Out of the Night (7 page)

I
found The Cleveland Contemporary Art Gallery with a few minutes to spare. It was in an old building, once the offices for a trolley bus depot. The conversion, presumably by Jac Picknett, wouldn’t have been cheap. Perhaps that was why she couldn’t afford top-of-the-range security and had come to see me instead.

I walked round the outside first, sizing up the job. I began by assuming the existing security was next-to-nothing. There was a lot of glass in the revamped building and I wondered if any of it was extra special. It didn’t look it. Just toughened glass, with window locks a child of ten could break. Maybe a child of eight, given that we were in the centre of Middlesbrough.

The interior was pleasant enough, and suitably atmospheric. It looked, in fact, like my idea of an art gallery. Plain walls with lights illuminating a handful of paintings. Plush red carpet. A man in uniform who opened the door for me. A smart-looking young woman behind a big reception desk. A couple of possible clients, or more likely window shoppers, eyeing a small bronze of a skating woman in Victorian garb, long skirt and coat flowing behind her as she held on to a bonnet with one hand.

‘Yes, Mr Doy,’ the receptionist said with a welcoming smile. ‘Ms Picknett is expecting you. George will show you the way.’

She beckoned the doorman, who seemed glad to have something different to do. He nodded, gave me a quick smile and gravely led the way down a corridor and up some stairs.

Jac greeted me in a friendly, if rather formal, way. She even seemed pleased to see me.

‘Mr Doy,’ she said, rising from behind her desk. ‘How good of you to come.’

‘We did arrange to meet.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘At this time, too.’

‘Yes, of course we did. I was expecting you. Would you like coffee?’

‘Later, if you don’t mind. I’d prefer to make a start.’

‘Of course. How would it be if I gave you a quick whistle-stop tour? It won’t take long. Then I can leave you to do what you need to do.’

‘Sounds good. It’s Frank, by the way,’ I said with a smile.

She inclined her head graciously. ‘Frank.’

‘And it’s good to see you again. Did I say that already?’

‘I don’t think you did, no. But thank you. I feel the same way.’

So we were off to a good start. That’s always promising with a new client. It saves a lot of hassle.

The tour didn’t take long. She was right about that. The gallery was a nice place, but small. How could it be anything else without some mega corporation behind it?

‘Mostly, we show paintings by modestly known artists that we know will sell,’ Jac began as we set off down a long,
narrow room that had once probably been a corridor. ‘We are a business, after all,’ she added.

I nodded. Then I paused to look at a nice watercolour of a stretch of the Cleveland coast.

‘That’s not far from where I live,’ I told her.

‘Really? Lucky you!’

She smiled a melting smile that endeared her to me, and turned away again. I happily followed her long, straight back as she smoothed her way gracefully across the carpet. It was then that I realized how extraordinarily slim she was. I could have circled the waistband of her black skirt with my hands. Not the white blouse above, though; she was well built in that way.

We moved on to enter a larger room that was given over to seascapes in oil.

‘We do well with these, too,’ she said. ‘The Northeast is still a sea-faring region at heart.’

‘Gifts for retired master mariners?’

She laughed. ‘Probably. Or modern yachting enthusiasts. Whereabouts on the coast do you live, by the way?’

I told her.

‘Nice,’ she said, shaking her head judiciously. ‘Rather wild?’

‘Oh, yes. You have to hold on to your hat most days.’

She seemed to like that, as well.

We entered a large room that did its best to knock you out. I stared with surprise at the extravagantly lurid canvases that dominated all the walls. Vivid yellows, empowering pinks, raging reds, and maelstrom blues. That just about summed it up.

‘Your acrylics section?’ I suggested.

Jac laughed again. ‘It seems that way, doesn’t it? These are all by young local artists from the college. I like to showcase some of their work.’

‘And is this what young artists like to do these days?’

‘Those that like to paint at all seem to, at the moment. Those, that is, who are not busy creating sensory experiences in other media, or trying to shock us all with political comment.’

