Hiding in Plain Sight Read online

  ‘God, no. That’s way beyond my price range.’

  ‘Oh, stop. Quality beats price. Besides, it’s all about cost per wear, and I need a handbag. The bigger the bag, the thinner you look. Don’t worry, Louise will tog you out like a princess.’

  ‘I couldn’t—’

  ‘Ach, give my head peace, girl. God knows when I’d have noticed my McKelvey was a dud. As I’ve said, I’ll never sell it, so only for you … When this hits the headlines, and mark my words I’ll make sure it does, you’ll stand beside me and take full credit for spotting it. Now, dear, let me make a few calls. Then we’ll shop.’

  Evening

  Kathleen Fallon held a single wheel tin opener in one hand, a can of tomatoes in the other. When Hugh came in, her frown changed to a smile. ‘For the life of me, I can’t figure out how this works.’

  ‘Here, let me.’

  ‘Have you time to drive me to the shelter? I can’t find my car keys, and we have to organise food for the poor souls.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re able—?’

  ‘I’m sure. Can you take me, or will I call a taxi?’

  ‘I’ll go with you, Ma. Remember I’m going to Dublin later? Are you okay on your own tonight?’

  ‘You never mentioned Dublin, but I’m fine. Now, let’s go. And I need to do some shopping.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘And if you’ve got time, I want you to look at my bank statements. Someone’s stealing money from my account.’

  ‘I don’t … yes, Ma. We’ll do that.’

  ‘Where did you say you were going?’

  ‘Dublin.’

  ‘What’s in Dublin?’

  ‘I’ll visit Charlie McGuire, then I’m going to a party with Ferdia.’

  ‘Oh.’

  At a corner shop, Hugh bought three packs of cigarettes to distribute later.

  A dozen homeless people shuffled in circles outside the hostel, stooped and hunched against the freezing fog.

  ‘There but for the grace of God, Hugh. Any of us could end up in their shoes.’

  Kathleen instructed Hugh to prepare food while she helped the group select clothes donated by the public. She was back in her element, helping the less well off. Once the men got food, they picked a corner or table for themselves, except for a cluster of five who chatted, heads bent in secret conspiracy.

  Hugh divided out the cigarettes. Each smoker stripped the tobacco, pulled out packs of Rizla papers and fashioned four smokes from each original single. Most disappeared outside to satisfy their nicotine cravings, the rest sat staring into space, thinking their own thoughts. Hugh prepared emergency-use dormitory beds, and when other volunteers took over for night duty, Kathleen and Hugh drove across town to a supermarket. The soupy fog had dissipated, but squalls of sleety rain made people scurry for shelter. Hugh found a space in Meadow’s supermarket car park and linked his mother into the centre.

  January sales were in full flow.

  The December credit card bills hadn’t arrived yet—time enough to panic at the end of the month. Men clutched an assortment of bags, fingers swollen from lugging bulky bargains, and trailed three steps behind their partners. A rabble of teenage rebels, driven indoors by the chill, pushed and jostled each other as they clustered and converged in the walkways—a hostile zone for anyone not in their age bracket.

  ‘What do you need, Ma?’

  ‘Carrots.’

  Hugh grabbed a basket and moved towards the vegetable section. Kathleen caught his arm and pointed. ‘That lady. She’s robbed our vegetables. Wait here.’

  Kathleen marched across the aisle, plucked the carrots out of the woman’s trolley and held her prize aloft. ‘Now, what else?’ She placed the carrots in Hugh’s basket. ‘Oh yes, marmalade.’ Kathleen moved away.

  Hugh transferred the vegetables back to the woman’s trolley. ‘I apologise. My mother …’ He shook his head. ‘She thought you were—’

  The woman patted his arm. ‘Take care of her.’

  ‘I will. Thanks for understanding.’

  What the hell brought that on? Hugh wondered. He snatched up another bag of carrots and dashed by shoppers, distracted by his mother’s actions. Swerving round an aisle, he could see the anxiety in Kathleen’s eyes as she scrutinised shoppers’ faces. When she glimpsed Hugh, the smile reappeared. ‘What did I say I needed?’

  ‘Marmalade.’

  Kathleen reached for a jar, brushed against another. Glass exploded in the aisle. An assistant rushed to mop up the mess. ‘How clumsy of me, Mrs Furlong.’ Kathleen said to a shopper who guided her away from the broken glass. ‘Sorry,’ she called over her shoulder to the shop assistant. ‘That’s Mrs Furlong.’ Kathleen stage-whispered to Hugh. ‘Poor woman. She has Alzheimer’s, you know.’

