The Unhappy Medium 2: Tom Fool: A Supernatural Comedy, page 25
With a rumble like thunder, they were away up the stairs as the first sirens wailed mournfully over the passing traffic.
CHAPTER 31 – GROUP THERAP
Y
Dr Newton Barlow was angry, depressed, and tired, having spent one of the worst night’s sleep of his life. The flat in Crouch End, like most flats in London, was small, a mere 600 square feet of bachelor pad, ideal for a single man, or, at a push, a couple. It had been an urban sanctuary from the bustle of the city outside, a retreat; now it was more like the tail end of a Halloween party.
Lucy and the Piltdown Man had been bad enough, but this morning was beyond the pale. Now it had been topped up with the Reverend Bennet, two possessed food critics, and the fragrant mass of the Bonetaker, and Newton, who had been close to cracking anyway, now fractured like a Victorian urinal. When Jameson and Alex rolled up at 11:00 a.m. and the flat achieved critical mass, he reached ignition.
‘OK, that’s it,’ he barked. ‘I’m done. All of you, out. NOW.’
‘No,’ said Jameson, blankly. ‘Not a chance. It’s mid-morning on a Saturday. We would risk compromising Purgatory on an epic scale.’
‘Don’t care,’ replied Newton. ‘I never agreed to have this place used as a safe house. It’s a flat for starters, not a house. And it’s my flat, my home, so … go away.’
‘He’s right, Newton old boy,’ agreed Alex. ‘If we so much as lean out of the window, the game’s up. We have to sit tight.’
‘‘Til when?’ asked Newton from behind his crazed eyes. ‘When?’
‘Sunday night,’ said Jameson. ‘That’s the earliest window.’
‘I’m afraid he’s right, darling,’ said Viv, placing her hand on her boyfriend’s violin-strung shoulder. ‘Get this lot in the open, and it‘s the Six O’Clock News.’
Newton huffed a huge huff and stormed off to the kitchen where he surprised an early upright hominid eating a pound of prime beef mince with her hairy hands.
‘For God’s sake, Lucy, not again. Out!’
The scolded Australopithecine scurried away to the lounge and disappeared behind the sofa.
‘Bennet,’ said Jameson, sternly, ‘would you care to explain why you neglected to inform anyone of the situation last night?’
‘Er … well,’ muttered Bennet. ‘I’m sorry … I can’t. I got carried away. Heat of the moment and all that.’
‘Not good enough, Reverend,’ said Jameson. ‘The heat of the moment is precisely the reason we have protocols. I’m sure I don’t need to point out how close we came to public exposure last night.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Newton, re-emerging with a beer in his hand. ‘What I wanna know is, what actually happened? I mean, what the hell was last night all about?’ He looked at the two food critics, bound up like Christmas turkeys, their angry eyes showing that the Kingsmill brothers were still very much in residence. ‘Should we have another go at making these buggers talk?’
‘No point,’ said Jameson. ‘I doubt they have a clue. They were a diversion. They’ll have no idea what they were dragging us away from.’
‘What kind of half-wit would fall for an old trick like that, eh?’ said Newton, sarcastically.
‘I’ve said I’m sorry,’ said Bennet.
‘If you’d checked in with me I could have saved you the trouble,’ said Newton.
‘It won’t happen again,’ said Bennet, quietly.
‘No point debating the chase, is there?’ said Alex. ‘What we need to know is what the goose was distracting us from. Any theories?’
‘Well, it obviously has to be the portrait gallery,’ said Newton. ‘But, as it’s nearly lunchtime and there’s nothing on the news, we can only assume that the place is intact.’
‘Agreed,’ said Jameson. ‘If there had been a robbery, then we’d know all about it. As it is, our agents have been down there twice this morning, and it appears untouched. If there was a crime, we’re not seeing it.’
‘I need to get down there,’ announced Newton. ‘Firstly, I want to see the place for myself, and secondly, I want to escape this here menagerie.‘ He went to the window and looked outside where a tow truck was busy removing the second of the two vehicles from beneath the clock tower. One of the Kingsmill brothers began to struggle fruitlessly in his restraints, his swearing lost in the NASA tea towel Bennet had used to gag him. ‘What about these two numpties?’ asked Newton. ‘Shouldn’t we exorcise their sorry arses and release them back into the wild?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Jameson. ‘We’d end up with two civilians in the middle of this little house of horrors. Would you like to try explaining it to them and persuading them that it’s nothing? I know I wouldn’t. Nope, we can only let them go when it is thoroughly safe to do so.’
