Twelve Red Herrings (27 page)

Flocks of
startled crows flapped out of overhanging branches screeching as they shot into
the air. Diana began screaming, “Daniel
Daniel !”
Two
hundred yards ahead of her, the porch light went on.

Her headlights
were now shining onto the front of the house and her hand was still pressed on
the horn. With a hundred yards to go, she spotted Daniel coming out of the
front door, but she didn’t slow down, and neither did the van behind her. With
fifty yards to go she began flashing her lights at Daniel. She could now make
out the puzzled, anxious expression on his face.

With thirty
yards to go she threw on her brakes. The heavy estate car skidded across the
gravel in front of the house, coming to a halt in the flowerbed just below the
kitchen window. She heard the screech of brakes behind her. The
leather-jacketed man, unfamiliar with the terrain, had been unable to react
quickly enough, and as soon as his wheels touched the gravelled forecourt he
began to skid out of control.

A second later
the van came crashing into the back of her car, slamming it against the wall of
the house and shattering the glass in the kitchen window.

Diana leapt out
of the car, screaming, “Daniel! Get a gun, get a gun!” She pointed back at the
van. “That bastard’s been chasing me for the last twenty
miles
!”
The man jumped out of the van and began limping towards them.

Diana ran into
the house. Daniel followed and grabbed a shotgun, normally reserved for
rabbits, that was leaning against the wall. He ran back outside to face the
unwelcome visitor, who had come to a halt by the back of Diana’s Audi.

Daniel raised
the shotgun to his shoulder and stared straight at him. “
Don’t
move
or I’ll shoot,” he said calmly. And then he remembered the gun
wasn’t loaded. Diana ducked back out of the house, but remained several yards
behind him.

“Not me! Not
me
!” shouted the leather-jacketed youth, as Rachael appeared
in the doorway.

“What’s going
on?” she asked nervously.

“Ring for the
police,” was all Daniel said, and his wife quickly disappeared back into the
house.

Daniel advanced
towards the terrified-looking young man, the gun aimed squarely at his chest.

“Not me! Not
me!” he shouted again, pointing at the Audi.

“He’s in the
car!” He quickly turned to face Diana. “I saw him get in when you were parked
on the hard shoulder. What else could I have done? You just wouldn’t pull
over.” Daniel advanced cautiously towards the rear door of the car and ordered
the young man to open it slowly, while he kept the gun aimed at his chest.

The youth opened
the door, and quickly took a pace backwards.

The three of
them stared down at a man crouched on the floor of the car. In his right hand
he held a long-bladed knife with a serrated edge. Daniel swung the barrel of
the gun down to point at him, but said nothing.

The sound of a
police siren could just be heard in the distance.

SALLY SUMMERS WON HER SCHOOL’S SENIOR
art prize at the age of fourteen. In her last four years at St Bride’s the only
serious competition was for second place.

When, in her
final year, she was awarded the top scholarship to the Slade School of Fine Art
none of her contemporaries was at all surprised. The headmistress told the
assembled parents on Speech Day that she was confident Sally had a
distinguished career ahead of her, and that her work would soon be exhibited in
one of London’s major galleries. Sally was flattered by all this unqualified
praise, but still wasn’t sure if she had any real talent.

By the end of
her first year at the Slade, the staff and senior students were already
becoming aware of Sally’s work. Her drawing technique was regarded as quite
exceptional, and her brushwork became bolder with each term. But, above all, it
was the originality of her ideas that caused other students to stop and stare
at her canvases.

In her final
year, Sally won both the Mary Rischgitz Prize for oil painting and the Henry
Tonks Prize for drawing: a rare double. They were presented to her by Sir Roger
de Grey, the President of the Royal Academy, and Sally was among that tiny
group who were spoken of as ^”having a future’. But surely, she told her
parents, that
could be said of the top student in any year –
and most of them ended up working in the creative departments of advertising
agencies, or teaching art to bored schoolchildren in far-flung parts of the
kingdom.

Once she had
graduated, Sally had to decide whether she too would apply for a job with an
advertising agency, take up a teaching appointment, or risk everything and try
to put together enough original work for a London gallery to consider her for a
one-woman show.

Her parents were
convinced that their daughter had real talent, but what do parents know when
you’re their only child?
thought
Sally.

Especially when
one of them was a music teacher and the other an accountant who were the first
to admit that they didn’t know much about art, but they knew what they liked.
Still, they seemed quite willing to support her for another year if she wanted
(to use an expression of the young) to go for it.

Sally was
painfully aware that, although her parents were fairly comfortably off, another
year in which she produced no income could only be a burden for them. After
much soul-searching she told them, “One year, and one year only. After that, if
the paintings aren’t good enough, or if no one shows any interest in exhibiting
them, I’ll be realistic and look for a proper job.” For the next six months
Sally worked hours-
that
she hadn’t realised existed
when she’d been a student. During that time she produced a dozen canvases. She
allowed no one to see
them,
for fear that her parents
and friends would not be frank with her. She was determined to finish her
portfolio and then listen only to the toughest opinions possible, those of the
professional gallery owners, and, tougher still, those of the buying public.

Sally had always
been a voracious reader, and she continued to devour books and monographs on
artists from Bellini to Hockney. The more she read, the more she became aware
that however talented an artist might be, it was industry and dedication that
ultimately marked out the few who succeeded from the many who failed. This
inspired her to work still harder, and she began to turn down invitations to
parties, dances, even weekends with old friends, making use of every spare
moment to visit art galleries or to attend lectures on the great masters.

