The Horse's Arse Read online

  Suzy’s was bright and breezy, as expected: clear greens, blues, yellows and pinks, matching the spangled toenails she was sporting this morning. Judging by the insouciant dangle of this morning’s earrings – multicoloured bunches of Murano glass fruits – she seemed to have forgiven him the Modigliani.

  Wolf, who had warned that once he got onto his knees he’d never get off them, had propped his canvas up against The Shed veranda and was applying unmixed red, yellow and blue in circles radiating outwards from the centre. He had complained loudly about the absence of black paint, but they were under strict instruction not to use it – the one instruction that they had been given. Without black, Wolf had to resist the temptation to paint a drop-shadow under every dot.

  Yolande, true to form, was the only one causing trouble on account of her congenital resistance to colour. Pat had never quite worked out what she was doing in his class. In the first half-hour she’d used up her stock of grey and was demanding more, which Pat refused to give her. Her response was to tip all the other colours in her egg box into one yogurt pot and add white to mix different shades of sludge. Viewed from the far end of the garden, the tonal impression produced by her canvas reminded Pat, in a funny way, of Ben-day dots from a blown-up photograph of a footballer’s knee.

  Grant, freed at last from the unwelcome distraction of a subject, was in his element arranging orange, red and brown dots in repeating patterns, while Maisie, bless her, had picked a perfumed bouquet of shell pinks, aquamarines and lilacs and was scattering them like petals over the canvas. Pat breathed in their fragrance audibly as he passed, making her laugh. She was doing well, the old girl, on her hands and knees, a veteran of the doorstep-scrubbing generation.

  Dino, predictably, was having difficulty staying inside the lines, but Pat said nothing – he’d tidy up after him with a bit of white later. If they kept up this pace and got through six this morning, then weather permitting they’d be shot of the whole lot next week.

  Fast work this painting and decorating business, you could say that for it. Catching a glimpse of The Seals through the open Shed door, Pat whistled ‘We’ll meet again’ under his breath.

  Things were looking up.

  At break time he brought out a tray of tea and biscuits: Fox’s Party Rings from the discount rack at the local Londis, only two days past their sell-by and they looked festive.

  Wolf got a laugh by grabbing a handful and laying them out on Maisie’s unfilled dots while Pat was in The Shed fetching her a chair. When the old girl finally got to her feet, she revealed a pair of pastel-coloured knees, one green, one pink.

  “You wouldn’t say that I’m no oil painting, would you?”

  Maisie had made a joke. Everyone laughed, including Pat.

  Chapter XXVI

  Shirley Wise lay on the emperor bed at the hub of a grey-scale wheel of fine woven wool suits in a range of charcoal, steel, donkey, dove and pearl.

  Godfrey had always fancied himself in grey. He liked to think it gave him a touch of Italian chic, or ‘chick’ as he persisted in pronouncing it even after people corrected him. Godfrey enjoyed mispronouncing foreign words, it was one of his things.

  If she was going to do it she’d have to do it now or the suits would hang in the wardrobe forever and before too long the wardrobe would become a shrine.

  The suits, at least, the Age Concern shop would be thankful for. They’d turned down the ties – a bit on the bright side, the lady said, not to everyone’s taste. And there were other things at the back of Godfrey’s sock drawer they wouldn’t have greeted with enthusiasm, things made of bits of string and leather that Shirley couldn’t work out where they went, and didn’t want to. She had picked them up with the tips of two frosted fingernails and dropped them in the bathroom bin like so many shrivelled banana skins.

  Poor Godfrey.

  She blamed herself for not noticing. It seemed the whole world had known about it, just not her. But how could she have guessed that the man she married, the fit young sporty type smiling out of the wedding photograph on the chest of drawers, was going to turn the corner in middle age? A sportsman, a grafter, a family man. She’d heard some stories in her day – she was a hairdresser – but nothing like this.

