Still Waters (Charlie Resnick #9)(54)

“Good, I’d say. Pretty good.”

“And even while I might take your point about the uncertainty of time, you wouldn’t like to hazard a guess as to when …”

“Couple more days.” Snow shrugged.

“Of course, I should have known, a couple more days.”

Snow exchanged a further piece of private semaphore with Faron, who spoke to the barman and brought over fresh drinks.

“So how’s old Vernon,” Snow asked casually, “seen anything of him lately?”

Grabianski shook his head.

“Gone to ground a bit, I hear,” Snow said. “Place out in Suffolk. Warbleswick. Snape. One of those. Like Siberia in the sodding winter and you can’t turn round without squashing some turd in green wellies underfoot—so nice to get the dust of the city off of one’s feet, don’t you think?—but if you’re into samphire or asparagus, oysters, of course, can’t do better.”

When Grabianski walked up the Hill toward his flat, clutching a bag of cherries from Inverness Street and a copy of Mariette in Ecstasy he’d picked up in Compendium, there, smug and unmistakable, was Vernon Thackray’s dark blue Volvo estate, parked right outside.

They went up onto the Heath: Grabianski didn’t want Thackray in his home. The sun was behind them, broken shafts of it still bright through the scattering of trees that lined the south side of the Hill. They were sitting on a bench, looking down over the running track and the pale brickwork of the Lido, Gospel Oak. Squirrels flirted with fear across dusty ground.

“I was beginning to think something had happened,” Grabianski said.

“Happened?”

“To you.”

“Hoped, then, that’s what you mean. Hoped.”

Grabianski didn’t reply. Up to a point, let him think what he wants.

“This business,” Thackray said, “it’s necessary sometimes. A low profile, you understand. Minimum visibility.” He was wearing a pale blue Oxford shirt that shone almost violet when it was caught by the sun, beige twill trousers with a definite crease, tasseled shoes. In certain parts of Suffolk, Grabianski mused, it was probably de rigeur.

“The paintings,” Grabianski said, “the ones you wanted. They’re available, you know that.”

“Still?”

Grabianski half-turned on the bench toward him. “Japan, you said there was a buyer in Japan.”

Thackray made a small gesture with his shoulders, too indefinite to be called a shrug. “Things fluctuate, change.”

“Such as?”

“The yen against the dollar, the dollar against the pound.”

“One of the beauties of art,” Grabianski said, “I thought it maintained its price.”

“I may not be able to get as much now.”

“How much?”

Thackray smiled, rare as frost in July.

“How soon can you let me know?” Grabianski asked. “A definite price. And don’t tell me a couple of days.”

“Is that what he said?”

“Who?”

Thackray’s hand alighted on Grabianski’s leg behind the knee, squeezing tight. “You know the line, ‘Human voices wake us, and we drown’? Listen to Eddie Snow, that’s what happens. Eddie’s hand on your head, holding you down.” Relinquishing his grip, Thackray patted Grabianski gently on the thigh, a caring gesture, designed to reassure; learned, Grabianski imagined, from Thackray’s housemaster at school. “The kind of things he’s into, Eddie, in the end all they’ll bring are grief and aggravation. Take my word, Jerzy, it’s not what you need.”

“What I need is to get these Dalzeils off my hands.”

“Exactly. And now we’ve resumed an understanding, that’s where I’ll direct my attention: making sure that happens.” He was on his feet, brushing dust, real or imaginary, from his clothes. “Nice here; you’ve done well. You’ll have to drive out and see my place some time. Stay over. There’s a guest room. Two. You could bring a friend. Lie in bed at night and listen to the waves lifting the pebbles from the beach, setting them back down.” He gripped Grabianski’s hand. “Early-morning swim before breakfast, quite safe as long as you stay in your depth, don’t fight against the tide.”





Twenty-nine

Closed for Private Function read the sign, chalked to a board near the top of the stairs, an arrow pointing down. In the main bar, an early-evening crowd was preparing itself for a night of Old Time Music Hall; rumor had it that Clinton Ford was making the journey over from the Isle of Man. Not paying too much attention, Sharon Garnett missed the sign and walked straight ahead, pushing her way through the reproduction Victorian glass doors to find herself face to face with mine host, decked out for the occasion in purple shirt, striped waistcoat, and raffishly angled straw hat. Behind him, forty or so punters, set on an evening of tepid beer and nostalgia, nibbled peanuts and Walkers crisps and, first one and then another, turned their heads and stared. Sharon, her hair spiked out around her face like a seven-pointed star, stood there in a body-hugging lime green nylon dress and smiled back.

“I think what you’re looking for, me duck, it’s downstairs.”

“Quite likely,” Sharon said. Then, with a cheery wave to all and sundry, “Nice to meet you. Have a good night. And remember, don’t do anything you can’t spell.”