‘Ok, well, in that case, I am definitely off out to the gallery. You lot can sort yourselves out.’ Newton stomped to the coat stand and grabbed his leather jacket.
‘I’m coming with you,’ said Viv, grabbing her bag.
‘Me too,’ said Bennet.
‘Oh no, you don’t,’ said Newton. ‘It was your off-grid adventure that led to this farce. The least you can do to make it up to me is to babysit for us grown ups while we indulge ourselves in the West End.’
‘But,’ began Bennet, only to be cut short by a scrapyard dog expression from Newton that said everything. He sat back down.
Jaffa Cakes,’ demanded Graham optimistically. ‘Jaffa Cakes and a blueberry smoothie.’
Newton slammed the door behind them.
* * * *
It took Viv and Newton forty-five minutes to make it to the National Portrait Gallery. As predicted, there was nothing visually askew at all and the tourists milled around the portraits, just as they had done since it had opened in 1896.
‘There has to be something,’ said Newton, after two laps of the exhibitions. ‘There’s something wrong here, I’m certain of it.’
‘Looks a hundred per-cent the same to me,’ said Viv, her thinning patience leading to a long yawn. ‘It might have been nothing, you know?’
‘Really? Well, all that shock and awe had to be for something, don’t you think?’
‘Maybe the Hawkhurst Gang just broke out on their own?’
‘How do you explain the driver then?’ asked Newton. ‘He’s not one of them, is he? He’s about as 18th century as a hoverboard.’
‘Ah, good point,’ said Viv. ‘Pity we didn’t get to talk to him.’
‘Wasn’t time,’ said Newton. ‘Besides, he was out cold when you abandoned him. But yeah, would have been helpful. Pretty certain he was one of Giacometti’s goons. Far too good a driver to have been a casual hire.’
‘OK, so what’s the deal then? The gallery is just the same gallery it was at the opening. Unless there’s something we’re missing.’
‘Hold on,’ said Newton. ‘Feel that?’
‘Feel what?’
‘Sorry, I keep forgetting how insensitive you are.’
‘Harsh,’ said Viv.
‘No, I mean in the Purgatorial sense. The vibe of the place, it’s different.’
‘Different how?’
‘Well, it’s pleasant.’
‘Eh?’
‘It’s not creepy and sinister anymore.’
‘Looks pretty unpleasant to me.’
‘Looks … looks. The ambience is totally different. Here, let’s test it.’
Newton walked up to the portrait of a thug and, after making sure he was unobserved by a nearby guard, placed his hand directly upon the canvas.
Nothing.
‘Bloody hell, Viv, either they’ve nicked the spirits from these paintings or …’
‘Or?’
‘These are not the same paintings!’
‘You mean they swapped them out?’ asked Viv.
‘Yup. Quick, let’s check the jester. He was the by far the strongest.’
Newton rushed round the back of the screen and positioned himself close to Tom Skelton’s full-length portrait.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he said, as his hand made contact with the canvas. ‘This one too.’ He looked over to his girlfriend. ‘Oh balls, Viv! They’ve done over the whole place.’
‘But this place must be full of ...’
‘Yep, every notable figure from British history – kings, queens, prime ministers, scientists, generals, artists.’
As the penny clanged noisily to the floor, they dashed into the adjoining gallery. Henry the Eighth, as fat and proud as a black forest gâteau, hung there, leering back. It was superficial, for as Newton made contact with the painting, it was obvious that the portrait was as close to being spiritually marinated as a fresh dishcloth; ditto Lawrence of Arabia, Charles Darwin and Isambard Kingdom Brunel.
‘Smell it,’ said Newton, bending down to sniff Field Marshall Montgomery’s leg. ‘I may be imagining it, but I swear there is just the tiniest whiff of oil paint. These are forgeries.’
‘What? All of them? There must be bloody thousands of portraits in this place.’
