Hiding in Plain Sight Read online

  The Jewellery Collector.

  The art dealer changed a few words to match BachtoBasie’s tone, added another exclamation mark, pressed ‘send’, and erased the browser history. Back in his bedroom, he considered how Jana would react to his unscheduled visit. Until now, her expertise in Eastern European ceramics and Russian art, along with an impressive list of contacts, made her a key member of his management team. But other consultants had learned from her and built their own connections. She wasn’t needed. No preparation time gave him an advantage in keeping her under pressure.

  The element of surprise.

  ‘Victor or victim,’ he muttered, taking an Antiques Trade Gazette magazine from his briefcase, ‘and I’m the victor. Always.’

  Chapter 5

  Friday, 11 January

  Morning

  Jana Trofimiack glanced at her phone on the passenger seat, willing it to ring.

  Preoccupied, she stage-laughed as Lech chattered in the back. The paintings hadn’t arrived last night.

  ‘Uważaj! Czerwone światło, Maia!’

  She jammed the brakes, blocked half the zebra crossing, and tolerated pedestrian’s glares.

  ‘Zielone światło, Maia!’

  Jana smiled. Lech. Soon a man, she thought. Six in two weeks, and he’d never given her a moment’s kłopot. So considerate. They’d had adult conversations for years. Counting herself fortunate, she’d continue to shield her fragile, flawless treasure from this vicious world, as long as breath remained in her body. Yes, she fretted about him. The future. What’ll happen if his maia died? Who’d care for him? How could he survive? And how’d she live if …? Jana blessed herself, and again for luck. They depended on each other. She double-parked outside the school.

  ‘Kocham moją Maia!’

  ‘Love you too.’ Jana watched Lech thread through other children. At the door, he turned, waved and disappeared inside.

  Jana had parked on Ann Street when her mobile rang. She answered, listened to a voice grunt a location two streets away. She hurried over, stood shivering in a restaurant doorway, looking left and right. A man rounded a corner, walking fast, a supermarket carrier bag in his hand. He got to Jana, passed her the bag, didn’t speak, and kept going.

  Jana peeked at the contents, looked up the street. The man had vanished.

  Back in the car, she removed the two paintings. Her nose wrinkled at the smell of fresh paint. From a distance, the McKelvey looked okay, and at least it was in the original frame. But Günther still hadn’t managed to … It’ll have to do, Jana thought. She looked at the Jack B. Yeats painting. Again, it wasn’t … Shaking her head, she re-wrapped it and dialled Dorothy Ridgeway’s house, told a maid to expect her in half an hour, placed the McKelvey in an oversized shoulder bag, and drove to Glenavy.

  -----

  Hugh trawled online for sales management positions.

  Initial enthusiasm swung to apprehension: no suitable roles available. He’d planned to pick a dozen management roles, get meetings under his belt and be in a position to interview for a dream job within a few weeks, a month tops. Now, that timeline wasn’t practical. Plan B. He phoned the recruiter who’d forwarded for the Pharma-Continental role.

  ‘I’ve one position here, I’ll email it to you,’ James O’Neill at Midland Recruitment said. ‘You’re way over-qualified, Hugh, but forward me your updated details. I’ll include it in the shortlist.’

  Hugh read the field sales management role, spent an hour re-editing his CV to fit the position, and mailed it. Then he completed paperwork for Pharma-Continental. Anything to delay a visit to the dole office.

  -----

  ‘Why should I spend my money at Hattinger’s? What makes you different from the other art houses?’

  The art dealer smiled. ‘I’m glad you asked me that.’

  Having breakfast with the nouveau riche, who saw art as a trophy to proclaim their status, was a necessary evil to secure their future business in times of debt, divorce, disaster or death. In a few years, most would become the nouveau pauvres, but meantime, he had to tolerate them. Earlier, he’d used the hotel internet to log onto the dating website. His message to BachtoBasie hadn’t received a reply.

  He’d checked that he sent the message.

  He had.

  Clicked on In Box again.

  Still blank.

  The potential client was staring at him. The art dealer sipped tea and refocused. ‘A number of gallerists concentrate on artists,’ he said. ‘Others place emphasis on customers. We focus on both. I only work with knowledgeable collectors interested in art. Our artists are a mix of well-known, local and new talent.’

