The Red Kimono

Case Four

Zac Tremble Investigates – Series One

By

Chambers Mars

Text Copyright© 2014

Chambers Mars

www.chambersmars.weebly.com

All Rights Reserved

Contents

Author’s Note

Contact Information

Chapter One – Unlucky or careless?

Chapter Two – Casting pearls before swine

Chapter Three – Paul

Chapter Four – I feel queasy

Chapter Five – Shit!

Chapter Six – You look like death

Chapter Seven – I see red

Chapter Eight – Stranger than fiction

Epilogue

Author’s Note

‘The Red Kimono’ is the 4th Zac Tremble Case File in the series Zac Tremble Investigates; the case files of the gay, Soho-based PI Zachary Tremble. ‘The Red Kimono’ is available for download exclusively from The Carter Seagrove Book Boutique.

'The Red Kimono' follows: 'Chrysalis' (1st), 'Metamorphosis' (2nd) and 'Transmutation' (3rd).

In ‘The Red Kimono’, Zac is on the trail of Guy Frobisher, an art collector who, whether unlucky or careless, has a habit of losing his paintings, and his lovers. Zac is unconvinced that there is a link until Frobisher buys another painting, and Paul goes missing. The discovery of both, in Guy Frobisher's mausoleum, provides the darkest moment for Zac so far. Also in this story, Zac finishes with George and Matt is fishing for his chance, until it's clear that someone else is nibbling Matt's bait. We get a closer look at Detective Inspector James Capsicum and an introduction to the artistic side of Mrs Chan's nature; if nothing else, it provides an excuse to see Harry the vet.

Zac is growing, flexing his newly discovered wings, relying less on his father's insight and, with taking on Paul, looking at the future with a tad more confidence. An important case is coming Zac's way, which will involve a trip to Paris. Enjoy that 'adventure’, in 'The Ephemeris Protocol', the 5th case of series 1.

There are twelve case files in series 1 (all published and slowly making their way over from Amazon to The Carter Seagrove Book Boutique). Four case files have so been published from series 2.

Chambers Mars can be found at:

www.chambersmars.weebly.com

chambers.mars@gmail.com

www.carterseagrove.weebly.com

I hope that you thoroughly enjoy the story and feedback is always welcome. Please email me or visit the website to find out what I’m working on next and to find out more about The Carter Seagrove Project; my collaboration with author Alp Mortal.

Thank you!

Chambers Mars

September 2014

Contact Information

www.carterseagrove.weebly.com

carterseagrove@outlook.com

www.alpmortal.weebly.com

www.chambersmars.weebly.com

alpmortal@hotmail.com

chambers.mars@gmail.com

Chapter One – Unlucky or careless?

“Frobisher, Guy Frobisher … why do I know that name?”

I’m talking to myself in the office. The file Matt gave me from John Booker is open on my desk. The first page is a copy of the insurance claim being made by Guy Frobisher, the owner of the painting, ‘The Red Kimono’, allegedly stolen from his home in Battersea. Something doesn’t add up, which is why I’ve got the case to investigate. The name rings a bell.

“Elizabeth …”

My beloved Elizabeth appears at the door, like a rodeo bull at the gate.

“Zachary …”

“Why does the name, ‘Guy Frobisher’, ring a bell?”

“He’s that eccentric, ex-leader of the band, ‘Timeline’. They had hits well before your time. He’s always in the paper for doing something eccentric or lewd … or both.”

“Ah; suspended naked from the window cleaner’s gondola at the Gherkin; that’s the same fella?”

“The very same. He’s also an avid collector of art …”

“The insurance company thinks he ‘stole’ the painting to make a claim. And it wouldn’t be the first time he had a painting stolen. In fact, he’s had five paintings stolen over the years. One might be considered unfortunate, but five? That’s fucking careless.”

“He’s also been very ‘unlucky’ with his partners. The last one died about a month ago.”

“I need to see James Capsicum and find out where he is in the investigation and what I can do. Matt’s due in at ten to give me the next ‘inheritor’ case …”

“What are you doing about George and Matt?”

“I’m cooling it off with George and then I’ll see how I feel.”

“Don’t string either of them along!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Alexander left a cheque for £1,200.”

“Great.”

“The ‘urchin’ made a brief appearance before you arrived. It will return tomorrow after 4pm.”

“His name is ‘Paul’, Elizabeth.”

“When ‘Paul’ decides to have the courtesy to introduce himself to me, then I might call him such; until then, he’s the ‘urchin’ and for goodness sake explain to him the basics of personal hygiene!”

“I think the hostel is pretty grim to be fair.”

I detect a twitch of compassion but it could be indigestion.

“I empathise with the young man’s predicament but surely there is a hand basin and he knows what a flannel and soap are for.”

“I’ll do my best, Elizabeth.”

“Right. Must get on.”

‘Get on’ with what? She must have re-typed the fucking Bible and the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Perhaps she’s writing dirty stories and publishing them under a pseudonym! My lewd thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of Matt with the latest ‘inheritor’ file for me.

“Hey, bro’!”

“The name is ‘Tremble’, ‘Zac Tremble’…”

“Fucking ‘sponging diving’!”

“I hadn’t heard the word before!”

“Who the fuck hasn’t heard the word, ‘espionage’?”

“I hadn’t!”

“So, d’ya wanna go out this week?”

Matt is fishing, or perhaps diving for sponges. He knows George has moved back to his own place because The Fat Controller will have told Barbara the Tank Engine. He wants to know if we’re still seeing each other or if we’re through but he won’t ask; not directly.

“Sure, I’m free every night this week.”

“Oh, right, well, uhm … Thursday?”

“Perfect.”

We’re discussing the file when the top of a ladder appears at the window.

“Great!”

“I thought he came on Tuesdays now?” Matt queries.

“He did. It got changed … but I’m not complaining.”

The window cleaner, Mal, is on his way up and this requires the office door to be closed. Matt draws his seat up to my side of the desk and we pretend to be reviewing a file. Mal’s head appears but he’s doing upstairs first and he keeps going and then stops so that the portion of his body, from waist to knees, is visible, leaning against the ladder. He wears jeans so tight you can see what his sperm had for their tea the night before.

“Jesus, look at that,” exclaims Matt, his tongue on the carpet, drooling over the package which looks like a pineapple in a denim condom.

“Shouldn’t fucking be allowed in daylight,” I suggest, dribbling over the blotter.

The body is moving as Mal cleans the windows, just gently swaying from right to left and the package grazes over the rung of the ladder just in front of it.

“I think he’s getting hard,” offers Matt.

“Best we evacuate the building then …”

“WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING?”

“Oh, hello, Elizabeth. I was just going over the latest inheritor file with Matt, actually.”

“Really. And the file is where; plastered on the wall of the building opposite? Oh, look, it’s Mal, cleaning the windows, it must be Monday.”