‘No, not all of them,’ said Newton, leaning in close to a full-length oil painting of Neville Chamberlain, ‘just the important ones.’
‘Why?’
‘No idea,’ said Newton, honestly. ‘Could be a good old fashioned art crime, except these pictures would be near impossible to sell.’
‘You’re positive they’ve been replaced?’
‘Well, I’m new here, as you know, but as far as my ability to assess these things goes, these things are as haunted as photocopies.’
‘But some aren’t?’
‘Precisely,’ said Newton, moving up to a portrait of General Percival, ‘These C-listers are still reading as possessed, so to speak, especially the blander personalities, so it’s not a software error on my part. But the others … there’s been a switch, no question.’ Newton’s phone pinged. ‘Gabby again, she’s been trying to reach me since yesterday.’
‘Oh? What about?’
‘No idea,’ said Newton. ‘I’ve not had a free moment to call back.’
‘Newton!’ scolded Viv. ‘She hates it when you do that. Call her back.’
‘Later,’ said Newton, ‘I’m on a case. Besides, it would be rude. I loathe it when people talk on mobiles in public spaces.’
‘Well, text her and get in touch,’ insisted Viv.
‘Yes, maaaam,’ said Newton. He sent the message then turned the sound off.
‘Done?’
‘Done.’ Newton pulled out his notepad and made a few notes.
* * * *
Giacometti’s truck travelled slowly up the M11 towards Cambridge. In the darkness of its interior, there was something of a culture clash in progress. Some of the greatest and goodliest characters in British history were now rubbing shoulders with some of the least palatable. To the sensitive, it was a thick and disturbing carnival float – to the insensitive just another lorry heading north. As Newton and Viv headed back to the flat, it left the motorway and entered the city.
CHAPTER 32 – RETURN THE GIF
T
In Newton’s small bedroom, a meeting was in progress. Needless to say, the conditions were far from ideal; the roof was slanted, there was a bed where ideally a boardroom table would have been, and with one or two of those present long dead, they were forced to jut out of various pieces of Ikea furniture to make room for the living. Alex Sixsmith was only visible from the shoulders up, the rest of him being embedded in the Nordli drawers where Newton kept his socks and boxer shorts. Eric the Greek was in and out of the Kvikni wardrobe, mostly only seen as a theatrical mask that seemed to be hanging despairingly from the twin doors.
To add to the comprehensive invasion of Newton’s personal space, Mr Jameson was laying awkwardly on the bed next to the Reverend Bennet, leaving Newton and Viv to wedge awkwardly up against the dormer window.
‘I don’t see why we couldn’t have had the meeting in the lounge,’ complained Jameson. ‘There’s far more room out there.’
‘No, no, and a big steaming pile of no,’ countered Newton. ‘That would have meant that menagerie out there, in here. This is my last sanctuary from your visiting freakshow, thank you very much, and as it’s my home, them’s my rules.’
‘I’m comfortable enough,’ said Bennet stretching.
‘Oh, I’m delighted to hear that, Padre,’ said Newton, clearly feeling the opposite. ‘Don’t get used to it. Soon as inhumanly possible, I want the lot of them out of here so I can get an industrial vacuum cleaner in and do some housework.’
‘Come on, Newton,’ said Viv. ‘Let’s stop squabbling and get on with the meeting. Sooner we have a plan about what we are going to do, the sooner things can get back to normal round here.’
‘She’s right, old boy,’ said Alex. ‘Chop-chop.’
‘Not sure I like being ordered about in my own bedroom,’ said Newton. ‘I know people pay good money for that kind of thing, but I’m not one of them. But as you say, let’s get on. OK, this is what we’ve got’ He consulted his notebook. ‘The big thing we now know is that there has been a switch.’
‘A switch?’ asked Jameson.
‘Yup, if I am to believe my own sensitivities, a sizable proportion of the paintings in the National Portrait Gallery have been replaced with forgeries, identical copies minus the attached spirits.’ There was a ripple of unease.
‘But, but … there’s the best proportion of British history in there,’ said Jameson, sitting up. ‘That’s dire. Are you sure?’
‘As sure as I can be,’ said Newton. ‘It’s not exactly a scientific process, is it? But yeah, there were dead zones all over the place. No pun intended.’
