apartment. “And another thing, Brodsky’s paintings are crap!” She leant against the worktop waiting for the kettle to boil, forcing herself to cool down. It was then she recalled the earlier phone call.
“Oh,” she shouted out. “If you could manage the interest, a Mr. Toby Walker called earlier, and said he’d ring you back.”
“Never heard of him.”
Minutes later, they sat apart in edgy silence and sipped at their coffee. The telephone ringing broke the atmosphere. Manton put down his coffee and picked up the phone after its third ring.
“Jack Manton.”
“Hi Jack. Augustus Moss here.”
“Bloody hell! To what do I owe this pleasure?” He was relieved at the prospect of a diversion.
“I was hoping you could tell me. My Aussie correspondent telephoned and emailed me with some interesting and disturbing news.”
“What was that?”
“You bought a pair of paintings, lot 275, from Zimmerman’s in Perth a short while ago, two European examples of uncertain vintage and signature.”
“Shit. The grapevine is alive and well.”
“There’s more.”
“What?”
“The auctioneer was shot dead and his lady assistant was found tied and gagged in their saleroom. The paperwork for lot 275 was stolen by a priest with a gun, and your details were found on the computer records.”
“What! What are you on about?”
“You heard me. I’ll repeat. Your records were stolen and a man killed. Got it now? Man dead… your details stolen… Ding bloody dong! So tell me, what do you know about it? What did you buy to attract this sort of attention?”
Manton paused to absorb the news, then sidestepped the question. “That’s hard to take in. Who would do a thing like that? It doesn’t make sense.” He paused, uncertain of how he should react. “Jesus, this is awful.”
Moss pressed further. “C’mon Jack, you never buy anything unless you’ve a reason for doing so. Someone else may have an idea that lot 275 could be more important than it appeared. So, what’s it about?”
“This is a bit sudden. I don’t know what to say.”
“Just say who the works are by and why you bought them.”
“I’ve nothing to say.”
“You mean there is, but for your own reasons you don’t want to. That’s more to the point I think. You’re hiding something. Am I right?”
Silence.
“Well, okay for now Jack, but playing dumb speaks volumes. Hopefully, I’ll find out more from Australia tomorrow and then I’ll call you again. Maybe it’ll jolt your memory.” He hung up.
Manton put down the phone, feeling a knot in his stomach.
“I thought it was too good to be true.”
“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve climbed out of a coffin.”
“Wrong expression there, Tamsin.” He repeated Moss’s news.
“Shit! That sounds bad.”
He saw her concerned expression. “Look, I’ll take them over to Christie’s right now and trust me, I’m certain they’ll want to keep them for further examination. In fact, I’m going to insist on it. Okay?”
“I’m okay. You going to be long?”
“Probably. I’ll stop for a few drinks on the way back. While I’m out, can you get details of how we get to Kursk, that sort of thing?”
Her fist hit the table. “Jack, what the fuck have I been trying to explain to you? Just how stupid can you be…?”
Before she could finish, he’d left the room and slammed the door. He picked up his Indiana Jones-style hat, his overcoat and the paintings on his way out.
Outside, the air tasted of a large city – of diesel and petrol fumes. The rumble of trucks and buses cut through the cosmopolitan aromas of kebabs, burgers and BLT’s, wafting through a sub-spring temperature. He turned up the collar of his coat and walked down the elegant curve of his road to catch a cab at the Earls Court Road junction. A sullen sky hit by blasts of wind sent black clouds scudding in disarray.
~ * ~
Tamsin knew him well enough and guessed he’d be out for several hours. After
“Oh,” she shouted out. “If you could manage the interest, a Mr. Toby Walker called earlier, and said he’d ring you back.”
“Never heard of him.”
Minutes later, they sat apart in edgy silence and sipped at their coffee. The telephone ringing broke the atmosphere. Manton put down his coffee and picked up the phone after its third ring.
“Jack Manton.”
“Hi Jack. Augustus Moss here.”
“Bloody hell! To what do I owe this pleasure?” He was relieved at the prospect of a diversion.
“I was hoping you could tell me. My Aussie correspondent telephoned and emailed me with some interesting and disturbing news.”
“What was that?”
“You bought a pair of paintings, lot 275, from Zimmerman’s in Perth a short while ago, two European examples of uncertain vintage and signature.”
“Shit. The grapevine is alive and well.”
“There’s more.”
“What?”
“The auctioneer was shot dead and his lady assistant was found tied and gagged in their saleroom. The paperwork for lot 275 was stolen by a priest with a gun, and your details were found on the computer records.”
“What! What are you on about?”
“You heard me. I’ll repeat. Your records were stolen and a man killed. Got it now? Man dead… your details stolen… Ding bloody dong! So tell me, what do you know about it? What did you buy to attract this sort of attention?”
Manton paused to absorb the news, then sidestepped the question. “That’s hard to take in. Who would do a thing like that? It doesn’t make sense.” He paused, uncertain of how he should react. “Jesus, this is awful.”
Moss pressed further. “C’mon Jack, you never buy anything unless you’ve a reason for doing so. Someone else may have an idea that lot 275 could be more important than it appeared. So, what’s it about?”
“This is a bit sudden. I don’t know what to say.”
“Just say who the works are by and why you bought them.”
“I’ve nothing to say.”
“You mean there is, but for your own reasons you don’t want to. That’s more to the point I think. You’re hiding something. Am I right?”
Silence.
“Well, okay for now Jack, but playing dumb speaks volumes. Hopefully, I’ll find out more from Australia tomorrow and then I’ll call you again. Maybe it’ll jolt your memory.” He hung up.
Manton put down the phone, feeling a knot in his stomach.
“I thought it was too good to be true.”
“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve climbed out of a coffin.”
“Wrong expression there, Tamsin.” He repeated Moss’s news.
“Shit! That sounds bad.”
He saw her concerned expression. “Look, I’ll take them over to Christie’s right now and trust me, I’m certain they’ll want to keep them for further examination. In fact, I’m going to insist on it. Okay?”
“I’m okay. You going to be long?”
“Probably. I’ll stop for a few drinks on the way back. While I’m out, can you get details of how we get to Kursk, that sort of thing?”
Her fist hit the table. “Jack, what the fuck have I been trying to explain to you? Just how stupid can you be…?”
Before she could finish, he’d left the room and slammed the door. He picked up his Indiana Jones-style hat, his overcoat and the paintings on his way out.
Outside, the air tasted of a large city – of diesel and petrol fumes. The rumble of trucks and buses cut through the cosmopolitan aromas of kebabs, burgers and BLT’s, wafting through a sub-spring temperature. He turned up the collar of his coat and walked down the elegant curve of his road to catch a cab at the Earls Court Road junction. A sullen sky hit by blasts of wind sent black clouds scudding in disarray.
~ * ~
Tamsin knew him well enough and guessed he’d be out for several hours. After
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