Barry Maitland: No trace

‘Yes, Fergus. Maybe then.’

‘I’ll give them what they want, Mr Brock. Just set it up, will you? I don’t want to stay here any longer.’

Brock helped him to his feet, and Tait made one final attempt at bravado. ‘You never know, there may be scope for an art dealer in gaol. There could be a big market for prison art, don’t you think?’

The whole of the previous forty-eight hours now seemed like a surreal dream, Brock thought, a piece of Dadaist experimental theatre. The bar was filled with coppers from the Major Enquiry Team, drinking and joking with a particular intensity, as if to reassure themselves that the world hadn’t gone completely mad and there were still a few normal folk around.

Emboldened by her Scotch, Kathy said,‘Have you tried calling her?’

He frowned, looking at his watch. ‘It’s probably the middle of the night over there.’

‘You should tell her what’s happened. She’ll understand.’

‘Hmm.’ He bit his lip, not at all sure about that. He still got a lump in his throat when he remembered the way she’d disappeared through the passengers-only gate, without a backward look. It was a memory he’d replayed many times over the past couple of days and nights.

‘Anyway,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘Deanne’s hypothesis proved right after all; art triumphed over mammon.’

‘That’s true.’ She turned as the door of the bar opened, and smiled as she recognised Tom Reeves. He caught sight of her and grinned back, and she thought how nice he looked, dark hair swept back, face flushed with colour from the cold.

‘Do you remember Tom?’ she said to Brock, who looked up in surprise.

‘Oh, yes, of course. How are you, Tom?’

‘Great. Congratulations, sir. Fantastic result.’

His enthusiasm was genuine, Kathy saw, probably enhanced by wonder at Brock’s durability.

‘What will you have to drink?’

‘Let me,’ Brock said, and went over to the bar.

‘You must be exhausted,’ Tom said to Kathy, scrutinising her face as if for signs of damage.‘Are you hungry?’

‘Ravenous. Is this our date, then?’

He nodded.

‘Well, I should warn you, I spent last night lying on a pavement and I didn’t get much sleep. I may just flake out.’

‘That’s fine, but I warn you, that excuse only works once,’ he said, and Kathy laughed, suddenly happy to be alive.

Brock returned, catching the flush on Kathy’s cheek. ‘Well, don’t think me rude,’he said,‘but I’ll be pushing off. Have a good night.’

He picked up the brown paper parcel and made for the door, looking forward to a long bath and a warm bed, and, in the morning, hanging a second picture on his living room wall, next to the Schwitters. It was a present from a little girl now reunited with her grandparents, against whom, Brock felt confident, Virginia Ashe would shortly agree to drop further proceedings.