Chasing Lies

by Sara Claridge

  “I told you I don’t have anything.”

  She looked away and a wry smile crossed his lips. “You’d make a terrible poker player.”

  Her gaze snapped back to his.

  “I told you I don’t mix with criminals, so you’re never going to find out, Mr. Castel.”

  ”Careful, chérie. One can never be too certain of anything in life.”

  They’d reached the crossing where he’d first stolen her passport. He turned to her and held out his hand. “À bientôt. I’ll call you tomorrow. Perhaps we can meet and continue our discussion.”

  She placed her hand in his. “Thank you again and au revoir.”

  Her emphasis fell on the last two words. Goodbye, not see you soon.

  He held onto her hand for a moment, delaying her departure. She stared up at him. The vulnerability he’d seen in her eyes before was gone, replaced by the cool professionalism the job demanded. He released his grip, and she turned and walked away without a backward glance.

  His gaze followed her as she crossed the street and continued to walk further along before turning left and disappearing from sight.

  Etienne huffed out a sigh. He still didn’t know a damn thing about her. Maybe she wasn’t as inexperienced as she seemed. Either way, she had something that someone else wanted. Something she wasn’t going to give up easily.

  Now he just had to figure out what it was and how to get it for himself.

  CHAPTER THREE

  HER PHONE BURRED on the hotel tabletop with an incoming text.

  No doubt her boss wanting to know what was happening. She was trying to ignore his messages so she didn’t actually have to lie about what she was up to, but it was getting harder. That was the trouble with being so responsive all of the time; people expected her constant updates.

  Now that she didn’t have any, because she’d been too busy following Castel, the London office was jumping all over her. She’d have to burn the midnight oil to catch up on the background work she was supposed to be doing to stop them from pestering her.

  Kate took another bite out of her sandwich. So much for the glamorous life of travelling for work. Jambon beurre might sound more attractive in French, but it was still just ham between two slices of cardboard.

  Glancing back at the screen of her laptop, she studied the list. Castel, the guy that stood her up in the park, and Mercier. All of them were suspects for taking the painting. Castel and no show guy still seemed to be chasing leads themselves, which probably meant they didn’t have the painting.

  Until earlier her money had been on Castel, since that was whom Carl had been following, but the mention of Mercier earlier today had blindsided her. As one of her father’s closest allies, the name was as familiar as her own. How many Merciers could there be?

  Her gut said only one.

  The kids in the park had unsettled her. But nothing like the icy chill that blew through her body when Castel had mentioned Mercier’s name. He’d startled her, and for a moment she’d been lost in memories long since forgotten. Like the fear in her mother’s voice even after they’d left Edinburgh.

  Kate placed the sandwich back in its supermarket packet. It was bad before, but now it turned her stomach. She tossed the whole lot into the bin and walked over to the thermostat.

  Pressing the buttons in the vain hope of getting some more heat into the room, she tried to clarify her thoughts.

  Carl must have been getting close to something, but what? Enough for someone to want him out of the way? So far none of the evidence pointed to anyone in particular.

  She glanced across at the assortment of notes piled up next to her laptop. Did any of her three suspects know her firm had a copy of the poem thought to be connected to the painting?

  It was hard to see how. The medieval lyrics had arrived via a circumspect route assisted by the museum that owned the stolen painting, so the chances were slim. But then again, until a few months ago everyone thought the Coeur d’Occitània was just a myth.

  Rumours of the necklace’s appearance at a private auction in the summer had sent ripples around the art world. However, nothing had ever been confirmed. Although, of course, Castel’s name had been linked heavily. If one believed the legend, the necklace, along with the painting and the poem, pointed the way to the Montségur treasure lost centuries ago.

  She’d been assured that the existence of the copy still remained a secret. The poem or chanson as it was known had been stolen a couple of years ago, and no one had heard a whisper since. Most people presumed it was in the hands of another collector, who apparently guarded the sheets of parchment just as jealously as the legal owner. Getting even a photocopy of the poem in the hopes that it might smoke out whoever had the painting was something of a coup for her firm.

  It signalled a trust in the company that her boss never failed to remind her of every time she gave him an update. If she’d been stupid enough to take the medieval text with her to the park today, there would have been serious consequences.

  Kate glanced at the stack of notes again and looked around the hotel room. If Castel knew where she was, then probably so did others. Perhaps it wasn’t safe to leave the work here either.

  What would Carl do? She closed her eyes and leant back in the chair, trying to imagine his next actions. They’d worked on several cases together as a team. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d transferred hotels, but not being a field agent, she didn’t have the expense account to authorise it. Going to her boss meant confessing a version of today’s events, and hell would freeze over before that happened.

  She wanted to present him with a comprehensive case file that would impress him. Not confirm his thoughts that she didn’t have enough experience to lead an investigation.

  The starting point had to be a connection between the painting and the poem. Why else would someone go to so much trouble trying to acquire it? She’d gone over the lyrics a hundred times, both the translations and the originals written in Occitan.

  Perhaps she was looking at it from the wrong perspective. Troubadour poems were a work of art in and of themselves. Sung to a set melody with intricate rhymes their creation required skill in ensuring each line was perfectly formed. Maybe the words themselves didn’t hide the connection but the rhythm itself.

  She flicked her pen between her fingers, drumming a steady beat on the desk. There was something she read a few days ago that sparked a memory. She stilled her hand and closed her eyes, willing her mind to make the connection.

  Yes! Elation flooded her. It was the rhythm of the verses. A line was missing.

  Opening her eyes, she reached for her laptop, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she brought up the relevant document.

