Louise stopped in front of a painting of sunflowers, the colours so vibrant that they seemed to jump off the canvas. Half a dozen Japanese tourists were clustered around the painting listening to a commentary on headphones, nodding enthusiastically. Louise was a head taller than all of them so she had an unobstructed view. She took off her sunglasses.
'It's beautiful,' she said. She read the details on the plaque to the left of the picture, then looked at Donovan, clearly surprised.
'It's a Van Gogh,' she said.
'That's right.'
'But they're worth millions.'
'Sure. And some.'
They were standing less than five feet away from the canvas and there was nothing between them and it. No bars, no protective glass.
'We could grab it and run,' she said.
'We could,' said Donovan, 'but there are security staff all around and every square inch is covered by CCTV.'
Louise craned her neck but couldn't see any cameras.
'Don't worry, they're there,' said Donovan.
'So what is it with you and art galleries?' she asked.
Donovan shrugged.
'Ran into one to hide from the cops. I was fourteen and should have been at school. Two beat bobbies were heading my way so I nipped into the Whitworth gallery.'
'Where's that?'
'Manchester. Huge building, awesome art, but I didn't know that when I went in. I walked through a couple of the galleries, just to get away from the entrance, and then I got to a gallery where a volunteer guide was giving a talk about one of the paintings.
'She was talking about this painting. It was a huge canvas, the figures were pretty much life size. Two Cavaliers with feathered hats facing each other with a pretty girl watching them.' Donovan smiled at her.
'You know, I've forgotten who painted it, but I'll never forget the way she talked about it. It was as if she could see something that I couldn't.' He shook his head.
'No, that's not right. We could all see the painting, but she had a different way of seeing. She understood what the artist was trying to say. The story that he was trying to tell. The painting was about the two guys arguing over the girl, of course, but it was way more than that. There were political references in the paintings, there was historical stuff, things that you just wouldn't see unless someone drew your attention to it. I tell you, she talked about that one painting for almost thirty minutes. By the end I was sitting cross-legged on the floor with my mouth wide open.'
A multi-racial crocodile of inner-city primary-school children walking in pairs, holding hands and chattering excitedly, threaded its way past them, shepherded by four harassed young female teachers.
'I kept going back. Sometimes I'd join up with classes of kids about my age, sometimes I'd sit in on the volunteer lectures. Sometimes I used to sit on my own and try to read paintings myself He smiled apologetically.
'I'm being boring. Sorry.'
'You're not,' said Louise.
Donovan smiled.
'It opened my eyes. I know that's a cliche, but it did. You see, a painting isn't just a picture of an event like a photograph is. A photograph is totally real, it's what you'd see if you were there. But a painting is the artist's interpretation, which means that everything that's in the painting is in for a reason. Each one is like a mystery to be solved.'
Louise's smile widened and Donovan tutted.
'I'm being patronising, aren't I?'
Louise shook her head.
'I was smiling at your enthusiasm,' she said.
'You're like a kid talking about his comic book collection.'
They walked through the double doors to another gallery, this one full of Impressionist paintings. It wasn't Donovan's favourite room and he barely glanced at the canvases.
'Can I ask you something?' said Louise.
'Sure.'
She looked across at him apprehensively.
'Promise me you won't get upset.'
'Sure,' he said.
'Your wife left you, right?'
Donovan nodded.
'You must have known her better than you know anyone in the world, right?'
'I guess so.'
'And you didn't see it coming?'
'I suppose I was too busy doing other things. I was away a lot.'
'Do you miss her?'
'Do I miss her?' said Donovan, raising his voice. Heads swivelled in his direction, and one of the curators flashed him a warning look. Donovan let go of her hand and bent his head down to be closer to hers.
'Do I miss her?' he repeated.
'She screwed my accountant. In my bed.' His face was contorted with anger and she took a step away from him. He put his hands up.
'I'm sorry,' he said. Touchy subject.'
'I can see.'
Donovan looked around. An elderly couple were openly staring at him and he glared menacingly at them until they looked away. He took a deep breath.
'And you're right. I should have seen the signs. There probably were clues when the two of them were together. It must have been going on for a while.'
'And there weren't any signs?'
'Like I said, I was away a lot.'
'Which is a sign in itself,' she said.
Donovan looked at her with narrowed eyes and a growing respect for her intelligence. Louise was a bright girl.
'I mean, if everything was hunky dory, you'd have spent more time with her, right?'
'There were other considerations,' said Donovan.
'For instance?'
'This is getting to be like an interrogation,' he said.
'I just want to know who I'm getting involved with, that's all.'
'Is that what you're doing? Getting involved?'
She turned and walked away, then looked back at him over her shoulder.
'Maybe,' she said.
Donovan caught up with her and they walked together through the Sackler Room, where the gallery kept its paintings by Hogarth, Gainsborough and Stubbs. Donovan admired the way that Louise hadn't asked what it was he'd wanted. He'd kept the phone conversation as brief as possible, just saying that he needed a favour and that he wanted to meet her outside the National Gallery. Most people would have arrived bursting with questions, but Louise had seemed happy just to chat.
'I do appreciate you coming, Louise,' he said.
'I owe you, Den. Whatever it is you need, I'm here for you.'
Donovan nodded.
'How much do you know about what I do?' he asked.