“Is he? Is it? I didn’t realise … what with being so busy. We’re almost done.”

“I suggest Mr Bellamy goes back to work too!”

“Yes, Elizabeth; straightaway. Please don’t tell Barbara.”

Matt scuttles out, spurred by a flick of the tea towel across the back of his legs. I’m left with Elizabeth standing over me.

“So, who’s this inheritor then?”

Gulp.

“It’s a special case and I need to assimilate the information before I can have that conversation with you. It’s very complex.”

“How so? Find clueless beneficiary, get PAID!”

“Yes, Elizabeth … that’s exactly what I meant. I’m straight on it … look, I’ve already logged onto the Records’ Office site … shit, that’s Gaydar; I don’t know how that got there … I’m very busy Elizabeth … perhaps we could talk about it later?”

“Zachary Tremble, it’s a good job I don’t wear stocking garters anymore because if I did, I’d be having your guts for a pair.”

It stomps back into the outer office. Mal looks in and gives me the thumbs up. I give him the thumbs down and he looks confused and rubs the windows again. The thought of Elizabeth wearing stockings and garters has sent my Percy back to the land of the dead. And it’s a good job because no sooner do I begin to log on to the Records’ Office site, than James Capsicum walks in, escorted by Elizabeth.

“Mr Tremble; Detective Inspector James Capsicum to see you.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth. Come in Inspector. Did Elizabeth offer you a coffee?”

“Yes she did. I won’t as I don’t have long.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth,” I purr, smiling sweetly. “Detective -“

“Call me James, Zachary … when we’re not in the station.”

“James; thanks for stopping by.”

“Not at all. I had to make sure it was real. There are precious few of you fellas left; the real deal … and a sixty year old agency; that’s probably a record.”

“My Grandfather, then my father, had the agency; I took it on just over three years ago.”

“Good result on the ‘Tewksbury’ front by the way. Can’t say much but let’s just say he won’t be bothering anyone for a while.”

“Good. Slimy bugger and he got out of trouble last time and left Bushell to carry the can.”

“Bushell owed him, so he saw it as quits. Young Simon didn’t and was only too happy to cooperate in the end, putting paid to any further business for the ‘Transmutation Investment Fund’.”

“Was Simon working for you then?”

“Unofficially; you could have scuppered the whole caper but luckily you didn’t.”

“Christ!”

“What you got this time?”

“Guy Frobisher …”

“There’s a slimy bastard and a fucking weird one, if you don’t mind me saying. We think he’s disposing of the paintings to claim on the insurance; that part is simple. We’ve had no reason to search his property, so he could be hiding them there but I don’t think they’re at the house.”

“The other four paintings have never surfaced?”

“No, never. And here’s the gruesome bit. Just prior to each theft, his partner dies. Five deaths and five thefts.”

“All natural causes?”

“A mixture; cancer, a heart attack; I think one got run over by a bus …”

“So there’s no apparent link between the deaths and the stolen paintings?”

“No obvious link. That’s what you need to find; the link. It’s too much of a coincidence; no one’s that unlucky or careless.”

“Okay, I’ll dig about and see what I can find.”

“Good; I’ll keep in touch. Oh, by the way, who was that on the stairs as I arrived; smartly dressed and hurrying out like a scolded cat?”

“Matt; Matthew Bellamy … the solicitor.”

James quirks his lips and raises his eyebrows before bidding me adieu.

Chapter Two – Casting pearls before swine

I can’t be bothered to pick up the inheritor file and save for digging a little to find out more about Guy Frobisher and his dearly departed, I have a quiet day. My thoughts turn to George. He’s a lovely fella: willing arse, deep throat, bollocks like a coconut shy stall at the fair and a cock that responds to more basic commands than Mrs Chan. So why don’t I want to spend the rest of my life with him?

“Zachary, you’re a fickle bastard and emotionally crippled.”

“Thanks for pointing that out, Self.”

“He’s a dish and a stayer; clean and tidy, has nice underpants, a thriving business, his own douche kit and loves animals. What’s not to like?”

“He’s too perfect.”

“He loves you.”

“I know and therein lies the problem. I don’t love him.”

“If you love Matt, then say so.”

“Matt needs to grow up.”

“So do you.”

“I’m not going to be his crutch or he mine.”

“So what now then?”

“Play the field until I get crabs and then take a vow of celibacy.”

“Be serious.”

“I don’t know. I need to think.”

“Do that and whilst you’re thinking, think about this; Matt bought the painting, your self-portrait; he gives you all the best cases his firm has to offer. How will you know when he’s grown up enough and when he has, will you be ready?”

I trudge slowly to the flat to find my princess and receive the unconditional love that I so patently crave.

“Mrs Chan, honey, I’m home,” I sing out.

I hear scratching and thuds as things fall over but I can’t immediately locate the evil bitch.

“Mrs Chan! Where are you?”

Then I hear the easel crash to the floor and the plastic tear.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, DEVIL SPAWN?”

The stupid bitch had snuck into the ‘studio’, where it knocked over a table upon which there was some glue. A good deal of the glue found its way onto her scrawny arse, to which a number of articles then adhered themselves. Spooked, it bounced around knocking over everything else, including the easel and the paints which have obliterated the half-finished portrait of my mother.

“YOU FUCKING ART TERRORIST!”

In its attempt to get under the sofa, it’s spreading the spilled paint over everything.

“I’m gonna fucking murder you … do you realise what you’ve done? … Hours of fucking work down the drain …”

Now it’s pissed itself.

Three hours later I’ve finally cleaned up the worst of the mess and it sidles over the best it can, given it has a canvas stuck to its arse and new rainbow coloured plumage.

“Serves you fucking right! I have a good mind to leave you just like that. Shit! I’m gonna have to take you to Harry’s so he can cut it off … and we’ll have to take a cab. Jesus!”

I make it to Harry’s, who is pissing himself laughing.

“Oh, Zac; only you …”

“No; only Mrs Chan. Can you cut the bloody thing off and slit her throat at the same time?”

He takes her into the treatment room and cuts off the canvas.

“What do you want me to do about the paint? I could try a special wash.”

“What’s the cheapest option?”

“Shave it off.”

“Then shave off the worst.”

An hour later I get a dog back with a burnt sienna coloured head and a body that looks like a used scouring pad. The legs are magenta with sage green paws.

“Holy fuck! I’m gonna be the laughing stock of the fucking capital.”

“Here’s a special wash, once a day for a week.”

“Once a day! Right, missus, this is the last straw. Step off that tightrope and I’m having you stuffed … in a tin!”

Harry is fussing with the bill.

“So, uhm … how’s everything else going?”

“Oh, great actually; no, really great; well, apart from the usual.”

“Elizabeth?”