  At the checkout, children wailed as they were tugged away from the confectionery section. Kathleen’s bill came to under fifteen euro. She handed in a hundred euro note.

  ‘Ma, you’ve two tens in your purse, don’t break the hundred.’

  ‘I need change.’

  At home, Hugh examined the bank statements again. ‘See?’ he pointed. ‘That’s your pension in, and your debits out. It’s all in order.’

  ‘Hmm. I still think there’s something wrong.’

  After, he combed the house for the car keys, eventually finding them in a bathroom cabinet.

  -----

  ‘Maurice?’

  ‘Ciara? Nice to hear from you again. How has your day been?’ The art dealer discarded the bow tie he was knotting and sat at the desk in his Herbert Park Hotel bedroom.

  ‘Hectic. I’ve built another snowman. Not any old one this time. David’s so exact. Hah, guess where he gets that from? He’s put two pieces of coal for the eyes, wedged branches into the body for arms and sellotaped sticks onto them for fingers. Perhaps he’ll be an engineer.’

  ‘No doubt he’d be a success. I’ve a seven-year-old nephew, and boy, can he tire me out. It’s non-stop whenever he visits, or when we go on zoo trips. No idea where he finds the energy. On the plus side, if I want to record a TV programme, I ask him. Technology holds no fear when you’re seven. I believe it’s vital we spend quality time with children. How else will they learn?’

  You’re talking too much again. Let her talk.

  The art dealer waited.

  ‘About tomorrow,’ Ciara said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If the offer still stands, I’ll take you up on lunch.’

  The art dealer relaxed. ‘Excellent. Where suits you? I don’t mind meeting in Ganestown. Gambadini’s, perhaps?’

  ‘Gambadini’s is nice.’

  ‘One o’clock? One-thirty?’

  ‘Maybe a bit earlier? David’s planned a¡… Twelve-thirty?’

  ‘Twelve-thirty it is. I look forward—’

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  The art dealer’s eye twitched. ‘Sure.’

  ‘When we spoke earlier, you said you left Belfast, but in your last mail, on Thursday, you wrote that you were in Cork?’

  The art dealer frowned, stood, and paced the bedroom.

  ‘Which was it?’ Ciara asked. ‘Or were you in both? I’m not trying to catch you out, Maurice, just curious, in the interest of candidness and candour.’

  The art dealer stared out the window.

  Bitch.

  He gave a short laugh. ‘And there’s a classic example of why men can’t multi-task, Ciara. I was in Cork last Thursday and Friday. Got a flight back to Dublin this morning, and I’m travelling to Belfast on Monday. I was booking my flight when I phoned you, and Belfast was in my head.’

  ‘Oh? I didn’t know you could still fly direct from … never mind.’

  ‘Sorry for the confusion,’ the art dealer said.

  ‘No big deal,’ Ciara said. ‘Happens to me all the time. So, twelve-thirty tomorrow?’

  ‘Great. Hope I recognise you. If I appear anxious, it’s because I haven’t used this modern way of meeting people before.’r />
  ‘I’ll be in a similar boat, but I keep telling myself it’s normal for two people to have lunch together. Any plans for tonight?’

  ‘I’m attending—’

  ‘Oh, I remember. You’re taking clients to the theatre. Right?’

  ‘… Y-es.’

  ‘Well, have a great night. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘See you then, Ciara, and thank you for the call.’

  ‘Bye.’

  The art dealer stared at his phone. The darting pain behind his eye warned of an oncoming migraine.

  How could I muddle up two cities? Trying too hard to be clever with the patronising bitch. I wanted this to be a challenge. Have to be careful. Don’t get overconfident.

  He took a tennis ball from the bedside locker and squeezed.

  What clues has she given me? Athletic. Uses gym. Lives in a cottage. Isn’t afraid to attempt new projects. Listens and remembers things. Asks questions. Besotted with her son, David. I can make that work for me. If I knew her address, I’d skip this crummy ball and grab her now. But all in good time, Ciara, you candid, condescending whore.

  Night

  Waiters, hoisting trays of cocktails shoulder high, dotted the packed foyer of the Herbert Park Hotel.

  A pianist tinkled old favourites to indifferent partygoers. Hugh threaded his way through masses of alpha males harnessed into dress suits, tuxes fastened tight as nooses. Starched collars dug into bulging necks, and shirt buttons strained to retain rolls of flesh. Women, outnumbered three to one, swished and swayed between the men, oozing glamour in floor-sweeping silk and satin ball gowns.