‘Well, that’s enough for me. I forgot to bring my sunglasses.’

I wondered if she would laugh again, and she did. It was a soft, tinkling sound that was a sensory experience in its own right.

‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ she said. ‘Come and rejoin me when you’re through. We’ll have that coffee – if you have time?’

Oh, yes. I was sure I would have the time. Apart from anything else, I was getting to like Jac Picknett more every minute I spent with her.

It didn’t take me long to work out, on a rough basis, a reasonable package for the gallery. It wasn’t the Tate or the Louvre, after all. Jac didn’t need, and probably couldn’t afford, state-of-the-art security. She just wanted a sensible package. I could set that up for her.

The package would include well-positioned CCTV cameras and monitors, good locks on internal as well as external doors, internal sensors and alarms and a lot of common-sense precautions that experience had demonstrated were as effective as anything.

‘What’s the damage?’ Jac asked when I returned to her office.

I told her in ballpark terms.

‘That’s a lot better than I feared. Are you sure?’

‘Security is always a compromise,’ I told her. ‘The more you have, the more you pay, but it’s never absolute anyway. A good man – or a bad one – can always break through, given enough time and determination.

‘Besides, you have to consider what kind of a place you want here. You’re not trying to keep people out. You want the gallery to be welcoming and attractive to people, presumably, not a Fort Knox designed to stop anyone getting inside. What I’m proposing should be more than enough for what you have here. Have you had any problems, by the way?’

‘Nothing serious – yet.’

‘Let’s keep it that way. I’ll do some detailed costing and come back to you with my ideas. Then, if you’re still interested, I’ll get the hardware and software ordered. I think you should tag items with sensors that will alert someone if they are touched or moved. Meantime, there are some simple things that you can do yourself.’

‘Oh? Like what?’

‘Well, for one, I’d like you to make sure you’re happy about everyone who works here. A lot of the thefts that do occur from art galleries involve insider assistance. Let’s try and rule that out.

‘Then I’d like you to think about how you organize your exhibitions and displays a bit more. Your most valuable items should be in the safest part of the gallery, or the part hardest to reach. Don’t have them where someone can break a window, reach through and grab them.

‘There’s also some practical things worth doing on the outside of the building. You have unprotected glass on the roof. We need either to encase it or to fit bars, so someone can’t just shin up a drainpipe, tap the glass out and let themselves in the easy way.

‘External windows need protecting for the same reason. And outside the entrance you need some sort of impediment to stop someone crashing a stolen vehicle through the doors. Bollards, or something similar, would do it. Decorative street furniture, perhaps? A sculpture or two?’

She was looking doubtful.

‘Jac, big museums have had priceless artefacts stolen in less than a minute by people who have smashed a window, climbed in and helped themselves and been away again before the alarms have got into their stride. You can’t depend totally on alarms and motion sensors, or any other kind of electronic device.’

‘I suppose …’ she started, ‘but what…?’

‘I know an architect who would be glad to advise you on a sensitive approach to fitting these kinds of things. He’s good. It’s not hi-tech,’ I added, ‘but it can be better than that – more effective.’

She smiled at last. ‘OK, Frank. That makes sense.’

‘He lives in York. Mostly he protects medieval windows. I’ll contact him for you, if you like?’

‘Thank you, Frank. I would appreciate it. Gosh!’ she added. ‘There’s more to this than I thought.’

‘A lot of it’s just common sense, and experience. You could skip the electronics altogether and still make the place a lot more secure than it currently is.’

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m happy with what you’ve told me. Let’s do what you’re suggesting.’

‘Good. I don’t think you’ll regret it.’ I stirred my coffee. ‘It’s a very nice gallery, by the way. How long have you been going?’

‘A year. A little more.’ She shrugged. ‘We’re not pulling up trees yet, but we’re doing OK. Better than I expected, the truth be told.’

