Playing Grace (35 page)

‘Gilbert, you’re not that old.’

‘I think with Tate I was looking for youth, not a
particular
youth – does that make sense?’ He turned to her as if willing her to understand. ‘I feel life’s rolling along out there and I’m locked away from it. Marooned. Moth-balled.’ A wave of the hand. ‘But perhaps that’s better than killing myself trying to keep up.’

She went to him and placed her hand on his arm. Nothing too familiar, too huggy-huggy.

‘Gilbert, life doesn’t need to pass you by. You can get back out there.’

‘No. I’m a carer now; can’t imagine being cared for.’

‘That’s maudlin, Gilbert, not like you.’

He looked pained. ‘It was, wasn’t it? But I wouldn’t even know how to make the first move these days.’ He held his hand up so quickly she hadn’t got time to get the name ‘Samuel’ out. ‘Don’t, Grace,’ he said firmly. ‘I appreciate what you might be about to suggest, but just don’t.’

He took his watch out of his pocket and sounding falsely breezy said, ‘Well, better go. I have to be at Westminster Abbey soon. You take it easy today, Grace. Alistair’s doing your three o’clock? Good. And I don’t think Tate is due in. But if he is, no fighting, hmm?’ He was choosing his words carefully. ‘You know, Grace … you and Tate—’

‘Don’t Gilbert,’ she said. ‘Just don’t.’

Grace sat at her desk after Gilbert left, but the day had an end-of-term feel to it, as if everything she tried to start would not get finished, so she went downstairs to see what had happened to Esther. Bernice said she was taking a break from work for a while. She might still make it to South America but there was a cousin, a woman, who would probably go with her.

‘Where did she head off to after she left the gallery?’ Grace asked.

‘Heathrow. She rang Sol and me to go and collect her. She was just sitting there watching the planes.’

That would have been a sad image for Grace to hold in her head if Bernice had not snorted and said, ‘At least she didn’t try and buy one of the bloody things and sit in it outside Blond Boy’s house.’

‘Bernice, that’s not very …’ Grace stopped as she saw her father go past. She caught up with him by the window on the stairs.

‘That American lad not in?’ He glanced up towards Picture London’s door. ‘Because I’ve got a theory, Grace.’

‘No, Dad,’ she said wearily, sitting on the windowsill.

Her Dad’s eyes were bright, his movements rapid. He perched on the sill next to her like a very excited bird. ‘Think about this, Grace: every time there’s a robbery, you and he … well, you’re a distraction, right? It’s happened twice – too much of a coincidence. Police think that, must do. So, what if he planned the fights?’

‘No—’

‘First time,’ he held up his thumb as if hitch-hiking, ‘he starts it simple as simple. Then gets you out pronto. Second one …’ A finger joined the thumb. ‘Makes sure he turns up at the gallery same time as you, gets you out again and
bangs you on the head into the bargain. He distracts people enough for the tear gas to go in and then bish, bosh.’

‘That’s rubbish, Dad. He didn’t know we’d have a fight the second time. How was he to know Esther was going to turn up?’

‘Could have sent her to the gallery for all you know. Just to provoke you. Then there’s this.’ With a flourish her father drew out a notebook and opened it. ‘Know where he lives? Thought not. Ribbonfield Mansions – lovely square behind the British Museum. Flat on the first floor. The whole first floor. Must be worth three million at least. How’s he afford that with just a few tours a week?’

‘Perhaps it’s not his flat.’

Her Dad gave her a tap on her knee with the notebook. ‘Good girl, logical reasoning. It’s
not
his flat. Know who it belongs to? One Sergei Ledvinova. Know who he is? Neither do I. Not really. All I know is Nadim’s done a bit of digging and Sergei’s a businessman – plastics. But … no, listen, Grace, listen. He’s a keen collector of art. Particularly with a religious theme.’

‘What?’ She had been about to get up off the window-sill and be very dismissive, but that last fact, on top of the one about the flat, felt more than just puzzling – it was worrying.

Her father tilted his head, looking even more like a bird.
‘Plus, Tatie boy is acting like he’s got something to hide. We’ve been following him and he comes out of here—’

‘What? Hang on. Following him?’

‘Since the first robbery. I didn’t want to mention it before, didn’t want to worry you. Besides, you might have inadvertently alerted him that he was being watched.’

