Walking the Dog Read online

  The four of us walked the dogs in the nearby park.

  “Did you really fix his bank account? I asked Liam.

  He shot me a wicked grin. “Nothing too serious, but it will be a bit of a bind for him to sort it out,” he said.

  My head was buzzing from what we had learned. The stolen Ikons story had a ring of truth. What I couldn’t figure out was why Cornell had used the elaborate charade about foreign exchange in the first place. Niall pondered the question.

  “I can only surmise that he wanted you to believe he was still acting for the Government. He probably figured that an upright citizen like you would cooperate. It might have stretched your credulity if he’d told you that the UK Government was interested in helping the Chechens get their ikon back. And if he’d admitted he was freelance, you would have told him to take a hike and reported it to the police.”

  I supposed he was right. I should have felt better but somehow, I didn’t.

  “I’m sure he’s hiding something,” I said. Nobody argued, which was worrying in itself. “Well, I think we should go the police now,” I said.

  Liam grimaced. “I’d rather we didn’t if it’s all the same to you old, son. Niall and I wouldn’t really like to explain why we were disturbing the peace in rural Berkshire and it might not go down to well that we seem to have kept a couple of NATO souvenirs.”

  He patted the bulge under his jacket to indicate the Browning. “I’ve no doubt Cornell wouldn’t hesitate to drop us all in it, if he had the chance.”

  We walked on in silence for a while. Magic and Trotsky showed no ill effects from our adventures. Magic kept worrying at us to throw something for him. There had been no time to pack his usual toys so we found some sticks and spent half an hour hurling them into the distance for him to semi-retrieve. Trotsky, of course, was above such games but spent his time trying to bite Niall’s backside. This is a sign of acceptance among huskies. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed a good idea to go back to Norfolk. It would be far more difficult for the Chechens to blend into the background in a village of no more than fifty or so people and Angela’s cottage was completely exposed, on the coast with flat, bare land all around. I voiced this to the twins and they agreed.

  We wandered back to the car and then back to my house. I was relieved in the extreme to find it hadn’t been trashed.

  “They’d have expected you to have taken the ikon with you when we left,” said Niall.

  I burst out laughing. “Then they really are stupid! The ikon is safe in the vaults of Hervey’s and has been ever since that catalogue was printed. They had it brought to them for evaluation and once the sale was agreed, it would be kept on their premises. I can’t believe Cornell wouldn’t know that even if the Chechens didn’t.”

  Niall looked grim. “Then that begs the question – what were they after when they turned over Angela’s studio? It seems unlikely, as you say, that Cornell wouldn’t have known where the ikon was.”

  “That’s easy too. They were after documents of title, a receipt, a copy of the provenance, anything that might have tied Angela to the sale. Then they could lean on her to turn over the proceeds. They know it’s being sold, they just don’t know who by!”

  The twins’ faces showed enlightenment slowly dawning.

  “So let me get this straight,” Liam said, “The ikon is here in London at the auctioneers. The bad guys think Angela owns it and want to hit her for the money when it sells. Angela doesn’t know a thing about it but someone else does, from the catalogue description that ‘someone’ is a lady. You mentioned proof of ownership and some other stuff. Presumably a reputable firm like Hervey’s wouldn’t sell without knowing the history of the piece?”

  “In the world of the auction houses, reputation is everything. However, they wouldn’t be the first to sell a piece of dubious provenance or where the ownership was, shall we say, a little muddled? Of course, they have to have enough documentation to satisfy themselves that it’s kosher but they wouldn’t dig too deeply. The 10% commission on a seven-figure sale tends to provide answers to a lot of questions!

  “However, I wouldn’t mind betting that whoever is putting this up will have gone to some trouble to make it look whiter-than-white. There’s going to be huge interest in this sale – there always is when something fetches a big price at auction so you can expect some media attention. Hervey’s aren’t going to take a chance that some spectre at the feast will leap and say ‘I know that piece, it was stolen from such-and-such a collection!”

