Next morning, before Narcisa woke, Caramarin padded downstairs. Ewelina was standing in her white robe, brewing coffee and listening to the radio. Her eyes were bleary, hair was a mess, every which way, but Caramarin wasn't about to tell her that.
Ewelina smiled and handed him a mug. "Enjoyed yourself last night?" she smiled up at him.
"Yes, that TV talent show was all right," he grinned back, pretending to misunderstand.
"How's your face now?" Ewelina asked.
"Much better, thanks. Looks a mess but doesn't hurt as much as it did," he replied, rubbing his stubble. Not quite true but it sounded good.
Ewelina opened the back door to the yard. It was still orange-dark, lit only by a street light at the end of the alley.
"Still raining," she commented.
But Caramarin was looking at fresh scars on the wood around the lock. He was sure they weren't there the last time he'd been out in the yard.
"Did you lock the door last night?" he asked.
"Of course, I always lock it. You have to, especially round here," Ewelina replied.
"But you didn't unlock it just now?"
Ewelina looked confused. She thought. Hard to remember what you've done when you're on automatic pilot. "No, no I guess I didn't," she said, covering her mouth with her hand.
Shit.
Caramarin ran back to the lounge and threw himself to the floor. He looked in his hiding place under the couch. The tube and his holdall had vanished. Fuck-shit. His face went white and he felt a loose griping in his bowels. He looked under the second couch just in case. Nothing. Just the usual dusty clutter.
Fuck-shit. He stood and dusted his jeans. Nothing else seemed to be missing. The wide-screen and stereo were still on their stand. Even Ewelina's iPod, lying on her chair was there, all charged up now.
He sat and buried his face in his hands. Ewelina followed him into the lounge and looked around.
"Nothing seems to be missing," she said. "Something must've disturbed them last night." She picked up her iPod and disconnected it before she noticed Caramarin's distress.
"Are you all right?" she asked with concern.
Caramarin shook his head.
"I'm fucked," he muttered.
He ran up the stairs, pushed open Narcisa's bedroom door. She looked up from under the covers, sleep still on her face. She yawned.
"It's gone. The bloody picture's gone," he told Narcisa what had happened. Her sleepiness vanished. She sat up, her breasts trembling. She threw her arm over them, but Caramarin took no notice. Far too much on his mind now to think about her charms.
"What are we going to do?" she asked. Even in his distress, he noticed she said 'we'. That pleased him.
"I dunno. It must've been that bastard Bronstein. No-one else knew I had the bloody thing."
"What about the man you took it off? What's his name...?"
"Hasanov. Yeah, could be – I mean I guess he'd want it back too, But I've got to get it back or I'm fucked."
"Well, if I can help, let me know," said Narcisa. He appreciated that and smiled. As someone once said, he wasn't dead yet.
He let Narcisa dress and grabbed a bite to eat. His cell rang. The number began + 380 48. That Odessa number. It wasn't Valeriya so it had to be Timur Ozgan. Not a man he wanted to speak to but didn't want to make the man suspicious.
"Caramarin,"
No small talk. Straight into what he wanted.
"Have you made arrangements yet? When will you be back with my gear?"
"Very soon; it's just that the flights to Kiev have all been fully booked. Run up to Christmas or something, the travel agent told me. In the west, they have Christmas earlier than we do." It sounded believable – unless Ozgan checked.
"I'm not interested in your pathetic excuses or when they celebrate Christmas in the west. I'm running out of patience. Or are you holding out on me? Are you trying to work an angle on me? That would be a bad mistake, my friend. Just get yourself and my property back here yesterday. Understood?"
"Yes, I understand," said Caramarin. "I'll be back soon. I'll call you when I've got a flight."
"Do. I saw your woman, Valeriya collecting her son from kindergarten yesterday. They said 'hello'. They look well. But I wouldn't like them to catch a cold, you understand?"
Caramarin gripped his cell until his hand hurt. Over here in Britain, there was nothing he could do if Timur Ozgan wanted to hurt them.
"They're nothing to do with me now. They're completely innocent; leave them alone," he shouted.
"Valeriya doesn't think she's nothing to you. She spoke very warmly, in fact. But they're safe... especially if that painting comes home. Look forward to seeing you, or them, again."
Ozgan killed the connection. Caramarin stood in the kitchen, white and trembling with fear and rage. He should never have messed about with a man like Timur Ozgan.
Narcisa looked at him, her dark eyes troubled and upset, her mouth trembling.
"If I can help, let me know," she reminded him. She kissed him. "I'll be in the shop later if you need me." She kissed him again, more tenderly.
* * *
Caramarin sat and dry swallowed a couple more of Ewelina's hospital stock of codeine tablets. Figured he had a lot to do with not much time to do it in. His hurts ebbed away, dulled away by the chemical tide. He sat with his head in his hands. All he could see were problems.
Firstly, the Picasso had vanished, no questions there. He really didn't think any of the girls or Artur had swiped it. None of them had shown any interest in that tube. It was just part of the debris under that couch, mixed together with forgotten plastic bags, clothes, shoes and papers.
He knew Ewelina would do nothing to disrupt the harmony of her home or friends – the woman had made that clear to him. Narcisa, too, he could rely on. Okay, not one hundred per cent. Only a fool would trust another human being to that extent, but certainly ninety odd per cent. And that was good enough for him.
So. Who had got that fuckin' Picasso? As he said earlier, it had to be Bronstein. Just didn't seem like Hasanov's play. Too much hassle for that powder puff. But he supposed it could have been Pojer. There was a man who was too much like himself for comfort. But except through Hasanov, he had no way of getting in touch with Pojer. And if he admitted he'd lost the Picasso, Hasanov would be straight in touch with Uncle Timur. Not good.
And Caramarin knew he could only do one thing at a time anyway. So, deal with Bronstein first. If necessary, look out Hasanov and Pojer later. But one problem only led to more problems. First, and most importantly, he couldn't speak this ugly, unintelligible language. Second, he didn't want to involve Narcisa any further. He didn't want to drag that good young woman down. She deserved better than that.
Third, what if Bronstein had already moved the Picasso on? The fence wouldn't want that picture hanging around any longer than he needed. He would only have robbed it if he knew he had a ready sale for it. And the man wouldn't be selling it on for thirty-five grand. No way.
The man knew he would be earning big money from it, and it wasn't like Caramarin would be complaining to the law.