Throughout the rest of the afternoon, while relaxing at his flat on Bedford Place, it had been a battle of wills between Montignac’s good and bad nature to hold on to the money he had just earned. He laid it out on his bed when he got home and counted it. As it turned out Keaton had been wrong, there was not fifteen thousand pounds there, but fifteen thousand one hundred. He smiled as he double-checked. It was a trivial amount in relation to the total but twenty-four hours earlier a hundred pounds would have meant a lot to him.
He separated the money into three piles. Ten thousand for Nicholas Delfy, one thousand for Gareth Bentley and four thousand one hundred for himself, and put the first bundle back into the envelope and sealed it.
The idea of taking the entire amount to a card table at another club and doubling, tripling or quadrupling it by teatime was very attractive but he managed to resist it. He had only left himself with two days to go before the payment was due and if he lost it now there would be nowhere to hide. On the other hand, the thought of taking all the money and disappearing to Europe was also a possibility but he couldn’t trust that he wouldn’t be found there too. In the end, proud of his determination, he stayed at home until nearly eight o’clock and then, to prevent any further temptations, left for the Unicorn.
‘Mr Montignac,’ said Henderson as he approached him on the street outside, the same man who had escorted him from the pub some weeks earlier when Delfy had made contact to demand repayment. ‘We didn’t expect to see you tonight.’
‘Really?’ said Montignac. ‘I have some outstanding business with Mr Delfy.’
‘Yes, but he thought you would wait until the last possible minute to arrive which, by my calculations, would be two days from now.’
‘Well I have plans two days from now,’ said Montignac with a casual air. ‘So I thought I’d come now. He is in, isn’t he?’
Henderson smiled and led the way down the corridor and told Montignac to stay put while he went inside the office. He stood there and looked across at the club which was surprisingly busy for early on a Sunday night. He saw the barmen loading up the cash registers with the money that was being spent on bottles of wine and champagne; he could see the croupiers in the distance raking in thousands of pounds’ worth of chips and wondered how one managed to set oneself up in a business like this. The income from it must be extraordinary and could make a tall and powerful man out of a runt like Nicholas Delfy.
The doorman stepped out of the office and moved back on to the corridor, nodding Montignac in the direction of the door. ‘Go on in,’ he said.
Montignac walked slowly towards the door, stepped inside and closed it behind him. He felt a sigh of relief descend on him that he had got this far with the money intact, despite all the temptations, and that this meeting would be a lot more pleasant and a lot less threatening than their last had been.
‘Mr Montignac,’ said Nicholas Delfy, leaning back in his chair and smiling broadly. ‘Or shall I start with Owen and see how we get on?’
‘Owen’s fine,’ he said. ‘Hello, Nicholas. Nice to see you again.’
‘Is it?’ asked Delfy in surprise. ‘That’s not something I hear very often.’
‘Well I don’t really mean it,’ said Montignac with a shrug. ‘I’m just being polite for form’s sake.’
Delfy stared at him, unsure how to take that, but gave a gentle laugh; there was something about Montignac that he couldn’t help but like.
‘Sit down, Owen,’ he said. ‘Take the weight off. Can I get you a drink?’
Montignac was about to shake his head, the urge as strong as ever to stay for as short a time as possible, but then reconsidered. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a glass of whisky if you’re having one.’
‘No, I like to keep a clear head,’ said Delfy, walking across to the small bar in the corner and pouring one for his guest. ‘But you have one by all means. Ice?’ he asked.
‘Please,’ said Montignac, accepting the glass a few moments later and tasting it appreciatively. ‘Very nice,’ he said.
‘Aged twenty-five years,’ said Delfy, sitting down again. ‘Just like you.’
‘Sadly I have a birthday coming up shortly,’ said Montignac. ‘I’ll be twenty-six.’
‘Feeling confident you’ll make it that far then?’ asked Delfy.
‘More confident than I was a month ago.’
