“That happens on occasion. But in the case of Standing Warrior, I’m afraid not.”
Barbara frowned. “I’m not following. You said I could see it?”
“Of course. It’s just over here, among several other sculptures. All different artists, but grouped together they look very striking, I think.” She led Barbara farther back into the gallery, where a dimly lit alcove had cones of light striking five different pivoting stands. She stopped in front of one of the stands—the largest—and there it was, exact to the photo Ross Carver had pulled from the internet.
The piece stood some eighteen inches tall, a stylised depiction of an African warrior with spear and shield. He was thin and muscular, long-faced but without expression. He wore a necklace of beads and a ring in one ear.
“Artists working in bronze generally do limited editions of their work. This particular artist—Blessing Neube—did fifteen of Standing Warrior. She sends them to us two at a time. We don’t have the storage for more. When we sell two, she sends the next. This one is number thirteen. You can see the number on the bottom of the piece along with Blessing’s initials. May I ask what your interest is?”
Barbara identified herself and explained her interest in Standing Warrior: as a murder weapon. While Neda looked concerned at that, she nodded when Barbara asked to pick up the sculpture. It was, Barbara reckoned, perfect for use as a cosh. It was simple to grip round the warrior’s ankles, heavy enough to do serious damage, but not too heavy for a woman to wield. She observed the number 13 on the bottom, which prompted her to ask if Neda knew where the other twelve copies of Standing Warrior had gone.
Yes indeed, Neda assured her. The gallery kept records of all purchases, not only for purposes of provenance but also to alert buyers should something come to the gallery by the same artist. Barbara gave her Ross Carver’s name, and she made very short work on her computer to confirm that, yes, Mr. Ross Carver had bought a Standing Warrior. “It was numbered ten,” she said.
“I’ll need a list of the other buyers,” Barbara said. “We’ll want to contact them to make certain they’re still in possession of the piece they bought.”
Neda looked hesitant. She said, “It’s terribly irregular . . .”
“So’s a search warrant,” Barbara told her pleasantly. And she waited a moment before adding, “It’s just to make sure we know where the other Standing Warriors are.”
Neda gave a small sigh but she printed the list of buyers and handed it over. Barbara gave it a glance. Not a familiar name on it, but it was a box that wanted ticking. She dug one of her cards out of her bag and handed it over, saying, “If someone should bring the sculpture in for you to sell . . .”
“I will let you know at once, of course,” Neda assured her.
CHELSEA
SOUTH-WEST LONDON
Tani had not managed to work out why only three people lived in this house, along with a dog and a cat. It was the largest family home he’d ever seen, at least twice the size of the house where Sophie and her family lived. It had rooms for everything: bedrooms, bathrooms, library, kitchen, and those were just the beginning of the place. The previous night had introduced him to the dining room, where all of them had sat at an oblong mahogany table so polished he could see his reflection in it. Eight upholstered chairs followed its curve, and on an ancient cupboard thing against a wall, a big-arse covered soup bowl stood on a tray. To either side of it were framed pictures, all of white people, of course, but then what would you expect? There was among them a wedding picture of the couple who were housing him and Simisola at present, the bride wearing a posh white gown done up to her throat, the groom in a princely grey cutaway, her hand through his arm, his hand covering hers. We’re in love, we’re in love, the picture called out. But at the end of the day, it was just a picture.
They’d passed round plates of food, and they’d engaged in what probably went for typical rich-white-person conversation. Simisola joined in when she was asked a question directly, but when the others were talking, her round-eyed gaze merely travelled among them, as if she couldn’t quite believe her bloody good luck in ending up in such a fairy-tale happy ending household.
In the morning, after breakfast, he’d gone into the garden. He began throwing a chewed-up tennis ball for the dog. He wondered why anyone would call a dog Peach, why anyone would call a cat Alaska. Neither name made the least bit of sense to him.
Peach didn’t seem to care one way or another what she was called. At the moment, she was intent upon the ball. She barked till he threw it, she barked as she went to retrieve it, she barked when she dropped it at his feet. From the central tree, Alaska watched them, the slightest flick of the end of his tail showing he was paying attention.