  You could live with someone for 30 years and never really know them. It was the art that started it, the art and the parties. Godfrey had always been a party animal. The suits she’d miss, the art she wouldn’t. Left to herself she’d give it all away, if anyone would take it. But that wouldn’t be fair to George and Donald. It was worth money.

  There was a discreet knock on the bedroom door and a Filipino face appeared around it.

  “There’s someone to see you, ma’am, a young man called Daniel. He says he’s got an appointment.”

  Shirley had quite forgotten.

  “Oh yes Juanita, tell him I’ll be a minute.”

  That would be the reporter from Hair & Beauty magazine, come to interview her about the Hair Raising Brunches she had been organising for the Hair & Beauty Benevolent Association in aid of children with alopecia. Shirley was an HBBA bigwig; she had set up the charity’s North East branch.

  She put down the pearl grey suit she was holding, picked up a styling comb from the dressing table and expertly inserted the steel end into her bouffant. Standards must be kept up: high hair, high spirits.

  She sighed to herself and went downstairs.

  The reporter was standing in front of the fireplace in the living room studying the Cosmas Byrne petal painting above the mantel.

  For a lad from a salon magazine he looked a bit scruffy, but that’s what the trade was like these days even at the top. That so-called stylist to the stars Nicky Clarke always looked like he’d been pulled through a hedge backwards. If you looked past the haircut, or lack of it, the lad had an honest face. She’d been dreading the interview and had thought of putting it off but actually, when it came to it, it was a welcome distraction.

  With his glasses, his serious expression and his reporter’s pad the young man reminded her of Clark Kent, though for someone from an industry magazine she was surprised at how little he seemed to know about the HBBA. Still, it was a subject she could natter on about forever and seeing him scribbling notes was rather flattering. She wasn’t used to people hanging on her words. She was almost disappointed when the questions stopped and he closed his notebook and stood up.

  “I’m very sorry about your husband,” he said politely.

  She’d been right about him, he was a nice young man.

  “What are you going to do with his art collection?” He was looking up admiringly at the petal painting. The question took her aback, but he explained: “I went to art school before going into journalism. Art’s my pet subject.”

  “Between you and me and the gatepost,” she lowered her voice, “we’re going to sell it. Art was my husband’s passion but none of the family share it. There’s a dealer down in London who’s agreed to take the lot off our hands – except for that,” she indicated the petals, “that I’m hanging onto.”

  “Which dealer?” Daniel had to ask.

  She looked put out by the question.

  “I’m not the right person to ask. My sons could tell you. Some foreign bloke with a name like the Russian mafia. They’re all a mafia, that lot, aren’t they?”

  “You’re not wrong,” said Daniel, smiling. “Thank you for your time. It’s been a pleasure talking to you.”

  * * *

  Orlovsky. It had to be. But why? Why would Orlovsky want to buy the Wise Collection anonymously and then give it away without taking the credit? It was being touted as worth £150m, but even if it was worth a third of that it made no sense. Plus, although he wasn’t exactly short of stock you’d have expected him to cream off the best pieces first. And if he had decided to donate it to the State, lock stock and barrel, why not in his name? He was not averse to publicity.

  The trolley service came by and Daniel bought a cup of tea and a flapjack. He was tingl
ing with nervous excitement bordering on terror. He had a feeling he was sitting on an IED of a story that if he wasn’t careful could blow up in his face.

  If it was Orlovsky, it needed expert handling. Who could he talk to? No one at Marquette; Crispin would have him crucified. And he had to confirm that it was Orlovsky. He sensed that he was already way out of his depth and might soon be too far out to swim back to shore. He needed advice from a professional.

  He pulled out his phone and texted Yasmin.

  When the phone rang an instant later it made him jump, earning a scowl from the woman opposite. It was the Quiet Coach.

  He took it into the vestibule before answering.

  “DC Desai here,” came a teasing voice. “How can I help?”

  Chapter XXVII

  The fine weather had held until the weekend. From halfway down Ilfracombe Road Daniel could distinguish a small Arsenal-red figure doing keepy-uppies at the end of the street.