‘Well that’s good. No one likes unnecessary violence,’ said Delfy. ‘More than I,’ he added with a laugh. ‘But I am hearing wonderful things about you, Owen,’ he said with a flamboyant gesture. ‘My spies keep me well informed of course and they tell me that you’ve been working terribly hard at raising the money you owe me and there’s a possibility, a slim possibility of course, that you may have ten thousand pounds in your pocket for me right now.’
‘Indeed,’ said Montignac, enjoying the cat and mouse. ‘And what else do your spies tell you then?’
‘They say you’ve trapped an innocent little fly in your web and you’re just waiting for an opportunity to swallow him up.’
‘Well I don’t know where they got that from,’ Montignac replied. ‘But it’s true that I have the money I owe you.’
‘The whole fifty thousand?’ asked Delfy in surprise.
‘No, no,’ said Montignac quickly, laughing nervously. ‘Just the first payment. That’s what we agreed upon, isn’t it?’
‘It is indeed,’ said Delfy. ‘So there’s no need to look so nervous, Owen. And you’ve managed it with two days to spare. That’s very impressive. Very impressive indeed. It fills me with confidence about your trustworthiness and our future relationship.’
Montignac nodded and they stared at each other for a minute before Delfy made a come-hither gesture with his left hand. Montignac frowned, unsure what he meant by it, and leaned forwards in his seat.
‘Not you, Owen,’ sighed Delfy. ‘The money.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said, reaching into his inner pocket and extracting the envelope and handing it across. ‘It’s all there,’ he said, relieved that it had been handed over now and he couldn’t possibly risk it any further. ‘All ten thousand pounds. Count it if you like.’
Delfy laughed. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t be that stupid,’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Well, like I said I’m very impressed,’ he said. ‘Now you must promise to stay out of casinos from now on until the debt is fully paid off. Clearly, Owen Montignac and gambling do not go hand in hand.’
‘No,’ said Montignac, not appreciating the sensation that he was being chastised like a child. ‘No I don’t think we do.’
Delfy reached into a drawer and extracted a ledger and thumbed through it for the page he needed. ‘Ten thousand pounds,’ he said as he wrote the figure down. ‘Paid in full. Excellent. Now we should probably talk about the balance.’
‘The balance,’ said Montignac. ‘Yes, I’m working on that. But if you could give me a little more time I’d appreciate it.’
‘Well we agreed on Christmas, didn’t we?’ asked Delfy, looking up. ‘And since you’ve been so successful with the first installment I think we should stick to our original arrangement.’
‘Christmas will be fine,’ said Montignac, who had been slightly worried that Delfy would turn around and change the conditions; it had been one of his motivating factors in bringing the ten thousand two days early.
‘Do you want to know the outstanding balance, Owen?’
‘Just over forty grand, I would imagine,’ said Montignac.
‘Forty thousand one hundred and fifty,’ said Delfy. ‘And if you can organize ten in a month I’m sure you can sort out the rest, which will mean you’ll still be around next year to celebrate your twenty-seventh birthday.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Montignac, draining his glass. ‘I’ll sort it. It won’t come to that.’
‘Then I thank you for your time and will wish you goodnight, Owen,’ said Delfy, reaching across and shaking his hand as if this had been a perfec
tly friendly business meeting and not a potentially fatal one. Montignac nodded, stood up and left.
He considered his options as he left the club. He had four thousand one hundred pounds left, plus almost six hundred in personal savings, and of course there was Gareth’s thousand which he wouldn’t need where he was going. That made almost six thousand. Nowhere near enough. He hoped that Keaton had not been joking when he’d suggested that he might have another scheme for him to be involved in.
As things turned out, he only had to wait until the following lunchtime to hear from him again.
10
GARETH BENTLEY ARRIVED AT the Threadbare at seven o’clock precisely, just as Montignac had told him to.
‘Perfectly punctual,’ said Montignac with a smile as he let him in.
‘I was delighted when you phoned,’ said Gareth. ‘I was starting to worry.’
‘Worry? About what?’
