Paint. The art of scam. (27 page)

He was still
slightly dazed and had to steady himself with his hands as he tried to stand
up. He felt something soft on the ground next to him. It felt warm and
comforting and even though his sense of smell was severely challenged by
splintered bone, blood and mucus, the unique aroma was unmistakable: dog shit.

He leapt to his
feet. ‘Fuck!’ Bruno staggered away from the doorway, attempting to shake the
dog shit off his hand. He wiped it on the shop window but as he did so, the
stench seemed to take on a new lease of life. He took off his jacket, wiped his
hands furiously with it and flung it down. He liked his jacket, Paolo had given
it to him three years ago for his birthday, but he hated dog shit a lot more
than he liked the jacket. He slumped down onto the ground again, his head was
spinning so much that even the dog shit seemed unimportant. He had to get his
strength back. He went into another doorway, laid down and looked up at the
grimy peeling paint on the ceiling of the shop's entrance. The laughter from
across the road seemed louder: echoing around him.

He lay there for
about ten minutes, his stinking hand as far away from his bloody nose as
possible. Slowly his mind and body began to settle enough to collect himself
and make his way home to the relative luxury of his van.

Bruno didn't know
it, but he was just about to be saved from his dismal existence in a surprising
way.

As he staggered
home, he spotted a fish pond in someone’s front garden and washed his hands
using pond weed to at least attempt to remove that unique stink of dog shit. It
didn't work, it more spread it around, at best diluted it. Still, he was
feeling better now; the sensation of the cold water had returned him to a
reasonably calm state of mind. Like having a tea break in the middle of a
nightmare.

As he was about
to turn down a lane towards his flat, he saw a Bentley with its bonnet up. A
well dressed old man was crouched over the engine compartment shining a torch
in. Bruno had learnt a lot about cars at Henry's garage. Henry told him once
that he was intuitive with cars and he had developed the ability to diagnose
most mechanical issues and bodge them up so that they looked better. A useful
talent at Henry's garage.

‘I say old chap,
can you give me a hand please?’ came the struggling voice of the old man.

Thinking there
might me a tenner in it; his minimum fee for a good deed, Bruno went over to
the old man.

‘Yeh. What?’
mumbled Bruno.

‘Inside the car.
Can you get in the car? And when I say go, turn the key could you? Thanks.’
said the old man.

Bruno got in. The
smell of Bentley leather immediately took him back to when he drove stolen
luxury cars from Munich to Saudi Arabia for Johnny. It even overwhelmed the dog
shit for a second. Bruno spotted a wallet on the floor on the passenger side
and instinctively grabbed it, opened it, took whatever cash there was and
replaced it.

‘OK.’ came the
old man's voice from deep under the bonnet. ‘Turn the key now.’

Bruno scanned
dashboard and spotted the key. As he turned it there was a puff sound, as the
engine immobiliser module blew and the engine sprung into life. At that second
he realised, that key was a Darton Bradford Master Key that would open any car
on the planet, well the UK anyway. An icon of professionalism, almost rock star
status and to own one, was the stuff of dreams for aspiring car thieves.

As the old man
gathered together his tools and closed the bonnet. Bruno checked the logistics
of grabbing the key and escaping down the lane, it was dark down there, could
be gone in seconds, unless he tripped over a junky that is. The old man was
taking his time, bit doddery. He could do it.

Then suddenly the
whole night was painted by strokes of swooping blue light, the air split by
piercing high frequency stinging sirens. The bonnet of the Bentley slammed
shut. Bruno grabbed the key, it stuck. That happens sometimes. The Darton Bradford
Master Key is good, but not perfect. Just as Bruno was about to get out and
make his escape, he looked up to see every window of the car had a smiling
Policeman behind it.

Bruno told them
the truth down at the station. Everything. From the moment he left his van in
the morning, to the injuries he was inflicted with en route, to helping the old
man. The old man was nowhere to be seen. By the time the police had got to the
Bentley, the old man, who was actually 23 year old Tom Sharper, a disgraced Olympic
drug cheat triathlon champion, had vanished into thin air. Tom had actually
crawled under several cars unbeknown to the police and hid for three hours
above the back axle of a Ford Transit until the coast was clear.

Bruno pleaded
with them. He was getting back to the straight and narrow, he had a job, a
relationship, things were starting look up for him and this only happened
because he was trying to help someone. It was all mostly true; the police
actually said they believed him.

‘But,’ said
Inspector Kendle, who had spent months attempting to break up the biggest car
theft ring in Europe. ‘Sometimes the truth is so unbelievable.’

He also said, off
the record, that if Bruno gave them names, like who sold him the Darton
Bradford Master Key and who buys the cars from him, they would believe him even
more.

Bruno got five
years for conspiracy.

Getting ready.

Seymour was sat
in the back of the convertible Mercedes; arms spread, wing like. Carva, in the
passenger seat, was dozing; his rubber neck swaying with every movement, as
Polly guided the car elegantly through the light London traffic. It was one of
those special London days. The previous nights winds had cleaned up the air;
the crisp sun sharpened everything in surreal tones of yellow.

It had been a
lunch to remember. Carva and Seymour had hit it off immediately, as Polly had
suspected they would. The chemistry between the three of them had flowed like
giggling honey, even before Carva and Seymour had become completely drunk.
Polly had luckily spotted what was going to happen early on and went on to
water: she then had to suffer two very drunk men talking endlessly about
nothing, that was, apparently, very funny.

Carva had left
his wallet at home of course, only realising it with over dramatised abdomen
patting when the hefty bill came. The waiter, who clearly knew Carva, rolled
his eyes and whispered something in his ear. Polly suspected this would happen
too and, after navigating the waiter away from the table, paid the bill, in
cash, out of Seymour's sight.

