Remix (2010) (10 page)

I turned and headed back to Saladin, the dog trotting beside me. “I didn’t like him, Dog. What did you think?”

Dog agreed with me, I could tell.

Chapter

12

*

“
Yes!
This is how we do it, Caz.”

Ric’s voice was triumphant. He had been tapping away for most of Saturday morning on my laptop. I looked up from
Odds Against
, a paperback so ancient it had lost its cover and spine; the rubber band holding it together was broken and stuck to it. All the pages were there, though. I’d checked before I started reading.

“Do what?”

“Get Jeff to cop an eyeful of you, so he’ll be helplessly attracted like a dog to a lamppost, and you can give him the third degree about the murder.”

I wasn’t sure I cared for his simile. “I thought he had a wife? And children?”

“If you think that’s stopped Jeff’s single-minded pursuit of anything in a skirt, then you haven’t the first grasp on his character and you’d better do some research. I’ve finished with the laptop.”

“I’m reading. Doesn’t his wife object?”

“I think Janey accepts it. She keeps out of the way, on their farm in Devon, breeding rare sheep. Hardly ever comes to London. She’s quite ordinary looking, a bit older than Jeff. And his turnover of women is so fast, none of them are around long enough to pose a threat to her.”

“So what is the plan?”

“Brit Art.” Ric’s gaze was severe. “If you took being my sidekick a bit more seriously, you’d know Jeff collects Young British Artists. Their nastier stuff, mostly; dead animals in formaldehyde, blood, guts, that sort of thing. You used to teach Art. You’ll know all about Brit Art.”

“It’s one of the reasons I left, having to teach children of an impressionable age about rubbish artists.”

Ric turned back to the screen and scrolled down. “Jeff goes to all the new exhibitions. He dragged me along once in the early days, to the Royal Academy, because he said it was a seminal show I mustn’t miss. I refused to go to any others with him. He’s a real enthusiast, a collector, spends serious money on it. All you’ve got to do is go to a private view and bond with him over a fish tank of dead embryos, or whatever. Discuss your mutual love of the current art scene, then tell him who you are. Well, tell him you’re Vikki Wilson.”

“Do they let anyone in? Wouldn’t the galleries open just for him, if he’s a big buyer?”

“It’s possible…but there must be somewhere he mixes with the rabble.” Ric was still clicking away, concentrating on the screen. “You can tell them you’re from
La Vista
. We’ll have to work out which private view he’ll be at, so you can turn up looking hot like you did for Dave. Has Dave rung you, by the way?”

“Yes, he did actually. Yesterday. He was on the phone for ages. I think he wanted someone to talk to.”

“You see? Irresistible, that’s you. Jeff doesn’t stand a chance.”

Monday morning Saladin’s eyes arrived in the post. Clear glass with black glass pupils, twenty-four millimetre diameter. (Amber glass is prettier, but not authentic.) I painted the backs red-brown, matching the remnants of paint in the eye sockets, and set them in with Rustin’s filler, so Saladin could get his first sight of the twenty-first century. His aristocratic face sparked into life. We looked at each other.

“Now you can see where you’re going, you handsome animal. Gesso next.” I patted him, and went to get ready for my next bit of sleuthing.

I stepped out of the taxi, paid the driver, and crossed the road to the minimalist facade of Loop X, Grant Atherton’s gallery. Grant Atherton is the biggest mover and shaker in Brit Art, now that Jay Jopling’s gone over to painting. He’s very good at setting up profitable cycles of discovery, investment, promotion and sales; he’s the Emperor’s tailor. His gallery is in Clerkenwell, at the end of one of those narrow roads off Old Street. I’d often biked past it on my way to Cornelissen’s, where I buy pigments for my paints. It’s never occurred to me to go in the gallery. Even if I was an admirer of the sort of art they sell, I couldn’t afford it.

I wore a compromise between what I thought a journalist might wear, and what, in Ric’s opinion, most turned me into eye-candy. The shortest skirt I possessed, sheer black tights, my highest heels that seldom see the light of day on grounds of practicality, and a low-necked top were Ric’s choice; a sharp cropped jacket added, I hoped, a professional air. The security men eyed me as I walked through the open glass doors. We’d got it right; I was hot.