  Why didn’t she answer?

  He drew a triangle in the air. ‘I build deep, meaningful bonds between ourselves, our clients and our artists. We are a family business, and each new client or artist becomes a cherished extension to our clan. That approach cements our relationships. It makes the business of buying and selling easier.’

  ‘This is a big deal for me,’ the client said. ‘What guarantees me your full attention?’

  The art dealer maintained eye contact. ‘I’ve got wonderful staff who shield me from the hype, the pretentiousness and any petty power plays that occur. That allows me to concentrate on our most important properties, clients and artists. I consider myself fortunate to be among an elite group who meet, associate and—’

  ‘Your clients meet? Each other?’

  ‘Of course. We’re family. We help and guide each other in art and in business life.’

  ‘So, if I give you a cheque for five million, will you sell me one painting or a dozen smaller pieces?’

  Why hasn’t the bitch replied?

  ‘I won’t accept your cheque. Won’t sell you anything.’

  ‘Why?’

  Because you don’t have five million, and I’m fed up feigning interest in your petty life.

  ‘That’s not how I do business,’ the art dealer explained. ‘I don’t know enough about you on a personal level—your likes, dislikes, tastes. Are you buying as an investment or a lifestyle? And your partner and family? Have they a preference? Perhaps it’s different from yours. I’m sure it is. I have to know you before making recommendations.’

  The man nodded. ‘Well then, we’d better talk again.’ He raised a hand for the bill.

  The art dealer stopped him. ‘My treat.’

  ‘Thanks. Appreciate you taking the time to—’

  ‘Pleasure.’

  Recheck email.

  They shook hands and examined exchanged business cards.

  ‘Get your people to talk to my people,’ the man said.

  The art dealer placed his hand on the new client’s arm and moved him towards the reception area. ‘May I suggest …’

  The man departed, and the art dealer logged into DatingVista, nerves burning with anticipation.

  No response.

  He felt the headache throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Jaw muscles clenching, he read over the email again, searching for words or negatives that could’ve made BachtoBasie wary, and couldn’t find anything. Angry, he logged out and walked to Hattinger’s premises on Ann Street.

  Jana Trofimiack.

  The humane way would be to take Jana for lunch and explain that the decline in business, yada, yada, yada, but he preferred to toy with her, a cat with a mouse. He’d use her to vent his frustrations.

  Like a matador, I’ll dish out the significant strikes in private, and when the bitch is in a weakened state, I’ll deliver the coup de grâce in public. It’ll teach everyone a lesson. Yes, El Matador. I’m the one that waves the muleta. I’m the one who’ll make her surrender before I execute the fatal blow.

  When the receptionist paged Jana, she materialised, nervous, dry-washing her hands. ‘Welcome.’ She had prominent cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, black hair pinned in a messy top-knot, and a layer of face powder that failed to hide the sheen on her upper lip. Jana almost genuflected, offering a clammy handshake. �
��Nobody told us … Had you a nice trip? Can I get you kawa … coffee?’

  The art dealer moved away from the piercing voice, persistent as a pneumatic drill. His mouth curled in distaste at the touch of Jana’s palm, and the stale garlicky smell that blasted from the woman’s mouth made him cough. In the bathroom, he rinsed off Jana’s nervous sweat, then followed her to an office.

  I’ll use the Ridgeway issue as a catalyst.

  Jana interrupted his thoughts: ‘Did you read the email I sent—?’

  ‘I seldom read your correspondence, Jana, and to date, I’ve missed nothing notable. I assume the consultants are on-site today?’ The art dealer removed a tennis ball from his pocket and squeezed.

  ‘Yes. We have an in-house meeting scheduled.’

  Veins stood out on the art dealer’s wrist. Arm muscles screamed with acid. He slackened his grip on the ball and opened the briefcase. ‘This shouldn’t take long. I don’t foresee any polemic disputes today.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Oh, excuse me. I forgot your English isn’t … Let me put it another way; I don’t expect any heated debates.’

  Jana relaxed.

  ‘Where’s Mrs Ridgeway’s McKelvey? Why—?’

  ‘The email I sent? I spoke with Mrs Ridgeway. She found her painting behind a settee. It must have slipped between—’

  ‘Good.’ That Dorothy had located the McKelvey made the art dealer livid. ‘What date have you pencilled in for Ridgeway’s auction?’

