Snatched Read online

  She began working again, raising the sequence to six. How much more pleasant things were in the gym without Eric showing off and staggering about hazardously under weight overloads, eyes protruding like hot cross buns, legs buckling, mouth cursing quietly in that ostentatiously non-panicking style as he tried too much. And he’d risked conversation while carrying – all that methodically repeated tosh about needing to prove himself mentally and physically, then prove himself again and again in what he called ‘the fierce hierarchy of the gifted’, because his mother’s aunt had known the poet Walter de la Mare. A shorter name would have suited better because Eric couldn’t afford the breath. Penelope had sometimes felt he might die during these compulsive exertions, and had never been able to make up her mind whether she wanted to be there when it happened, or not. He would certainly have put on a show and a half once he realized he was going, particularly if he had been struggling with dumb-bells at the time.

  In fact, it hadn’t happened like that, and he’d died in bed without either a whimper or the bang, thud and clang of cascading metal. Apparently, he muttered something, though the nurse who was in the private room with him did not hear it properly. A couple of minutes earlier he had seemed all right, and Lady Butler-Minton had just slipped out of the hospital to place some bets in the shop across the road. When she returned they were pulling the sheet up. The nurse had heard the gargle go in his throat and was probably rushing about, trying to keep him breathing, so hadn’t listened too carefully for words. And, in any case, it was obvious she felt embarrassed. ‘I think some of it was about … well … about a woman, Lady Butler-Minton.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, not a woman, if you understand me, not like that, but a Mrs Something.’

  ‘Not Mrs Ubiquitous Cray?’

  ‘Cray? Cray: yes, it could have been Cray. You know her, then?’ The nurse sounded relieved.

  ‘You said “some of it”. What else was there?’ Lady Butler-Minton replied.

  ‘East Germany? Is there a town called Rostock?’

  ‘Haversack straps? Part of an air-sock used as a tablecloth? He was still on about all that, was he?’

  ‘A dog?’

  ‘Whippet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Look, are you sure he’s dead, nurse? People will want it very definite, especially colleagues. They’re a scholarly crew. They nit-pick and haggle about every damn thing.’

  ‘He was a great man, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, that’s fair,’ Lady Butler-Minton said. And it was, wasn’t it? Eric really had something, originally.

  In the gym now, Penelope stood up and, before going for a spell of snatch and lift, leaned against the wall-bars, trying to recall what Lip had looked like when at his best – a good while before she started calling him Lip. Today she failed to free herself from more recent memories of him, crimson in the face, fighting with appalling, total calm incompetence to keep the bar above his dear head, and occasionally whispering disjointedly that some enemy had somehow doctored the weights, secretly doubling the poundage to rupture him.

  ‘Yes, Eric, this one-time-researcher is deeply cut-up and talks about a biographical article for Archaeology or Museums Monthly, to preserve your name. Nice, considerate thought? In a way. Informs me she already has a couple of “basic” approaches in mind. I nearly said I already knew that was her speciality, but let it go now.’

  Penelope took hold of the bar, steadied herself in the desert boots and brought the load up to shoulder height, then ramrodded her arms and put the lot above her hairdo for a full three seconds. There was a wall mirror opposite, for watching points of style, and she thought she might not be Atlas but looked pretty reasonable all the same: the uncompromising, by no means over-trendy outfit, the balanced stand, and only a minor line of sweat across her upper lip. Anyway, hadn’t she done more than any of the world’s most eminent and powerful schemers accomplished and seen Eric off? She could queen it here now. Bringing the bar down in a controlled, single movement, she muttered: ‘Remember how you used to handle that one, Lip? All the beauty and system of scaffolding ripped from its building in a storm.’

