~13~

THEY DROPPED HIM OFF IN THE CITY. It was going-home time. Ties loose, jackets off, faces relaxed. High heels swapped for sneakers. Tourists stared at the menus taped to restaurant windows, deciding where to eat. A million text messages beeped on a million phones as the city’s population stared down into the palms of their hands. Jack wondered if a Russian gangster had threatened anybody else today.

He waited for a bus: when it came, he slumped into a seat and stared out the window as it crawled up Oxford Street through the peak-hour traffic. By the time he got to Paddington the sun was fading, its pale tawny light thickening across the sky. Jack stumbled home under the muted glow, washed out and a little fragile, like a paper serviette left in a pocket and gone through a rinse cycle.

He pulled out his keys and was about to unlock the front door of his apartment in Leinster Street, when he noticed a thin stripe of weak light running the length of the jamb. He pressed his fingertips to the door, applied the barest pressure: the hinges creaked. All of Jack’s senses woke simultaneously. His skin prickled and his ears popped and all his muscles pulled tight against his joints. Forgetting to lock up was just something Jack never did. Not sober, anyway. He listened, then pushed the door and waited at the threshold as the slow arc of its opening revealed what was going on inside.

He looked: none of it was good.

The front room was like below decks on a beached boat, everything slipped from the shelves and spilled across the floor. Jack swore and stepped carefully between the books and albums and furniture lying silent and vulnerable, as though passed out after a party. Kablunak’s boys, earlier in the day?

No. He remembered them telling the Russian they had only searched Susko Books. Somebody else had been here. And no doubt for the same reason. Mysterious-package hunting.

He walked over and opened the sliding door to his small, paved rear yard and let a whining Lois into the flat. She miaowed, shook herself and then stretched from the tip of her nose to the splayed claws of her extended hind legs, each in turn. After a quick lick at something bothering her front paw, she pit-patted straight into the kitchen and sniffed at her food bowl, paying no attention to the rearrangement of the décor. She sat down and miaowed again, pots and pans and broken cups strewn around her. She looked up at Jack, let him read her face: It wasn’t me.

Jack lifted the flap of his bag and pulled out the postal slip. Inspected it. No clues there, but considering the interest level, it was probably better to leave whatever it was at the post office for the time being. Kablunak could wait. Jack had a strong feeling that the mysterious package might be the only chip he had to throw down if push came to any more shove. He slipped it back into his bag.

He went into the kitchen: tinned seafood platter for Lois and an egg-and-mayonnaise sandwich on toasted stale bread for himself. Then he started to clear up the mess. He carefully stacked his albums, first inspecting each record. He picked up This Is Sinatra, 1953, half under the couch and slipped out of its sleeve. A bit of dust, but no serious damage. He had not heard it in a while. The turntable was on top of the sideboard and had escaped the intruder’s attention. Jack put the record on and turned up the volume. He listened to the warm scratch and crackle of the needle biting into the vinyl and then settling into a hairy groove that popped the speakers lightly. It was making him feel better already. The sound of delicious tension. Then the big brass kicking in. And then softly, softly, everything down low — and Frank, with all that tone.

Got the string around my finger …

More like a noose around his neck. Jack thought about cigarettes again, felt a knot of wanting tighten his broken guts, and then tried to forget about it as he continued clearing up.

There was a knock on the door a little while later. Jack turned the volume down on the stereo. He found Larissa Tate standing in the hall.

‘Hello there,’ said Jack. He managed to keep his tone neutral, but his heart gave a couple of thumps in his chest. ‘Come in.’

She reached over and put a hand on his arm. A little squeeze, leaned in, a peck on the cheek. Jack reciprocated. He could feel the coolness of the hallway on his face.

‘You look good, Jack.’

‘I’ve been working out.’

No comment. She walked in.

Jack swept his eyes over her. ‘Look good yourself.’

Her movements were relaxed. She was wearing a silk halter-neck top, the print some kind of equestrian number with buckles and saddles and riding helmets all over it. A pair of bleached-blue, tight 1980s-style jeans. On her feet, jade-green, flat peep-toe shoes. Same light-brown, long silky hair with the serious fringe. Same dark eyes and glossed lips, same easy, unconcerned expression on her face. And the same petite, toned body, though the curves were fuller. Sexier.

The nearly twelve months that had passed since they parted had been good to Larissa Tate.

Jack closed the front door. ‘How’s Richard? You should have brought him along.’

Larissa smiled: stretched lips only, small and brief. She tossed her handbag onto the couch. ‘I’ve been trying your mobile, the shop, no answer …’

‘Late lunch. Making new friends.’

‘Was she attractive?’

‘I didn’t like the way she ate her chicken.’

Larissa stood in the middle of the lounge room, her back to him. ‘Didn’t realise you were so fussy.’

‘I’ve changed. It’s all about me now.’

She turned side on, smiled at that one. ‘Glad to hear it.’

Jack sat down in the Eames chair. ‘Mr Muscles out in the car?’ he asked.

‘Why? Do I need a bodyguard?’

‘Maybe the new me is a homicidal lunatic.’

‘Uh-huh.’

She sat down on the two-seater couch. Leaned back, crossed her legs. She pointed her chin at Jack and flicked her hair.

‘So. Would you like to know what was stolen out of the safe at De Groot Galleries?’

Larissa Tate was a piece of work. Jack liked her. A lot, and counting.

‘What?’ he said.

‘A Bible.’

He let the news sink in. ‘What kind of Bible?’

‘A very expensive kind,’ said Larissa. She smoothed a thigh with the palm of her hand. ‘Gold boards, jewel-encrusted, illuminated, immaculate. A one-off masterpiece by a famous Russian monk. Thirteen ninety-six. It’s called the Sergius Bible.’