By the eleventh
month, Sally had completed twenty-seven works, but she still wasn’t sure
whether they displayed any real talent.

Nevertheless,
she felt the time had finally come to allow others to pass judgement on them.

She looked long
and hard at each of the twenty-seven paintings, and the following morning she
packed six of them in a large canvas folder her parents had given her the
previous Christmas, and joined the early-morning commuters on their journey
from Sevenoaks into London.

Sally began her
quest in Cork Street, where she came across galleries exhibiting works by
Bacon, Freud, Hockney, Dunston and Chadwick. She felt overawed at the prospect
of even entering their portals, let alone submitting her own humble work to the
appraisal of their proprietors. She humped her canvas folder a couple of blocks
north to Conduit Street, and in the windows she recognised the works of Jones,
Campbell, Wczenski, Frink and Paolozzi. She became even more discouraged and
unwilling to push open any of the galleries’ front doors.

Sally returned
home that night exhausted, her canvas folder unopened. She understood for the
first time how an author must feel after receiving a string of rejection slips.
She was unable to sleep that night. But as she lay awake she came to the
conclusion that she must know the truth about her work, even if it meant being
humiliated.

She joined the
commuters again the following morning, and this time headed for Duke Street, St
James’s. She didn’t bother with the galleries exhibiting old masters, Dutch
still lifes or English landscapes, and therefore walked straight past Johnny
van Haeften and Rafael Vails. Halfway down the street she turned right, and
finally came to a halt outside the Simon Bouchier NOT FOR SALE Gallery,
which was exhibiting the sculptures of the late Sydney Harpley and
the paintings of Muriel Pemberton, whose obituary Sally had read in the
Independent only a few days before.

It was the
thought of death that made Sally settle on the Bouchier Gallery. Perhaps they
would be looking for someone young, she tried to convince herself, someone who
had a long career ahead of them.

She stepped
inside the gallery and found herself in a large, empty room, surrounded by
Muriel Pemberton’s watercolours.

“Can I help
you?” asked a young woman who was sitting behind a desk near the window.

“No, thank you,”
Sally replied. “I was just looking.” The girl eyed Sally’s canvas folder, but
said nothing. Sally decided she would do one circuit of the room, and then make
good her escape. She began to circle the gallery, studying the pictures
carefully. They were good, very good – but Sally believed she could do just as
well, given time. She would have liked to see Muriel Pemberton’s work when she
was her age.

When Sally
reached the far end of the gallery, she became aware of an office in which a
short, balding man, wearing an old tweed jacket and corduroy trousers, was
closely examining a picture. He looked about the same age as her father. Also
studying the picture was another man, who caused Sally to stop in her tracks.
He must have been a little over six foot, with those dark Italian looks that
people normally only come across in glossy magazines; and he was old enough to
be her brother.

Was he Mr.
Bouchier?
she
wondered. She hoped so, because if he
owned the gallery she might be able to summon up the courage to introduce
herself to him, once the little man in the scruffy jacket had left. At that
moment the young man looked up and gave her a huge grin.

Sally turned
quickly away and began to study the pictures on the far wall.

She was
wondering if it was worth hanging around any longer when the two men suddenly
strolled out of the office and began walking towards the door.

She froze,
pretending to concentrate on a portrait of a young girl in pastel blues and
yellows, a picture that had a Matisse-like quality about it.

“What’s in
there?” asked a cheeky voice. Sally turned round and came face to face with the
two men. The smaller one was pointing at her canvas bag.

“Just a few
pictures,” Sally stammered.
“Im an artist.”

“Let’s have a
look,” said the man, ‘and perhaps I can decide if you’re an artist or not.”
Sally hesitated.

“Come on, come
on,” he teased. “I haven’t got all day. As you can see, I have an important
client to take to lunch,” he added, indicating the tall, well-dressed young
man, who still hadn’t spoken.

“Oh, are you Mr.
Bouchier?” she asked, unable to hide her disappointment.

“Yes. Now, am I
going to be allowed to look at your pictures or not?” Sally quickly unzipped
her canvas bag and laid out the six paintings on the floor. Both of the men
bent down and studied them for some time before either offered an opinion.

“Not bad,” said
Bouchier eventually. “Not bad at all. Leave them with me for a few days, and
then let’s meet again next week.” He paused. “Say Monday, .3o. And if you have
any more examples of your recent work, bring them with you.” Sally was
speechless. “Can’t see you before Monday,” he continued, ‘because the RA’s
Summer Exhibition opens tomorrow. So for the next few days I won’t have a
moment to spare. Now, if you’ll excuse me...”
The
younger man was still examining Sally’s pictures closely.

At last he
looked up at her. “I’d like to buy the one of the interior with the black cat
on the windowsill. How much is it?”

“Well,” said
Sally, “I’m not sure...”

“N.F.S’ said Mr.
Bouchier firmly, guiding his client towards the door.

“By the way,”
the taller man said, turning back, “I am Antonio Flavelli. My friends call me
Tony.” But Mr. Bouchier was already pushing him out onto the street.

Sally returned
home that afternoon with an empty canvas folder, and was prepared to admit to
her parents that a London dealer had shown an interest in her work. But it was,
she insisted, no more than an interest.

The following
morning Sally decided to go to the opening day of the Royal Academy Summer
Exhibition, which would give her the chance to find out just how good her rivals
were. For over an hour she stood in the long queue that stretched from the
front door, right across the carpark and out onto the pavement. When she
eventually reached the top of the wide staircase, she wished she was six feet
six tall, so that she could see over the tops of the heads of the mass of
people who were crowding every room.