I nodded. ‘You seem to employ a few people?’

‘More than you might think, actually.’ She smiled. ‘Probably like you?’

‘I don’t employ anyone.’

‘No one at all?’

‘No. Not one. That suits me best. No one to argue with, that way.’

‘Is that what you do – argue a lot?’

I grinned. ‘So people say. Ask Lydia.’

‘Maybe I will.’ She threw back her head and laughed, exposing a milk-white throat that I felt a sudden urge to lick. ‘But you don’t seem the aggressively argumentative type to me,’ she added.

‘No. I’m a real softy.’

Somehow I had amused her. I could tell. I felt pleased with myself.

‘How did you get into the gallery business?’

She shrugged. ‘I’ve always been involved with the visual arts. School, college, etcetera. I liked painting. I still do. But I took stock and decided I was never going to make a decent living out of my pictures. This was a way of keeping in touch. I like what I do here anyway. I discovered a flair for business I hadn’t realized I had.’

If this was all hers, she probably did have a flair. She had done well here.

‘How about you?’ she added.

‘Oh, it’s a long story,’ I said, draining my cup and making moves to be on my way.

‘Too long for now?’ she asked archly.

I nodded.

‘Some other time, perhaps?’

‘Some other time,’ I agreed with a smile as I stood up.

‘Oh, by the way, Jac, there’s an art centre opened recently not far from where I live. Meridion House, just outside Port Holland. You haven’t heard of it, have you?’

She thought for a moment and shook her head. ‘What do they do?’

‘No idea. I can’t find anything about it. When I turned up this morning, the gatekeeper wouldn’t let me in. He wouldn’t tell me anything about it either.’

She frowned. ‘Perhaps they’re not up and running yet?’

‘They’ve been going a year, apparently, like you.’

‘It sounds an odd sort of place.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll see what I can find out. It’s always good to know what’s happening in the region.’

As I made my way out, I saw a little knot of young people who had wandered in off the street and were excitedly discussing a painting. I smiled. This was a very different place altogether to Meridion House.

Back outside, I looked up and saw Jac standing at the window of her office. She gave me a wave and I waved back. I found myself looking forward to seeing her again.

I
was drawn back to the beach at Port Holland. It was hard to say why exactly. Just a feeling that important things might happen there. Probably the boat was at the heart of my wondering. It was so big and improbable a vessel to find in that particular place. The only other boats to call Port Holland home these days were a few fishing cobles, good enough in their own way but nothing compared with
Meridion
.

From the beach
Meridion
looked big, but from the start of the jetty it seemed enormous, a real oligarch’s yacht. I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn it was one of those with its own submarine and helicopter. Probably a missile battery, as well, in case the mackerel started attacking in numbers.

‘What do you want?’

I turned. Three men were walking towards me. Crew members, I assumed. They were dressed alike, in navy trousers and sweaters, and padded jackets.

‘I don’t want anything,’ I told the spokesman. ‘Just having a look round.’

Unsmiling, he stared hard at me and said, ‘Get off the jetty. We’ve got work to do.’

‘I wasn’t aware this was private property.’

‘Get off – now!’

They were a tough-looking trio, and more than I could handle. I took out my mobile and started punching in numbers.

‘I’m calling the police,’ I said mildly. ‘My friends there will be interested to hear that someone in a public place is being threatened by gentlemen from a foreign-owned yacht.’

I paused, my thumb over the call button. ‘What’s it to be, fellas? You want me to take this further?’

‘By the time they get here,’ the spokesman said, ‘there won’t be much left of you to find.’

‘I’m prepared to take the risk.’

Staring hard back at him, I pressed ‘Call’.

He couldn’t handle that. He glowered at me and beckoned to the others. They all walked past, heading for the boat.

‘Don’t get in the way!’ he snapped over his shoulder.

I pressed ‘End’. My answerphone back at Risky Point had just recorded another blank.

