Crucified

Chapter 24

Maggie returned from the hairdressers laden with shopping bags, having also done a larger than intended grocery shop. Penny helped her to load up the deep freeze and cupboards, dropping into conversation that Jack had watered the plants without being asked. Maggie shrugged as if uninterested. ‘That’s a first.’

Upstairs Jack took a long bath, shaved and washed his hair, splashed cologne over himself and put on his dressing gown. It was too early for him to get dressed in his suit, so he decided to go and find Maggie to apologise. The last place he looked was of course where he found her; as Jack walked into the loft, Maggie turned to look at him.

‘You had a haircut,’ he said, hovering nervously.

‘I told you last night. You’ve overdone it with the aftershave by the way.’

‘Look, I’m sorry I sounded off last night. I can’t explain it, Maggie, but the first time I met Border, I connected with him somehow. He sparked my imagination. He’s a genius. Imagine what it must feel like to have the ability to fake a Rembrandt and for it to be acclaimed as a genuine masterpiece when his own work is dismissed as worthless. Imagine being able to fool the smartest art experts around the world. And none of them even know you exist. In truth, Mags, I’m fascinated by art forgery, the incredible skill of it, not by Adam. There are many forgers doing what he’s doing.’

She turned, cupping his face between her hands. ‘Thank you for being honest with me.’

‘I love you, Mags.’ Jack took her hands in his. ‘Do you think you could fix my bow tie?’

They went downstairs together, Maggie going into the nursery to check on Charlie. As she joined Jack in the bedroom, they could both hear Hannah whooping and shouting as she and Penny returned from the petting zoo. ‘A tiny goat! I want a tiny goat to keep in my bedroom!’

Jack and Maggie’s eyes widened in unison at the awful thought of Hannah now wanting a goat. Jack was wearing his suit, shirt and jacket.

He stepped into his trousers and tucked the dress shirt into the waist. Then Maggie stood on tiptoe to fix his bow tie.

‘I’m afraid your old brogues aren’t going to work,’ she told him. She rooted around the bottom of the wardrobe for the slip-ons with toggles that he had worn at their wedding, eventually dragging them out and giving them a quick polish with one of Charlie’s wet wipes.

Jack sat on the bed to put the shoes on. They were a very tight fit, which is why he had not worn them for years, but Maggie was right that they looked better with the trousers than the brogues. Jack looked at himself in the long wardrobe mirror and then turned to Maggie for her opinion.

‘I forget how handsome you are, Jack Warr. You look amazing.’ She began to hum the James Bond theme, but it faded quickly as she thought about where he was going and the dangerous game he was playing.

Jack checked that he had the burner phone, as well as his own mobile. He had the invitation in his jacket pocket and a wallet without any Met documents or insignia. At five thirty, it was time for him to leave. He kissed Maggie and was opening the front door just as Penny came out of the kitchen. ‘My God, you look amazing! Where are you going?’

‘Met function,’ Jack lied. ‘No wives unfortunately.’

‘You should have a long white scarf to finish the look, darling. I’ve got one in my room if you want me to fetch it?’

‘No, I’ve got to go, Mum. Don’t want to be late.’ He walked out, closing the door quietly as Maggie joined Penny in the hall.

‘Doesn’t he look handsome,’ Penny beamed. ‘You’d better hope it’s men only, Maggie dear. If any ladies see him dressed like that, they’ll be after him straightaway.’ Maggie laughed, then remembered they had left the light on in Jack’s office so went back upstairs to turn it off.

She rarely, if ever, spent time in there and certainly not alone, but now she glanced over his untidy desk with all his notes and photos cut out of magazines. She began to tidy them up, then, intrigued, sat down in his desk chair and started flicking through them. She stopped with a frown. Jack had written ‘reference to dealer’ and then scribbled ‘Jo Ogden and partner’, which was then crossed out.

Maggie was sure she had heard the name, maybe a famous pianist? But she wasn’t certain. She put the notebook into the envelope with the rest of the notes and then into a drawer. She was about to use Jack’s computer but wasn’t certain what the password was, so she turned off his desk lamp and then the room light before going into their bedroom. But she couldn’t stop thinking about it so went to her briefcase and took out her laptop.

