Page 11 of Short Stack 3

“I need to call into the dog shelter for him. He promised them a portrait for their charity auction, and it’s ready.”

“Did he paint the chairman?”

“No, a cocker spaniel.”

I snort. “Okay. I’ll tell Alistair we’ll be a couple of hours. I’ll drive.”

“Why not me?”

“You’re a little casual in your stopping distances.”

“Not where it counts. I haveextraordinarystamina.”

“I’m relieved to say that’s a matter between you and Laurie.”

We walk out companionably, and the journey to the shelter is filled with scurrilous gossip and legal talk.

I look around as I park. “I don’t think I’ve ever been here.”

We get out and walk around to the boot, where Magnus pulls out the painting, which has more material wrapped around it than a mummy. I join him and take an end, as it’s heavy.

“Laurie and I are very invested in this place. We got Endof from here.”

“And they’re still open for business?” I say, thinking of Laurie and Magnus’s lively dog. It’s madder than an army of march hares.

He laughs. “I told Laurie they should increase their liability insurance when they sell such defective animals, but he rarely listens to me.”

“That’s probably why he’s still sane.”

We carry the painting down winding paths dusted with snow. Fairy lights are strung in the trees, the buildings are well-lit, and “Stop the Cavalry” plays on a radio somewhere, mingling withthe sound of barking. We come to a small, white building, and after we enter, we manoeuvre the painting carefully down the corridors until we come to a door.

“Drop it here,” Mags grunts.

I obey, stepping back and looking around. “It seems like a nice place.”

“And needing of rich donors who have money to throw into the abyss,” he observes.

I repress a smile. “Get me a form, then, Dick Turpin. You hardly need a mask and a horse with your version of daylight robbery.”

“A mask would be a tragedy. It would cover up my good looks.”

We look up as a man appears carrying a cup of coffee and a bulging folder. “Magnus,” he exclaims, smiling. He glances at the well-wrapped painting on the floor. “Good heavens. Is that Laurie’s picture? It’ssogenerous of him. That should raise a lot of money.”

“One or two pounds, maybe,” Mags says gravely. “But we must humour Laurie, even though his artwork is worse than what a two-year-old who needs a nap would paint, yes?”

The man looks flabbergasted, and I repress a smile.

Mags gestures at me. “This is Gabe. He has deeper pockets than Richard Branson. Let us empty them.”

I roll my eyes and shake hands, exchanging pleasantries with the manager.

Eventually, he turns to Mags and gestures to his office. “Do you want to bring it in, Magnus? I’ve got some paperwork for you.” He smiles at me as I go to pick up the painting. “No need. Thank you, Gabe. I’ll help.”

I step back. “I’ll have a look around while you talk.” I wink at Mags. “It’ll allow me to see my investment.”

He chuckles and murmurs, “Give me five minutes, and then we will get lunch.”

I nod, and he disappears into the office. Hands in my pockets, I walk out of the building, whistling “Last Christmas” and wondering if I should ring Jude and ruin his Whamageddon too.

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