  “Any chance it’s a fake?”

  “Very, very little, Hervey’s will have had it appraised by the leading experts in the field. They may even have taken a sliver or two for dendrochronology and they would certainly have had it X-rayed and probably spectrum-analysed as well.”

  “Pardon my ignorance, old son, but what the fuck does all that mean?”

  “Dendrochronolgy is a method of dating the wood the thing’s painted on to make sure it wasn’t knocked up in Taiwan last week; something to do with matching ring-growth patterns in the original tree against known benchmarks. They can also use Radio Carbon dating. One sort of Carbon is mildly radioactive. Apparently you can tell something’s age by measuring the amount of radiation still present. The snag is that Carbon 14 dating isn’t that accurate. Something like plus or minus fifty or a hundred years. That doesn’t matter if you’re dealing with an ancient artefact from the ice age but if you’re trying to establish whether something is 13th or 14th Century, it doesn’t help much.

  “They use X-rays as a check to see if anything has been painted over. One of the cunning tricks of the forger is to take an old but worthless painting and slap their ‘ringer’ over the top. Thus the materials look the right age and make it harder to detect the fake. Spectrum analysis can tell you what exact compounds went into making up the pigments. Old artists used a lot of natural compounds they mixed up themselves. Modern pigments often contain synthetics as well, even if the forger tries to reproduce the original. It’s not foolproof but it can give a pretty good indication of the age of the paint used and is another element of proving that something’s real or fake.

  “After all that, the experts will look at the brushwork and any peculiarities that the artist or the school were known to have. Of course, the really great forgers can reproduce that kind of thing to an extent. The point really is, if Hervey’s are putting it up as genuine, then they are 100% convinced. If they are putting it up as ‘believed to be’ they are 99% certain. However, it’s still a case of ‘caveat emptor’ – let the buyer beware!”

  “How much could it go for?”

  “I’ve really no idea but if the black market price was really $5 million then it could be three or four times that.”

  There was a shocked silence all round. Niall gave a tight smile.

  “Enough to kill for, then,” he said. I could only nod.

  “People have been killed for loose change,” I replied.

  I was suddenly aware of something that had been nagging at me since we spoke to Cornell.

  “Look,” I said, “I’m no expert but how many 13th Century Russian ikons can there be in this world? If it’s as rare and expensive as it appears to be, someone, somewhere must know something about it. We need to speak to a specialist!”

  You don’t get too far in my line of work without getting to know the Inland Revenue very well and particularly the denizens of the Capital Taxes Office. The CTO have experts in just about anything. They can value any kind of asset known to man, from stamp collections to bloodstock. I’ll call Ted Allen first thing in the morning, he’ll know who the UK expert in Russian ikons is.”

  We packed up the things we need for an extended stay in Norfolk and I phoned Bernie to tell him I was taking a holiday early this year. He muttered some dark comments about ‘getting mixed up in stuff where you’ve no call to do so’ but agreed there wasn’t anything that he couldn’t hold for a while. It was now the beginning of December and the C
ity would be shutting down for the holidays pretty soon. Liam and Niall agreed I should take my car so Angela and I put our things in the Volvo and Magic and Trotsky hopped into the back in their accustomed place. The twins said they would be back mid afternoon so we all could all drive up together so, as soon as they arrived, we headed northwards.

  Since I’d deliberately told Cornell where we were going, there was no need to try and shake off any ‘tail’. As it happens, if there was one, I never spotted it and as soon as we left the main roads and headed into the sticks, there wasn’t another car to be seen. Angela had been pretty quiet so I asked her if there was anything wrong.

  “I am having some trouble understanding all of this,” she said. “I understand about the money but not why they make all this pretence.”