“No, putty in my hands these days; men …”

“Ah, yes … so …”

“I’m not seeing George …”

“Do you want to shag each other senseless?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“Right, I’ll close up here and open up down there.”

I’m a fickle bastard and an emotional cripple.

I go back to the flat in the morning, before dawn so that no one sees Mrs Chan who appears reluctant to leave the surgery.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll tell everyone that you’re wearing camouflage. It’s a fashion statement.”

I bathe her again before work and I do believe she is contrite but then, surveying the mess, so she fucking should be. I wonder if it wouldn’t be better to move to a bigger place with a second bedroom that I could commandeer as a studio.

I deliberately delay my arrival at the office so that I can pick up a gift for Elizabeth. Waltzing in at ten o’clock like I own the place, I drop a neatly wrapped package on her desk which nips the tirade in the bud.

“Good morning, Elizabeth; such a beautiful day out there …”

“What …?”

I march confidently into my own office and await the reaction.

“Zachary!” Elizabeth calls out.

“Coming, Elizabeth … how can I help you?”

“Can you fasten this for me please … the catch is very fiddly.”

I pad over to fasten the string of pearls around her neck and bending over, plant a kiss on her cheek.

“They look beautiful; don’t lose these ones!’

She’d returned those which Lionel had stolen from Cybil and gifted to her. I knew it had really upset her that his gift had been just part of the ruse. Elizabeth hadn’t wanted to admit that she had been taken in by Lionel, feeling, I suppose, that she should have been more than capable of spotting the slimy bugger, probably better than anyone else.

“I’m … touched that you …”

The floodgates are about to open so I just give her an old fashioned hug and let her sob for a few minutes into my chest.

“Right; first things first. Paul is coming in today, so I’ll miss class. I’ll train him to do the Records’ Office searches. I’m gonna look at these five partners of Guy Frobisher who all died and …”

“Zachary, I love you as if you were my own flesh and blood. Thank you.”

“I love you, too. We’ll go out to see Mum and Dad at the weekend and then have lunch.”

“That’s a lovely idea.”

I bought the pearls with half the money that I got for the painting. I’m saving the other half to give back to Matt at some point. If he’d asked me for the painting, I’d have given it to him … the stupid sod.

Right; the dead lovers of Guy Frobisher! The first thing which strikes me is that they were all significantly younger than the man himself, who is sixty. Me thinks that they might have been lovers of the ‘paid by the hour’ kind but most stayed with him for several years; a decade in one case. Just like James said; they all died very shortly before a painting went missing. And they’re all buried in a mausoleum in Barnes, ‘Frobisher’s Folly’. It was featured on some whacky arts programme that I’ve just re-watched on YouTube.

“Seriously weird fucking creep.”

I plan to take a look at the mausoleum at the weekend, when we visit my parents’ graves. There appears to be nothing in common between the lovers and they all died of natural causes; except the one who got run over by a bus.

Drawing a blank there, I look at the paintings that were ’stolen’. Now, there’s a man with a serious eye for quality. We’re not talking Rembrandt’s but nevertheless, some serious wallpaper. All five of the paintings prominently feature a figure dressed in a striking red costume; a matador in one, a gypsy dancer in another. The last painting ‘stolen’, the one which has given rise to the suspicion, is of a Japanese courtesan; an oiran wearing a flaming red kimono. None of these paintings have surfaced since they were ‘stolen’. The insurance company paid out on the last four claims. Their dalliance over the fifth must surely be rattling Frobisher’s cage. It might in itself, prompt him to do something even more weird than usual.

James informs me that the scene of the break-in, a cellar window at the back of the house, was smashed. The telephone line had been cut which disabled the automatic system which monitors the alarm. That said, if the line is cut then the central control station gets a warning and if they get no response to their follow up call, they send out the Police. That was the case this time.

It’s difficult to pin anything on this guy. He’s rich by all accounts, so the money doesn’t appear to be the motive. The lovers and the paintings … there has to be a link.

“Zachary, lad …”

“Hey, Dad!”

“Thinking about this Frobisher chap of yours, I’m put in mind of the Tutankhamen exhibition I went to at the British Museum when they toured the treasures around the world.”

“And?”

“What did the Pharaohs get buried with?”

“Oh, well … tons of stuff; all the stuff they’d need in the afterlife as befitted their station …”

“Exactly!”

Those appear to be the only pearls I’m getting today.

But I'm wrong … because Justin smiles too sweetly at lunch, so I know he knows that George has left.

“Hey, Zac!”

“Hello Justin; why are you looking so happy?”

“Got my first really good review for the restaurant in the ES last Friday.”

“Excellent!”

“You busy later?”

“Not especially; it’s Monday. D’ya wanna pop round?”

“Love to; closing early tonight, so I’ll be round at nine with a little something to tickle your taste buds.”

“You’ll have to excuse the mess. Mrs Chan had a senior moment; thought she was Rolf Harris and tried to re-paint the flat.”

“Right … see you at nine o'clock … shall I bring a tablecloth?”

“Nah, let’s eat on trays in front of the box.”

I wink because he knows I have no trays and no TV.

My afternoon is dominated by the thoughts that my father left with me. Tomb artefacts; what on Earth can that have to do with this crime?

Mid-afternoon, I traipse out to see what’s what and Elizabeth is not at her desk. This woman moves slower than a glacier. She doesn’t use the toilet across the landing which we share with the girls from the nail bar which only confirms that she must have a bladder like an oil drum. I play with the coffee machine and scald my hand trying to froth some milk.

“Zachary?”

“Oh, where were you?”

“I got us an éclair to have with a cup of tea.”

“Oh, cool; thanks!”

“I also dropped off your passport renewal application with the new photograph.”

“Am I going abroad?”

“Always best to be prepared … in case you have to dive on the Eurostar or grab a flight to New York in pursuit of a suspect.”

“Oh, yeah; when I’m investigating some ‘espionage’, right?”

“Matt is just jealous.”

“George was right about one thing … I need protection. I’m gonna sign up for a martial arts course; nothing fancy … probably just Judo.”

“It’s an excellent idea, Zachary. Joking aside, you need to be able to defend yourself. Twinkly eyes won’t always save the day!”

She alludes to a school bully who had me in their sights. I didn’t get roughed up in the end; far from it, once my special powers took effect; he was on his knees quicker than the Pope.

Having abandoned Mrs Chan at lunchtime in favour of Justin, I leave early to waltz the ratbag around the Square. I attempt to tidy up for Justin and make good the bomb site that I used to call my studio. We have a butcher’s outside the estate agent’s in the hope that there is a two bedder in our price range. Fat chance if you wanna live in Soho; full of rich, arty queers with small dogs. I’m an arty queer with a small dog; just not rich.

I get called out by three oiks who’ve spied the dog in her battledress. I try to ignore it but they seem intent on having a go.