‘What are the implications of that?’ asked Bennet. ‘Should we be worried?’
‘Bloody right we should be worried,’ said Jameson. ‘Whoever owns the portrait, owns the soul.’
‘Owns?’ asked Viv.
‘Yes, indeed,’ confirmed Eric. ‘Most certainly. Why, if they were to destroy these paintings, then the spirit in Purgatory would be very severely diminished. Nothing has the spiritual absorption of a portrait taken from life, nothing! Henry the Eighth, for instance, if that went then we’d get a mangled spirit. Not that someone as narcissistic and selfish as Henry is that big a loss – frankly, he’s rather vulgar. I’ve had no end of difficulty with him, I can tell you. He’s very demanding. He spends an awful lot of time pestering me for accommodation further away from his wives. Why –’
‘Yeah, OK, Eric, we get the point,’ said Jameson, impatiently. ‘The real issue is that these villains have probably run off with people that we Purgatorians should be very worried about.’
‘Like who?’ asked Newton.
‘Scientists, visionaries, thinkers,’ explained Jameson. ‘Not the kings and politicians, sod them. It’s the people doing useful things in Purgatory we should be concerned about. Darwin, Issac Newton, Barnes Wallis and Alan Turing, for instance.‘
‘Ah, gotcha,’ said Newton. ‘Well, we have to stop them from destroying the paintings then.’
‘Damn right,’ said Bennet. He patted the weapon beneath his jacket. ‘Let’s saddle up, and go get ‘em!’
‘OK, and where exactly would we find them then?’ asked Alex.
‘Ah…’ conceded Bennet. ‘Would be nice to know, wouldn’t it? Anyone have any ideas?’
There was a noticeable silence.
‘Well, let’s work it out,’ said Newton.
‘Yes, let’s,’ said Jameson.
‘I will,’ said Newton, hitting back at his line manager’s sarcasm. ‘Let’s see what we have.’ He scanned his notes. ‘Well, we haven’t got a clue as to where this Giacometti character is based. However, my hypothesis is that he’s doing what he implied he was doing back at the picnic site, namely, acting as a contractor to someone else. Given the inferences we’ve had that he works for the charming Lady Featherstone, we can only assume it’s her.’
‘Maybe,’ said Jameson. ‘Unless there are multiple buyers waiting.’
‘Seems unlikely to me,’ said Newton. ‘We are looking at one hell of an effort here. The scale and quality of the forgery is just breathtaking. Hardly your average criminal enterprise; can’t see that Giacometti could do it off his own back.’’
‘So?’ asked Alex.
‘Well,’ continued Newton. ‘It’s a fair assumption that a very monied party had this done to order. Why is impossible to say, but it‘s increasingly evident who.’
‘Featherstone,’ said Bennet.
‘Featherstone,’ confirmed Newton. ‘For reasons unknown, Lady Featherstone, with the help of the charming Peter Carnatt – a plague upon his cufflinks – has financed and participated in what may well be the biggest art robbery in history.’
‘OK,’ said Jameson, keen to put a matt finish on Newton’s glossy explanation. ‘We’ve worked out the likely perpetrators, but where does that leave us? What we don’t know is where the buggers have taken the paintings. Would you like to further impress us by revealing that?’
‘I’m just getting to that,’ said Newton, with laboured patience. ‘Think about it from their point of view – they’ve got a truck full of priceless art that, by virtue of its subject matter, is recognisable to every single person in the country who’s ever taken a history lesson. Also, these paintings are going to require an atmosphere-managed environment and a high-security location, away from prying eyes, all no more than a few hours away. So, through a process of elimination, we can merge these common factors in a Venn diagram.’
‘A Venn? What is this thing, Venn?’ asked Eric’s confused face from the wardrobe door.
‘A Venn diagram,’ said Alex. ‘It’s a diagram that shows all possible logical relations between a finite collection of different sets.’
‘Oh, one of those,’ said Bennet, yawning.
‘Am I keeping you up?’ asked Newton with narrowed eyes.
‘Sorry, was a long night,’ said Bennet, apologetically. ‘So, this diagram thing, what does that tell us?’