  “I think it’s probably as Niall or Liam said. Cornell wanted to me think it was all official so I’d cooperate if I knew anything. What we seem to have is at least one robbery, possibly two or three. I think the Chechens probably stole all the ikons from a monastery in the first place then someone, perhaps your father, stole it from them. Who knows what happened after that. Of course, it could be a coincidence and the ikon up for sale is not the one that went missing in St Petersburg or Tallinn or wherever; I doubt it somehow.”

  “Yes, I understand all that but you did not know my father. He was not a criminal. I know he would not be involved in this knowingly.”

  “How well did you know your father? I mean really know him. By your own admission, you haven’t been close lately.”

  “Yes, of course. Can one really know one’s parents? I will not claim I knew him, you say, inside out? I do know that he was soldier and he did some bad things in the name of the old regime. He once said to me ‘Angelika, I must do as they say. First it is my duty and second, they would hurt you and Vika if I do not.’ But he was never a bad man.”

  I took her hand and squeezed it lightly. I could sympathise even if not truly empathise. I was raised in liberal England. How different it must have been for her, growing up in a country under the yoke of the Soviet Union. To even describe herself as an Estonian rather than a Soviet Citizen would have been an offence. I could understand, too, her father’s position as a non-Russian in the Red Army. He would have been immediately suspect if anything ever went the slightest bit wrong. But why, then, did he stay in Russia after the collapse? I put that question to Angela.

  “It must have been because he could get work there. Probably be paid in hard currency. After the Soviet Union broke up, it was very hard in Estonia. All our industry was geared towards the Russians and what they wanted. We couldn’t compete in the West. Most people had no money and no jobs. I left because life was so bad.”

  “ What about Vika?”

  “She stayed. She had a man, was getting married. She talked of going to Finland or Sweden but we didn’t stay in touch much. She was angry with me for leaving, for wanting to be free of it all. We were not so close, as sisters. She is older than me by five years. And now she is dead!”

  I could see the tears welling up in those startling eyes and we drove on in silence. It was dark by now and I drove slowly through the narrow lanes. Angela had her eyes closed and her head was nodding forwards. I wasn’t surprised; we hadn’t slept much the previous night. This started me off thinking about sex.

  Making love with Angela had been an amazing experience. She fucked with the same intensity with which she sculpted. Inevitably, this drew me into making comparisons with Steph. There was no denying that Steph had a body to die for. She should have, she worked at it hard enough and what nature couldn’t accomplish, the surgeon and the beautician made up for. Her body was hard and smooth. She had prominent breasts that had had a little help; not enough so you could immediately spot them as fakes but enough to ensure they never drooped or sagged to the side when she lay down. Her nipples were small and pink and she had a golden all-over tan, with no lines, that told of hours spent in a solarium.

  As I said before, she had all her body hair removed with laser treatment. Her labia were slightly prominent and she had surgery to ensure they were perfectly symmetrical. Now that’s what I call vanity! She was not a generous lover. It was enough for her that she offered this perfect body for my worship. When we made love, it was very much for her benefit. It would be a lie to say I didn’t enjoy it. I did. I felt a tremendous sense of achievement when she arched her back and gasped into orgasm. Once she’d come a couple of times, she would rapidly lose interest and more than once I had to finish by hand with Steph yawning beside me.

  I became a past master at timing my own climaxes to coincide with hers or follow very closely behind. That was acceptable and worked best for us both. If I couldn’t manage it, well, that was my problem. Sadly, Steph was as selfish in bed as out. It was just something else that, loving her, I’d learned to deal with.

  Of course, I had only spent one night with Angela so far but, based on that, I was willing to bet she was the total opposite. Physically she was dark with pale skin and a luxuriant bush of pubic hair. Her breasts were completely natural and had swayed deliciously as she rode me. She had used her internal muscles to heighten my pleasure; and she had taken great pleasure in giving me pleasure. I knew it was only one time but I felt sure that she would be utterly different from Steph, generous and loving instead of demanding, soft and warm rather than hard and unyielding. Once again, an erection was straining my trousers. I couldn’t wait to find out!

