The Garden of Unearthly Delights Read Free Page A

stopped talking, the recorder’s red light flicking off as silence descended over the two men.
    David Gerrald, of number 16 Cromwell Road, Battersea, aged thirty-eight, freelance journalist and mortgage-shackled, stared at the dealer. Of course he had wanted to do the story. It had been a great chance for him, and the magazine was paying well. But that had been before. Before, when he had thought of the art world and its cohorts as a coven of the privileged, a bastion for the elite . . . an area off-limits to normal people.
    Naturally he had visited the dealer’s gallery. He’d been somewhat taken aback by the stone columns flanking the entrance, and the expansive window displaying a triptych from the late Middle Ages.
School of Bosch.
On entering, David had found himself ignored, his awkward wander around the gallery tracked suspiciously by the receptionist and the doorman.
    Did they think he was going to steal something?
he wondered. Then he realised he was wearing jeans, trainers, and had a bad haircut. Nothing to indicate that he was one of the chosen – a buyer. So David had cut his visit short, not before developing an intense hatred for the dealer he was preparing to interview for the article.
    *
    But the dislike hadn’t lasted. Now he realized he wasn’t looking at a lucky man. He was looking at a broken one.
    ‘There were
two
parts to the puzzle?’
    The dealer sat down again. He seemed tired, his voice strained, his face puffy from lack of sleep. ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘There were two parts.’
    ‘What was the second?’
    ‘
You know
. That’s why you’re here.’
    David’s voice was sympathetic. ‘I need to hear it in your own words. Please.’
    ‘In my own words,’
the dealer repeated. ‘Well, in my own words Iwo Basinski had me over a barrel. His intimidation techniques had worked. The possible danger to my family had cowed me. I
had
thought I was home free. But I wasn’t.’ He took in a long breath, held it, then tipped back his head, looking up at the ceiling. ‘The dealer who had cheated Basinski years earlier – Leo Joyce – turned out to be the new owner of the
St Jerome
painting.’
    David raised his eyebrows. ‘The painting that held the fourth detail?’
    ‘Yes,’ the dealer replied, glancing back to David. ‘The detail I’d struggled with for so long . . . it was owned by the man who had cheated Basinski.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘You know the rest.’
    ‘Tell me.’
    ‘It was to be the second part of the puzzle. Once completed, my debt was wiped.’
    David chose his next words carefully. ‘
What
did Basinksi ask you to do?’
    Again, the dealer rose to his feet. His pacing was slow, laboured, the room cramped. ‘Of course it wasn’t just about the money. I’d already worked that out. I had thought it was about revenge. And I’d been right.’
    ‘But there was more to it?’
    The dealer paused, rubbed the back of his neck as though his muscles were stiff. ‘Oh yes, it was a double whammy, you see. A way for Basinksi to get his money back
and
get revenge at the same time. I was on a string, he could jerk me around and get me to do anything. And Basinski had plotted this move for years. The dealer who had cheated him, Leon Joyce, had probably forgotten what he’d done. Put it down to business . . . but Basinski never forgot. He had been humiliated, lost money and lost face. His revenge was to be perfectly pitched . . . ’
    David watched the man talk, studied the pacing, the regular slow marching.
    ‘I doubt I was part of it to begin with. It just turned out that way. Basinski needed someone and I walked right into his plan. As I said before, I adored the private club in Hampstead and had soon become a regular. I was flattered to be allowed into this elevated, moneyed, circle. As the owner, Basinksi knew that, and possibly he let me win for a while just to keep me coming back. It’s psychological, you see. You win so much you think you can’t lose. So when you
do
lose, you