  Penelope did a couple more snatch and lifts, then stripped and went and sat in the sauna before showering. ‘Lip, I liked the sound of this girl on the phone,’ she said. ‘Trudy. Sensitive. Considerate. You’ll know that already, though, won’t you, given your droit du seigneur carry-on? But, a biography? She says it will be a full account, warts and all. She’d be familiar with those, of course. Could be tricky, however. I believe in some honesty. Not sure I should cooperate, just the same.’ She sat hunched forward on the bench, letting the steam well up around her, breathing slowly, enjoying the slight burn in her throat and lungs. It was in the sauna that she missed Eric most. He loved the heat and would invariably pretend the bench was a small boat, and sing what he swore were Egyptian watermen’s working shanties in words that might indeed have been Arabic, or possibly some made-up, nonsense language, while pretending to paddle his craft across the harbour at Alexandria.

  The paddle still stood there, in a corner of the sauna. It always made her feel sad and contemptuous; just a crudely shaped lump of wood, since Egyptian watermen could not afford anything fancy. He liked it when she joined in the singing, and she used to try nasalling away with him, in frenzied, whining, rubbish words, occasionally putting a hand up to shade her eyes from the Middle Eastern sun, and ensure they weren’t run down by a dhow as sport. ‘Now, all together in the chorus,’ he would bark. She considered that sometimes during this playful, inane ritual they had been at their closest.

  Not invariably: now and then, unable to take any more of the temperature or the nut music, she used to leave early, and he would turn and look dolorously, as if hardened to deep betrayal and desertion, then resume his paddling and intensify the trill. But it had been he who deserted her finally and, really, she would have liked the chance to wave goodbye to him and signal regret. No question, she’d delayed her trip to the betting shop for as long as she could, and only just made it before the Off. She’d had a win and a third place, so her absence from his bedside when he chose to pass away seemed to her not wholly unjustified and inconsiderate.

  Only once had Eric stayed in the sauna too long even for him and, realizing the loony singing had stopped, she went to see what was wrong, dragged Lip clear and left him to come round at his own pace in the vegetable area of the grounds, screened from the road by a fine hedge. This might have been the time when Enteritis, the cat, did whatever it did to him and caused the flare up later in the street between her and Lip, if it was about the cat and not Woody Allen. ‘Re this proposed biog, Eric, I’m not convinced it’s for the best. I don’t mean the Bird cupboard, all that – no, I’m talking about the international aspect: the haversack straps, the windsock, the Wall, and so on. Are such revelations going to be advantageous? All right, what went on then – Berlin, Rostock – isn’t totally clear, isn’t clear at all. Christ, Lip, what did happen then? Why haven’t you ever told me in full? Too late now, evidently. I don’t know whether you come out of it smelling bad or good. Can they take away a knighthood posthumously? Might I get returned to the ranks? Quent Youde reckons it was completely different with me from the time I became a Lady. He still finds it incredibly exciting to give one to a title, like taking the Bastille, and I don’t want him upset at the moment, what with the “El Grecos” and those slobbering, wildebeest kids of his: he would send them to a church school.

  ‘Is it going to do the Hulliborn any good if Trudy’s biography is picked up by The Sunday Times, say, for serialization, and we get all that Mrs Cray stuff retailed? It’s known about – part known about – here and there already. That’s not the same as having these things all over a newspaper supplement, and probably followed up by others. If there’s a stink side to those episodes, this bloody government would instantly look for vengeance on you, dead or not, and they’d do it in one of the few areas possible: by stopping or fiercely cutting
the Hulliborn’s grant. Any excuse will do them for kicking learning and culture in the balls. Then again, although they might not be able to cancel your title, and mine, that little jerk, Lepage, would never get his, this is certain, and how would Julia react to that? All right, she can be a living pain, but one has to be thoughtful.

  ‘The fact is, Lepage has taken your mantle and, as it were, become Hulliborn, and Hulliborn would be nothing if battered by reprisals. Besides, he talks to you via the platypus, Eric. There’d be many – some with hefty power – who would resent that: it would be beyond their understanding. So, the biog is a very complicated issue, isn’t it? Part of me, as ever, says Truth. The other part says tell this intrusive Trudy to get lost.’

  Twelve

  Always first downstairs on Sundays to get breakfast, Simberdy, mostly covered by his purple and white kimono, screamed: ‘My God, they’ve gone.’