  We pulled into the village and Liam and Niall let me overtake to lead the way to Angela’s cottage. It was a typical December evening with a cold east wind off the sea and we were all grateful to get inside. It wasn’t too much warmer in the cottage but at least it was out of the wind.

  Angela and I tidied up while Niall and Liam gathered firewood and lit the fire in the parlour. There was a back boiler in the flue, which heated the radiators. Once the fire was roaring up the chimney, it wasn’t too long before the place warmed up. Niall had brought a cooler full of food and I prepared dinner, assisted by Angela.

  “I really cannot cook so good,” she said. “When I was little, when my mother was still alive, she would teach Vika. Vika cooks very, very well. Me, well I always wanted to do something else. I would sit in my father’s workshop and watch him make things. It wasn’t a proper workshop, just an old shed with no heating. My father would make things for the house. My mother would see something that she wanted but we couldn’t buy so my father would make it.”

  “What was she like, your mother?”

  “Very sweet, very, oh, traditional, I think you would you say. She always thought that a woman’s job was to make the home for the man and the children. She always wanted a son but had Vika and me. She needed to look after someone. It made her feel, I think, valuable, somehow. Also, she was very brave.”

  “How so, brave?”

  “My father was away often. Sometimes he’d be gone for two or three months, sometimes two or three years. She never complained. She just tried to be mother and father both, if you understand me?”

  I thought of my own childhood. Packed off to Prep School at the age of seven, seeing my parents only in the holidays. First school, then University, then pupilage in Chambers down in Brighton. I spent my early years sweating on exam results. Common Entrance, ‘O’ Levels, ‘A’ levels, Degree, Bar Exams. Life had been a series of hurdles that had to be cleared. Of course, I was meant to feel privileged. One of the golden few for whom the secrets of success were revealed early and often. I don’t really know how I felt at that age; my experience was little different from that of my peers. I accepted it as ‘normal’. It was only later, at university perhaps, that I found myself unfitted for the real world. I knew little of the opposite sex, found it difficult to relate to people from other backgrounds. In summary, I was a social and emotional cripple.

  I tried to explain this to Angela as we chopped vegetables for the stew I was making. She gazed at me like I was from another planet.

&nbs
p; “So you mother and father, they sent you away when you were a baby?”

  “I wasn’t a baby, I was seven.”

  “Hah! That is still a baby. Why did they do that, were you very bad?”

  “No, it was the system in England. Well, it was the system if you had money.”

  “Much better to be poor, I think!”

  “I don’t suppose they ever questioned it. My father went through it and so did my mother. Their parents too, I expect. It was, well, a tradition. I know that my great-grandfather was at Ampleforth; his father too, probably.”

  “And you would do this to your child?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never had one so it hasn’t come up. It has its advantages too, you know.”

  “Hah! Advantages – like it makes you rich but leaves you unhappy? I would rather be not so rich but more happy. In Estonia, in the old days, some children, if they were good at sport or the ballet, they used to be taken from their families and sent to special schools. We used to hear that you in the West thought this was cruel, unnatural. Now you say people here did this from their own choice. It is unbelievable!”

  “I probably made it sound worse than it really was. We were very well looked after.”

  “As good as a mother would? I doubt it.”

  “Probably better than my mother could. She wasn’t really, well, ‘in to’ motherhood. I dare say she didn’t have much an example. I think the shock of having me was too much for her. She hasn’t really ever got over it. My parents were never ‘warm’ people. I suppose you might describe them as somewhat austere.”

  Angela gave an exaggerated shrug to show what she thought of this. I could see her thinking furiously. Her brow was furrowed in concentration and she scrubbed at a carrot with almost manic energy. It gave me a sudden insight into her nature. Angela, for all her independence and avant-garde work, was very much a traditionalist. Home and family ranked very highly with her. What must it have cost her to sever those links? She life was bad but it must have been really terrible for her to leave what she obviously held so dear.