‘And he’s been doing what?’ she asked, wishing as she spoke that she hadn’t, but still having a morbid curiosity to find out.

‘Well, nine times out of ten he nips down side streets, doubles back and we lose him. Then when one of us waits near his flat for him to come back, he doesn’t pitch up till about two in the morning.’

‘He’s a young guy, Dad. He’ll be out clubbing, or … with a woman.’ She hated saying that last bit and hated, even more, that she hated it.

‘Yeah, that’s what we thought.’ Her Dad’s eyebrows were having a field day. ‘But he leaves all that crowd behind in the pub … except the night they all headed off with Gilbert. Did you know Gilbert went out with them?’

‘It’s hardly an offence, Dad, staying out till the early morning, nipping down side streets.’

‘And he goes out every morning again at six. Regular as clockwork. Where’s he going then? And he does that same nipping about and doubling back. Why’s that?’

Grace didn’t know and it hurt her head to think about it.

Her father eventually left her with a warning that she should keep an eye on Tate, report back anything that seemed fishy.

His voice was still in her head when she sat down on the sofa in reception, too confused and headachy to get any further. She got a bottle of water from her bag and popped a paracetamol out of its silver bubble and swallowed it down. Her father was barking up the wrong tree – he must be. She popped out a second tablet and sent it to join the first. There was a big difference between being overconfident and stealing icons to order.

She thought of the way Tate had watched her in Gilbert’s bedroom and in the office before the bombshell of Esther’s plane ticket. She remembered the intensity of what he had said in the courtyard of the Shillingsworth. The determination with which he’d moved towards her. Being cradled into his shoulder. She remembered him lying on the sofa she was sitting on now and felt something awful and exciting twist around in her belly, and it made her forget to breathe and then have to pull in a great lungful of air to stop from feeling woozy.

She went to check the answerphone to distract herself. Nothing of any interest. There was never anything of any interest.

Why was Tate living in a wealthy Russian’s flat? What had he been doing before he came to work here? If Alistair had obtained any references, got any kind of background information on him, she could have double-checked it. But could he be a thief? A real, heavy-duty, tear-gas-people thief?

The phone rang and she sent the box of paracetamol skittering to the floor.

It was Emma. Something was wrong – she could hear it in her voice as she asked Grace how she was, said what a terrible run of bad luck she’d had to be caught in two robberies, asked if she should be back at work. And then Emma was crying, great guttering sobs just like Felicity’s. Grace waited silently, knowing what was coming.

‘There’s more money going out, Grace, and, you know, I thought that what you said, about the Christmas present, well, it might be true but … but I’ve started finding things. Oh God, it sounds such a cliché … lipstick, Grace – not on his collar, on one of his cuffs – and a receipt, in the pocket of his trousers – I know, I know, I shouldn’t have been nosey – for a shop called Julietta’s. Have you heard of it?’

‘No.’ Grace glanced towards the filing cabinet where Gilbert had stowed the carrier bag. She couldn’t help it. She glanced towards the office door, checking Alistair
wasn’t there. She couldn’t help that either. Stupid, stupid Alistair. A receipt in his trousers – another vital piece of paper he’d mislaid.

‘It’s a lingerie shop, Grace. He spent ninety-five pounds in there. And … I know that might be for me for Christmas, but what with that and the lipstick and the longer hours … I don’t know any more. I want to ask him but I’m afraid of what he might say. Oh Grace, if he was having an affair, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes … yes, of course I would. If … if I knew anything for definite.’

Emma was on that hanging phrase like a dog. ‘For definite – what does that mean? That you think he is but you’re not sure?’

Grace tried to say something, anything, but it wouldn’t come and to her horror she found herself putting the phone down, cutting Emma off. She had just ended the call. Her friend had rung her, a cry for help, and she’d put the phone down.

She pushed her chair back slowly and went out of her office and towards Alistair’s. His door was open and his welcoming expression died away as he caught sight of her face.

‘I’ve just had Emma on the phone,’ she said, and she didn’t know how she was going to say the next bit, but
once she’d started it felt like a release. ‘She’s worried you’re having an affair – the long hours, the money going. Look, I don’t want to get involved in this, but I am. I’ve tried to cover for you and explain it away, even to myself, but I can’t any more. I’m already stuck in the middle of Mum and Dad’s mess; I can’t bear this too. I’m sorry if you’re affronted because nothing is going on, but please, please talk to Emma.’

