Kiss Me Quick (20 page)

Vogel did not flinch at this. There were no shocked
reverberations
and flesh-quakes. He sat perfectly still and said, ‘What brings you to this conclusion?

Vince leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped together, giving Vogel a browbeating stare. ‘When I saw you talking to Pierce, he did everything but get on his knees to you. You had him eating out of your hand.’

A single knock at the door and the effete assistant entered with a large white cake box and placed it before Vogel, and then left. Vogel opened the box, dipped his hand in, grabbed a handful of cheesecake and shovelled it into his mouth. He then fixed Vince with a baleful glare.

Vince met it with a relaxed smile. ‘Like I said, eating out of your hand.’

Vogel ignored him and guzzled more fistfuls of cake. Through the glut of cheesecake, he said, ‘I did … warn you … Detective … Treadwell.’

‘I’m just glad you didn’t order the soup.’

Vogel took a big swallow that Vince was convinced could be heard across town, and said, ‘Well, sir, if you don’t like it …’

Vince stood up and made his way to the door. ‘Oh, one last thing. I saw Dickie Eton leaving the shop. May I ask what
business
you have with him?’

Vogel gave a wearisome sigh, licked the cheesecake off his fingers, twisted around in his chair, pulled down a slim reference book from the shelf and plopped on the desk. ‘Page forty-seven.’

Vince went over to the desk, picked the book up and flicked through to page forty-seven. Vogel, a greasy thumb in his mouth, smiled when he saw that Vince had found the right page, and the fat man said, ‘Shocking, don’t you think?’ Vince had seen worse. A lot worse. Working vice in Soho, you did, but never on such finely struck pieces of enamelled jewellery, silver snuffboxes or paintings. It was a reference book of antique pornographic and erotic art.

Vogel continued, ‘Mr Eton does have exotic tastes. Some of these pieces have come on the market through a private source, and Mr Eton wants me to appraise and authenticate them for him.’

Vince’s eye fell upon one piece in particular, an oil on canvas, that took his interest and seemed familiar: two black men raping a white girl. The painting wasn’t impressionistic; it was blunt, brutal, photographic and pornographic. Looking at it, Vince was back in Soho, in the projection room: the white light, the silver screen, the junkie-thin blonde with the knife to her throat. Vince put the book on the table. ‘Is this for sale?’ he asked, pointing at the picture.

Vogel looked at the illustration, ‘I believe it is. You have
excellent
taste. This is the most expensive item in the collection, and the one piece that Mr Eton is prepared to go to the limit for. It’s by Jacob Radlington, 1747 to 1789, and an artist of the Royal Academy.’

Vogel leaned back in his chair, spreading his hands across the great expanse of his waistline. He looked ruminative and relaxed now, within his field of knowledge, hostilities temporarily assuaged. ‘A tragic figure, Radlington fell foul of John Barleycorn. Ended up living in squalor in Deptford, reduced to hawking his wares around the taverns he frequented, sometimes exchanging them for just the price of a drink. Tell me, sir, do you know much about art?’

Vince smiled at the thought of his conversation with Bobbie about the painting of the French soldier. ‘I have a friend who works at Sotheby’s auction house, who tells me just enough to impress the girls with, should the need arise. But not really.’

Vogel met the detective’s honesty with a hearty laugh. ‘I see, very good, sir. Very good. Well, as you can imagine, Radlington’s original landscapes, with their subtle play on light and nature, held little interest for his new boozy public. So he turned to a baser art form: no other word for it but pornography. Note the shackles on the Negroes’ ankles. This was painted at the height of the slave trade. A “trade” that was a blight on humanity, when man’s morality was at its lowest. This image of Negroes raping a white girl exploited the white man’s basest instincts and fears of the day. In other words, if they were set free or to break their shackles, this would be the inevitable result. The oppressor becoming the oppressed? The artist played on his clientele’s prejudices, anxiety and stupidity.’

‘I’m afraid not a lot has changed in two hundred years, then,’ said Vince, still not looking up from the painting reproduced on the page.

‘Indeed not, sir. Note, if you will, the hint of ecstasy playing on the girl’s lips, which panders to the baser male instincts. It suggests that the woman is enjoying it; that all women enjoy it. Remember, when we view a painting, we are never strictly impartial or objective observers. Ultimately we put ourselves somewhere inside the picture. And this painting, no matter how unpleasant, does as all works of art do: it gives the viewer several choices. Note that the shackles on their ankles are not broken, so these slaves have not escaped. No, sir, this painting could only have been painted by a white man, and not just because of the formal European aesthetics of the brushwork, but because of its very warped
outlook
. He puts us in the picture, all right, and asks us who we are. Are you one of the Negroes raping the woman? Or are you the master of these Negroes, somewhere just out of view, but
sanctioning
the rape for one’s own perverse gratification? And that’s what makes it truly pornographic, and therefore of little value to the legitimate art world – only to a certain type of collector.’

