Snatched (3 page)

Now, Lepage went ahead, descending at a rush the iron spiral staircase from the Octagon Room level to the public Reception area. He was aware of Ursula and Jervis clattering after him, and perhaps a couple of others from the Hebdomadal following them. As he reached the bottom and stood gazing about, a chill column of water from Ursula's flask speared down alongside the spiral's central pillar and struck him on the head with a spattering thump, like that sounding cataract in some poem, and then slipped down inside his collar, went the length of his spine, and continued on between his buttocks as if a new strain of big, fast-moving slug wanted to show off its pace and dauntlessness.

Dripping moderately, he made his way across Reception and towards Coins. As Jervis had suggested, this was where most of the noise originated. Lepage thought he could distinguish five kinds of sound. There were angry men's voices, angry women's voices, and frightened men's voices, these latter presumably Hamilton's and some of the other porters'. He heard fierce rattling of metalwork, which must be visitors trying to break down the Secure Room grille to get at those inside, plus the deep, possibly hysterical wailing of a woman. He went past the
Serenity
nude, on through the Raybould Gallery, where the ‘El Grecos', with their bet-hedging caption sheets bravely hung, and then took the short cut via Early Industrial.

Suddenly, some distance ahead of him, he saw the tall, skinny figure of a man crossing the arched entrance to Coins and seemingly making his way towards the museum's main exit. At the same time, from a few steps behind him, came a brief, anxious gasp. Ursula must also have seen this man and recognized him as Falldew. He was dressed in his own modern-day clothes now, not medieval costume, and seemed properly zipped up. Although he appeared to be taking his time, ambling in the style of most museum visitors, he actually managed swift, long-legged progress. It looked as though he wanted to guard against getting conspicuous by hurrying, but planned to be out and clear very fast, just the same. Falldew would know all the odd corners of the Hulliborn, and must have used somewhere hidden away to change his gear. So, had Simberdy's reported sightings been correct? ‘Neville,' Lepage called. ‘Neville Falldew, please wait.'

For half a second, Neville paused and looked back. Deeply unwise. He stood framed by the entrance to Coins and as he turned, his features were momentarily fully on view to the people in there. It seemed enough, although Falldew's face was so thin that at times it appeared to be nothing but profile. The wailing from the woman stopped, or, rather, switched to a scream, a scream composed of mixed horror and rage. She shouted something. Lepage could not be sure exactly what, but he thought it something like, ‘Him! Him! Glassy eyes!'

Almost immediately afterwards, Ursula yelled: ‘Nev, darling, make a dash, for God's sake. They've got you marked. Evade! Evade!'

It was too far for Lepage to see, but the avenging crowd in Coins must be adjusting to this new development; perhaps turning away from the Secure Room grille and the trapped staff, to register the woman's information and fix their purpose on Falldew. The noise stopped. Ursula, too, had grown silent, gripped by disabling tension, maybe, as she watched to see if Nev would snatch the chance in this hiatus to escape. Another scream from the woman broke the sudden, disturbing soundlessness, and then more words: ‘It's the prick-proud special exhibit! Don't let him do a runner!'

Immediately, a great, ferocious roar arose in Coins. Lepage heard the beat of many feet galloping over the boarded floor, like a rain squall on a roof. Obviously, Falldew saw the crowd belting towards him and did what Ursula had urged. Abandoning all pretence at casualness, he pulled his suit jacket tight about him, as a woman might gather her skirt, and gave it all he had in a sprint towards the main door, knees pumping up near his chin, arms flailing ungovernably. Lepage had never seen him in a suit before. Invariably, he wore a scruffy old suede jerkin and, summer or winter, a lengthy blue Oxford college scarf. The present outfit was disguise. It didn't work.

When Falldew had gone about twenty metres, the leader of the mob from Coins appeared, hurtling after him; then, in a straggle, about twenty people, men, women and children, all of them shouting abuse at Neville and calling on him to stop. Uninvolved visitors in the Hulliborn watched fascinated, possibly thinking it some sort of organized Happening, to illustrate a hue-and-cry from the good old days. The revolving door sped around as Falldew burst out on to the street. Although pensioned and gangly, he seemed to be leaving his younger pursuers. Whatever had happened in the peasant home did not seem to have taken much out of him. But Lepage had better have a proper look there later.

