The Moon Tunnel

42

The Fiat stood at the gates of Vintry House. Dryden was pleased to see his father-in-law in the driver’s seat, but delighted to see Boudicca’s sleek head resting on the back of the passenger headrest. The greyhound’s left front leg was bandaged and across its back butterfly stitches had been applied to a gash which still showed dull cherry-red through the grey, close fur. Dryden reached into the back and rested a hand on the dog’s skull, feeling the ridges of the cranium beneath. ‘Ma will be pleased,’ he said.

He turned to Gaetano. His father-in-law’s top lip was cut deeply and stitched, and across his cheeks serried lines of scratches led to a wound on his neck which was covered with a dressing.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Thanks for trying.’

‘The dog is the hero,’ said Gaetano. ‘He come get me in the car. Mad thing’ The old man shook his head, smiling, glancing into the rear-view mirror.

He gave his son-in-law a note, scrawled on lined paper torn from an exercise book. ‘This was in the postbox at the boat. We checked first thing…’

It was a message from Russell Flynn. An appointment Dryden should keep. As they drove Dryden flipped his mobile open and retrieved a text message. It was from Humph and read simply: ‘Chips’.

They swung into Market Square, the Fiat clattering over the edge of the pedestrianized zone and pulling up under a tree. The auction was held once a month in a function room at the back of The White Hart Hotel. The room was crowded already, about 120 people seated, others standing against the peeling wallpaper. The smell was of people mixed with mothballs and polish. Russell was by the door, the look of relief on his face when he saw Dryden profound.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said, levering his T-shirt clear of his neck to let some air cool his flushed skin where the tattoo dragon rose towards his hairline. ‘Just in time.’

He took Dryden by the elbow and steered him towards the side of the room where there was a gap to stand by an old print of racehorses being led into the ring at Newmarket.

‘What’s this about, Russ?’ said Dryden. One batch of lots was just finishing, each one ferried in from a neon-lit storage room to the rear of the auctioneer’s stand.

Russell leant in too close. ‘It’s your stuff from Buskeybay Farm. The best stuff, anyway. It’s been on show since yesterday, out the back. I keep an eye on the auction, move some stuff sometimes.’ He smiled, immensely pleased with himself.

‘Fine. How nice. But why am I here – and more to the point why the fuck are you? You should be in gaol.’

Russell shrugged. ‘Bail. Not interested in murder any more anyway – know why?’ It was a genuine question.

Dryden nodded. ‘You’ll find out. Where’s Vee?’

‘In the home. She’s OK, you know. It’ll kill her, but not this year. So Josh and me, we had time to talk, there’s something we wanted you to see.’

The auctioneer was younger than his grey hair, his voice a practised monotone.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we move on now please. Thank you.’ The room fell silent, the traffic in Market Square a distant hum. ‘Lot 668. Nice piece this, exotic wood, inlaid with ivory. Edwardian writing box. What do I hear – £100?’

Dryden recognized the piece. Not his mother’s – his uncle’s father’s – it had stood on the landing table at Buskeybay. The auction room crowd stirred, a brief competition pushing the price up to £180.

Dryden jumped as the auctioneer’s gavel crashed down, his nerves still shredded by the night’s ordeal. ‘Look,’ he said, turning to Russ, ‘I just wanna go home. To the boat. Can’t this wait…?’

But Russell wasn’t listening. He was watching a porter in brown overalls set a heavy-framed picture on an artist’s easel. The colours were muted, a shepherd watching a moon slip from behind a mackerel sky, while between the trees of the forest the faces of imps and fairies watched. Dryden felt sick with recognition, remembering the image on the website of the Ashmolean Musuem and, clearer than that, a pool of blood in the Long Gallery of Osmington Hall, and the neat puncture hole in the skull of Jerome Roma. Two men had died looking at this picture: Richard Dadd’s A Moonlight Vision.

‘Bid,’ said Russell: ‘For Christ’s sake, bid.’

‘Yes – here we are,’ said the auctioneer. ‘Unsigned, possibly early Victorian, I think. Not to every one’s taste, I know – but one day, who knows? Nice frame as well – gold leaf on cedar. It must be worth £50 alone. What do I hear then… £80? Who’ll start me off at £80…£75?’

A hand went up from the seats in the front row. Dryden’s pulse picked up, the fear of not being seen making his hand jerk up above his head.