A group of people were hanging around the bare and white-painted reception area. They all looked at me. Perhaps we’d overdone it, made me too conspicuous. And Ric could have got it wrong, though he’d been so certain; Jeff Pike might not be there. My heels clicking on the concrete floor, I headed for a girl sitting behind a high white counter.

“Vikki Wilson, from
La Vista
,” I said, trying not to sound nervous. Actually, I felt calmer than when I’d been to see Dave Calder; partly because that time had gone okay, and partly because this meeting was in a public place. Ric had rung and told them I’d be coming, and he said they hadn’t raised an eyebrow. What was the worst that could happen? Jeff Pike could be really rude then have me thrown out, that’s all. Not that bad. And it probably wouldn’t happen… The girl smiled, ticked her list, and handed me a catalogue and a badge with my name on. I clipped it to my waistband, where it wasn’t too obvious, and strolled into the main exhibition room, helping myself to a glass of wine on the way.

One quick look told me Jeff Pike wasn’t there. A dozen people were studying the paintings on the walls, and consulting catalogues, or standing in groups chatting. I know a lot about art, and I know what I like…and it wasn’t this sort of thing. Each canvas was very like the last, painted in shades of black, containing a smaller white square with tiny squiggles in. Sometimes the white square was at an angle. Right. I read the press release I’d been given.

‘Darkness Assaults the Soul’, comprising four series of canvases, is a cry of anguish and despair that reverberates from the disintegration of the here and now to the furthest limits of the universe. By re-interpreting multifarious references from fractal geometry, physics, astronomy, Egyptian hieroglyphs, and the story-telling of pre-Renaissance literature, Gareth Hallows creates a metaphor for the human condition. The elaborate structural dichotomy of the dominating allegory…

I stopped reading. Who writes this stuff? A computer programme? As far as I’m concerned, there is one test for art; if it was dug up thousands of years in the future, long after our civilisation was dust, would the digger-up pounce on it and say, “Wow! Look what I’ve found,” or not? If not, it’s not art. And no amount of pretentious semi-literate guff will make it so.

A man with a beard (artist, journalist or buyer? I had no idea) joined me and said, “Thought-provoking.”

“It is indeed,” I said, smiling and walking away.

I climbed the stairs to the second exhibition room where the sculpture was. It was more crowded than downstairs. I saw Jeff Pike at once. He stood, drink in hand, talking to Grant Atherton, whom I recognized by his height, trademark white suit and round dark glasses. Ric had told me to ignore Jeff, but make sure he got a good look at me. So I wandered over to an exhibit on a plinth, and circled it, giving him a chance to check me out from all angles.

What I was looking at was a life size, realistically modelled naked female torso, gagged, blindfolded and tied up. Made in resin. Its title, I saw from the catalogue, was
Dreams of Another Death
. Nice.

“I’m buying that one,” said Jeff Pike. He’d moved to my side so softly he made me jump. There was something feline about him; he was slim, five foot ten, with dark hair, a triangular scrap of beard on his chin and a face slightly too narrow to be handsome.

“Are you? Why?” I was genuinely curious.

“I’ve had my eye on the artist since he was at the RCA. He’s going to be big. I’ve got a few of his student pieces, but this is something else.”

I moved to the next plinth. Jeff Pike followed me. A severed arm, the hand clutching a mobile phone.
Life Beyond the Grasp of The Artist
. It was no good, I was not going to be able to fake enthusiasm for this junk. At a technical level they were made with skill. I could have done without the sensationalism of the subjects, a deliberate attempt to make money by shocking the public. But it was the stupid titles that really got me.

“So what does
Dreams of Another Death
mean?”

“Don’t ask me, darling. Artists like those poncy titles. They get taught to do them at art college. It’s the sculpture that matters.” His hand groped the badge at my waist, turning it so he could read what it said. Alarm shot through me at his touch. “Vikki Wilson.
La Vista
magazine.” He looked me over, quite blatantly.

“Jeff Pike, isn’t it? I’m so pleased to meet you. I’m writing a book about The Voices and…”

“You rang me the other day.”