‘Well it’s just that you told me not to contact you. You said you’d be in touch. But then I hadn’t heard from you and it had been almost a week since—’
‘Shh, Gareth,’ said Montignac. ‘Let’s not talk about it here. Let me just go and grab my jacket and I’ll take you out for dinner and then I may have something to give you at the end of it.’
Gareth gave a sigh of relief. His biggest worry was that he would arrive at the Threadbare Gallery to find the place closed up and Montignac disappeared to places unknown with his money. But not only was he still there but he seemed to be in an uncommonly good mood and in possession of the payment. Immediately his mind was set at ease and the dreams he had been imagining over the past few days danced before his eyes again; he felt uncommonly happy.
‘You got it then?’ he asked.
‘Got it?’
‘The money, of course.’
‘Yes, I got it,’ said Montignac with a laugh. ‘You didn’t doubt me, did you?’
‘No, no, of course not,’ said Gareth quickly. ‘I just can’t believe it was so easy, that’s all. I was worried that—’ Something caught his eye and he looked down at Montignac’s shirt sleeve. ‘Good God, Owen,’ he said. ‘Have you hurt yourself?’
Montignac stared at him in surprise. ‘No,’ he said. ‘What do you mean?’
‘But you’re bleeding,’ he said. ‘Look at your arm.’
Montignac looked down and saw a thin line of blood, perhaps two inches long, running along the white sleeve and cursed himself for not collecting his jacket before answering the door. ‘That’s nothing,’ he said. ‘A slight accident with Jason and a frame cutter earlier.’
‘Oh dear. Was he all right?’
‘He’ll live,’ he replied quickly. ‘Had to bandage him up and send him on his way. I’ll have to throw this damn thing out, though, and it didn’t come cheap either.’
Gareth nodded, accepting the explanation, and waited while Montignac ran back upstairs to collect his jacket. He walked into the storeroom and looked around to make sure that he hadn’t forgotten anything.
Lying on the ground, his arms tied behind his back, his legs bound together, his mouth covered with masking tape, lay the unconscious body of Raymond Davis, the young man who had had the temerity to propose marriage to Stella. Montignac leaned down and placed a hand against his chest; his breathing was perfectly normal.
‘Right,’ he said, running back downstairs having locked the storeroom door behind him. ‘Let’s go.’
* * *
THEY LEFT THE GALLERY and walked towards a pub near Piccadilly Circus where Montignac ordered two steak and kidney pies at the bar and brought a couple of pints of beer to the table.
‘I better just have some water,’ said Gareth, eyeing the glass nervously.
‘Nonsense! We’re celebrating, aren’t we?’
‘Yes, I know but—’
‘Oh one won’t kill you. Come on. Your very good health,’ he added, raising his glass and holding it there. Gareth picked his up, torn between reluctance and desire, and they clinked glasses.
‘And yours,’ said Gareth, taking his first happy sip.
‘Before you get even more anxious about it,’ said Montignac, handing across a thick envelope. ‘Here’s your share. It’s all there but don’t open it in here, all right? You never know what kind of people are lurking around.’
‘Thanks,’ said Gareth gratefully, sticking the money in his inside pocket. ‘You’ve seen the newspapers have carried articles about it every day?’
‘Yes,’ said Montignac. ‘It’s rather funny, isn’t it?’
‘I’ll say. My mother says the London constabulary are in a state of constant bewilderment.’
‘She’s not far wrong.’
‘Apparently the Clarion are going to be sued for the cost of the paintings.’
‘Oh that’s ridiculous,’ said Montignac, dismissing the idea. ‘The insurance will cover it.’
‘Well they’re not very happy.’
‘No, I wouldn’t imagine they would be. No one likes to be robbed. Here, let’s have another drink.’
‘Steady on, Owen,’ said Gareth. ‘I haven’t finished this one yet.’
‘Well drink quickly then, this is a celebration.’
Two more drinks arrived and Gareth finished his first in a couple of quick mouthfuls before bringing the second to his lips as well. He felt giddy with excitement and thrilled with the amount of money in his pocket; his nervousness about alcohol had disappeared as quickly as that first pint.
‘So what’s next?’ asked Gareth.
‘Next?’