“Ignore them, sweetheart …”

“Fucking queer bastard …”

Are the only words that the leader of this pack manages to get out before the agent of death has his bollocks firmly between her jaws and she’s hanging there like a Christmas bauble.

“GET HER OFF!”

“Say you’re sorry.”

“WHAT … argh …”

“Say you’re sorry or I’ll give the ‘kill’ command and you’ll be two short of a coconut shy.”

“SORRY … GET HER OFF!”

“Leave it, Mrs Chan.”

Of course she doesn’t and before letting go of her own volition, she vigorously shakes her head from side to side, tearing the cheap material of the guy’s tracksuit bottoms and he’s exposed to all and sundry.

We scuttle off before he can recover his composure or dignity.

“Well done, Mrs Chan; you’ve earned yourself one less bath for that!”

It plops itself in its basket and squirms on its back in some kind of post gladiatorial combat thanks giving and it gives itself some thanks. Jesus! And we have company due.

Justin drops by at nine with a tray of the samples from the new menu. We pig out and sink a Rioja between us before I give him his pearl necklace and he gives me mine.

Chapter Three – Paul

Tuesday used to be Mal’s day but that got changed. I spot him on the way in.

“Mal, how goes it?”

“Not too bad.”

“I wondered if you could do the flat’s windows as well from now on.”

“Sure, I’m up your street on a Tuesday, early.”

“Great, you know the one, don’t you?”

“Yeah, excellent!”

I head in.

“Good morning, Elizabeth.”

“Good morning, Zachary.”

I leave the Records’ Office searches for the afternoon when Paul is coming in. James has already informed me that the ‘thefts’ of the paintings from Guy Frobisher’s house were probably done by some small time villain, Gary Lane; but nothing sticks. Apparently he was a roadie with ‘Timeline’ in the good old ‘sex, drugs and rock an’ roll’ era that Frobisher inhabited for the most part.

So, Frobisher has the painting ‘stolen’ to claim on the insurance but he doesn’t need the money. A month or so before the ‘theft’, the partner dies. Well, he couldn’t predict that could he? So, the partner pegs it and then Frobisher has a painting stolen. None of the paintings have surfaced … ever.

My father’s comments return to me; those he made about what got buried with the Pharaohs. But seriously, why would you bury a valuable painting with your deceased lover? All of whom are interred in the mausoleum in Barnes; the Munster’s Mansion in miniature. And, all of the paintings feature a prominent figure dressed in red.

I’ve gotta see that mausoleum, which I can when Elizabeth and I visit the folks on Sunday. Maybe it’s time to trail Guy Frobisher and see where he goes and whom he meets … and I have a picture of Gary Lane. However, Frobisher is now single and I presume, still grieving. But records show he doesn’t grieve for long, so maybe he’s on the hunt for his next … and he’ll be looking for a new painting. Steven has to be the next port of call then; he’ll know if Frobisher is looking at anything … and we already know his taste.

“I’m heading over to see Steven, Elizabeth,” and I explain the rationale.

“Excellent deduction …”

“Thank you!”

“Zachary, you can do this; you are doing this! Don’t doubt yourself.”

I leave with mixed emotions playing havoc with my heart and mind. My father, up until the point of his death, I think, saw me as that rather odd little boy who loved steam engines and drawing pictures. I guess he thought it was pretty unlikely that I would take over the agency. But if I don’t do this, then what do I do?

“Steven!”

“Hey, Zac; how’s the painting coming along? I’ve got good interest in the next piece.”

“Ah, well, there’s the thing … got trashed by the dog who suddenly decided to wear it.”

“Get cracking then. We have to get something else out within a month.”

“I’ll do my best. So, Guy Frobisher-”

“Argh! Don’t mention that name within these hallowed walls … loathsome creep.”

“Jesus; everyone says that! I thought he’d be one of your best clients.”

“He is … but it comes at a price.”

I delve a little to see if the creepziod is looking for anything specific right now.

“Look at this; I haven’t called him to see it yet …”

Steven takes me out back and takes the cover off a painting on a stand.

“It is called, ‘Danseur Macabre’, by Delange …”

The painting is of a ballerina, dressed in a flame red tutu. Stylistically, it’s Dali meets ‘The Corpse Bride’.

“Wow, that’s amazing!”

“And five hundred thousand pounds.”

“Are you going to show him it, then?”

“I would but this painting is an icon of sorts. It marks the emergence of the Gestalt School. I’d rather it didn’t disappear from the face of the Earth.”

Seems everyone knows the score when it comes to Guy Frobisher.

I’m left with an idea which needs some stewing and it’s about time I got ready for Paul’s first session.

The day that I met Leonard Teague, aka, Lionel Tewksbury, he managed to get his willy caught in his zip. Rightly or wrongly, I lifted his wallet in the commotion of ambulance crew and bystanders trying to free said willy. I gave the wallet and the credit cards to James but kept the cash. Not for myself; for Paul and his new career as a … well, what; an apprentice?

Elizabeth vacates the office early to take up Mavis’s offer of a reading before the IT class. Paul arrives at four-fifteen on the dot which surprises me and I have to caution myself that his outward appearance belies an altogether different person underneath: quick on the uptake, rapier witted, confident and very methodical; my alter ego!

However, the smell is not working well with the ‘new look’ agency and it’s the first test of my people skills … but then I have a brain-wave.

“Okay, before we start I’m gonna grab a sauna. You wanna join me?”

“Sure!”

But the face drops when I suppose he realises that he doesn’t have any stuff.

“I need to grab some stuff from home first and pick up some toiletries at Superdrug.”

We pop back to the flat.

“Oh, cute dog, what’s her name?”

“Vivienne Westwood …”

“’Course …” and he’s looking around.

“What happened in the corner?”

“Vivienne decided to have a ‘creative’ moment. I believe we see the emergence of the ‘painting with canvas glued to your tush’ school; I should charge admission.”

I explain the ‘mishap’.

“I’d love a dog,” admits Paul.

I’m tempted, so fucking tempted.

We head to the sauna via the chemist and pick up the usual.

“If you start earning a decent bit of money then you can think about renting a place,” I offer.

“In Soho; you’re kidding right?”

“Maybe just a room at first …”

No response and this indicates that we’re in very virgin territory, unlike the sauna where the hard core are at play. Now, this was not an exercise in getting his knickers off to see his truncheon, this was to get clean and sparkly … but of course we check each other out and smile to ourselves.

There has to be a God and I believe he loves me. Whilst generally loitering about, I clock Guy Frobisher. He’s surrounded by a clutch of young guys and the patter is nauseating; uncouth and pretty demeaning. He’s a sixty year old creepziod sharing the craic with the kids; it’s positively obscene. However, there appears to be something going on because he’s seriously checking everyone out, scrutinising the faces and not the tackle, and once he’s obviously unconvinced of something, he blanks the kid thereafter. I hardly think soul searching.