  ‘No date yet. We’ve catalogued the collection. I guess—’

  ‘Guess? Is that what I pay you for? Guesswork?’

  ‘No. I—’

  ‘My instructions were explicit. This sale must conclude by the end of February. Why haven’t you fixed a date?’

  ‘Mrs Ridgeway postponed—’

  The art dealer threw a pen on the table. It skidded across the veneered surface and slid over the edge. ‘Your capacity for incompetence continues to confound me, Jana. If it’s not scheduled now, we won’t get another chance until after Easter.’

  Jana fidgeted, attempted to bury herself in the seat. ‘Mrs Ridgeway wants to wait until after—’

  ‘Dorothy Ridgeway doesn’t appreciate the intricacies of the market. January is the opportune time to—’

  ‘She said—’

  ‘Don’t interrupt me. When I speak, you listen. Every word you say imperils your prospects here. I’m considering if you possess the mandatory skills for this position. Are your talents better suited elsewhere, perchance? Burger King, maybe? Or is that pushing your intelligence? If I get a hint that a competitor has secured this sale, I’ll …’ The man’s nostrils flared. ‘Where did you study business management? Please, don’t answer. Pass me the Ridgeway paperwork. Another consultant can close it. I’m assigning you to other duties. You’ve lost the commission on this auction.’

  If that BachtoBasie bitch doesn’t reply by tomorrow, Jana is next, regardless of her closeness. I’ll find a way.

  ‘Why? I’ve worked on this catalogue. The sale will be an outstanding success when—’

  ‘Yes, well, let me help you redefine the notion of outstanding success, and your expectations will become more realistic.’

  ‘I’m sorry? I don’t—’

  ‘Sorry doesn’t pay the rent.’ The art dealer’s stare bullied Jana into silence.

  Jana studied the ground.

  He took a folder from his briefcase. ‘I’ve received complaints with regard to your hygiene.’

  ‘My hygiene? Complaints? From who?’

  ‘Clients. Staff.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘When did you consider the pong of stale garlic as being appropriate in the workplace? Can’t you comprehend how repellent it is for customers? Hmm? When are you planning to demonstrate a soupçon of aseptic concepts?’

  ‘Pardon? I—’

  ‘You reek worse than a rancid ewe, Jana. From today, I forbid you to engage with clients. And your hair? It’s … Do you own a hairbrush?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Use it. Now, shall we begin?’

  Mid-Morning

  ‘What the feck are ya playing at?’

  Ferdia waited until the nurse left the ward before firing a verbal blast at Charlie. His brother-in-law still mirrored someone who’d fought a tiger, but overnight the forehead swelling had reduced. They’d removed the nose splints, and the facial bruises had turned a mustard yellow, with crusts forming on the lacerations. The drip needle remained, and a nasal cannula hung on his nostrils.

  ‘Told you I got mugged. I’ve made a statement to—’

  ‘Don’t care what account you gave our boys in blue. I’m sure they didn’t believe you either. A two-year-old could see through your bullshit.’

  Charlie groped for a water beaker. Ferdia guided the straw to his mouth. A Filipino nurse stuck her head around the curtain and put a finger to her lips. ‘Shhh.’

  ‘So what’s the story?’ Ferdia’s voice dropped an octave.

  ‘I owe a man money.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A loan shark.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘I paid him—’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Feck’s sake, Chas. Surely to God you’ve more sense than getting tangled up—’

  Charlie lifted a hand in surrender.’

  ‘So now what?’ Ferdia asked.

  ‘I’ve a week to repay them the balance.’

  ‘Them?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Hah. I feckin’ knew ’twas a warning. Where?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where’d you meet them?’

  ‘Lidl, beside Temple Street hospital. I hoped they’d listen to reason.’

  ‘Wondered what you were at up there. Who’s the loan shark?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Ferdia. We’ll … I’ll manage.’ Charlie twisted the beaker.

  ‘Grand. What’s the bottom line?’

  ‘Fifteen thousand.’

  ‘Is that fifteen more, or fifteen minus five?’

  ‘I’ve paid five. I owe ten.’

  ‘Can you get your hands on that sorta cash?’