Alistair’s phone began to ring and both of them stared at it. Did Alistair know it must be Emma? It went through to the answering machine.

‘I have to go and do your tour,’ he said, still staring at the phone.

‘No, you need to ring Emma back. I’ll do my tour. I’m fine. I’ve just taken some paracetamol, they’ll see me through.’

As she closed the door of Picture London behind her, she heard the phone ringing again.

CHAPTER
29

‘Well, look who’s here.’ Lilly came out from behind the ticket desk and chuckled, a not particularly friendly sound. ‘Not got your fight partner with you? Heard he’d given you a knock to the head?’

‘That’s not true,’ Grace said, ‘I walked into a sculpture.’

Beneath her make-up, Lilly’s face suggested she knew better and Grace decided to let it go. She had a lot of things she was trying not to think, worry or get angry about, and so she just added Lilly’s annoying behaviour to that list. It was a pretty full list and she supposed she should fret about that too, except that would make it even longer.

She positioned herself on the flagstones near the clock with the loitering man in the powdered wig on it. If she examined him more closely, she was sure she’d discover that he had green eyes. She kept her own eyes on the double doors. She couldn’t remember who was going to be on this
tour. Had there been eight or nine names on the piece of paper she’d run off for Alistair earlier?

‘So, things are getting back to normal here,’ Lilly said, ‘if you count us all being interviewed again as normal. And the police have been poking around all over the place. They’ve even been down in the drains.’ She did a dramatic look towards the top of the staircase. ‘Poor Norman’s gone off with stress. Not surprised – had to put up with all that extra attention ’cos of his wife.’ There was a sly look towards Grace. ‘Bad luck you being in both robberies. Police’ll be interested in that.’

Grace approximated a brave smile in response and Lilly steamed on. ‘Heard your company’s only got one life left. Better be a good girl today. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.’

Grace was glad to be saved the hypocrisy of another smile by the arrival of people who wanted to buy some tickets and Lilly went back behind the desk to serve them. Grace resumed waiting. She felt surprisingly calm down here, her recollection of the actual robbery hazy, but she knew that when she got to the part of the tour where she usually diverted to see the icon, the memory of its loss would sink its teeth into her again.

She was watching Lilly apply her lipstick when the double doors opened and in they came: eight people, all different shapes and colours and sizes, who she assumed were her
group, so she hiked on yet another smile and gave them her spiel about the fantastic things they were going to see.

Upstairs she was meant to start with Renoir – she always started with him – but she dragged them along to Manet instead; they would never know. And there she was, standing in front of the woman who was standing behind the bar at the Folies Bergère, and both of them were looking as if their minds were elsewhere.

She felt herself drift further away as she explained when the painting had first been exhibited and how old Manet was when he painted it, and then she was thinking of poor Emma and of her mum, of the icons ripped from the walls, of Gilbert going home for his lamb chops on a Tuesday. She was thinking of Bill too and how Tate was another one who looked like a beach boy but was actually a bonfire. No, not a bonfire, don’t think of that.

The way people were looking at her made her understand that she’d stopped talking, but she couldn’t remember one single thing about the picture behind her. She saw the glances run around the group as they realised that what they had interpreted as a pause was turning into something more embarrassing.

‘It has bottles in it, this painting,’ she tried. ‘Champagne and beer. English beer. What does this tell us? Yes, what indeed? Well, lots of things. Many, many things. It tells us
that …’ She came to another halt and turned round to the barmaid as if she could help her out. ‘It tells us—’

‘It tells us that the bar was frequented by people of all classes,
and
by British tourists, ’cos we all know how the British like their beer.’ Tate did a slalom to get round the group and arrive by her side. ‘Sorry I’m late, folks,’ he said, ‘but Gracie here has been kind enough to start you off, now I’m gonna take the reins for a while. Just give me a second.’

He steered her over to one of the benches, and she felt him press gently on her shoulders to make her sit. He had on what he’d been wearing that first time she’d seen him, his greatcoat slung over his shoulders. She saw genuine concern in his eyes. ‘What you doin’, Gracie, honey?’ he whispered. ‘Tryin’ to kill yourself?’