  In the bedroom, Hugh changed into formal wear. The last event he’d worn the dress suit was to a Halloween party with Eilish. He rang Kathleen.

  ‘Where are you, Hugh?’

  ‘Dublin. I told you—’

  ‘Oh, yes. Go enjoy the night.’

  ‘See you in the morning, Ma.’

  At the bar, Ferdia raised a whiskey glass, said ‘sláinte,’ tilted, swallowed the amber liquid and gestured at the barman. ‘Repeat the dose.’ His booming voice and hearty laugh drew a crowd like pins to a magnet.

  ‘Hello, stranger.’ Sharona tapped Hugh’s shoulder. She wore a black sleeveless dress, hair sculpted into an urbane style.

  ‘Hi, yourself. Didn’t expect to see you here, thought you were in Belfast. Drink?’ Hugh scooped cocktails from a waiter’s tray.

  Sharona sipped. ‘Just what I need. You won’t believe my life over the last thirty-six hours.’

  ‘Art gig finished?’ Hugh asked.

  ‘Umm, yes and no.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘See, Charlie’s friend, Dorothy Ridgeway, realised one of her paintings was missing. We found it, but guess what, it’s not her original. Somebody from Hattinger’s Art House swapped the genuine piece for—’

  ‘Jesus. Fraud?’

  ‘Big time.’

  ‘You sure it wasn’t a copy all along? And Dorothy never knew the difference?’

  ‘Positive. It was forged in the last week. I could still smell the paint. I’d say Dorothy didn’t inspect it when Hattinger’s manager “found” it. Why would she? She trusts, err, trusted the staff, and is delighted to see her canvas back. Dorothy’s sharp as a razor, but when people you rely on break trust …’ Sharona shook her head. ‘In time she’d have spotted it as a plant, but it happened I was there and noticed something wrong first. When you meet her, you’ll see what I mean. Nobody builds up the quality and quantity of art and antiques that Dorothy’s acquired by not having a tough interior hidden under layers of designer clothes. And her house? Oh my God, don’t get me started on the house. We’re heading back in the morning to give the PSNI our statements, and an art detective from Dublin will sit in on the meeting. Dorothy chartered this trip down on a private plane. Cool, or what?’

  ‘Classy. So, is it an inside scam?’

  ‘Brief version: Dorothy had Hattinger’s value her art collection, and we think one of the appraisers switched an expensive original for a doctored photograph. Earlier, a detective suggested that Dorothy tells Hattinger’s people she’s thrilled the painting’s found.’

  ‘Sounds like a sting. Trap bait. Wonder if it was a once-off, or an ongoing con. Could this turn out to be more than one swapped painting?’

  ‘God, I haven’t the energy to reason it out, but yeah, doubtful if this is the first con job.’

  ‘Looks as if you’re at the coal face of unearthing a major swindle,’ Hugh said. That’ll be …’ he nudged Sharona. ‘To your left. Friends of yours.’

  ‘Who?’ Sharona turned.

  ‘Malcolm and—’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake. Milo bloody Brady.’

  Milo bloody Brady came over. ‘How’d you get in?’ he moved into Sharona’s personal space, his back to Hugh.

  ‘None of your business.’ Sharona stepped back. ‘How’d you get by security?’

  ‘Official invite. See?’ Milo pulled a crumpled ticket from his pocket.

  ‘Pity whoever gave you the ticket forgot to mention it’s a Black Tie ball. You seem a tad out of place in jeans, T-shirt and blazer.’

  ‘Who cares? Heard you and Mal split up. Err, you staying here tonight? What room—?’

  ‘Drop dead, Milo, but do it outside so we won’t have to clean up the mess.’

  ‘Don’t be like that.’ Milo caught Sharona’s arm. ‘Let’s go to the bar.’

  ‘Let’s not.’ Sharona shook his hand away.

  A bell clanged.

  The crowd surge ferried the trio forward, then pushed them apart at the bottleneck around the ballroom entrance. Inside the banquet hall, a whiteboard showed the guest’s names and table numbers. ‘Six and seven,’ Hugh read. ‘For tonight, Ridgeway and McGuire have amalgamated.’

  ‘Aww, crap.’ Sharona aimed her drink glass at the board. ‘Are Milo and Malcolm seated with us?’

  Hugh pointed further down the list. ‘Yep.’

  ‘Double crap. This could get real awkward, fast. Milo’s a dickhead.’