He notices Paul and his whole demeanour changes. It’s as if the rest of the guys have just melted away. The two microscopes are trained on the lad’s face and it freaks Paul out who moves off. I think Frobisher would have followed him but realises we’re together and holds back. We don’t stay much longer and head to the office, by which time it’s nearly six o’clock.

“It’s a bit late to start training now. Why don’t you come in tomorrow, meet Elizabeth, then we’ll get cracking?”

“Okay, but … like … is this for real? I mean, is it a job?”

“If you want it.”

“So I could … you know …”

I don’t really know but I’m getting something and it’s probably too much for him to take in.

“Why don’t you come back to the flat and we’ll talk about it some more? Then maybe you can decide once you’ve thought about it. It’ll mean some changes; regular hours, things to learn …”

“Okay.”

We grab pizza and decamp to the flat. I paint the honest picture of myself and so does he; nineteen and four years spent plying his trade. He avoids telling how he ended up on the streets but it’s pretty obvious from the remarks he makes about his mother and father, whom he hasn’t seen in all that time. Mrs Chan is curious and he’s like my father was, in that he just picks her up and cuddles her, stroking her ears whilst he’s talking and there’s an obvious bond.

“Can I stay? I don’t want to go back to the hostel. I’m getting grief from one of the other guys.”

“Uhm sure. What about your stuff?”

I get the look that says that his ‘stuff’ is in his pockets or the carrier bag he’s been lugging about.

“I can get that later.”

“Right; well, the sofa’s yours. Do what you want. I’m gonna clear up the ‘studio’ and maybe do some work.”

Which is exactly what we do.

“You don’t have a TV …”

“The transmission waves fry your brain. I don’t have a microwave for the same reason. The phone and the laptop are shielded.”

“Oh, cool. So what do you do in the evening?”

“Paint; sometimes all night.”

“I love art; especially animation.”

“Help yourself and-”

“You don’t mind if I stay then?”

The sofa for the night appears to have been translated as something else. Oh, what the hell!

“I don’t mind. Don’t let her teach you any bad habits … and flush the toilet after you’ve used it.”

Strange; I thought I needed a two bedroom flat when in reality, I needed someone to share this one with.

With Mrs Chan on the sofa beside him, her head resting on his lap, he’s been sketching for the best part of two hours. I’ve worked up the outline and done some of the easy, background stuff. It’s approaching 1am.

“I’m heading to bed; we should get in on time. Elizabeth will want some time with you … to sort out some admin.”

“She’s scary.”

“Yes, she can be but she’s also the best friend a boy could ask for and remember, she’s seventy-five-”

“Fuck!”

“Yeah, awesome! Respect her and she’ll respect you.”

He gets the sleeping bag and a wet smooch from Mrs Chan. I’m cleaning my teeth at the sink in the bathroom and Paul is just wandering about, toothbrush firmly lodged in his gob. He takes a leak, forgets to flush, comes back, flushes, gargles an apology, peers in the laundry basket, goes out, comes back starkers, joins me at the sink to finish cleaning his teeth and pulls his lip up to check his bicuspids, just like I do.

“Night, Zac.”

“Night, Paul.”

Something like peace descends on my home and you know, as bizarre as it sounds, it feels like my father has both come back and left.

I get up to have a slash at about four. Peeking in, I see Mrs Chan has crept into the sleeping bag. I don’t begrudge him the pleasure or her the attention.

Chapter Four – I feel queasy

Neither of us is a ‘morning’ person and we stumble about trying to have breakfast and get ready for the office. The weird thing is, if I reach for a cup, so does he at precisely the same time and seemingly unthinkingly. We’re each other’s shadow; a mirror image. Staying on the sofa has extended to sharing the wardrobe and chest of drawers. I draw the line at sharing the shower.

“Whizz her ladyship round the Square whilst I have a shower and then I’ll clear up whilst you’re getting ready.”

Mrs Chan needs no encouragement. Paul’s jabbering away and you’d think they were an old married couple.

We head in.

“So, it’s ‘Elizabeth’; think of her as The Queen on steroids. Treat her with the utmost respect and watch for the right jab. Introduce yourself and don’t stare at the mole.”

“Good morning, Elizabeth.”

“Good morning, Zachary. Good morning, Paul.”

“Good morning, Elizabeth.”

“We need some time together today to sort out a few things. Would you like tea or coffee?”

“Uhm … tea please.”

“Right; get settled and I’ll let you know when I’m ready for you.”

“Okay.”

He and I head into my office and even before I’ve logged on, Elizabeth comes in with my coffee.

“Right, Paul, let’s get started. Zachary, can you call Steven, please?”

“Right o’.”

I log on and check for emails and messages whilst calling Steven.

“Steven, it’s Zac.”

“Guy Frobisher is coming in to see the painting at 3pm on Friday.”

“No problem.”

“I’ve got the chance to exhibit some of your Mother’s pictures, next month; the ‘War Baby’ series. Will the portrait be ready?”

“I’ll make sure it is.”

“See you Friday.”

“Okay.”

Waiting for Paul to come back before we start the process of tracking down inheritors, I examine the five paintings that Frobisher had purchased in the past. Besides the fact that the key figure is dressed in red, the faces of those figures are remarkably similar. They put me in mind of Orlando Bloom in ‘The Lord of the Rings’ which I’d thought was a porn flick until Elizabeth told me she’d seen it.

Well, it wouldn’t be uncommon for a collector to be fixated by a characteristic, or a particular ‘look’. Looking for the same characteristic in a lover is probably no more unusual and all Frobisher’s lovers had a similar appearance; elfin, boyish features, crystal clear, Ceylon sapphire blue eyes and blond hair. Just like … Paul. No wonder Frobisher homed in on him at the sauna. It takes a bit of digging to find out that each of the lovers was ‘anonymous’; no particular ‘history’, ‘notoriety’ or relatives! This discovery wouldn’t have been possible without the internet. Now I can find copies of last wills and testaments.

I’m beginning to feel queasy. Matt calls.

“Hey, bro’, can’t make Thursday; something came up.”

“Oh, no worries, I’ve gotta deliver another portrait by the end of the month so I’ll work on that. What’s doing then?”

“Work stuff; contracts. Hey, hope your passport is up to date; might have a little trip for you soon.”

“Oh, where?”

“Paris.”

“Paris! But I don’t speak French.”

“Best you get some lessons; this could be the ‘big time’ … for you and me. Can’t say more.”

“Sponge diving?”

“Don’t breathe a word to Elizabeth; she’ll tell Barbara that I told you and she’ll have my fucking spleen on toast.”

“So …?”

“Employee suspected of passing trade secrets to a competitor.”

“How have you got it then?”

