A Coffin For Two

20

There was a pink thing on the floor beside the bed, shapeless, like a discarded nylon pop sock. I was lying face down, my head hanging off the mattress, so that when my eyes swam slowly back into focus, it was the first thing I saw.

In those waking moments, I felt disorientated, and unsure of where I was. It was a lonely feeling. When you’re thirty years old, and have no experience of loneliness, that can be scary.

At last I could see properly. The pink thing was a used Fetherlite, lying on the tiled floor, shrivelled and knotted beside its foil wrapper. My eyes swivelled round like a chameleon‘s, and spotted five left in the packet which lay open on the cabinet. ‘Whose idea was that?’ I mused, until I remembered that it had been mine.

‘What time is it?’ I croaked. My mouth was full of ashes, and a wee man with a couple of hammers was playing a xylophone tune inside my head. There was no answer to my question. I reached behind me and beyond. Prim’s side of the bed was empty and the quilt was turned back.

I swung myself out of bed with an effort and looked at the clock radio. Eight forty-five, it told me: not too bad. The bathroom door was closed, and from inside I could hear the sound of the shower. With instinct driving me to find something resembling a disciplined routine, I pulled on my running shorts, stepped into my trainers, and ventured out into the morning, jogging at first, then upping my pace until it could almost have been described as running.

The first mile was murder, but once I had paused to urinate like a true Continental in the bushes by the track-side, things gradually became easier. Three or four miles later, I felt like someone I recognised, even though I was sat on the ground in front of the church, my chest heaving and my body pouring out sweat that probably tasted a lot like draught Estrella Dorada. The wee man with the hammers had gone, and my mouth was moist again.

I left my steaming trainers, socks and shorts on the stairs, outside the front door, and stepped back into the apartment. The doors to the terrace were wide open, and Prim was outside, leaning over the patio table, looking undeniably tasty in her cream cotton Bermudas.

I crept up behind her and put my hands on her hips. She jumped and sniffed, without turning around. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she warned. ‘At least, not till you’ve showered.’

I stepped back from her, aware suddenly that a small puddle was forming on the tiles around me.

‘Do you feel better now?’ she asked, her back still to me.

‘A thousand times. It’s the only real hangover cure.’ I paused, and leaned over to scratch the back of her right thigh. ‘I’m sorry about last night, love.’

‘Why?’ she said, turning at last. ‘You were magnificent.’ She smiled. ‘Oh, you meant about earlier on. That’s okay. You redeemed yourself.’

I looked over her shoulder, at the table. Upon it, Gavin Scott’s print lay unrolled, weighted down by four mugs.

‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘It’s fantastic.’

‘You should see the original. Let me shower and dress and I’ll tell you the whole story.’

I disappeared into the apartment. I washed my face thoroughly in hot water, then lathered my stubble. Looking in the mirror, I remembered my last shave, and where I had had it. I closed my eyes and let a picture of Jan form in my mind. She smiled at me, sadly, shook her head, then faded away.

Fifteen minutes later I stepped back on to the terrace, smooth-chinned, showered and dressed, my eyes still a touch bloodshot, but otherwise presentable. Our standard breakfast of tomatoes, bread and cheese, and hot coffee, lay on the table. Scott’s print of the apocalyptic toreador was spread on the floor.

As we ate I told Primavera the story of our client’s bizarre gamble, and of our commission to try to ensure that it paid off.

‘Are we up to this, Oz?’ she asked, when I had finished.

‘Course we are. Listen, woman, you were the one who proposed this business venture. Don’t go wobbly on me now.’

She pursed her lips. ‘No. You’re right. After that last thing we pulled off, Phillips and Blackstone are up for anything.’ She thought for a minute or two. ‘Right,’ she said at last. ‘Here’s what we do. The first priority is to find this man Trevor. We’ve met him once, in Gary’s; so we begin by going back there. At the same time, we should take this print up to the Dali Museum in Figueras and let the curator there have a look at it.’

I held up a hand. ‘No way!’ Stopping Prim in full flow is not easy. You certainly don’t say, ‘Excuse me.’

She glared at me, but I stuck to my guns. ‘We can’t do that, for Christ’s sake. How do you think the curator might react if we show up on his doorstep with a print of an alleged Dali that doesn’t appear in any catalogue of his work, and isn’t mentioned in any biography of the man?

‘At the very least, he’d throw us out. At worst, he’d think we were forgers and would call the Guardia Civil. You and I have applications in the pipeline for resident status. I doubt if they’d be confirmed if we were banged up in Figueras nick!’