  ‘What’s with ye two? That was an interesting conversation. You went through him like a dose of salts. I didn’t even know he existed till a few days ago.’

  ‘Can’t stand the creep,’ Sharona said. ‘Lately, no matter where I turn, he seems to be there.’

  ‘Milo a stalker? I don’t think—’

  ‘Haven’t a clue what makes him tick, but I know how to make him explode. What room am I in? Cheek of him. Floating ’round the place like a bad pong. And them clothes? I’ve seen better dressed wounds. Odious little man.’

  ‘Ignore both of them.’

  The room filled up. Four chairs remained unoccupied when the waiters served appetisers.

  Dorothy appeared and monopolised the conversation. ‘I love this hotel. The food is always magnificent, and the service … Ferdia! Come here. I couldn’t get near you in the bar.’

  Ferdia rammed his bulk between tables and grabbed Dorothy. ‘Told you I’d have the first dance.’ They managed an awkward pas de deux around the table, toppling a few wine glasses in the process, then Ferdia jammed into a spare chair between Sharona and Dorothy. ‘My Sharona, he said.’

  ‘Great tune, Ferdia.’

  Ferdia hummed the song’s bass intro and grabbed a bread roll. ‘Did I ever tell you ’bout the time I met Doug Fieger, the man who wrote it? Sharona’s an actual person. Sharona Alperin. Doug penned the song for her, and they became a couple. Heard he died a while back …’

  Thrums of conversation reverberated around the room as circling waiters swirled and swooped to top up wine glasses, clear plates and proffer the next course with theatrical flourishes, under the general manager’s watchful gaze.

  Malcolm and Milo’s seats remained free.

  Afterwards, the guests mingled and Hugh escaped for fresh air. In the foyer, Ferdia pulled away from a group and swerved into Hugh’s path. ‘Glad you made it. What diya reckon ’bout this shindig?’ Ferdia was well on the way to gettin
g drunk.

  ‘Great meal. And you crammed into the suit.’

  Ferdia patted his gut. ‘No problem. Dumped two bottles of rubbing alcohol and a bag of Epson salts into a boiling hot bath, lathered meself in a moisturising cleanser and jumped in.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Aye. An old boxer’s trick. Couple hours in the tub slashed off half a stone.’

  ‘And then you go eat a feast.’

  Ferdia’s long burp sounded similar to a trumpet blast. ’Twas a nice bit of beef. Too much feckin’ cutlery though. I’d several spare knives and a fork left over. See Malcolm yet?’

  ‘Saw him at the bar earlier. With Milo.’

  ‘Wonder they didn’t appear for the grub.’

  ‘Mustn’t be hungry. You okay? You seem—’

  ‘Argh, it’s been a rough day. I’m whacked after the weight cut. Should’ve done it during the week. I’ve rallied now, after a scoop or five of Arthur’s finest. It boils down to pacing yourself. I’m gonna shoot across to Ambrose Hattinger in a minute, for a chat.’ Ferdia winked. ‘Hear the latest? Dorothy was telling me ’bout the doctored photograph?’ Ferdia tapped his nose.

  ‘Jesus, Ferdia. Say nothing. You—’

  ‘I’ll introduce you.’

  ‘I don’t want an introduction. They’ve got damn all to do with me. Or you.’

  ‘It’ll be grand.’ Ferdia winked again, zipped his lips with a thumb. ‘Mum’s the word.’

  A woman in a low-cut red dress caught Ferdia’s arm. ‘Jim wants to talk with you.’

  Ferdia put an arm around her shoulder. ‘Let him wait. First, we’ll have a drink.’ He pushed nearer the bar. ‘What’s your poison?’

  ‘Oh, Corona with a slice of lime. Thanks.’

  Ferdia called for the beer and nodded to his own glass. The bartender slid drinks across the counter. The woman removed the sliver of lime wedged in the bottle neck and wrapped it in a napkin. ‘I save the limes,’ she said, ‘so I can keep count of my drinks.’

  ‘Me too,’ Ferdia said, ‘ ’cept I use ice cubes. Tell me, did you hear the one ’bout an Englishman, a Frenchman, and a Russian oligarch …?’

  Hugh eyed Malcolm McGuire approach the counter, hemmed in by half-a-dozen jostling pals. Milo hung on the periphery. He spotted Hugh staring at him, did an abrupt about-face, dodging and twisting between the bodies pouring towards the bar. Hugh watched Malcolm peeled fifty euro notes off a bulky wad, gave them to the barman and waved his arm to the circle of hangers-on, demonstrating the drinks were on him.