‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’m not overly familiar with the public houses of this area,’ she added in a dry voice.
‘No, of course not. Well they do a decent dinner there in the early evening and I took him along. We ordered some drinks but Gareth … well he kept ordering more and more. Every time I looked away he was at the bar, buying another one. Within an hour or so, he was very drunk.’
‘And you weren’t?’
‘I wasn’t matching him drink for drink,’ he explained. ‘He wanted me to, of course, but if I drank like that I’d collapse on the floor and I told him so. But it didn’t seem to matter to him. After a while it became clear that we couldn’t stay any longer, he was starting to become quite loud and the landlord was giving us daggers’ looks, so I called him a taxicab and sent him back to my flat to sleep it off. And then I met some friends and spent the night with them and the next thing I knew, the police arrived here the following afternoon telling me what had happened.’
Jane closed her eyes quickly, not wanting to hear that part of the story recounted again. She had heard it described one too many times already.
Montignac watched her and wondered how she was managing to keep control of her emotions as well as she was. He was impressed by her fortitude but resented her presence there. The last thing he had expected was for a grieving mother to come calling on him. But he was relieved that his story was holding up as well as it was. He had become quite adept at telling it.
8
THE TRUTH ABOUT THAT night was, of course, slightly different.
Montignac had waited until Jason Parsons was on his lunchbreak and he was alone in the Threadbare before phoning the Royal Horticultural Society and asking to be connected to Raymond Davis. It had taken some time and he’d grown increasingly frustrated with the delay, worrying that he would be interrupted by a customer at any moment; this was a phone call that he did not want to be overheard. After a few moments an operator came back on and told him that Raymond had taken the day off to be with his fiancée. Frowning as he hung up, he dialled Leyville, hoping that luck would be on his side and Stella would not answer the phone.
‘Raymond Davis.’
‘Raymond,’ he said, relieved and trying to sound as friendly as possible. ‘It’s Owen Montignac.’
There was a slight hesitation at the other end, the result, no doubt, of Raymond’s apprehension at hearing who his caller was. ‘Owen,’ he said finally. ‘This is a surprise.’
‘Yes, I imagine it is. Raymond, I thought I should call you up to apologize.’
‘Apologize?’
‘Yes, and to congratulate you. I’m afraid I haven’t been terribly friendly to you in recent times. That whole business at Claridge’s a while back … well, it was inexcusable.’
‘Really,’ said Raymond, trying to keep the note of amazement out of his voice. ‘There’s nothing to apologize for, Owen. I understand it’s been a difficult few months for the family.’
‘The family. Yes. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. In truth, I was a little worried about your intentions towards Stella. I was afraid you were going to keep stringing her along on this engagement of yours forever but now I understand you’ve set a date.’
‘That’s right, we have,’ said Raymond enthusiastically. ‘Yes, she mentioned that she’d told you.’
‘And I couldn’t be happier for you, I really couldn’t. You know it’s only because Stella means so much to me that I’ve been … a little hard on you. You do understand that, don’t you?’
‘Oh certainly,’ he replied. ‘It’s very good of you to call and say so.’
‘But it’s not enough, Raymond. Not enough at all.’
‘It’s not?’
‘No. Look, I think we should have a chat. Man to man. What do you say? Now that Uncle Peter isn’t with us I feel we should run through a few of the formalities, don’t you? Your intentions, how you plan on supporting Stella, things like that. Oh I know she’s wealthier than Croesus but I’m something of a stickler for tradition and it would set my mind at rest to know that Uncle Peter was looking down and feeling I was doing the right thing by everyone. What do you say, Raymond? Are you game? We could settle it with a nice bottle of wine. Toast the happy couple.’
There was a long pause on the other end of the line that momentarily worried him; he wondered whether Raymond had hung up or collapsed in surprise at what he had said. But finally there was his reedy little voice again, sounding positively choked up with emotion. ‘Owen, I can’t tell you what that means to me,’ he said. ‘The last thing I ever wanted was to feel that I was coming between you and Stella.’