Vogel had assumed a wistful expression, as if saddened to look at this image. ‘As for the painter of this aberrational eyesore, what a terrible existence. He was a fine and gifted artist; like all great artists, a man who was truly touched by the hand of God. His brushwork and the use of light in his landscapes are exquisite, and yet he was reduced to this. Driven there by his addictions and despair.’

‘They’re usually one and the same thing.’ Vogel nodded in silent agreement and put the book back on the shelf. ‘Like I said, not a lot has changed in two hundred years.’

‘I take it, Detective, you are talking about those three young people who died in Kemp Town?’

‘That I am.’

Vince searched Vogel’s face for clues, for signs of guilt perhaps, but nothing jumped out at him. The man’s face bore the impartial protocol of sadness, and a sense of bewilderment for their fate. Much as there had been for Jacob Radlington’s squandered talent and ruined life.

‘Yes, a shocking business,’ said Vogel. ‘But you’re right, Detective, nothing is new in this world, and we learn little as we stumble blindly through life.’

On that jolly note, Vince decided to head for the door. ‘Well, I hope you get a good price for your client, Mr Vogel.’

‘Detective, may I turn the tables on you and ask a question?’

‘Be my guest.’

‘Do you know who you are?’ asked Vogel.

Vince tensed up. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Do you know who you are in that painting? Where
you
stand in the picture, Mr Treadwell?’

‘Detective Treadwell.’

‘Sorry, Detective.’

‘Yes, I’m standing at the door. And I’m about to tear it down and then put an end to it all.’ Vince swung the door open and exited.

Terence was dutifully at his post in the pub opposite as Vince walked in.

‘What happened?’ Terence asked, with a half-sunk pint of cider in his hand.

Vince sat down at the table, his mind not on the question but on the painting Vogel had just revealed. From the shop to the pub, Vince had weighed up the art-history lecture, and found he agreed with Vogel’s critique of both the painter and the human condition. He broke out of his reverie and put a question of his own, more to himself than to Terence. ‘If Vogel is Jack’s money man, and Jack is on the run, it’s safe to assume that Jack’s going to need him more than ever now, right?’

‘Er, right.’

Vince stood up, hit by two new thoughts. Jack’s library – why conceal it if it didn’t hold something that he didn’t want anyone to know about? The other thought, best kept quiet for now – Murray the Head.

‘Terence, d’you drive?’

‘Yes. And no.’

Vince rolled his eyes. ‘Which one is it?’

‘I can drive, but I don’t have a licence.’

‘But you can drive?’

‘But I don’t have a licence.’

Vince gave him a manful slap on the back. ‘I didn’t hear the last bit, so here’s what I want you to do. I want you to stay here and keep your eyes peeled on Vogel’s activities.’ Vince took out his notepad and scribbled down Bobbie’s phone number, tore out the leaf and put it on the table. He then took out his car keys and dropped them on top of the piece of paper. ‘If he leaves, I want you to follow him.’

‘Tail him?’ Terence asked excitedly.

‘Yes, tail him. Then call me at this number and I’ll meet you, OK?’

‘Where are you going?’

‘We’re switching roles. You get to do the fun stuff. I’m going to the library to stick my head in some books.’

Vince took a taxi to Adelaide Crescent. The street-entrance door was locked, no surprise, since he’d told Bobbie to call a locksmith and get it fixed. He rang the bell, Bobbie answered and he was buzzed in.

She answered the door of the flat, still clad in the
white-towelling
dressing gown with the initials JR over the breast pocket. There was an awkwardness between them: they didn’t embrace or kiss. Their relationship now occupied that charged hinterland of expectation and awkwardness. Vince followed her into the kitchen, where she made them some coffee. He sat down at the kitchen table and told her about his visit to Vogel. Then asked her if she knew whether Jack was involved in pornography.

Turning away from him, she said, ‘I thought you were finished with the case.’

‘There’s something else. Sit down.’

Bobbie did as she was told. She could sense that he was troubled, and said, ‘I trusted you. You can trust me.’

He did. He took a deep breath, and then told her about Soho, about Duval, Eddie Tobin, the private cinema, what he saw on the silver screen, about the man who entered the projection room, the coma that she already knew about and why he was sent down here. He laid out the whole deal.

When he was done, she took a deep, thoughtful breath, then said, ‘These films – I know Jack wouldn’t get involved in anything like that.’

‘Can you be so sure? After everything you know about him?’

‘Jack wouldn’t hurt a woman.’

‘He already takes a cut from every pimp and whorehouse in town. Wouldn’t hurt a woman – do you know how naïve that sounds?’

‘Maybe so, but what you saw in Soho is different, just … just evil. I just know he wouldn’t.’

Vince didn’t have time to argue the point. He stood up. ‘I need to make a call, then I need to look in Jack’s library.’

‘Why?’

‘To see what his tastes in art are like.’

She sighed, then gave him the nod.

Vince gave her an appreciative smile, then went into the living room to make the phone call. ‘Ray, it’s Vince.’

‘Vince, how are you?’

‘Any news?’

‘I’ve sent the mugshot of Regent over to Interpol in Marseilles. It’s an old photo but, assuming he’s not been home in a few years, it may still do the trick.’