“The two companies are planning to merge. We’re working on the contracts. One of the companies suspects that an employee is passing key information over to the other side, giving it an unfair advantage in the negotiations.”

“Right. Cool!”

“Get some lessons. How’s the ‘Reginald’ case coming on?”

“No progress yet but Paul and I are just about to start.”

“Paul?”

I explain.

“Christ, Zac; you’re taking a chance, aren’t you?”

“Yes, one I hope pays off.”

“Right, good luck!”

“See you soon, then?”

“Sure.”

Paul returns looking like he’s got constipation.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah …”

Now is not the time to pry. We’ve got work to do and a fee to earn. Just as I suspect, Paul’s eager and very quick.

“See how you get on. I’m popping out.”

“Right!”

I head out and catch Elizabeth’s eye, nodding in the direction of my office. She just nods.

“I’m off out; a few calls to make and I need a new portfolio case.”

“Be careful, Zachary. It’s a good plan but no one trusts this man.”

“No, I know. I will. Can you find a tutor for me? I need to learn French.”

“Planning a trip?”

“Yeah …”

I leave them to it and make for Smythson’s to get a new portfolio bag which I need to transport the painting. I meet James, as previously arranged.

“Are you sure this is going to work?”

“I’m sure.”

“Be careful.”

“I will. So, did you fancy grabbing a drink one night?”

“Probably not a good idea to mix business with pleasure, Zac.”

“No. Still, a drink is just a drink.”

“It could get complicated. Let’s see how this one pans out; maybe after it’s put to bed.”

I pop in and see Justin. Guy Frobisher is having lunch … alone.

“Hey, sweetheart … mushroom omelette and a glass of that Rosé, please.”

I can feel Frobisher’s eyes trained on me and I’m sure he recognises me from the sauna.

“Do we know each other?” He asks.

I turn.

“I don’t think so. I mean, I know you’re Guy Frobisher but I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Zac."

Without any introduction or invitation, he comes and joins me at my table.

“I saw you at the sauna last night, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, I was there.”

“Who was that with you?”

“A friend.”

“Just friends?”

“Just friends.”

“Would you give him my card and ask him to call me. Thanks!”

He hands me a card and then disappears.

“Creep,” I mutter under my breath.

Justin comes over with my lunch.

“Thank God he’s gone!”

“Yeah …”

“He’s so obvious.”

“Fucking slime ball.”

“What you doing tonight?”

“Working on a painting. Why; ain’t you busy?”

“Just fancied dessert.”

I explain the house guest situation.

“Well, you can’t let it stop you having guests. He’s not gonna care is he?”

“No, probably not but if I have guests then he’ll assume he can and whereas I’ll be dunkin’ my donut in the privacy of the bedroom, he’s on the sofa.”

“Well, he’ll just have to play ‘away’ games only.”

“I guess; sure, come over … but I do have to work too.”

“I’ll be over at about eleven o’clock.”

That’s how we leave it and I go back to the office.

“Zachary, I have three prospective tutors for you to see tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

Barbara will have told her everything.

“Paul has had his lunch and he’s getting on with the searches just fine. I’m very proud of you, Zachary.”

I smile with tears in my eyes.

We finish up with a list of prospective inheritors to see. I mention to Paul that I saw Frobisher at the restaurant and give him the card.

“He wants one thing. I’m not your keeper but I’d stay out of his way if I were you.”

“He’s too old.”

I mention the house guest situation.

“On, no, that’s fine. I didn’t assume … I was gonna ask.”

“We’ll just have to work something out.”

“I could see a mate tonight.”

“Up to you.”

And that’s how we leave it. By five, I’ve had enough and Paul looks whacked but very happy.

“You did great. Once you’re saving me time then we’ll see where that leaves us, but I don’t want you just working on that stuff. It gets pretty boring at times.”

“I’m happy.”

Back at the flat, Paul pops out with Mrs Chan who looks really pleased to see him - not that she didn’t look to me for the assurance before they go out.

“Behave!”

I get cracking on the painting almost immediately and barely notice them come back. Paul fixes himself something to eat and then announces he’s off out.

“Okay. Justin’s coming at about eleven and he’ll almost certainly stay over.”

“I’ll be back later.”

I’m already gone, lost in the painting and it’s the door buzzer announcing Justin’s arrival which drags me out of the coma. It’s eleven-thirty.

“Hey.”

“Jesus; you look so wasted!”

“I’m on a deadline. It’s important that I get this done on time.”

We have a nibble of some titbits that Justin’s brought with him and then whizz Mrs Chan out before retiring to bed. I feel particularly amorous. Justin feels the wicked side of my tongue and I feel his technique is definitely improving. My prostate feels like it’s been hung, drawn and quartered!

Surfacing at around three to get something to drink, I notice that Paul isn’t back.

“What’s wrong?” Justin asks.

“Paul’s not back.”

“He’s probably decided to stay with his mate.”

“Yeah, probably.”

But it doesn’t feel right although I don’t know why. He hasn’t got his mobile phone yet, so I can’t call him.

Only the hours in front of the canvas and Justin’s ministrations send me off.

Chapter Five – Shit!

Morning comes round none too soon and Paul’s still not back.

“He’ll be at the office,” Justin assures me.

He dives off to grope some salad at the market and I take Mrs Chan out, who looks worried.

“I don’t know where he is, sweetheart. Let’s not panic.”

Sound advice but when he isn’t in the office, I feel sick. Elizabeth looks pensive.

“I agree, Zachary, it’s not right. He was so happy yesterday and he told me how much he’s looking forward to working for us.”

“What do I do?”

“If he doesn’t show by the end of the day, call James.”

None of this is good for business and I can’t settle to anything.

“Fuck!”

Elizabeth reminds me that I have the three tutors coming in; one at ten o’clock, one at eleven and one at noon.

“Dad?”

“Zachary, lad, don’t panic. Panicking is never any good. He went out with a pal and probably fell back into old habits. He’s very likely surfacing just about now, feeling a little worse for wear and worried about showing his face.”

“Yeah, you’re right. We’re going to the cemetery on Sunday.”

“Oh, that’ll be nice.”

“It’s Elizabeth’s birthday soon.”

“Yes, I know. Tea at The Ritz was always a sure-fire winner.”

“I remember. I’ll book it.”

Every hour that passes sees me sink further into despair. I’m certain Paul hasn’t just fallen back into old habits. I call James and explain.

“Not much I can do, Zac, not yet. I’ll have a word but to be honest, it comes as no surprise.”

The comment, however meant, sounds uncharitable. Then again, I haven’t seen as many of these as James. I can’t ignore my gut instinct and for a change I was sure I had read Paul right.

The tutors come and go but to be honest, I’m hardly in the room and I give all three a non-committal answer.

“Zachary, go home. He might have slinked back in and is waiting to see you before he sees me. Assure him that I’m not angry but I was … am … concerned; and let him know that I have his phone now so he can keep in touch.”