She looked at me, her ‘man or a mouse’ glare. ‘Nonsense. We’ve got our letter of engagement from Mr Scott. We can show him that.’

‘Sorry, but that’s cobblers. Who’s Scott to him?What would that letter mean?’ I eyeballed her across the table. ‘Anyway, there’s another scenario. What if Scott’s picture is the real thing? A genuine, uncatalogued, unknown Dali? I’ve seen the original, and it’s some piece of work. You might think that the print looks great, but believe me it’s two-dimensional in comparison.

‘He said it himself. If it’s genuine, it’ll be worth millions. So, if it’s genuine, how come it shows up in Ronald Starr’s very discreet, very private auction in Peretellada? And how come our client picks it up for a trifling two hundred and sixty thousand? I’ll tell you why. Because stolen works of art will sell for about one tenth of their true value on the black market.

‘I doubt if it’s occurred to our client, or he wouldn’t have given me this print to wave around the countryside, but if Gavin has bought himself a genuine Dali, then it’s a pound to a pinch of pig-shit that it’s stolen goods.’

She looked at me. ‘So should we take it to the police?’

‘Fine, let’s do that. Let’s tell the Guardia the whole story. Then a few things might happen. They might simply laugh at us, and that would be all right. Or, they could confirm that the thing is a fake and start a hue and cry looking for the forger who’s putting the Dali industry at risk. Last but not least, they could authenticate it and issue an international warrant for our client’s arrest on a charge of handling a stolen masterpiece.’

Prim surrendered, with an ill grace. ‘Okay, Mr Clever. So what should we do?’

I paused, savouring my victory. ‘We should find Mr Ronald Starr, and ask him the questions that Gavin Scott left unasked when he bought the picture, because he wanted the thing so much that he just switched his brain off. If he was an agent at the auction, who was the principal? And how did he or she come to own it? While we’re looking for Starr, we should ask a few general questions about Dali, and about anyone who might be up to imitating him.’

‘Ask questions of whom?’ she asked, grammatically.

‘Of other artists, of course. And I think I know where to find some.’ I reached across and squeezed her hand. ‘You were right about one thing, though, my dear one. It starts with Trevor. Tonight, we’re dining out.’

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘but the rest of the day we spend getting this business of ours into shape. You said that you had other correspondence.’

I nodded, and retrieved my document case from its pocket in my flight-bag, in the bedroom, where Prim had dropped it the night before. I showed her our three enquiries, and talked them through with her.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you should do the one in Tarragona. I’m not so sure about taking on both the others though.’

‘Why not?’

She frowned. ‘They both want quick responses. We don’t want to spread ourselves too thin.’

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘These are both Edinburgh companies. If we give them a prompt effective service, they might tell their pals about us. If we give them the bum’s rush, or crap service, they’re sure to tell their pals about that. If we find ourselves short of hours in the day, then we hire casual help.’

‘Yes, but what about admin, and invoicing, and so on?’

‘No problem. I’ve persuaded Jan to come in with us, to handle finance. She’ll do all our billing in Scotland, routed through Jersey, and she’ll handle first responses to enquiries, like she did with these and with Gavin Scott. That’s okay with you, isn’t it?’

There was a silence for a while, which worried me for an instant, until I realised she thought I’d take her approval as read. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said finally. ‘I’ve got no problem with that.’ She paused. ‘Shirley Gash might help us. Not that she needs the money, but she did say that she’s desperate for things to do with her time.’ She stood up from the table. ‘I’ll get the computer, and we can draft our responses to these people.’

I watched her as she strolled back into the living-room and picked up the lap-top. All at once my eye fell on a piece of paper on the floor. ‘Hey,’ I called to her. ‘We forgot about that fax from last night. Bring that too.’

She nodded and bent to pick it up. ‘It’s from someone called Gregor, at Laing’s,’ she said, glancing at the heading. She read on down the page. By the time she re-emerged on to the terrace, her mouth was hanging open in a silent gasp, and her eyes were wide with surprise. She handed me the fax without a word.

I read it aloud.

Hi Oz,

I had an immediate response from the manufacturers to your enquiry. Giorgio of Beverley Hills gentleman’s wristwatch, serial number 930100, was sold on February 22, last year, by Jackson’s of Bristol.

The registered owner is Mr Ronald Starr, of 126 Glannefran Hill, Mold, Clwyd, Wales. He should be pleased to hear from you.