am. Come on, smile.’
‘The painting,’ she said. ‘They trusted me after that. If they find out it belongs to that woman they won’t like it — it’s no good to them.’
‘I won’t tell them.’
‘Thanks, Val,’ she said. ‘I feel such a failure.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Hood. ‘Think of the painting! It’s yours — you’ve committed the perfect crime!’
‘Kiss me,’ she said.
He hesitated, then he drew near to her.
She said, ‘What do you want?’
‘I want to kiss you, sister.’
‘Don’t,’ she said. She faced the wall and said, ‘Go! That’s what you really want to do, isn’t it?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I want to kiss you.’
She turned expectantly and lifted her arms in hope to embrace him, but Hood was on his way out of the room.
As he passed through the kitchen, he slapped Murf on the shoulder. Murf said, ‘Take me with you,’ and whispered, ‘I don’t want to stay here with these two hairies.’
‘Next time, pal.’
It was a lovely autumn day and Hood was so distracted by the sunshine he did not at first see the sweeper — just the father today, with his shovel and broom and the yellow barrel on wheels. The man pushed at the papers and dead leaves, then stooped to pick up a button. He looked at Hood with mistrust and said, ‘That your ice-cream van?’