‘Yes. There must be other ways to make quick money like this. Haven’t you got contacts?’
Montignac laughed. ‘My dear Gareth,’ he said. ‘You must disabuse yourself of the notion that I am some sort of underworld operative. Opportunities like the Cézanne job don’t come along very often, you know.’
‘Oh,’ said Gareth, disappointed, for he had imagined earning a thousand pounds a week and had already put it to good use in his mind.
‘Well that’s not to say there won’t be others. You’re a valuable part of my plans, you know, Gareth. In fact I wouldn’t be able to imagine the next few months without you being part of them.’
‘Is that so?’ he asked, brightening up. ‘So I should just wait to hear from you then?’
‘Oh no,’ said Montignac, shaking his head. ‘That would look far too suspicious. I’ll give you a regular job in the gallery to begin with and we’ll see what comes along. I was looking for a way to get rid of Jason anyway. He’s a liability. Not half as much use to me as you.’
‘I wouldn’t want to put him out of a job,’ said Gareth.
‘That’s not for you to worry about.’
‘No, but…’ He frowned slightly, wondering how to phrase this best. ‘I can’t tell you what all this means to me, Owen,’ he said.
‘All what?’
‘All this. What you’ve done for me.’
‘I’m not sure I’ve done very much,’ said Montignac. ‘Other than get you involved in a criminal conspiracy, that is.’
‘Well no one got hurt, did they?’ said Gareth, justifying his actions. ‘And, well you’ve given me some focus in my life. Something I was missing before.’
Montignac nodded. He took a sip from his own drink, uncomfortable with the confidential tone that Gareth had adopted.
‘I know we haven’t known each other very long,’ he continued, his voice betraying a little nervousness. ‘But I have to say I’m glad I met you.’
‘As am I. Now should we order some more drinks?’
‘I could tell the night I first laid eyes on you,’ he said, refusing to be put off. ‘The night of my birthday. I knew when I looked at you that you were someone who could help me achieve something. Someone who could break me out of the … out of the soul-destroying lethargy that my life had become. Do you realize that, Owen? Do you realize how much you’ve done for me? How you’ve changed things for me?’
Montignac looked away and shook his head; he di
dn’t want to hear this. ‘You’re responsible for your own actions,’ he muttered, unhappy to be the focus of so much undeserved adoration.
‘I know I am. But you’ve shown me the way. I really…’ He laughed and his hands curled into fists on the table top. ‘I really want to tell you, Owen, how much I admire you. How much I respect you. You … you’re a person I—’
‘Barman!’ Montignac called out before another embarrassing word could be uttered, raising his hand and pointing at the glasses. ‘Two more of these please.’
‘My God, Owen, you’re going at a pace tonight aren’t you?’ he asked nervously as more beer and whiskies arrived; he seemed to have snapped out of his dreadful speech and was preparing to embarrass himself no further. ‘I’ll be drunk within an hour at this rate.’
‘And when was the last time you had a thousand pounds burning a hole in your pocket?’ he asked. ‘Let’s make it a night to remember, what do you say?’
Gareth hesitated, knowing what a bad idea it was for him to drink, especially to excess like this but shrugged it off, putting his fears to the back of his mind. He would be sober from tomorrow, he decided. Sober, rich and employed, with a great future ahead of him. A great future and a great friend. He lifted his glass and held it in the air.
‘To the future,’ he said.
‘The future,’ said Montignac. ‘May it bring everything we deserve and more.’
* * *
TWO MORNINGS LATER, MONTIGNAC rose early in the hotel room he had taken the night before and felt a mixture of relief and anticipation. Relief that the murderous hangover of the previous day had finally abated overnight. Anticipation that the morning’s newspaper would bring the news he was hoping for. The clarification of where things stood. He shaved quickly but carefully and took a quick bath, dressing exactly as he always would for work, and left the hotel, walking without haste to a corner shop a few streets away. There he purchased a copy of The Times and used all the willpower he could summon not to look at the front page until he was back in his room with the door firmly locked behind him, sure of his privacy.