A Night on the Orient Express (8 page)

Imogen had never really come into contact with Danny at school, but he had given her a lift home from a party once, when she had missed the last bus back from Filbury to Shallowford. The cheap wine she had drunk was swirling in her stomach. Her high heels were killing her. She couldn’t work out whether to hobble along with them pinching her toes and rubbing her heels, or to take them off and walk in bare feet on the freezing tarmac. The night air gripped her in an icy cloak that took her breath away. She thought about curling up in a barn, or even knocking on a door to ask for help. She was an idiot. How could she have missed the bus?

He’d pulled up next to her on his motorbike. ‘Wanna lift?’

‘I haven’t got a helmet.’ She realised how prim she sounded.

He looked at her, then took off his own and handed it to her.

She took it and put it on, feeling awkward. It was heavy and unfamiliar. As it closed over her head, she realised it was still warm from him. She breathed in the smell of burnt orange. She walked unsteadily towards the bike and hitched up her dress. It was so tight she would almost have to have it up round her knickers if she was going to get on. She shimmied onto the seat behind him, anxious about burning her legs on the hot metal, then found the footrests with her feet. She didn’t want to think about what would happen if they had an accident. She wouldn’t have a hope.

‘Hold on tight,’ he told her, and she grabbed two handfuls of his jacket. ‘Properly,’ he commanded. ‘Put your arms around my waist.’

She hunkered right into him. The leather of his jacket was rough on her cheek, and he was warm against her. The next minute the bike had started with a roar, and she felt as if her stomach was left behind as he accelerated off into the darkness of the night.

The journey was terrifying. The cold night air sliced at her legs. She had never travelled so fast. As they took each corner she shut her eyes in terror and clung on even tighter as the bike leant over. She was sure he was exaggerating every manoeuvre just to frighten her. She was convinced she was going to be killed.

At last, the lights of Shallowford were up ahead. She wanted to tell him to drop her at the top of the town so she could walk home alone. She didn’t want to be seen with him. But there was no way to communicate this as she didn’t dare let go. The bike roared up the high street. It must have woken every inhabitant.

At last he pulled up outside Bridge House. She climbed off. Her legs were weak with the tension and could hardly hold her up. She pulled her dress down as quickly as she could to cover her thighs, which were mottled almost blue in the lamplight. She tried to put her shoes back on but her feet were so cold it was painful.

‘You want to get in a warm bath,’ he told her. ‘And have a hot drink. Maybe some brandy.’

She blushed at his concern. They eyed each other for a moment as she wondered about asking him in. Adele would be fast asleep. She could make them cocoa in the kitchen. She imagined him sitting at the table, laughing inwardly at the bone china cups and the sugar tongs.

And realising that the kitchen window would be easy to smash. And that no one in the house would hear someone breaking in.

There was a long moment of silence. Expectation hung in the air, shrouded in the icy clouds from their breath. Imogen decided that she didn’t have the nerve.

‘Thank you,’ she managed eventually, handing back his helmet.

‘Any time.’ His eyes flickered over her for a moment, and she wondered what he was thinking. Before she could say anything else, he was gone, in a thunderous roar and a cloud of heady exhaust fumes.

A few weeks later, she heard he’d been arrested for handling stolen goods and was put away, and she was thankful for her caution. If she’d let him in, goodness knows what she would have unleashed. Nevertheless, in her quieter moments she relived the scene, wondering what might have happened, letting her mind wander, imagining his hands on her cold skin, the warmth of him under that leather jacket.

And now, here he was, wanting to browse around the gallery. She’d glimpsed him occasionally in the intervening years once he’d been released, roaring up the high street on his bike that was even bigger and better than the one she’d been given a lift on. No doubt purchased through ill-gotten gains.

‘Was there something particular you wanted help with?’ she asked him as politely as she could.

‘I like that painting in the window,’ he told her. ‘How much is it?’

She swallowed. She didn’t want to tell him. It was one of the most valuable pieces they had. She had agonised over putting it in the window, and now she wished she hadn’t.

‘I’m awfully sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid it’s sold. We sold it at the weekend.’

He frowned. ‘Oh. All right if I have a look round at the rest?’

