The Horse's Arse by Laura Gascoigne

Author:Laura Gascoigne [Laura Gascoigne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781911110880
Publisher: Clink Street Publishing
Published: 2017-08-31T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter XXVII

The fine weather had held until the weekend. From halfway down Ilfracombe Road Daniel could distinguish a small Arsenal-red figure doing keepy-uppies at the end of the street.

“Hiyah,” Sami acknowledged him without pausing. “Mum’s upstairs.”

A sash window flew up, a curly head popped out and a bunch of keys came flying down.

“Here, catch!”

Daniel locked his bike to a railing and let himself in.

Yasmin was at the door of the flat in an Indian print sundress, one strap escaping over her shoulder. She was wearing flip-flops. He’d never seen her legs.

“I’ve promised Sami a picnic in the park. I know it’s not the height of professionalism, but would you mind if our meeting took place on a rug?”

She shook out a tartan blanket and folded it into a bag, then picked up her dark glasses off the hall table.

“Better enjoy the sunshine while it lasts. The person who misses his chance and the monkey who misses his branch both cannot be saved, as my nan used to say. Indian proverb.”

She picked up the bag and slung it over her shoulder.

“Coming?”

Daniel had his reporter’s pad in his hand. It was too big fit in his pocket and he felt stupid taking it to the park, so he left it on the table and followed her downstairs.

“…39,” counted Sami as they came out.

Daniel noticed the ball was autographed.

“Mum’s boss gave it to me, he’s got a gold season ticket to the Arsenal,” boasted Sami, running ahead with the prize possession tucked under his arm.

The park was oddly empty for a sunny Saturday, but it wasn’t exactly bursting with attractions. It was a flat, featureless rectangle framed by poplars where in Magritte’s dreams it might have rained bowler-hatted men from a blue sky. Beyond it, Yasmin said, lay Shropshire Fields Allotments, a Shangri-La of sheds of all shapes and sizes in varying stages of romantic dereliction. On any other day Daniel would have made a beeline for it, but today he was perfectly happy staying put.

They spread the rug under one of the poplars and Yasmin emptied the bag’s contents onto it: sandwiches, crisps, apples, Kit Kats and cans of drink.

Sami started on the crisps.

“Tuna?” Yasmin offered Daniel a sandwich and took one herself. “OK, I’m ready to take questions. Fire away.”

“You’ve read the piece about the Wise Collection in this month’s Marquette?”

Daniel wished he could read her reactions through her dark glasses.

“I read the opening paragraph,” Yasmin confessed. “We have a subscription in the office, but months go by when we don’t get round to taking off the cellophane wrapper. And with all due respect to the quality of its reporting,” she handed Sami a sandwich, “I don’t have time to read it at home. All I know is that the collector Godfrey Wise has died, in shady circumstances” – the arc of one eyebrow showed above one dark lens – “and his family have dumped the collection on the State Gallery. Anything wrong with that?”

“Nothing in principle,” said Daniel, “but in practice plenty.

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