Sitting on the bed, she Googled Jo Ogden, and was pleased to find she’d been right. There was a famous pianist called John — not Jo, as Jack had written — Ogden, who died in 1987. She skimmed through the details of his life and brilliant career, a self-taught prodigy who had been overwhelmed with the burden of genius and could not cope with everyday life.

Maggie then looked for an artist with a similar name and was taken aback when up came Joe Orton, a playwright born in 1933, who was bludgeoned to death by his live-in partner, a failed artist called Kenneth Halliwell. She started delving deeper and the more she read of the relationship between Orton and Halliwell, the more anxious she became. They appeared to have had a tortuous homosexual relationship that broke down when Orton became successful. Halliwell’s failure as an artist drove him into a jealous rage, battering Orton’s head nine times with a hammer. Maggie took a deep breath, trying to think exactly how Adam had phrased his description of his dealer. Did he sound like Orton?

She rang Jack’s mobile. ‘Has something happened?’ he asked concerned. ‘I’m almost at Bond Street.’

‘Can you pull over, Jack? I need to talk to you... it’s important.’

‘For Chrissakes Mags, you know where I’m going. Can’t it wait?’

‘No, you have to pull over and listen to me.’

‘Fuck’s sake,’ Jack murmured to himself. He drove on until he spotted a parking space in Berkeley Square and parked up. ‘OK, this had better be good, Mags.’

‘Jack, I need you to think back to when Adam said something derogatory about his dealer, and you made a note of it.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘In your notes, you wrote down a name, Jo Ogden. I think you said that Adam had inferred his dealer was like him, or he and his partner were like them.’

Jack sighed, trying to piece together what she was asking him. ‘As far as I can recall, it was after he’d had a call from his dealer putting pressure on him...’

‘What did he say?’

‘I’m trying to think, Maggie, what’s so important about it?’

‘You wrote down the wrong name, Jack. I think he was referring to a famous playwright named Joe Orton.’

‘Maybe I did. I honestly can’t remember it clearly. I still don’t understand what the big deal is.’

‘Joe Orton’s partner was an artist called Kenneth Halliwell. Orton became hugely successful as a playwright, but his partner, the artist — he did collages with bits of paper and cut out stuff from magazines — anyway, he was not successful, and he became consumed with jealousy.’ She heard him give an impatient sigh. ‘Jack, Orton was hammered to death by his boyfriend. He tried to disfigure him with nine hammer blows to his head.’

In the blink of an eye, Jack understood the connection. ‘Was this recent?’

‘No, years ago, late sixties, he was only thirty-four. Halliwell committed suicide. Listen, Jack, if someone in the art world referred to someone else’s relationship as being like Orton and his partner...’

‘I don’t know if this Detmar guy is gay, dead or alive, or even if he has an artist for a boyfriend.’

‘What about Adam?’

‘What?’

‘You don’t know him, Jack, I just thought you should know what I’ve found out. Think what he has told you, even that German woman said he’d threatened to crucify someone. Please be careful.’

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘You’re right, Maggie, thank you. Now I’ve got to go. I don’t want to be late.’ Jack sat in the car thinking over everything she had just told him. Something started to kick into gear inside him. He knew that compared to Adam he had a pitiful knowledge of the art world, and Adam had probably enjoyed dropping intellectual clues like the Orton reference for his amusement. Jack felt suddenly angry that he’d been so worried when he thought Adam might have been the crucified victim.

Jack waited until he was back in control of his emotions, then drove to the venue on Bond Street. Parking up, he had a good view of the gallery: four storeys, the windows brightly lit, a red carpet from the pavement to the glass double doors and a uniformed doorman standing to attention as the guests arrived. Rolls Royces, Mercedes and even a stretch limo drew up as Jack watched glamorous women and elegantly dressed men entering the gallery. He hid the family car down a side street, then hesitated only a few moments before heading across the road and entering through the gallery’s gleaming glass doors.