  “Hiyah,” Sami acknowledged him without pausing. “Mum’s upstairs.”

  A sash window flew up, a curly head popped out and a bunch of keys came flying down.

  “Here, catch!”

  Daniel locked his bike to a railing and let himself in.

  Yasmin was at the door of the flat in an Indian print sundress, one strap escaping over her shoulder. She was wearing flip-flops. He’d never seen her legs.

  “I’ve promised Sami a picnic in the park. I know it’s not the height of professionalism, but would you mind if our meeting took place on a rug?”

  She shook out a tartan blanket and folded it into a bag, then picked up her dark glasses off the hall table.

  “Better enjoy the sunshine while it lasts. The person who misses his chance and the monkey who misses his branch both cannot be saved, as my nan used to say. Indian proverb.”

  She picked up the bag and slung it over her shoulder.

  “Coming?”

  Daniel had his reporter’s pad in his hand. It was too big fit in his pocket and he felt stupid taking it to the park, so he left it on the table and followed her downstairs.

  “…39,” counted Sami as they came out.

  Daniel noticed the ball was autographed.

  “Mum’s boss gave it to me, he’s got a gold season ticket to the Arsenal,” boasted Sami, running ahead with the prize possession tucked under his arm.

  The park was oddly empty for a sunny Saturday, but it wasn’t exactly bursting with attractions. It was a flat, featureless rectangle framed by poplars where in Magritte’s dreams it might have rained bowler-hatted men from a blue sky. Beyond it, Yasmin said, lay Shropshire Fields Allotments, a Shangri-La of sheds of all shapes and sizes in varying stages of romantic dereliction. On any other day Daniel would have made a beeline for it, but today he was perfectly happy staying put.

  They spread the rug under one of the poplars and Yasmin emptied the bag’s contents onto it: sandwiches, crisps, apples, Kit Kats and cans of drink.

  Sami started on the crisps.

  “Tuna?” Yasmin offered Daniel a sandwich and took one herself. “OK, I’m ready to take questions. Fire away.”

  “You’ve read the piece about the Wise Collection in this month’s Marquette?”

  Daniel wished he could read her reactions through her dark glasses.

  “I read the opening paragraph,” Yasmin confessed. “We have a subscription in the office, but months go by when we don’t get round to taking off the cellophane wrapper. And with all due respect to the quality of its reporting,” she handed Sami a sandwich, “I don’t have time to read it at home. All I know is that the collector Godfrey Wise has died, in shady circumstances” – the arc of one eyebrow showed above one dark lens – “and his family have dumped the collection on the State Gallery. Anything wrong with that?”

  “Nothing in principle,” said Daniel, “but in practice plenty.”

  And he described how he’d been standing behind Jeremy Gaunt at the collector’s funeral when the State Gallery director was informed by Donald Wise in no uncertain terms that the family planned to flog off the whole collection.

  “And from the look on his face, he wasn’t kidding.”

  “Possibly not”, Yasmin helped herself to an egg and cress sandwich, “but they could have changed their minds. Grief does funny things to people. And the manner of his death and his relationship with that young artist Rico…”

  “Enzo,” corrected Daniel.

  “…Enzo might have clouded their judgment. They’d be crazy to put the whole lot up for auction at once, it would cause an immediate collapse in prices. They’d lose money on the deal themselves and it would be disastrous for the market as a whole.”

  It was Daniel’s turn to raise an eyebrow, two in fact.

  “Precisely.”

  Sami’s hand was inching towards a second crisp packet when Yasmin deftly replaced it with an egg and cress sandwich. She sat in silence for a moment pondering.

  “What was the source of the story about the donation? Where did it come from?”

  “Marquette’s chief reporter Crispin Finch got it initially from one of his contacts at the State Gallery, and a press release followed. There’s no doubt that the collection is headed their way, they’re making plans to tour it around the country. That was what the press release was about.”