She could hardly say no. ‘Of course. Let me know if you have any questions.’

He nodded, and began to walk around, the heels of his boots loud on the oak floorboards. Imogen began to feel nervous. He must be casing the joint. She imagined him and a bevy of his brothers sitting in some seedy pub making a plan to do the gallery over. They’d never get what the paintings were worth, unless they had contacts with some dodgy art dealer. Of course these existed, and she supposed it wouldn’t be beyond the wit of the McVeighs to find one. Or maybe they’d been commissioned to steal to order?

Her eyes flicked up to the camera in the corner of the gallery. She prayed it was working. She didn’t always check it every day. She felt sweat trickling down her neck. Could she sneak away and call the police? What would she say?

Maybe she should pick up the phone and call her grandmother? The gallery adjoined Bridge House. Adele was probably at home: if Imogen could drop a hint, she could get the police around. Why hadn’t they figured out some sort of code word for when they were in trouble?

Imogen flicked a glance over to Danny again. Age hadn’t troubled him in the least – if anything he was better-looking than when he was eighteen. More . . . manly. But still pretty. It was a devastating combination. He was staring at a still life of a wine bottle on a table.

‘I like this.’ His voice made her jump.

Imogen dragged her eyes away from his shoulders under the black leather of his jacket. It looked more expensive than the one she had pressed herself against on that treacherous journey home. Softer, more supple . . .

‘It’s by Mary Fedden,’ she managed. ‘It’s very collectable. It’s one of my favourites, actually.’

He glanced at her and for a moment she felt complicity between them. He seemed pleased by the fact that she liked it too.

‘How much?’

Imogen had no idea if he knew what ballpark they were in price-wise. He would either throw up his hands in horror and walk out, or prove something by buying it. Or come back later tonight and nick it.

‘It’s four thousand pounds,’ she told him.

‘Will you do a deal for cash?’

‘We don’t do
cash
.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone does cash.’

His eyes crinkled in amusement as he looked at her. Imogen felt a little bit warm under his scrutiny. She smiled sweetly.

‘If we do
cash
then I won’t be able to give you a proper receipt and you might have trouble selling it on.’

‘I don’t want to sell it on. I just want to buy it. Come on – they’re not exactly queuing up. You need a sale. You must have overheads.’

All this was certainly true. One of the many reasons Adele and she had agreed that selling up was the best option. ‘I can do you a little bit of a discount.’

‘Ten per cent?’

‘Five.’

‘Five?’ He didn’t seem impressed with this offer.

‘Your money’s safe in that painting. Mary Fedden’s very popular. And she died quite recently, sadly. Which will make her more collectable.’ Imogen reached out and touched the frame, adjusting it slightly so the picture was straight. ‘She taught David Hockney.’

He looked at her, raising a sardonic eyebrow. She wasn’t sure what it meant. Whether he meant
you know damn well I don’t know who David Hockney is.
Or
don’t patronize me.

‘Can you deliver? Only I can’t really take it home on the back of my bike.’

‘Of course. Are you local?’

He looked at her again. She blushed. He remembered her.

‘I’ve just rented Woodbine Cottage. On the Shallowford estate.’

Imogen was surprised. Shallowford Manor had a number of cottages on its land. Her friend Nicky organised the rentals, but Nicky hadn’t mentioned Danny McVeigh renting one. Woodbine Cottage was gorgeous – totally unspoilt, nestling in its own little wood. It had once belonged to the gamekeeper, but there was no longer a shoot on the estate.

‘Gosh,’ Imogen heard herself saying. ‘How lovely.’

Danny nodded. ‘It’s all right. But it needs a few bits and pieces to make it home.’

Imogen found it hard to imagine Danny McVeigh calling anywhere ‘home’. Home was such a . . . homey word. It spoke of soft cushions and drawn curtains and flickering candles. She could only imagine Danny dossing. Sprawled on a sofa somewhere, his longs legs stretched out, a bottle of beer on the floor somewhere. Although he didn’t smell like a dosser. Now he was near to her, he smelled of fresh clean laundry and woodsmoke and still that trace of burnt orange.

Imogen looked in astonishment as he pulled a wad of fifty-pound notes out of his pocket.