‘Eighty, sir? Thank you. Eighty pounds from the gentleman to this side.’

Dryden hissed at Russ. ‘Why am I bidding for my own painting?’

‘Just bid. And win. It’s a money-go-round – you can’t lose. But don’t overdo it – they’ll know.’

By the time they got to £400 there were three bidders.

Dryden, transfixed by the auctioneer’s hammer, grabbed Russell’s arm until he knew it would hurt. ‘Why don’t I just stop the auction – tell ’em it’s a big mistake?’

‘What can you prove? The auction’s begun – you can’t stop now. Once it’s sold it’d take years to get it back. You reckon Vee’s got years?’

By the time they got to £1,000 they were back to the original two bidders. For a smalltown back-room auction this was sensational money and all the eyes in the room turned to Dryden each time he raised the bid. At £1,600 there was a long pause.

‘One thousand six hundred from the gentlemen to the side; do I hear any more? One seven – thank you, sir. In the front row we have one thousand seven hundred.’

Dryden raised again, quickly, in contrast to his competitor’s caution.

As the auctioneer counted out £1,800 for the first, second and third times Dryden had an almost overwhelming urge to outbid himself. The man in the front row, who’d bet on instinct, was shaking his head. Sweat stood out on Dryden’s forehead and he felt dizzy, elated, as the seconds dragged out in silence.

‘Sold!’ A scattering of applause circled the room.

‘Let’s get it,’ said Dryden, stumbling forward. ‘Then it’s explanation time. It’d better be good.’

They queued with the other buyers before a desk in the midst of the chaotic storeroom. Dryden paid £1,800 by credit card, plus the auction room fee of 10 per cent and VAT, his signature a spidery stressed-out scrawl.

Gaetano was parked off the rank under an autumnal plane tree. A large yellow leaf, the last, fell to the windscreen and the Italian swished it away with the wipers. Dryden slipped the brown paper off the picture and set it on the bonnet. There was no doubt: Richard Dadd’s A Moonlight Vision, value in excess of £1m. He lifted the canvas and smelt it. There was still a hint of the original oils, but overwhelmed by another odour which made him shiver: damp earth.

Russell was light on his feet, dancing, keen to exit.

‘What am I supposed to believe?’ said Dryden.

The teenager beamed. ‘Simple, I guess. The Italians worked at Buskeybay in the war, yeah? This bloke in the tunnel – Amatista – my guess is he stashed the picture in your uncle’s barn for safekeeping until he could get it out on the market. He never got to collect.’ He shrugged again. ‘So, here’s the picture. It’s just been sold legit – tax paid and everything. Now you can give it back to Vee – no complications, no questions? Yeah?’

Dryden smelt the canvas again. ‘A few questions. What if there’s a different story? What if it’s spent the last sixty-odd years buried under the old PoW camp? What if someone took it, robbed a grave, robbed Vee Hilgay a second time?’

But Russell was ready for that. ‘Vee needs the money now, right? She’s in the home, you should visit. A warehouse for the dying – she says that a lot. She ain’t gonna be there long either way…’

Dryden nodded, folding the paper carefully over the moonlit scene. ‘Josh took it. Took it that morning when he uncovered the bones.’ Russ looked at his feet, suddenly still. ‘Why wasn’t it picked up in the raid on the flat?’ asked Dryden.

Russell ran a finger along the gilt-edged frame. ‘He ain’t that clever, Josh – nor the rest. He knew the pearls were fakes but couldn’t get a clear sight of the picture. When he did he said it was rubbish too. Victorian crap, bric-à-brac, a granny picture. So they let me take it home.’

‘Home?’ said Dryden, seeing the burnt-out cars, the eviscerated sofas on the Jubilee Estate.

‘Then you came round and saw Vee and said about the Dadd… No way we could flog it then, eh? Too hot, much too hot. But Vee needs the money. So we found a way. You told Josh about the Italians at Buskeybay. We were gonna stash it out there – let it turn up. Then I spotted the clearance coming up at auction. We got an old frame for it: perfect, so we took our chance.’

Dryden, laughing at last, pictured the scene in the Flynn family home. The Formica kitchen table, the three-inch pile shaggy purple carpet, and Richard Dadd’s £im masterpiece hanging opposite a flight of plaster ducks.