It was after six but I knew Brian would still be at work. The honeymoon was over now and he was back in the thick of it. Traffic was heavy but at least I was going the other way-towards the city rather than away from it like everyone else, returning home to the suburbs after a hard day at the office. I waited till I got to the first big intersection, then I phoned.
‘Brian? It’s Claudia … No, not Brazil. Hurstville. I’m in the car.’
Brian made some comment to the effect that he never thought he’d live to see the day I’d make a phone call sitting in my car at traffic lights. I told him I’d gotten over that glitch as soon as I realised how practical a mobile phone was in my line of work.
‘You know we were talking about Grimaldi the other day? Well, if it’s not too much bother, can you check him out?’ He asked me what in particular. ‘Companies, business records, tax returns if your intelligence stretches to that.’ I could almost see him grinning, appreciating the joke. The Tax Office knew everything about everyone but getting information out of them was worse than getting blood out of a stone. ‘Also, if he has an employee called Fabio—sorry I don’t have the surname—or if there are any records of payment to such a person. That’d be the best Christmas present I could hope for.’ He said he’d see what he could do. Maybe he’d have something for me when I came over for dinner. With perfect timing I hung up at the exact moment the lights changed.
It was just on 6.30 when I got back into town. Peak hour parking restrictions were finished and I had no trouble finding a parking spot outside David Jones. But that turned out to be my ration of luck for the day. Across the road I could see the painting but the artist had gone.
The painting was alongside Hyde Park, close to the entrance of St James station. There was a florist on one side of the entrance and a newsstand on the other. They were both packing up for the day. I asked the woman in the florist if she knew where the street artist was. She just shrugged and continued bringing the buckets of flowers inside. I tried the same thing with the guy selling newspapers. ‘He’s gone. Probably be back tomorrow,’ he assured me. ‘He comes most days.’
I went back and examined the painting. It was The Last Supper. Kerry was right-the colours were beautiful. The cobalt blue of Christ’s robes was reflected in the blue of his eyes. His fair hair framed his face like a halo. Strange that a Sephardic Jew like Jesus would have blue eyes and fair hair. Artistic licence I suppose. I stood back to admire the painting as a whole but soon my view was obscured by people walking along the street heading for the station. Some of them skirted around the painting but most walked straight over it, thinking of nothing else but getting home for the night.