‘Oh that wouldn’t be possible,’ said Montignac with a laugh.
‘I’m just terribly touched that you’ve called. We should definitely meet up and follow the traditions, as you say. Perhaps later in the week?’
‘Why wait?’ asked Montignac quickly. ‘How about later this afternoon?’
‘Well I’m down here at Leyville,’ said Raymond, considering it. ‘And I’d made plans at the RHS tonight. Perhaps we could meet tomorrow or the next day and—’
‘No, this is too important to put off. What do you say you come around to the gallery this evening. Around six? We can have a good talk then.’
‘Yes, well, all right,’ said Raymond, who didn’t sound convinced by the need for such urgency. ‘I was supposed to be going to a lecture tonight, a visiting botanist, Gustav Linden. Have you heard of him?’
‘No.’
‘Well I don’t suppose you would have, but he’s something of a genius in the field. Still, I don’t suppose I’d be missed. All right then, yes. I’ll see you at six.’
‘Just one other thing, Raymond,’ said Montignac quickly before he could ring off. ‘Let’s keep this between ourselves for now, yes? Not a word to the missus, if you understand me. We’ll get everything settled, then head back down to Leyville at the weekend, brothers-in-arms, give her the shock of her life. She’ll be thrilled. What do you say?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Raymond, sounding increasingly delighted by the turn of events. ‘I won’t say a word. And I’ll see you at six.’
‘Sharp,’ said Montignac, placing the phone back on the receiver. He breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t been interrupted and looked to his left, through the large windows leading on to the street, but the light had faded a little and he could see his own reflection there and, without giving the matter much thought, he turned away quickly.
* * *
KNOWING HOW IMPORTANT IT was not to let Montignac down, Raymond showed up promptly at the Threadbare at five minutes to six. Jason had been sent home an hour earlier and he had closed the gallery then, preparing the room upstairs for its upcoming visitor, the same room where Gareth and he had prepared the twelve frames for the Cézanne paintings they had stolen some weeks earlier. He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and was clearing a space on the floor when the knock came on the door.
He waved at Raymond when he saw him and turned back to his desk for the keys, fumbling through them as he walked towards the door, not looking up or catching his visitor’s eye.
‘Come on in,’ he said, opening it and locking it again behind him, throwing a quick glance up and down the street which was, happily, deserted. ‘Glad you could make it.’
‘Well I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, old man,’ said Raymond, glancing around at the gallery, which he had never visited before. ‘So this is the famous Threadbare Gallery that I hear so much about.’
Montignac laughed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘This is it. In all its glory. Take a look around if you like. See what you think.’
Raymond nodded and started to stroll past the walls, glancing up at the paintings and studying them for a few moments each. ‘I have to say I don’t know much about art,’ he said.
‘Then you should feel right at home,’ said Montignac, picking up Raymond’s coat and carrying it with him. ‘Neither do any of the arti
sts.’
‘Mother’s quite keen of course. Gives her an interest, I suppose. She sponsors a student every year at RADA, did you know that?’
Montignac blinked. ‘I didn’t,’ he said. ‘But RADA’s an acting school.’
‘No, it’s for artists,’ said Raymond.
‘It’s for actors,’ he insisted with a smile. ‘The Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts.’
Raymond turned around and frowned at him. ‘Is that so?’ he said. ‘And all these years I thought she was sponsoring some starving artist in a garret and all the time it’s been some ponce in tights spouting Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde.’
Montignac nodded and smiled to himself, suddenly feeling even more justified in his plans; the man really was unworthy of Stella.
‘This one’s dreadful,’ continued Raymond, pointing at a rather small oil painting which had been purchased that morning by the Duchess of Argyll for three hundred pounds and was being collected the following day. ‘The colours clash terribly.’
‘They do,’ admitted Montignac. ‘Yes, it’s a very weak piece.’