Polly smiled to
herself as she looked in the rear view mirror and saw Seymour, also dozing,
with that stupid boyish grin on his face. Driving a convertible Mercedes with
two drunk men onboard reminded her of the time when she lived in Paris.

Polly dropped
Carva and the car off at the gallery, having unsuccessfully attempted to find
his home, using mumbling, confusing directions from him. She and Seymour had to
manhandle him into the gallery and left him snoring in his chair at his desk.
They locked the front door, put the keys through the letterbox and got a cab
home.

There was much
work to do. All the paintings had to be framed, Carva was to close the gallery
and remove his stock. That was easy, as most of the paintings were on
consignment and it was only a matter of time before the bank would move in and
take the lot in their attempts to retrieve the £15,000 debt that Carva had run
up since Desmond had died.

The next time
Polly and Carva met, Carva put all his cards on the table. He seemed relieved
to have done so, especially when Polly laughed as his story unfolded. The years
of pretentious lifestyle, the debts, the lucrative deals, the excuses he had
used, the shame he had put on his family, all struck a harmonious chord with
her. Polly later agreed to double her payment to Carva for the first show, in
lieu of commission; so he could keep the bank at bay for a while.

After another
lunch meeting, this time without Seymour, their relative positions were made
clear, their mutual dependence on each other declared and a weird loyal,
friendship was formed.

Over time Polly
grew fonder of Carva and at times wished she could have shared her story with
him. He had asked her about her history, in a guarded attempt to find out the source
of her wealth. ‘Family’ she had said and then winked. Carva winked back
approvingly, with a camaraderie that only pirates can share.

Seymour,
oblivious to all the dealings in the background, blossomed. He was being
recognised as an artist at last and occasionally showed signs of becoming
suitably arrogant: Polly always stepped in at the right moment.

Because Simon
Carva had been around for so long, his new step into contemporary art, with an
unknown artist, was viewed with guarded interest, private mocking and
amusement. At times, he felt foolish. Old acquaintances were calling him; asking
him if he was OK? Not in a, ‘how are you?’ way, more a ‘are you going mad?’
way.

The whole gallery
was stripped out, painted white and new lighting tracks fitted. Seymour
supervised the hanging and when they were all up, he stood in the middle of the
gallery and looked around the full 360 degrees. He thought he was alone, but
Polly was watching through the door to the back storage room, that had now
become an office. He stood in front of each one, his thoughts reliving their
birth. Each had been created, one by one, and then stacked away like passing
thoughts and now, for the first time, he was seeing them: all together. She
could have sworn he actually shed a tear.

The show was
ready by the night before the opening. Carva bought a bottle of vintage Lanson
and they sat, the three of them together, exhausted and speechless.

Carva’s
traditional taste of the stubborn old styles, although still there, had moved
to one side and the beauty of Seymour's work warmed him. Carva even looked
younger. Since Desmond had died, the months of going to the old gallery every
day with its musty gloom, dealing with rare miserable clients, had made him
live in a grim world. A grim world where death was a better option. Maybe a
heart attack, or a massive stroke. Something out of his control.

But now he seemed
to glow and, as the champagne kicked in, he laughed. He said that he had never
laughed in the gallery since Desmond had died and if anybody ever did, he would
have thrown them out. There's nothing funny about old 19th century reproduction
oil paintings.

The Opening Night.

All the invites
were out, compiled from a mixture of Carva's mailing list, which, after
updating, had shrunk to the size of stick-it note due to death and Polly's list
of dealers and galleries, that involved some barrel scraping.

Harry, being a
respected b grade celebrity in the news media world, was incredibly well
connected and more than willing to help out to boost the numbers. Polly sent
out so many invites in the end that Seymour was already becoming well known,
even though his fame was derived from recipients saying ‘Who the fuck is
Seymour Capital?’

‘Right,’ said
Carva. ‘this is it then.’

Polly, Seymour
and Carva held their champagne flutes high in the air.

‘Here's to art.’
declared Carva.

‘To art.’ said
Polly and Seymour, more or less in unison.

They waited,
busying themselves with unnecessary adjustments to glasses, napkins and the
neat fan of brochures on the table by the door that Polly had put together.

Carva kept
playing with the dimmer switch, lowering the light. Polly kept turning it up.
But he was right. When it was too bright Seymour's work didn't stand out so
much. ‘They had there own light.’ said Carva. Polly agreed.

Seymour was
anxious and began pacing around the gallery. He'd been nervous for days, ever
since they began hanging his paintings. Even the Vase Lady was there now, after
futile protests from Seymour. He only agreed after Polly promised to put a
'sold' sicker on her. The Vase Lady was not happy with her treatment and
Seymour could barely look her in the eyes.

Much to Polly's
relief, Harry arrived first with a lady friend. Harry made Polly feel safe
somehow, like an Uncle she'd never had. Harry's lady friend was a stunning
looking woman, tall, tanned, well groomed and expensive. Her name was Sandra
Withington, a well known interior designer according to Harry, but then, all of
Harry's friends seem to have a label attached.

Polly took over
the introductions and generally got the ball rolling and within 30 minutes
there was a healthy crowd milling around, sipping wine and quietly admiring
Seymour's work.

Polly had
observed early on when she had started going to exhibition opening nights, that
this was normal. You arrive, spend some time looking fascinated with the work
on show, hopefully nursing a glass of wine served by an agency waiter, make
appropriate noises to partners, or anyone in earshot, like 'Mmm,’ then,
thinking you've earned it, proceed to drink as much as possible in the shortest
possible time. If there are nibbles on offer, even better.