“Yes, I’m going home. It’s pointless being here. I may as well work on the painting.”

“If he comes in, I’ll send him straight home and call you.”

“Okay, thanks.”

I get a hug and give one. How quickly we’ve become attached to this ‘urchin’. That said, if he is at home, he’ll fucking wish he’d stayed out. It does remind me of the few times I did something similar and even as Elizabeth was giving me a good hiding, I could feel the sting of her hot tears as they struck the back of my neck. I don’t imagine she’ll put him over her knee … but I wouldn’t bank on it!

I debate if I shouldn’t go back to the sauna. Paul had a few nodding acquaintances there. I do, but no one has seen him. I end up traipsing the streets with Mrs Chan until four in the morning.

“C’mon, sweetheart, let’s go home.”

I spend the rest of the night on the sofa with her, listening for the key in the lock.

Nothing. It’s Thursday and James suggests that if he doesn’t show by Friday morning then we should report him as missing. I don’t even bother going in and work on the painting.

“Hey, Mum.”

“Zachary, darling. I know you’re worried sick about Paul but try not to worry. He’s coming to terms with a lot of changes. It affects people in different ways.”

“But he knows he can talk to me.”

“Four years on the streets, Zachary. We’re the lucky ones.”

“I was lucky to have Dad and Elizabeth.”

“Promise me that when he shows … because he will … you won’t be angry.”

“I promise not to be angry. I’ll be too busy throttling him to be angry!”

“The painting is coming on, I see.”

“Yeah, at least that’s working. Not that’ll it’ll see the light of day.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I think you’ve captured the look perfectly. And you really should take the camera out sometimes; you’ve got such a good eye for the light.”

“Maybe I’ll take it on Sunday when we come over.”

“Okay. Get some rest or you’ll be good for nothing. I have a feeling you’re going to need your strength.”

“What am I going to get Elizabeth for her birthday?”

“She’s never been to Paris.”

“Oh, hasn’t she?”

“Speak to you soon, darling.”

“Bye, Mum.”

I go back to the sauna but no one has seen hide or hair of him, and Mrs Chan and I spend half the night touring the streets again. When we get back, as much as it pains me to admit it, I have to say that I think he’s gone. I don’t really believe it because I’m sure I read him different.

Friday … and I call James and post a ‘missing person’s’ report.

“I’m sorry, Zac, it happens all too often.”

“Yeah, I was just hoping we could … you know, do stuff.”

“Are still going ahead with the plan?”

“Yes, I have to.”

“Okay, call me.”

“I will.

“Elizabeth, I won’t be back after the trip to the gallery. I’ll see you on Sunday at the usual time. Justin’s bringing a picnic.”

“Oh, that’ll be lovely. Something will turn up, Zachary. We’ll put up posters next week.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

It is.

After a quick bite, I head off to the gallery.

“Hey, Steven!”

“Hey, Zac. Great, you’ve got it. Let’s get it set up.”

Okay, it’s time to reveal the plan. I’ve copied the painting that Guy Frobisher is coming in to see; ‘Danseur Macabre’. Steven’s convinced that he’ll buy it. There’s a tracking device hidden under the frame. If, at some point it’s stolen, James can find it. It’s a long shot because it could be years before that happens. Though my guts say it won’t be that long.

“Oh, outstanding!” Is Steven’s assessment, “Dare I say … better than the original.”

“No, Steven, you can’t say that but if it does the job, I’ll be happy.”

“The owner will be none the wiser. The original will be stored. At least it won’t be lost forever … like the others.”

Guy Frobisher comes in, looking like the cat who ate the canary … which I put down to the fact that he knows that as soon as this painting is delivered to him, it’ll never again see the light of day.

“Oh, it’s you!”

“Hello, again.”

“Are you a collector?”

“No, artist. Steven is exhibiting some of my work at the end of the month.”

“What do you think?” He asks, nodding at the painting.

“It’s a landmark piece; the emergence of the Gestalt School.”

“Yes, it’ll do the job nicely.”

“Are you going to buy it?”

“Without a doubt! I have a thing for ‘women in red’.”

“Well, it’s a woman and she’s in red.”

I move off so that Steven can gush and liberate half a million pounds from the limp wristed cunt.

“It’s mine!” He announces proudly, less than fifteen minutes later.

“Congratulations!”

He pauses and then asks, “Would you like to see the rest of my collection?”

I pause and reply, “No thanks.”

I’m fluent in subtext, if not French.

He departs and Steven blows out his cheeks.

“Thanks, Zac.”

“Not at all.”

“He’s picking it up tomorrow.”

“James’s techy will be here at five.”

“You look worried. It’s over; for now.”

I explain what has happened.

“I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, well … gotta go and get the portrait finished!”

“It’ll make a stunning centrepiece for the exhibition.”

I go home but can’t summon the enthusiasm for the work. I even put Alex off.

“Shit! Where is he?”

Chapter Six – You look like death

I take Mrs Chan to Hyde Park on Saturday but it’s for her benefit rather than mine. I ignore all advances that come my way.

Despite walking around Hyde Park all day, I spend the night walking around the West End but even that provides no real comfort. I don’t believe Paul has gone back on the streets, so to look for him there seems disloyal. I grab a bite with Justin.

“Maybe he went to see his parents. He’s got a job now so perhaps he wanted to tell them about it, show them that he’s taking care of himself.”

“Yeah, but he hasn’t called has he? He must know we’d worry; worry ourselves sick.”

“Zac, as hard as it is to believe, I think you have to accept that he’s gone and he’s not coming back.”

“I know. I just don’t want to.”

I think I got back at about four in the morning. Mrs Chan looks up expectantly.

“Sorry, sweetheart, no sign of him.”

All of this takes the shine off the thought of the trip to Barnes and the picnic afterwards with Justin.

That said, I will take a look at Guy Frobisher’s mausoleum; admittedly, just out of morbid curiosity. I decide to take Mrs Chan. It wouldn’t be the first time and I need the company. Her insistence that I stroke her head all the way over on the bus is quite comforting in its own way.

“Good morning, Elizabeth.”

“Good morning, Zachary. Hello, Mrs Chan!”

Mrs Chan pops her front legs up on Elizabeth’s knees and demands to be fussed.

“Shall we then?”

“Zachary, you look like death … and unless you plan to move in with your Mother and Father, let it go. We’ll put the posters up next week. We have to put our energy into positive things.”

“I’ve been out every night looking for him.”

“He isn’t back on the streets, Zachary. Something else accounts for his disappearance.”

We walk arm-in-arm to the graves and do a general tidy up. Mrs Chan is running around and getting quite excited … or maybe agitated … but she’s running around like a crazy thing and then disappears from view.

“Choosing her plot, no doubt,” I jest, trying to inject some light-heartedness into the moment.