When he reached Coins, Medals, Badges and Smaller Artefacts, he found the section almost empty, except for Hamilton and the other porters. Lepage had a master key, and he opened the grille. The porters emerged in a rush. They appeared strained and battle-chastened, like pictures of troops back from Dunkirk. A woman lay on one of Coins' sofas sobbing quietly. Lepage went to her. ‘Are you the lady who—?'

‘Oh, this outing was to have been so educational and uplifting,' she replied. ‘But you are wet. Is that part of it?'

‘I'm sorry,' Lepage said. ‘Please try to think only of the worthwhile elements of your Hulliborn visit. You had no comparable trouble in Entomology?'

‘I've brought you some water,' Ursula told her. The carafe had a few centimetres left.

‘If only he'd said something – communicated, explained, put matters in context,' the woman moaned. Lepage thought she must be a teacher. ‘But he just stood there, seeming so undiffident and display-prone,' she said.

‘Yes, that's got to be Neville,' Ursula replied.

‘A commotion?' Olive Simberdy said. ‘Neville Falldew?'

‘We think Nev. They couldn't catch him, so we're not totally sure,' Simberdy said. They were in the living room of their four-storey Edwardian house, not far from the Hulliborn.

‘How?' she asked.

‘How what?'

‘Well, what happened?'

‘Shall we say a private showing? Neville – we think Neville – historicized himself in Folk and double-shocked a visitor. That kind of incident could be bad for the museum as things are at present, Olive. Luckily, Lepage realized that at once – he'll make a good Director. He was on the scene immediately. He took her off to recover properly, as soon as she seemed over the worst.'

‘Took her off where?'

‘You know, I'm not sure. To his room, I suppose. Important to make our apology really tell.'

‘Alone?' Olive had a round, friendly-looking, even jolly, face, but it could be speedily adjusted to display out-and-out suspicion. It did that now.

‘Ursula was with them at first. She gave the woman water from a carafe. She might have wanted to find Nev instead. They had, have, that
tendresse
, don't they?'

‘What age?'

‘The woman?'

‘Yes, the woman,' Olive snapped.

‘Late twenties.'

‘Nice looking? Tits?'

‘Anguished at the time. My main thought, and George's, probably, was damage containment. Something like this could be disastrous, disastrous. That kind of publicity – catastrophic re the Japanese thing. Of course, Nev Falldew realizes that. It's why he chose to act now. The Folk Hall crisis must be seen as very much a test of George's new regime. He had to seem decisive. Whatever one thinks of Flounce, he was certainly that.' A fit of trembling hit him for a moment.

‘Darling, the Hulliborn's beginning to get you down, make you ill.' With her palm she felt her husband's brow for a while. Then she resumed cutting her toenails. A large, curved shiny trimming arced across the over-furnished, almost cluttered room like a jet fighter on TV news, and struck one of their few real china cups, producing a delicate, pure, continuing sound that made her pause for a moment and smile excitedly. The jolliness returned to her face, or more than jolliness: the gorgeous china-chime made her look exultant, like a surfer who'd just come in on a huge wave. Sometimes, when listing Olive's assets, Simberdy would say she had a supreme ear. She went on snipping but had no repeat of the luck.

They were both dressed in black, and on the coffee table three black woollen balaclava helmets lay ready. When finished with her feet, she pulled on black silk socks, and then a pair of black plimsolls.

‘I'm sure Falldew will try something else,' Simberdy said, stretching out on the
chaise longue.
‘He cultivates hate and revenge like plants. We'll just lurk about in the Hulliborn grounds for a few nights – deal with this “in house”, as it were. We don't want the police concerned and, above all, not the Press and broadcasters. We must try to surprise him. It's shadowy. These outfits should do it.'

Stuffed into his, he looked like a parked VW Beetle, Olive thought.

‘I have my main door key, but I don't think we should wait inside. We're more likely to get close to him unobserved if we use the natural cover in the grounds. As to keys, I suppose Nev still has his for the main door. He's clever and devious enough. Flounce might have been decisive in his prime, but he became doddery, forgetful and careless at the end: that East German stuff – the haversack straps, Mrs Cray, and the friend of his shot dead from the Wall trying to escape to the West, etcetera. All this was bound ultimately to get to his mind.'