Nice people, I thought. Why would the owner of a big, posh boat want crew like that? It wasn’t as if this was the Somali coast.

The encounter had intrigued me. I didn’t stay on the jetty much longer, but I didn’t leave Port Holland either. I climbed back up the cliff and settled down to wait and watch for a while. I wondered what work was planned for the jetty, or for the boat. Whatever it was, there didn’t seem to be any hurry about it. Nothing happened for an hour or so.

By then, I was pretty well frozen and about ready to give
up. I was feeling despondent, as well, having wasted some of the few hours of good daylight available in mid-November. If the guys on the jetty hadn’t been so threatening I would have left long since, I told myself. Probably I wouldn’t even have stayed at all. I had better things to do than this.

Then a burst of activity aboard
Meridion
changed all that and made me forget my discomfort. The rear flap I had seen in action before opened and three crew members emerged from the interior of the boat. They walked briskly along the jetty and up across the sand and shingle to join a couple more men in the same uniform who seemed to have emerged from the tunnel.

Interesting. Something was happening at last. I could hardly wait!

There was a bit of to-ing and fro-ing around the entrance to the tunnel. A couple of men laid boards across the sand, and then several trolleys bearing big wooden crates were wheeled across them.

Once on the jetty, the trolleys were rolled quickly along to the boat, across a ramp and into the cavernous interior.

I counted six crates, each about ten feet long and four high and wide. Once aboard, the big flap swung slowly shut again. Some of the crew stayed on board. The others returned along the jetty with the empty trolleys, and headed back up towards the tunnel. I watched until the door at the entrance swung shut, with them inside.

I felt vindicated. There was no way that tunnel was just a storage shed.

As for the crates…. Well, what did you put in big wooden crates that you then put on a big, fancy boat, and all this in
a ruined harbour on the North Yorkshire coast? I had my suspicions, but they were bordering on fantasy. Perhaps I wouldn’t have had them at all if I hadn’t been challenged so threateningly on the jetty.

That was Bill Peart’s opinion as well.

‘Loading stuff in broad daylight that they took from their own property and placed on their own boat?’ he said. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

I sighed. ‘You weren’t there. You weren’t threatened. In a public place, as well.’

‘Do you want to make a formal complaint?’

‘No. Not yet, anyway.’

‘Well, then. They’ve rebuilt the jetty with their own money, as I understand it. And with an expensive boat like that, they’ve got to be security conscious. Besides, you’re a suspicious-looking character.’

‘Thanks, Bill.’

I thought hard about what I’d seen. ‘There were no markings on the crates.’

‘So?’

‘They looked new. Well made, too. They must have had something heavy in them, all those guys to push them. And valuable.’

Bill shrugged. His complacent silence was getting on my nerves.

‘There’s no road down to the beach there, Bill. Whatever the crates were holding, they came out of that bloody tunnel.’

He swigged the last of his coffee and held out the mug for a refill.

‘Get it yourself!’

He did. Then he stood over me, lording it, and suddenly I knew. I stared at him. He shrugged.

‘You know what they’re doing, don’t you?’

He nodded.

‘What?’

‘I can’t tell you. If I did, I’d have to—’

‘Don’t bother with the rest,’ I snorted. ‘And if you think you can just come here when you’re cold and wet, and drink my coffee, you can—’

‘National security,’ he said sharply, cutting me off. ‘That’s all I can tell you.’

I stared at him. ‘You’re kidding?’

He shook his head. ‘I wish I was. I’ve been warned off.’

‘Warned off what?’

‘Can’t tell you.’

‘What about the bodies? Are you warned off them, as well?’

‘No. The case goes on. But it’s nothing to do with Meridion House. I’ve been told.’

‘And you can accept that?’

‘I’ve got a pension to consider. The payment start date is coming up fast.’

‘I hope I’m never as old as you,’ I said bitterly.

‘There’s no chance of that, the way you’re going on.’

Then he left.