‘And this,’ he said, pointing at its neighbour. ‘Is that supposed to be a person?’
‘An orang-utan, I’m told.’
‘Well it would put you off going to the zoo, wouldn’t it?’ asked Raymond with a shudder. ‘This one’s not bad, though.’
‘No,’ admitted Montignac. ‘You have more of an eye than I thought you would.’
‘Not really. I know what I like, I suppose.’
‘Indeed you do, Raymond. Stella, for one thing. And flowers.’
Raymond turned around, suspecting a slight. ‘There’s a lot more to what I do than that,’ he said. ‘Nature is every bit as valuable as the art that you enjoy. Nature is art. Well, artists paint nature, don’t they? All those fellows with their landscapes and still lifes.’
‘Yes,’ said Montignac. ‘Yes, they do. I suppose we’re not as different as we think.’
‘No,’ said Raymond. ‘I’ve always felt that. Which was one of the reasons I was so delighted to get your call. I mean if we can put any differences we have to bed—or rather, if I can settle your mind on any worries you have regarding my suitability for Stella—then that would be an evening well spent, don’t you agree?’
‘Raymond,’ said Montignac, leaning forwards and clasping his arm for a moment. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself. Settling this business once and for all is the only thing that matters to me right now. But before we do I wonder if I could impose on you for just a few moments.’
‘Of course,’ said Raymond. ‘What do you need?’
‘Nothing more elaborate than brute strength,’ he replied with a laugh. ‘There’s a large bookcase in a storeroom upstairs that I particularly want to drag out on to the floor before I leave tonight. My assistant’s gone home. I wonder if I could impose…?’
‘No problem at all,’ said Raymond cheerfully, delighted to be of help. ‘What are brother-in-laws for anyway? Or is it brothers-in-law?’
‘Cousins-in-law,’ said Montignac quickly. ‘She’s not my sister.’
Raymond nodded; it didn’t seem the moment to laugh now. ‘No. No, of course not.’ He rolled his sleeves up and Montignac was a little surprised to see the strength in his adversary’s forearms and the surging muscle from the bicep as the arm was revealed. There must be a lot more heavy work goes on at the RHS than I knew, he thought to himself, realizing he probably had one chance only to get this right.
‘It’s upstairs,’ said Montignac, leading the way. ‘Follow me.’ They climbed the stairs together and Montignac flicked a switch, leaving the downstairs part of the gallery in near darkness. ‘By the way, you didn’t tell Stella we were meeting, did you?’
‘Didn’t say a word,’ said Raymond.
‘Good man.’
‘She’ll be delighted, though,’ he continued. ‘I’m sure she wants us to be friends.’
‘A man can never have enough friends,’ said Montignac, opening the door to the storeroom and switching on the light. He pointed across at the bookcase on the opposite wall. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘Doesn’t look too bad,’ said Raymond, stepping inside, his back to Montignac.
‘It’s heavier than it looks,’ said Montignac. ‘Lean down and try to move it and you’ll see what I mean.’
Raymond nodded and stepped across the small storeroom and crouched down, placing his hands beneath the bookcase, and attempted to lift it. It was heavy but manageable, particularly with two of them.
‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ he said, turning around to speak to his intended cousin-in-law. ‘If we each take a side and—’
That was a sentence he didn’t get to finish for at that moment he was hit across the back of the neck by a large steel rod and he fell slowly to his knees, a low groan emitting from his mouth. He knelt there for a few moments, a hand reaching around to find what had caused the pain before lurching heavily to the ground and into unconsciousness.
Montignac breathed a sigh of relief. He had counted on one sound blow doing the job. It was important that he didn’t kill him, just knocked him out, and he checked his pulse which was a little quick but active. Quickly, he got some masking tape and taped his hands behind his back and his legs together and covered his mouth with another strip. All going well he figured he had hours before he recovered consciousness.
A little blood had come from the side of Raymond’s mouth and stained Montignac’s shirt but he didn’t notice it as another knock was heard on the door downstairs and there was Gareth Bentley on the street outside, hands up to the glass, face pressed to it as he peered in, waiting to meet his fate.