  ‘What?’ Olive replied from above, in bed.

  ‘Bloody gone. You heard.’

  ‘Yes, but what?’

  ‘The “El Grecos”,’ Simberdy said.

  ‘What!’

  ‘The “El Grecos”.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You already said.’

  ‘Oh hell,’ Simberdy replied. He heard Olive’s feet hit the floor and after a moment she came down at a rush wearing only the football shirt she slept in and gazed with agonized wonder at the space on the sideboard where the pictures had stood. Immediately afterwards, she turned methodical and began to examine the windows.

  ‘You’re showing the world your snatch,’ Simberdy said.

  She pulled the shirt marginally lower. ‘Wayne Passow never breaks in through doors,’ she replied. In a moment she said: ‘Here we are – the force marks. In at windows, out through doors. Police call it “The Passower”.’

  ‘Nothing Known has taken them? Why?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘But he made all that effort to give them to us.’

  ‘Some change of mind. Wayne boy has a temperament.’

  ‘What the hell does he want with that fake trio anyway?’

  ‘I liked them,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, excuse me. A matter of taste, you think? Passow’s turned arty? Wants to build a collection?’

  ‘Vince, maybe we should have returned them to the Hulliborn.’

  ‘And we would have. Of course we bloody would have. Am I an art thief? Am I the unstoppable “Fatman”? But I told you, Ol, the museum might not be all that keen to get them back just now. Their absence suggests authenticity and worth. The Hulliborn’s status remains undamaged.’

  The phone rang, and Simberdy answered.

  ‘Is this the big-time Fatman speaking?’

  ‘That you, Wayne, you bastard?’ Simberdy replied.

  ‘Don’t fret.’

  ‘I could throttle—’

  ‘So, I been able to do you a terrific favour. I don’t ask for no gratitude. We’re a team, so it’s only natural that we help one another.’

  ‘Let me talk to him,’ Olive said. ‘I can scare the shit out of Nothing Known.’

  But Simberdy waved her away.

  ‘Tell me this, Fatman – you got a bit of a library in your place?’

  ‘What? What library?’

  ‘You know – like books.’

  ‘Yes, some books. So?’

  ‘You got a book called … hang on, I got the name written down here. I made a note. Oh, that’s it: the Bible. Familiar with that book at all?’

  ‘Yes, there’s a Bible here somewhere.’

  ‘Not just somewhere, Fatman. You need to know exactly where that book is. You got another book called – here we go – Westward Hot?’

  ‘Ho! It’s an exclamation mark.’

  ‘That right? Ho like in ho-ho?’

  ‘Get on with it, Wayne, will you. Where are the works?’

  ‘What comes between the Bible and that Ho! then, Fatman?’

  ‘What? Well, the Bible translation is seventeenth century and Westward Ho! nineteenth. So, half the literature of the world’s between, I should think. What’s that to do with the paintings?’

  ‘On the shelves, Fatman. Between on the shelves.’

  Simberdy covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Olive: ‘The Bible?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where do we keep the Bible?’

  ‘Is this to do with The Vision of Malachi? He’s in the Bible,’ Olive said. ‘Last book of the OT.’

  ‘Find it, please, would you?’

  ‘Have you got to swear on it or something?’

  ‘Swear? No, just find the fucking Bible, will you, Ol?’

  ‘You still there, Fatman?’

  Simberdy removed his hand. ‘Yes, of course.’ He watched Olive as she began to scan their bookshelves. ‘We’re searching.’

  ‘Olive there too? Good. You’re going to love this, both of you. This is for the whole posse, Olive, you, Fatman, and me.’

  ‘Here,’ Olive said. She pulled out a pink-covered Gideon job that Simberdy must have taken from some hotel. She opened it and found the end of the Old Testament.

  ‘Not that,’ Simberdy snarled.

  ‘You said the Bible,’ she snarled back.

  ‘Something near,’ Simberdy said.

  ‘Near? So, the Prayer Book? The TUC Constitution?’