‘Good. Ray, I need a favour: Eddie Tobin’s address.’

There was a tense questioning silence before Ray finally put the question, ‘Why?’

‘I came across a connection, Max Vogel, an antique dealer down here. He’s tied in somehow with Regent, maybe his money man. He deals in pornographic art.’

‘I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like.’ Ray laughed.

‘You wouldn’t like these. Vogel showed me a book that had a painting in it that was up for sale. Private seller – wouldn’t tell me who it was. It’s by an artist called Jacob Radlington: two black slaves raping a white girl. A blonde white girl. It’s very similar to what I saw in Duval’s place.’

‘A painting?’

Vince replied impatiently, ‘No, Ray, on the screen!’

Ray Dryden caught the edge in Vince’s voice. ‘OK, OK, I’m with you. How old is the painting?’

‘1780s.’

Ray Dryden let a very sceptical silence swell, before he said, ‘I heard there were Mods and Rockers rucking on the beach in Brighton, so are you going to make a connection with the Bayeux Tapestry?’

‘I don’t believe in coincidences in police work, and neither do you.’

‘Vince, you were told to stay away from Tobin, from the whole thing. That’s why they sent you down there, you know that.’

‘You gonna help me out or what?

‘Listen, Vince, you told me what you saw, and I believe you. But don’t muddy the waters, blot your copybook or piss on your chips, for that matter! If you can just find Jack Regent and we can tie him in with the Unione Corse heroin connection, you’ll be doing yourself and your career a big favour. Don’t get
sidetracked
by the Soho thing.’

‘Ray, I’m not getting sidetracked. Like I said, I don’t believe in coincidences. I believe that it’s all connected and we just have to work it out.’

There was another protracted and uncertain silence. Followed by a swift decision: ‘Consider it done. But if you do find him, not a word about me.’

‘You have to ask?’

‘And promise me nothing will happen to him.’

Vince heard genuine concern in Ray’s voice and repeated, ‘You have to ask?’

* * *

Wincing in discomfort, Vaughn Treadwell stood in the concourse of Brighton train station, holding a bunch of wizened daffodils wrapped in newspaper, and admiring his new shoes. The flowers were wizened because he’d bought them cheap off a barrow. He himself was wincing because the new shoes were too small. They were the last pair of their style in the shop, and the woman had assured him that they would ‘give’. Vaughn had fallen in love with them the minute he’d set his beady little mincers on them. Italian loafers, they were the kind of shoes Cary Grant would wear,
without
socks; or Frank and the boys when playing at the Sands in Vegas. Soft brown-suede loafers with tassels. Class. He’d bought them with his winnings at the races. It made them even sweeter.

Vaughn looked up at the board announcing departures and arrivals. The slats flapped over to reveal that the train he was
waiting
for was running an hour late. A voice over the public-address system confirmed this. Vince looked down at the flowers, which didn’t appear to have an hour left in them. He knew a place close by, and he knew the stuff they peddled was good. Good as in it was not the bad stuff that was currently doing the rounds and killing people. He knew that for a fact. He’d been good, he thought; he’d promised the girl he wouldn’t indulge, not without her at least. They had made a pact.
Together
they could control it, look out for each other. It brought them closer. It brought them into soft focus. They needed the warmth that flowed through them whenever they were on it; it gave them comfort, solace. He looked up at the station clock. He had time, he reckoned. All the time in the world.

Vince was on his knees. Half the books in the concealed library were on the floor with him. The books were already arranged in order of subject. He took each book and carefully flicked through it, hoping that something would jump out at him. Or, better, that there might be some information written on a piece of paper hidden between the pages. Art took precedence over Literature, while Geography and Travel took precedence over History, Politics and Philosophy. He thought Jack might have the whole story here in the books spread out across the library, encompassing a whole range of subjects, coded and unbreakable.

He picked up a reference book on British artists of the Royal Academy, all alphabetically listed with a short précis of their lives and works. He found the reference for Jacob Radlington. High praise for his landscapes and portraits. No mention of his not-
so-legit
works, his rapes, orgies, sodomies, paedophilia and the such. And a clear reference to him dying impoverished as an addicted opium user. And yet Vogel, who seemed so well read on the artist, had made no reference to the De Quinceyan route Radlington had gone down. Was it maybe too close to the bone for him?

Bobbie dutifully brought him in cups of tea every fifteen minutes. Laid them down on the floor, then stood by the door for a few moments, watching him go about his work, making his notes, cross-referencing, looking up different subjects. To Bobbie it appeared like detective work. She enjoyed watching him, as it was somehow soothing and reassuring: a man with purpose and intelligence diligently and methodically carrying out his duty. He had a look of intense concentration about him. She’d made him six cups of tea so far, but three had gone un-drunk and cold, so caught up was he in his work. She was just wondering how long he’d continue kneeling there, when the phone rang.

She went into the front room and answered it. But before she could even ask who it was, Vince had grabbed the phone from her.

‘Terence?’