‘A hobby of yours?’

She shrugged.

‘How much?

‘About a hundred thousand dollars.’ She tossed off the amount as though leaving a tip for the waiter.

Jack thought Jesus, but said: ‘Is that all?’ A bad feeling tightened the muscles in his neck. It was the kind of money people did things about. The kind of money to maybe get out of the way of.

‘Well?’ said Larissa.

‘How do you know all this?’

‘The internet is amazing.’

Jack frowned. A muscle twitched in his leg.

Larissa uncrossed hers, brought her knees together and leaned forward on her elbows. ‘Look, last time we spoke —’

Jack held up his hand. ‘Hang on. Answer me something. Why wouldn’t de Groot insure a thing like that?’

She took a long breath, exhaled. ‘Because it’s stolen.’

The words seemed to have an echo to them in Jack’s ears. He listened until they faded.

‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,’ said Larissa.

‘De Groot deals in stolen art?’

‘Yes.’

‘Here?’

Larissa straightened up. ‘Don’t be naïve, Jack.’

Jack thought of Viktor Kablunak. A small ball of fire glowed in his stomach. ‘Naïve would be nice.’

‘Hundred thousand,’ repeated Larissa. ‘A hundred and twenty-two, as matter of fact. Last time I checked the exchange rate.’

Jack watched her face. She did not seem overly concerned about anything. The room was hot but it was all cool façade over on the couch with Larissa.

‘One and a bit, huh? Just like that. You know all about it and you couldn’t wait to come around and tell me.’

‘We’re old friends, aren’t we, Jack?’ She grinned, looked him over.

‘How long have you been working for de Groot?’

‘Long enough.’

‘Long enough that he’d tell you all about his art-smuggling business?’

Larissa Tate rolled her eyes.

‘You know, but the wife doesn’t?’

‘Rhonda?’ she scoffed. ‘I’m an employee of De Groot Finance. Not a marriage counsellor.’

Jack kept his mouth shut, but his face must have whispered something.

‘Don’t even think it,’ said Larissa, raising her voice again.

‘I don’t have to fuck anybody I don’t want to.’

‘That doesn’t mean you haven’t.’

‘No. It doesn’t.’ Larissa scratched the palm of her hand.

‘Have you spoken to Rhonda?’

‘We’re in counselling together,’ said Jack. ‘After the trauma of the heist.’

‘It would pay to be straight with me.’

Outside, the day waned and headed for the horizon, its heat dragging behind like a heavy cloak. Jack’s apartment felt oppressive.

‘You start,’ he said. ‘All I see is curves.’

‘You don’t like them?’

‘I’m the nervous type.’

‘Not how I remember it.’

‘So now it’s okay to flash it about, huh? A moment ago I offended you.’

‘You assumed. But now you know.’

Jack shook his head. ‘What do you want, Larissa?’

She looked down into her lap. Then she flicked her hair and sat up straighter. ‘Money,’ she said.

‘Ah. The ol’ five-letter word.’

‘We need to do a deal, Jack.’

He nodded. At least she did not want to punch him in the stomach.

‘De Groot makes shit-loads of money. Religious art is his speciality. Eastern Europe is being completely ransacked and collectors are flush, willing to pay big dollars. And everybody wants to go to town on the Sergius. They’re lining up for it.’

‘I thought you used to work for a fashion magazine.’

‘I’ve got an honours degree in economics.’

‘Majoring in …?’

‘International banking and being my own woman.’

‘Right. And now you’re specialising in stolen art?’

‘Just this once.’

‘Meaning?’

Larissa stood up. ‘I’ve diverted a little piece off the de Groot stolen-art conveyor belt.’

‘Diverted?’

She looked around. ‘Have you got something to drink?’

Jack pointed to the dining table. His bottle of St Agnes was there.

Larissa got up, walked over and looked at the bottle. ‘My grandmother used to put this stuff in her puddings.’

Jack shrugged. ‘So you know it won’t kill you.’

‘You’re all class.’ Larissa unscrewed the cap and splashed brandy into a couple of glasses. ‘But listen to me, Jack, and you’ll be buying the good stuff.’ She walked over and handed him a drink. She remained standing beside the Eames chair.

‘Cheers.’

She clinked her glass against his. ‘So. Usual stuff with the stealing and dealing,’ she said. ‘Just another day at the office. But Richard didn’t do the Sergius just for money. He wanted to send a message.’ Larissa drank some brandy. ‘An old rival is on the scene and he’s getting rich very quickly. Too quickly. And Richard’s losing clients.’

Jack grinned. A couple of jigsaw pieces had come together. ‘The Sergius was stolen from another art thief ?’

‘Yep. Which means nobody is going to involve the law, Jack. You understand? It’s like an apple from the neighbour’s tree just fell into your yard.’

‘Doesn’t mean he won’t come around to get it back.’

‘I’ll be gone by then.’

Jack sipped his brandy. ‘This other art thief,’ he said. ‘Guy named Viktor Kablunak, by any chance?’

It took her by surprise. She still looked good. ‘You know him?’

‘My new best friend.’

‘Shit.’

Jack drank a little more. ‘And what about Shane Ferguson?’

She frowned.

‘That’s what I thought. Just so you know, he’s tied up in a chair at Kablunak’s warehouse. He didn’t look too good. Pretty sure he wasn’t feeling any good, either.’

Larissa’s face paled.

‘Which means Kablunak knows all about the …’ Jack pretended not to remember. ‘What’s it called again?’

‘The Sergius.’

‘Yeah. The Sergius. And how Shane sent it to me.’

She chewed her bottom lip. ‘Have you got it?’

‘No. Still on its way.’

A pause. The thoughts sparking her brain worked to brighten her grim face. ‘So we can still do this, Jack!’

‘We?’