  He put the receiver down, crossed the room and reached into the space left by the volume. On one side of it was Westward Ho! and on the other From A View To A Death. He pulled out a package wrapped in the same sort of festive paper as had covered the paintings, but minus the bow. This parcel was, in any case, smaller and felt less rigid. He handed it to Olive and went back to the phone. She tore the paper away and he watched her place on the kitchen table ten packets of what looked to Simberdy like fifty-pound notes.

  ‘Where we at then, Fatman?’

  ‘What the hell is it, Passow?’

  ‘What the hell it is is twenty thou real ones. You can count it. I’ll wait. Wayne Passow likes things right.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘From where what?’

  ‘Where does it come from?’ Simberdy said.

  ‘From me, of course. From Wayne Passow.’

  ‘Where did you get it? What’s it doing here?’

  ‘Obvious. It’s waiting for you. You deserve it.’

  ‘Where does it come from?’ Simberdy stuck at it.

  ‘Have I got news for you!’

  Olive had broken the band on one packet of notes and was counting.

  ‘This is an unknown country for me, Fatman,’ he said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Art and that. Something I never wandered into previous. Well, I already told you.’

  Simberdy felt weak and pulled a chair under himself with his foot.

  ‘But I found what you could refer to as an adviser – a business adviser, relating to art, that sort of matter,’ Passow said. ‘Someone who knows this scene perfect, and who’s straight, too. You know what I mean, Fatman?’

  ‘What advice?’ Simberdy replied.

  ‘If you remember, them three paintings you had was not the only ones that happened to go from the museum during the said operation.’

  ‘There was a Monet,’ Simberdy said. ‘Of course I remember. Nothing Known, where is it? This is serious, L’Isolement is unique. It must go back to the Hulliborn. And it must be intact.’

  ‘You said it, Fatman!’

  ‘You’ve returned it?’ Momentarily, Simberdy’s voice sang. Perhaps, after all, Olive was right and Passow did have fragments of decency at the centre.

  ‘Yes, it’s serious – seriously valuable.’

  ‘Have you any idea of how seriously valuable seriously valuable is?’

  ‘That’s it, what I mean – this adviser.’

  ‘He told you how much it was worth?’ Simberdy said.

  ‘He did more than that.’

  This, Simberdy could have guessed. ‘Yes?’ Oh, Go
d.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Olive asked. She went to the kitchen and brought him a glass of water. He spilled a lot on the way to his mouth.

  ‘He took it off your hands, did he?’ Simberdy asked.

  ‘You’re the smart one, aren’t you? Yes, he said he’d like to buy it from me. I felt glad. I mean, to be frank, did I know how to market such an item? I could learn, for sure, but just now I’m at the very threshold of this new career. Nothing Known is never too proud to know he needs help on stuff he don’t know.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘You think they might be on to you, Fatman?’ he asked. ‘This line could be tapped. Have you noticed anything like that? And here I am using my real name more than once, and you using it as well. Too late now, though. It’s done.’

  ‘Which adviser?’ Simberdy replied.

  ‘This is someone London way. Oh, very much London way. They got all sorts of art spots, true class there, and proper experts. This is somebody who really got to grips with art from way back. He’ve heard of them all. You say any painter, all the foreign names, he’ll know it – in his head, just like that, he got it. Michael Angelo, he can tell you everything about him up on church ceilings. The Mona Lisa? He could inform you of the size straight off. If there’s only a certain space on the wall, the measurements become very important, don’t they? Paris – all them galleries – he been there, and paying attention, giving scrutiny, not just a culture stroll. He loves it – art. He knew about Monet, straight off of his own bat. I never told him one thing because he knew it all already. I got a book on art from the library. Monet, in France, painting away there, big beard, well, just like a painter, and into water lilies, he couldn’t get enough. First thing in someone’s garden, he’d ask, “Any water lilies?” and if no, the day was a washout for him. Really great.’

  Simberdy said: ‘What did this sod pay you, Wayne? What’s this money about?’