‘Um – there are money-laundering issues with that kind of cash, I’m afraid. I have to notify the relevant authorities—’

He stopped counting the money for a moment with a sigh.

‘Anyone would think you didn’t want to sell anything.’

‘I’m just saying.’

‘Notify whom you like. I haven’t got a guilty conscience. This isn’t dirty money. I’ve earned it with my own fair hands.’

Imogen looked down at his hands. Large, a little rough. Workman’s hands, but clearly used to counting money, his long fingers deftly sifting through the notes until there was a substantial pile on the table. ‘Do you charge extra for delivery?’ He held another fifty over the pile.

Imogen flinched. ‘No. No, of course not.’

He nodded and put the rest of the wad back in his pocket.

‘Will it be you bringing it?’

She wasn’t sure why he was asking the question, or how it was relevant.

‘Probably not. I have someone who handles that side of things.’

Well, she had Reg, her odd-job man, who did the odd bit of collecting and delivering for her, when she couldn’t leave the gallery.

‘Oh.’ He seemed disappointed. ‘Only I thought maybe you could tell me where to put it. I don’t know much about these things.’

His gaze was intense. She felt rather awkward.

‘That’s a very personal decision.’

He was making her nervous. He shrugged.

‘I just like the way you’ve made things look in here. It’s like . . . there’s nothing really in here but it feels . . .’ he spread out his hands, searching for a description. ‘Like somewhere you’d want to live.’

Despite her wariness, Imogen felt pleased. She’d worked hard to make the gallery inviting, while not distracting from the artwork. Neutral, but with a touch of warmth and a few details that lifted it from sterile to a place that held your interest.

‘Well, it’s mainly about choosing the right paint. That dictates the atmosphere. And lighting. Lighting is very important.’

‘I’ve just got a naked lightbulb swinging from the ceiling at the moment.’ For some reason hearing him say ‘naked’ made her blush. ‘So you wouldn’t mind giving me some advice? I can pay.’

‘I’m not an interior designer.’

‘No. But you’ve got an eye. You know what to do. I can see that.’

Imogen gazed at him, puzzled. Was this all part of the plan? To lure her away from the gallery so his dodgy relatives could break in?

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to get my mates to do the place over while you’re out.’

Her cheeks burned. ‘I didn’t think that!’ she protested.

‘I’ve got a house of my own for the first time in my life. I want it to look the part.’ He looked at her, suddenly defiant. ‘I’ve always wanted something from here. A real painting. A work of art. Something that someone has created.’

Imogen wasn’t sure what to say. She was taken aback by his honesty. And rather touched.

‘Well, you’ve definitely chosen well. I’m impressed.’

He held her gaze, frowning slightly.

‘I’m surprised you’re still in Shallowford. You always seemed like you had a future, when we were at school.’

She didn’t even think he’d noticed her when they were at school.

‘I’m not going to be here for much longer. My grandmother’s selling the gallery.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘I’ve got plenty of options.’

‘I bet you have. A girl like you must have a lot of contacts.’

She couldn’t quite discern what he was implying. Whether he was being genuine or sarcastic. She busied herself with the paperwork. She didn’t want to discuss her future, with him or anyone else. ‘I’ll bring some paint charts over with me when I bring the picture over, if you like.’ Why on earth had she said that? She wanted to get rid of him. He was making her feel awkward, with his perspicacious remarks. His scrutiny that she didn’t understand. Why start hitting on her now, twelve years later? If he was hitting on her. She simply couldn’t tell what his game was. She wrote out the receipt, then put it in an envelope and handed it to him.

‘How would tomorrow do? Some time in the afternoon?’

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Here’s my number. Call me if it changes.’

He handed her a card. Danny McVeigh, Security Solutions, it read. He grinned as she took in the irony.

‘Classic poacher-turned-gamekeeper, eh?’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a free consultation. Any time. Though I suppose it’s too late. But just so you know, those cameras you’ve got are rubbish. Any burglar worth his salt would have them deactivated in a nanosecond.’

He left her staring from the card to the cameras, speechless. The door shut behind him. She felt unsettled. He’d left her with a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach that she couldn’t identify – a mixture of nerves and fear and . . .