“At the studios, of course. A car will pick you up here at one o’clock. You’re supposed to be in London by five-thirty, so that should give you more than enough time. It’s nice to have met you, Mr Barratt.”
Charlie watched her walk all the way down the pontoon, then sighed. “That is tasty, Johnny. That is very tasty.”
“And engaged to a Swiss cheese zillionaire.”
He snapped his fingers suddenly. “She’s the one who was on the telly with you last night?”
“That’s the one.”
“Hell fire.” He sat down heavily. “Tell me it isn’t true.”
“Tell you what isn’t true?”
He was staring up at me with a very worried expression. “You didn’t really give the picture away, did you?”
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes. “Christ on the cross. I saw you on the telly last night and I couldn’t believe what you were saying! He’s mad, I thought, off his poor little twist! You’re as bad as Georgina!”
“Come on, Charlie!” His accusation had angered me. “What the hell am I supposed to do with the bloody thing?”
“Sell it, you bloody fool,” he said, just as angrily.
I laughed. I couldn’t stay angry with Charlie. I sat opposite him and told him all about Georgina and Elizabeth, and how I’d visited Perilly House and seen the two caravans which I suspected were intended to be Georgina’s new home. I explained how Sir Leon had promised to take care of her future for me, and how that was more important than some damned picture, however glorious that picture might be.
Charlie leaned his head against the lower guardrail. “Elizabeth was going to shove Georgina into a caravan?”
“Yes.”
He uttered a crisp judgment of Elizabeth, then another, less crisp, on me. “But you still gave it away. I don’t believe it!”
He seemed extraordinarily worried, and it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps he had thought that, should I succeed in finding the picture, I would pay him back for all the thousands he had spent on
“Bugger the money! I’m thinking about you!” He helped himself to the mug of coffee Jennifer had abandoned. “I suppose you realise that Elizabeth will probably take you to court and challenge your right to give it away?”
“Perhaps.” But not, I thought, if she was hiding it.
Charlie sighed. “You have a rare talent, Johnny, for going up shit-filled creeks and chucking away paddles.” He offered me a lit cigarette, then lit one for himself. “Who’s the copper on this one?”
“Harry Abbott again.”
“Jesus wept.” He was truly disgusted. “You’re not bunking up with bloody Harry, are you?” He frowned, evidently thinking of the press conference. “And Harry knows who’s got the painting?”
I smiled, knowing my next answer would amuse Charlie. “Elizabeth.”
Charlie stared at me in surprise, then scornfully rejected the idea. “Harry’s off his twist! He reckons Elizabeth stole the painting?”
“Or someone did it for her.”
“Bloody hell! But Elizabeth married money, didn’t she?”
“They’re skint.”
He thought about it for a few seconds, then tacitly conceded that his initial scornful rejection might have been mistaken. “She always liked money, didn’t she?” He stared at me, and I saw the penny drop. “Johnny! She tried to have you killed?”
“That’s what Harry thinks.”
“Which means she’ll try again…” Charlie was smart, very smart, and he twisted on the thwart to stare at the man who had chased him down the bridge on to the pontoon. He snapped his fingers at me. “You’re being guarded, Johnny!”
“You got it, Charlie. Not all the time, because Harry’s a cheapskate copper, but so long as I’m on the river I’ve got company.”
“You’re daft,” he said, “plain daft.” He had spoken ruefully. Now he stood up. “I don’t know, Johnny. I thought you’d be halfway to the West Indies by now! Hell, I was going to bring Joanna out there for a fortnight!”
“There’ll be other fortnights, Charlie.”
“Maybe.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got a meeting up on the M5 extension. It’s a brand new motorway and it’s already crumbling to shreds. Still, I mustn’t complain. It’s all money. Look after yourself, Johnny.”
“I’m trying.”
“But if you want my advice,” he said morosely, “I’d bugger off. I wouldn’t trust Harry Abbott, and I certainly wouldn’t trust that Buzzacott mob. They’ve already conned a painting out of you, so what will they take next?” He climbed on to the pontoon. “Maybe I’ll drop by on my way home.”
“I won’t be here this afternoon, Charlie.”
“Oh, of course. You’re off to London with your girlfriend.” He paused on the pontoon. “You’re an idiot, Johnny.”
“Am I?”
“You’re getting involved.” He flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the river, then stared gloomily at me. “Do you know why I like you? Because from the very beginning, right from the beginning, you were always different. You never gave a damn. You didn’t give a monkey’s about a bloody thing. You’d do anything for a dare. But now? Now you’re letting those rich buggers call your tune. You’re joining them, Johnny, and they’ll use you.” He pointed an accusing finger at me. “Go back to sea, Johnny. You’ll be happier there.”
“I’ll go back soon.”
“Go now, before they tame you.”
I smiled, then watched him walk away. Had Charlie been tamed? I didn’t know. What I did know was that I had let down my friend. I had let him down by throwing in my lot with other people, and I abruptly realised that Charlie was upset because, till now, he had always seen himself as my protector. Now he felt betrayed, and I felt rotten, but I wouldn’t change my course, not yet, for Georgina’s future and my own stupid hopes depended on it. Not hopes of a painting, nor of a reward, but of Jennifer.
I chained the dinghy to the coachroof so that no thieving creep would steal it, locked
To my chagrin, Hans had accompanied Jennifer Pallavicini to the television studio. The happy couple were waiting for me in the hospitality room where Hans greeted me politely, then stood smiling by as Jennifer and I made small talk. Her friendliness of the morning had dissipated, though she did say that she liked Charlie.
“You did?” I sounded surprised, for she’d behaved very coolly when she met him.
“He looks a very capable sort of man.”
“He’s that, right enough.” I told her tales of our adventures together, and recounted the time when we had nearly died in the Tasman Sea storm, and how Charlie had sung all the way through the ordeal because, he said, he’d be buggered if he went to hell crying. “He’s a good man,” I said warmly.
“And you define a good man,” she observed icily, “as being someone who can sail small boats in big storms?”
I reflected that it was a more reliable definition than being a genius with the processed cheese, but managed to avoid saying as much. Instead I was buttonholed by the programme’s presenter who told me what he wanted me to say. It was evident that I’d been cast as the rogue aristocrat; unstable, unreliable, and somewhat mysterious; while Jennifer, I assumed, had been invited in case I proved to be tongue-tied, in which case she could be relied on to keep speaking.
We did our television programme. The interviewer treated me like a cretin, and I obliged by being suitably