“You need to make a decision about the tutors, Zachary.”

“Yes, I want to be prepared.”

I know she knows that Matt is on the point of passing over the case that will involve a trip to Paris. But I’m also thinking about Elizabeth’s birthday. Harry already said he’d look after Mrs Chan for me. Of course, I thought Paul would be there so I didn’t think I’d need to take Harry up on his offer.

We’re done and we’ve had our respective conversations.

“Where is she then? Jesus; first the boy and now the girl!”

I wander about, calling out for her and in the process I happen across the precinct in which Frobisher has his mausoleum. There’s a kind of ‘avenue’ leading down to the gates which are open. That in itself doesn’t alert me to anything amiss. I continue walking down the ‘avenue’, calling out for the little sod. I stop at the gates. The mausoleum is like a mansion in miniature; the Munster’s Mansion. At the front there is a big door, out of proportion to the rest, but then it has to be big enough to allow the casket to be taken in. Even the thought makes my skin crawl.

I see Mrs Chan, running around the perimeter of the house and then she stops outside the door.

“Mrs Chan!” I whisper loudly, “Come here this instant.”

Something’s caught her attention because she’s just sat there, gazing at the door.

“This is pointless,” I say to myself as I step inside the gates. Even then she doesn’t turn.

Marching up to her, I feel uneasy. Well, this is a private space however creepy it might be. Finally, she realises I’m there and starts to create in the ‘porch’ of the house.

“Christ, Mrs Chan; it’s not like there’s anyone in there.”

The door opens and a head pops out; obviously the noise outside the door has ‘disturbed’ the occupant. My hearts stops for a moment, thinking all manner of things but then I recognise the head as belonging to Gary Lane, Guy Frobisher’s side-kick. As soon as the door is open, Mrs Chan is in like a rat up a drainpipe.

“Mrs Chan!”

I can hear some commotion from the interior.

What could I do but attempt to retrieve her?

Gary has disappeared back inside and then I hear Mrs Chan yelp.

“Fuck!”

I just bound in at that point, thrusting the door wide open which fortunately lights up the interior … and then I wished I had been left in the dark.

Chapter Seven – I see red

“You fucking sick bastard!”

I can barely recall the scene. Guy Frobisher, dressed in a flame red tutu, is fucking Paul who is bound and gagged; himself dressed in a red kimono. Gary was obviously filming it because the camera is close by. As soon as Frobisher sees me, he freezes and then withdraws.

“Get out of here!” He shouts, “How dare you!”

Gary is fending off Mrs Chan who is going loopy and being pretty savage. He manages to shake her off and bolts out of the door with Mrs Chan giving chase. I advance on Frobisher.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you; you filthy fucking cunt …”

I’m wearing the jacket which has the inside pocket into which the truncheon fits snuggly. Probably out of sheer blind rage, I start lashing out. I don’t think I could have done it under any other circumstances.

Frobisher is screaming and I’m sure I’ve broken his arm. I ain’t gonna stop until I see his brains spilled out over the floor but before I can deliver any more blows, I’m grabbed from behind. Thinking it’s Gary, I start to struggle.

“ZAC! IT’S ME!”

I hear James’s voice and slump slightly. There’s more movement, other people … and someone drags Frobisher out, screaming and howling.

“Zac …”

I turn to look at James.

“He was …”

Sobs and shaking take over and James holds me up.

“C’mon! Let’s get Paul out of here.”

He’s barely conscious and mumbling incoherently behind the gag.

“Paul, it’s Zac … it’s over …”

Stinging tears are blinding me and my hands are shaking so much that I can barely grasp the knots which need to be untied. Somehow I manage it. When he’s free of the ropes, I just hold him. He’s so thin.

Someone puts their hand on my shoulder; it’s a paramedic.

“His name’s Paul; he’s nineteen,” I say automatically.

After that, I’m only barely aware of what happens until I get outside into the bright sunlight. Within a second or two, Elizabeth is hugging me and shushing my sobs which erupt without warning.

“Elizabeth …” I manage to squeeze out.

“Shush, it’s over. Everything’s going to be fine now.”

Chapter Eight – Stranger than fiction

“How is he?”

“He’s fine. He’s coming out tomorrow.”

“James stopped by to take a statement from me. He thinks Gary Lane picked Paul up, probably spiking his drink.”

“He doesn’t remember anything and if he never remembers, I’ll be happy.”

“Matt called. He’s sending over the file for the ‘Ephemeris Protocol’… and the insurance company is making arrangements to transfer the ‘finder’s fee’ into our account.”

“They were all in there then?”

“Yes … all five.”

“What a sick fuck!”

“Zac, don’t go there. Paul is safe and that’s all that matters.”

Frobisher had interred the paintings with his dead lovers. The men had been mummified and each was dressed as a figure in the paintings. James had already told me that the lids of the caskets had been opened; probably more than once.

“Why did he go for Paul?”

“James thinks he was ‘desperate’ to add to his collection. Paul fits the ‘mould’ perfectly.”

“Christ. And Gary?”

“As sick as Frobisher and God knows what he’s done in the past. Still, he won’t be so cocky now, will he?”

“No, and Harry thinks the break will heal nicely, despite her age.”

Mrs Chan suffered a broken rib and a nasty cut under her eye where Gary threw the camera at her in the attack. In return, she gave him an impromptu circumcision. As he rushed out of the crypt, Elizabeth pole-axed him with a swift jab. A fact she is not proud off; much!

“What I don’t know, is how James got to the scene so quickly,” I muse, more to myself.

“He was in the area when the call came in.”

“A tad out of his patch.”

“He wasn’t working …”

I hear a tell-tale tone; the one which indicates that I’m not going to like the rest.

“… he was … at Matt’s …”

“Ah!”

Epilogue

“That’s right; cross-reference those entries and the ones without a corresponding match will be the ones we go and see …”

“Zachary … Paul … I just thought you ought to know that Guy Frobisher committed suicide last night.”

We’re all in the office and it’s a week or so after Paul’s release from hospital.

“How?”

“Drug overdose; passed to him by Gary, most likely.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth.”

Paul hasn’t said anything until now.

“Plenty of red where he’s going …”

There’s a pause as we all process the news and try, with varying degrees of success, to lay it all to rest.

“Oh, Zachary; what time do you want to take the Eurostar?”

“Uhm, I don’t know. Not too early; perhaps midday. If we go first class then they’ll give us lunch won’t they?”

“What do mean, ‘us’?”

“Bonne Félicitations!”

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Contact Information

Chapter One – Unlucky or careless?

Chapter Two – Casting pearls before swine

Chapter Three – Paul

Chapter Four – I feel queasy

Chapter Five – Shit!

Chapter Six – You look like death

Chapter Seven – I see red

Chapter Eight – Stranger than fiction

Epilogue