  “So if the Wises haven’t donated it, who has?”

  “Orlovsky?” Daniel phrased it as a question.

  “You must be joking! On what evidence?”

  “13…14…15…” Sami had gone back to his keepy-uppies.

  Daniel described his meeting with Shirley Wise and her remark about the Russian mafia. “What other London dealers can you think of with Russian-sounding names?”

  Yasmin thought for a second and answered: “None. Precisely.”

  Daniel laughed. “If it is Orlovsky, the big question is why? He’s not known for his philanthropy. The collection is valued at £150m.”

  “I think you’ve got your answer.”

  Yasmin’s glasses had slipped down her nose and her green eyes were regarding him closely over the top.

  “What?” he asked, aware of sounding stupid.

  “The collection is valued at £150m.”

  Daniel stared. He couldn’t see where this was going.

  “My guess is it’s worth nothing approaching that. On the open market it might go for £30m.”

  “So Orlovsky’s ridden in like a knight in shining armour to rescue the market? It doesn’t figure. Everyone knows he’s getting out of British art and going global, he’s made no secret of it.”

  “The market is the market,” said Yasmin.

  “Another Indian proverb?”

  She blanked the question and offered him the choice of an apple or a Kit Kat. He chose the apple.

  “33…34…35…36,” came from Sami, who’d marked the Kit Kat for later but wasn’t stopping.

  “It’s a question of confidence, or con-fidence, depending how you look at it. Orlovsky created the market in Cool British Art. If the people who bought it from him as an investment (and let’s face it, how many bought it because they liked it?) realise they’ve been sold a pup they’ll take their custom elsewhere. ‘The one burnt by hot milk drinks even cold buttermilk with precaution.’ Yes, it’s an Indian proverb, before you ask.”

  “But why the gift to the State Gallery?”

  “That’s an interesting one.” She pushed her glasses back up her nose and thought for a moment. “Kit Kat?”

  Daniel declined.

  Yasmin bit into an apple. “If Orlovsky bought the whole collection, he’d have problems. In the current climate – apart from a few choice pieces like the Byrne petal painting – it could take years to shift. Storage isn’t cheap and it’s money down the drain if stock is losing value. Unlike the Wises, Orlovsky’s not in the warehouse business.”

  She took another bite.

  “In any case it would be sending out the wrong message. Orlovsky’s made it plain that h
is attention is shifting eastwards; that’s where the thrust of his marketing strategy will be directed. Reinvesting now in British art would throw that strategy into reverse and do serious damage to its credibility. A hundred and fifty million isn’t an awful lot to Orlovsky, even if he pays full whack – which you can bet he hasn’t, as he’s got the family over a barrel. Plus he may be banking on return favours from the State. A public gallery in a commercial dealer’s pocket is like a goose that lays golden eggs and stamps each one with its personal seal of approval.”

  If that wasn’t an Indian proverb, thought Daniel, they must come naturally.

  Yasmin tossed her apple core behind her into the bushes, covered a yawn and stretched out on the rug.

  “How’s that for an explanation?” she looked up at him with her hands behind her head and her feet crossed.

  Pretty damn good, he had to admit.

  “Is it legal?”

  “Probably. Many dodgy-looking transactions in the art market are. The Wises transfer the whole lot to Orlovsky by private treaty sale and he gifts it anonymously to the State. What’s wrong with that? There’s nothing illegal about anonymous donations. For Orlovsky making the collection over to the State could carry big tax advantages, the bigger the more he exaggerates the collection’s value. And then, of course, there are the money-laundering possibilities presented by a private treaty transaction… But you don’t want to go there. That’s an investigation for Interpol, not for a gonzo arts journalist with a thing about sheds.”

  She took off her glasses, lay back and closed her eyes.

  “62… 63…64…65” counted Sami.

  “How can I find out if it’s really him?”

  “Ask him.”

  Yasmin meant it as a joke, but Daniel’s mind was already running through possible pretexts for an interview.