* * *
MONTIGNAC HAD DELIBERATELY CHOSEN a seat in the Bullirag pub which was slightly out of the sightlines of the bar, and had been the one to make sure that the drinks kept coming.
‘No more, no more,’ Gareth said, each time a fresh beer or whisky came his way. ‘I told you I can’t drink like this.’
‘Oh come on, man, we’re celebrating,’ Montignac said cheerfully. ‘You’ve got a thousand pounds in your pocket. You can’t allow your employer to drink alone. That’s just bad staff relations.’
He could see the look of concern in Gareth’s eyes as his last remnants of resistance began to wear down and his taste for the stuff took over. Watching him was a study in itself. The worry, the disintegrating self-knowledge, the lack of control, slowly replaced by a desire for more, by faster drinking, by more animated and even vitriolic conversation. The sudden and embarrassing confessions of admiration. Montignac had no idea how many drinks he had had that night but there was no question that if he didn’t get him home soon, he would collapse on the floor of the pub and that would not be a good thing; he had to be seen to be leaving standing up.
‘Come on, Gareth,’ he said, dragging him outside after settling the bill. ‘Let’s get some fresh air into you.’
There was a wind blowing as they opened the door and stepped out on to the street and Gareth lost his footing for a moment, his hands pressed to the sides of his head as the alcohol and air mixed through his system.
‘I don’t feel very well,’ he mumbled as Montignac struggled to keep him erect. He whistled for a passing taxicab and opened the back door, pouring his friend inside.
‘Best you don’t go back to Tavistock Square. I don’t think they’d be impressed, do you?’
Gareth looked up at him with bleary eyes, barely aware of what he was saying.
‘You can go back to mine,’ said Montignac. ‘Sleep it off there, all right?’
‘Thanks, Owen,’ said Gareth, collapsing into the back seat of the cab. ‘You’re a pal.’
‘Bedford Place,’ he said to the driver, giving him the number of the flat and passing him his keys. ‘Give these to him when you get there, will you? And be careful, they’re my only set,’ he added, slipping a few shillings across which the driver accepted gratefully before speeding off.
From ther
e, Montignac walked back to the Threadbare Gallery and unlocked the door, revelling in the peace and quiet of the darkened space. He hadn’t drunk anywhere near as much as Gareth but enough that he was starting to feel a buzz from it and drank several glasses of water in quick succession in order to maintain his equilibrium. He glanced at his watch. It was only nine thirty and Keaton wouldn’t be there until it was dark, well after midnight.
A little nervously, he made his way up to the storeroom and opened the door tentatively, convinced for a moment that Raymond would have vanished, but he was still there, lying in the same position he had left him in, sleeping soundly and appearing none the worse for wear. Montignac closed the door quietly and went back downstairs.
To pass the time he sat down at his desk and began to work his way through the gallery accounts, a process which took him the best part of an hour and a half and took his mind off what was to come.
By eleven o’clock he was thoroughly bored and began reading a novel that Alexander Keys had lent him, something he had said was surprisingly good despite the fact that it was written by a textile worker from Milton Keynes, but his mind wasn’t able to focus on the words and no matter how often he read the same paragraph over and over again he couldn’t seem to remember what had just taken place. His eyes kept glancing in the direction of the storeroom and he got a chill, worrying that Raymond would wake too soon. In the end he spent the remaining time pacing the floor, trying to decide which of the pieces he would ensure got left behind in the event of a fire.
The phone rang just after midnight and he picked it up quickly, his heart starting to beat faster as the night’s events began to play out.
‘Montignac,’ he said, answering it quickly.
‘I’m not far away,’ said Lord Keaton. ‘Just outside the Museum of Mankind. I’ll pull in down the laneway.’
‘Is there anyone out there?’
‘Not a soul. We’re in luck.’
Montignac nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right out.’