“Yes.” I lowered my lashes, and raised them again. “You weren’t terribly forthcoming.”

“So you thought you’d have another crack at me here?”

I smiled winningly at him. “That’s right.”

He paused, staring at me. Some calculation was going on in his mind. “Okay, Vikki, I’ll answer your questions. But you should know, I make things up. I can’t be trusted. I don’t always tell the truth.”

“Well, can you make an effort to this time? I don’t want to be sued.” I got the recorder out of my handbag and switched it on. A man approached Jeff with some papers and a pen.

“Sorry to bother you, Mr Pike, would you mind…”

“Fuck off, I’m talking to Vikki here. Grant knows what I’m buying.”

The man flinched, apologized and made off. Jeff Pike focused on me again. “What d’you want to know about? My childhood? There’s a lot of stuff I tell the press. Maybe you’ve read some of it. My mother had it off with most of the Rolling Stones, so I know one of them’s my dad, but not which one. I was adopted after I was found scavenging for food in wheelie bins, that’s what I usually say. My foster mother had sex with me when I was nearly fourteen.”

He stopped, as though waiting for me to express incredulity or shock. I didn’t express anything. His eyes were fixed on mine, brownish-yellow, their pupils dilated. I wondered if he’d been snorting coke. He continued, talking fast.

“Hobbies, you probably want to know about those. Amateur taxidermy when I was a kid. Roadkill squirrels, neighbourhood cats when I could catch them…I wasn’t much use at it. They were all stinking, lumpy and balding, their eyes dropping out. Now I collect art. YBAs - Young British Artists. I’ve got one of the best private collections in the world. The bigger, more stomach-turning stuff. You can say I specialize in art involving entrails. That’s a new one. You can be first with it…or what about my real name? Jeremy Pendragon-Smythe. Or Keith Whylie. Or Cynthia Splott.”

I interrupted his monologue. If he was going to talk, he could talk about what I’d come to hear. “The book will focus on Bryan Orr’s death. Can I ask where you were on the day Bryan died?”

“My flat in Mayfair.”

“On your own?”

“No, darling. With a woman.”

I tried to remember the questions we’d listed. I didn’t feel I was doing very well so far. I doubted Jeff was going to tell me anything to the point.

“Do you believe Ric Kealey killed Bryan Orr?”

“Not really. Can’t see him doing it. But what do I know?”

“So if it wasn’t Ric, who do you think it might have been?”

“Maybe it was Emma. Ah, the lovely Emma. Everyone wanted to give Emma one, and nearly everyone did.”

“Did you?”

“I’m still waiting in line. She hasn’t got round to me yet. Busy lady. Very taken up with Phil right now. My theory is she was an undercover agent for the Bunny Batteries, with a mission to kill. So the Bunnies would get right to the top, which they did for a while once half our line-up was dead. Her secret assignment: infiltrate The Voices, one man at a time. Now that I think about it, that’s quite probable, because she said she was a temp, but she could only type with two fingers.”

Jeff was standing too close, nearly touching me. I could smell cigarette smoke, and his aftershave, sweet, spicy, and too liberally applied. I wanted to back away, but stood my ground. He was still talking.

“Or was the killer someone off the street? A mad fan. Look at John Lennon. You wouldn’t believe the lengths the fans go to. Some of them’ll do anything just to get close to you. Pretend to be a journalist, crash a private view, say they’re writing a book…”

Bloody hell, he’s rumbled me.

He smiled unpleasantly, watching my face, only inches away. “I remember that
La Vista
interview. Largely because of what happened afterwards in the car park between me and Vikki. I don’t know why, it stuck in my mind - and it wasn’t you, was it darling, with your lacy knickers pulled down in the back of the Merc? That Vikki had smaller eyes and bigger tits. So why don’t you tell me who you really are?”

My pulse rate shot up. I deeply did not like this man. It wasn’t as if I was getting anything out of him, either. I decided to establish a new cover story and leave fast. I took a step back. “Okay, I’m not Vikki Wilson. I am writing a book about the Orr case. I’m not a journalist or a published author, I’ve never written a book before, so I thought no one would speak to me. That’s why I said I was her. I’ll be going now.”