  ‘I’ll find it. Somehow.’

  ‘Mother of Jaysus, Chas. That’s the decade’s dumbest deal. You’ll never repay them in dribs ’n’ drabs. Interest rates go up a thousand feckin’ per cent every week. Sharks thrive when everybody else is on the struggle bus. Thievin’ bastards. I’ll—’

  Charlie’s mobile rang. He handed the plastic mug to Ferdia and answered the call. ‘Ciara? I’m A1. Great.’ Charlie had put up his defensive shield. ‘Don’t worry. You’ve enough on your plate. Ferdia’s here. How’s David?’ Charlie listened. ‘Bet he’s all excited. See you both soon. Me too. Hmm? No, no, he wasn’t. Not yet. It’s not a problem. Malcolm’ll drop by, first chance he gets. Okay. Huh-uh. Okay. See you then. Bye.’ Charlie disconnected and dropped the mobile on the bed. ‘Ciara says David’s on countdown to next weekend.’

  ‘Aye, we’ve a couple of gigs planned.’ Ferdia handed the beaker back to Charlie. ‘Sure, I’ll sort them lads out with cash. You can repay me whenever. What did you say the names were?’

  ‘I didn’t. Thanks, but we’ll figure’—Charlie coughed, the words stuck in his throat—‘it out.’

  ‘Who’s “we”?’

  ‘I meant me. It’s my mess. I’ll work it out.’

  Ferdia sensed an opening. ‘The rate’ll climb. Could be twenty grand by now.’

  ‘No. The balance includes interest.’

  ‘Betcha it doesn’t include compound interest, penalty interest, plus any other kinda feckin’ interest they can voodoo up.’

  ‘I’ll find a way—’

  Ferdia grabbed the mobile phone off the bed, turned away from Charlie’s grasp, and scrolled through the recent calls list.

  ‘Ferdia—’

  The Filipino nurse reappeared, stared hard. Ferdia scowled at Charlie and put a finger to his lips. �
��Shhh.’

  The nurse shook her head.

  ‘What’s the man’s name?’ Ferdia asked.

  Charlie deflated. ‘Dessie Dolan.’

  ‘How’d you find him?’

  ‘I didn’t. He found me.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘One day, out of the blue—’

  Charlie’s mobile rang again.

  ‘God almighty.’ Ferdia exhaled and tossed the phone to Charlie.

  ‘Ah, Sharona. Thanks for the call.’ Charlie had built his wall up again. ‘Indeed. Pure bad luck. What? Argh, a bit, but I’m … Of course. Drop by anytime, but I should be out in a few days. Say again? No. Thanks. I’ve everything I need. I am. Great care and attention. Sorry? The line is … Oh, right, that’s good. Where are you now? Ah. You should be there in less than an hour. You’ll get on well with Dorothy. Keep in touch. Thanks, Sharona. I will. You too.’ Charlie disconnected. ‘Where was I?’

  ‘One day, out of the blue,’ Ferdia said.

  ‘Oh yeah. A man called me—’

  ‘So you’ve a mobile—?’

  ‘Number withheld.’

  ‘Dessie Dolan?’

  ‘It was a voice. Could be anybody.’

  ‘You met him on Temple Street and he gave you money?’

  ‘Ahh, yeah.’

  ‘And you go back to Temple Street to make repayments?’

  ‘Um, sometimes.’

  ‘So, how’d the arrangement turn sour?’

  ‘I got a call. They … he wanted the balance paid in full. Thought I could negotiate.’

  ‘Huh. When’s the balance due?’

  ‘A week.’

  ‘Lemme see.’ Ferdia dug a mobile from his pocket. ‘A week from … so, that’s what? Next Tuesday?’

  ‘Wednesday.’

  Ferdia clicked the calendar app. ‘Wednesday, the sixteenth. Ten thou. Same spot?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Nine.’

  Ferdia yawned. ‘Leave it to me.’

  ‘What’ll you do?’

  ‘What do ya think I’ll do?’

  ‘Not sure, but the way you said that it sounded like a bulldog’s snarl.’

  ‘Nonsense. I’ll pay the man what he’s owed. That’s it. I don’t want you shelling out shekels for the rest of your life.’

  ‘Ferdia, I—’