‘I never understand. What about the haversack straps and so on?'

‘Nobody's completely clear, but that stuff's important.' He sighed. ‘I aim to give Nev only a forceful talking to, no brutality. I'll use shame: appeal to the undoubted good in him and his basic love for the Hulliborn. I know it's there, temporarily soured, that's all. I'll ask him why he's siding with the new vandals.' He gave her some gaze. ‘It's sweet of you to say you'll come.'

She tried on one of the balaclavas before the mirror. Her voice became muffled, but Simberdy thought she said: ‘Could we let you undertake something like this alone, Vince? He might turn nasty. You, too, love that museum, and
I
love
you
. We must act as a team. It will inspire us.'

Simberdy considered that the almost total black sheen of Olive's outfit – only her eyes breaking it, now she had the balaclava on – made her look overwhelmingly desirable. As well as the wonderful ear, she had a sumptuous arse, somehow tonight given additional ripeness and mystery by those dark, conspiratorial trousers. Would there be time to get all these clothes off, and his own cripplingly tight garments, before they set out? But, if her uniform was what had given him special excitement, perhaps he didn't want it off, beyond the necessary. Ignoring exceptional cases such as working Eskimos, he'd bet not many men had given it to a woman wearing a balaclava.

He put an arm around Olive's waist and, turning her towards him, kissed lightly through the gap on both eyelids and the top of her nose. She responded, as she always responded when he touched her, clinging hard to his bulk and thrusting her face up towards his. Behind the thick wool he could just make out her lips, soft, warm, open. But he didn't care for what they said.

‘Darling, Vince, you do realize that Nothing Known will be here in a couple of minutes?' she murmured.

‘What? Oh, him.'

‘He'll expect us to be ready, and looking professional. He's meticulous.'

Olive was a solicitor and, in case of physical aggravation from Falldew, had recruited one of her firm's most gifted clients to help tonight, as bodyguard – bodies' guard: Wayne Passow, noted burglar and general criminal, often prosecuted, never convicted and, as his nickname told, with no police record.

Simberdy released her, and she pulled off the balaclava. ‘Wayne can only stay a few hours,' she said. ‘He's going on to a late-night date.'

‘Lucky lad.'

‘He seems to have something really nice under way,' she replied. ‘He's very keen.'

Simberdy put on black silk gloves to go with his black trousers and black, roll-top sweater. He felt very committed and effective. This adventure was turning out to be a tonic, as Olive had said it would. Optimism had always come easily to him, like weight.

Passow arrived. He was short, gymnast-wiry, about thirty, in a dark three-piece suit, blue bobble hat, black lace-up shoes, burgundy open-necked shirt. His features were small, neat, would-be-winsome.

In the car, Simberdy said: ‘We want no violence, Wayne, unless Falldew becomes rough himself. We – I mean museum folk – we have our own ways, conditioned by a respect for others and for the gentle beneficence of Time; and we do these things by force of words and logic, nothing cruder.'

Passow said: ‘Lovely evening for it. Don't like that obstreperous moon, though. I'm taking risks for you, Ol, if he does turn heavy. And not a sausage in it for Wayne boy at all.'

Olive's chummy face now took on a prosecutor's sharpness. She could move with ease through her many personas. ‘Think of what you're doing as repayment,' she said.

‘For what?' Nothing Known said.

‘For the practice getting you off so often,' Olive said.

‘That's what lawyers are for, isn't it?' Passow replied.

‘Some lawyers are fussy about whom they take on,' Olive said.

‘Fussy how?' Nothing Known said.

‘They're careful,' Olive said.

‘I hope so,' he said.

‘Have you come across the word “recidivist” at all?' Olive asked.

‘I'm always amazed at how many words there are around,' Nothing Known replied.

‘It means someone who's been convicted and then reoffends and reoffends,' Olive said.

‘This don't apply to me because I never been convicted,' he said. Passow spoke this casually, no argumentative bite, as if what he said was so obvious and indisputable that it didn't need reinforcement.