Maggie was sure she had heard the name, maybe a famous pianist? But she wasn’t certain. She put the notebook into the envelope with the rest of the notes and then into a drawer. She was about to use Jack’s computer but wasn’t certain what the password was, so she turned off his desk lamp and then the room light before going into their bedroom. But she couldn’t stop thinking about it so went to her briefcase and took out her laptop.
Sitting on the bed, she Googled Jo Ogden, and was pleased to find she’d been right. There was a famous pianist called John — not Jo, as Jack had written — Ogden, who died in 1987. She skimmed through the details of his life and brilliant career, a self-taught prodigy who had been overwhelmed with the burden of genius and could not cope with everyday life.
Maggie then looked for an artist with a similar name and was taken aback when up came Joe Orton, a playwright born in 1933, who was bludgeoned to death by his live-in partner, a failed artist called Kenneth Halliwell. She started delving deeper and the more she read of the relationship between Orton and Halliwell, the more anxious she became. They appeared to have had a tortuous homosexual relationship that broke down when Orton became successful. Halliwell’s failure as an artist drove him into a jealous rage, battering Orton’s head nine times with a hammer. Maggie took a deep breath, trying to think exactly how Adam had phrased his description of his dealer. Did he sound like Orton?
She rang Jack’s mobile. ‘Has something happened?’ he asked concerned. ‘I’m almost at Bond Street.’
‘Can you pull over, Jack? I need to talk to you... it’s important.’
‘For Chrissakes Mags, you know where I’m going. Can’t it wait?’
‘No, you have to pull over and listen to me.’
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Jack murmured to himself. He drove on until he spotted a parking space in Berkeley Square and parked up. ‘OK, this had better be good, Mags.’
‘Jack, I need you to think back to when Adam said something derogatory about his dealer, and you made a note of it.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘In your notes, you wrote down a name, Jo Ogden. I think you said that Adam had inferred his dealer was like him, or he and his partner were like them.’
Jack sighed, trying to piece together what she was asking him. ‘As far as I can recall, it was after he’d had a call from his dealer putting pressure on him...’
‘What did he say?’
‘I’m trying to think, Maggie, what’s so important about it?’
‘You wrote down the wrong name, Jack. I think he was referring to a famous playwright named Joe Orton.’
‘Maybe I did. I honestly can’t remember it clearly. I still don’t understand what the big deal is.’
‘Joe Orton’s partner was an artist called Kenneth Halliwell. Orton became hugely successful as a playwright, but his partner, the artist — he did collages with bits of paper and cut out stuff from magazines — anyway, he was not successful, and he became consumed with jealousy.’ She heard him give an impatient sigh. ‘Jack, Orton was hammered to death by his boyfriend. He tried to disfigure him with nine hammer blows to his head.’
In the blink of an eye, Jack understood the connection. ‘Was this recent?’
‘No, years ago, late sixties, he was only thirty-four. Halliwell committed suicide. Listen, Jack, if someone in the art world referred to someone else’s relationship as being like Orton and his partner...’
‘I don’t know if this Detmar guy is gay, dead or alive, or even if he has an artist for a boyfriend.’
‘What about Adam?’
‘What?’
‘You don’t know him, Jack, I just thought you should know what I’ve found out. Think what he has told you, even that German woman said he’d threatened to crucify someone. Please be careful.’
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘You’re right, Maggie, thank you. Now I’ve got to go. I don’t want to be late.’ Jack sat in the car thinking over everything she had just told him. Something started to kick into gear inside him. He knew that compared to Adam he had a pitiful knowledge of the art world, and Adam had probably enjoyed dropping intellectual clues like the Orton reference for his amusement. Jack felt suddenly angry that he’d been so worried when he thought Adam might have been the crucified victim.
Jack waited until he was back in control of his emotions, then drove to the venue on Bond Street. Parking up, he had a good view of the gallery: four storeys, the windows brightly lit, a red carpet from the pavement to the glass double doors and a uniformed doorman standing to attention as the guests arrived. Rolls Royces, Mercedes and even a stretch limo drew up as Jack watched glamorous women and elegantly dressed men entering the gallery. He hid the family car down a side street, then hesitated only a few moments before heading across the road and entering through the gallery’s gleaming glass doors.
Chapter 25
‘Welcome to the gallery. May I have your name please, Sir?’ The smartly dressed young woman on the desk in the reception area smiled warmly at Jack.
Jack waved his invitation as if insulted. ‘Sotheby’s, you should recognise me by now,’ he said curtly.
She gave an embarrassed, apologetic nod as Jack picked up one of the leaflets from the desk and walked towards the first open doorway, picking up a glass of champagne from a tall young man holding a tray along the way.
The walls were adorned with large oil paintings from what Jack guessed was the eighteenth century, depicting women in full satin gowns and men in white powdered wigs.
More guests were arriving as Jack made his way to a corner to read the leaflet. The gallery had three open floors: the third floor would feature the exhibition of a new artist’s work, and Detmar Steinburg would introduce the artist at eight o’clock. The fourth floor contained the private offices.
Jack walked out and noticed two men, who were not in evening suits, standing in opposite corners of the room. He assumed they were security guards. As he approached the wide staircase, he saw a glass-sided lift with a sign that read: ‘Gate opens outward’. Jack stepped into the lift and got out on the second floor. The walls here were adorned with more modern paintings, and two men were examining them closely while referring to a catalogue. Another security guard in a suit was standing to one side.
After wandering around for a while, Jack managed to slip past the security guard while a group of people arrived at the same time. He took the lift again, this time exiting on the third floor. There was no one stationed at the entrance to this part of the gallery, but a chain was attached to the long door handles. He was able to inch them open a little giving him a reasonably good view of the room. He was surprised to see that all the canvases were draped with muslin sheets and were on easels rather than hanging on the walls. At one end of the room, there was a small, raised platform with a microphone and a jug of water with a glass next to it. He guessed that this had to be the exhibition area, and Detmar would be introducing the artist from the platform.
He took the stairs to the next floor. There was a sign that read, ‘Private: No Admittance’, and all four doors were closed. Each door bore a small plaque indicating that it was a private office, a staff bathroom and toilet or a sales department. At this point, Jack was beginning to think he had been mistaken about Detmar, as it seemed that Detmar was definitely expected to open the exhibition.
He moved across the landing to the door at the end. Although it appeared to have some kind of digital lock requiring a code to enter, when he turned the handle, it opened. He quickly slipped inside, leaving it partly open, so he wasn’t locking himself in. One window overlooking the rear of the gallery had the blinds partly open, giving the room a yellowish glow.