  Kate sat back and smiled. There it was. Just a sentence, but clear enough once one knew what to search for. Or rather, what was missing.

  She and Carl had paid so much attention to the medieval doodles at the side of the text, or marginalia as their expert had called it, that they hadn’t noticed the change.

  Another piece of the jigsaw was starting to fall into place. She’d needed to reference it with other writings at that time. Perhaps try and compare her poem with a copy elsewhere. Although many hadn’t survived, there were versions available if one knew where to look.

  What made the version they held so unique was the marginalia and now perhaps this missing line. Although there was still a chance it was just a error made by a tired troubadour.

  Kate sat back and stretched. Every muscle in her body cramped from being hunched over the desk, but finally she was getting somewhere. She glanced at the clock on her laptop. 2.10am. Time to get some sleep.

  Stripping off as she crossed the room, Kate walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She stepped under the hot spray and closed her eyes, letting the heat soak in across her shoulders.

  An image of Etienne Castel appeared almost dreamlike, the darkened trees in the park behind him.

  After following him from a dis
tance the day before, she’d already gotten to appreciate his form from behind. Now she took the opportunity to study his face. The questioning look in his eyes. The quirk of his lips as if some secret knowledge amused him. The curve of his brow as it met his nose.

  She reached out to touch his strong jaw. Her knuckles jarred against the cold hard tile and jolted her out of the daydream. Damn the man. He was a menace. Mixed up with Mercier, he was a danger she could do without.

  Except she hadn’t felt threatened earlier. If anything, caught in his arms as she’d slipped on the path, she’d never felt safer.

  Kate groaned at her own idiocy. Castel represented everything she’d spent her life avoiding. If she was going to get that promotion, she needed to keep her focus on the main goal and retrieve the painting. Preferably intact. He was just a means to an end.

  She turned the faucet back towards cold, squeezed some shampoo into her hand, and banished the sexy Frenchman from her thoughts.

  The sound of her phone vibrating in the other room as she turned off the water was an irritating reminder that she still hadn’t told her boss anything. Wrapping a towel around her body, Kate walked back into the bedroom and grabbed her mobile.

  Her thumb scrolled over the messages as she climbed up on the bed. Three from her boss. One from Val, his assistant, urging Kate to respond soon because he was becoming a bear and her life was hard enough. Another from a number she didn’t recognise.

  Her breath caught in her throat as she read the text.

  10.30am tomorrow, Bonnefanten museum?

  No name as to the sender. Just an expectation that she’d know exactly who the message was from. The fact that she did was even more annoying. Her fingers started typing back to Castel before common sense took over.

  How did you get this number?

  Is that a yes?

  No. It wasn’t a yes. She shouldn’t meet him. It wasn’t part of the plan. Not that she had a plan per se, but how would she learn what he was really up to? She could hardly carry out covert surveillance on him if he knew she was there.

  She needed to stall him. Are you planning another robbery so soon?

  Not a robbery. Reconnaissance. Besides, I always work alone.

  Why me?

  Because I like you?

  Did he think she was that naive? She sent him an eye-roll emoji.

  I thought we could help each other.

  Okay, that piqued her interest. She’d bite. How?

  Meet me and I’ll explain.

  If he did have the necklace, it would be the fastest way to get answers. Meeting him in a public place couldn’t do any harm. Although Carl hadn’t been that far from the museum when he’d met his accident.

  It all came down to one thing. Did she want the field job or not?

  Okay. Her thumb hovered for a second over the screen before she closed her eyes and pressed send.

  ETIENNE PEERED OUTSIDE through the glass door of the museum. He never doubted for a moment that she would be standing on the steps at the appointed time. The word pliable sprang to mind. Although he had a feeling it had more to do with the way her dark jeans emphasised the length of her legs than her mindset.

  If she had access to the poems as he suspected, then he needed to get her onboard with his plans. At least until he’d gotten his hands on the information. Charm worked most of the time, but his instincts said Kate Jackson wasn’t going to be as easy a mark as he’d first thought.

  Feeling sorry for someone just because they were foolish enough not to keep track of their own passport wasn’t going to get results. He shook his head at his own weakness for handing it back to her.

  The hunt. The chase. The unravelling of the final prize. That was what he loved. It was what had lured him into this double life in the first place. And that painting would be his — no matter how tempting the distraction.

  Etienne pushed the glass door of the museum open and stepped into the daylight. His gaze roamed over Kate as she twisted her torso so she could peer further down the street, towards the direction of his hotel. He pursed his lips as he noticed the strap of her new messenger bag slung tightly across her body. She’d been lucky to get off so lightly yesterday.

  At the sound of his footsteps, she straightened and met his gaze.

  “Bonjour, Madame Jackson.” He leant over and kissed her on both cheeks, ignoring her glare. “I trust you slept well.”

  The dark shadows under her eyes said not, but her gaze held a spark of triumph that hadn’t been there yesterday.

  Taking her elbow, he dismissed her protests and propelled her down the street. “On y va. We’ve got work to do.”

  “But I thought we were going to the museum?”

  “I had business to conclude there, and it’s close to our first stop.”

  “So why didn’t you include me? I might have been able to help.”

  He glanced sideways at her. Did she realise how much she gave away with that simple statement? A check yesterday showed that, as he’d suspected, she worked for the Lille museum’s insurers, but even if it hadn’t, her offer of help confirmed it. “I told you. I always work alone.”

  “So if it isn’t work, where are you taking me?”

  He caught the nervousness in her voice as he guided them down a narrow side street.

  “Don’t worry, princesse, I promise not to lead you astray.”

  The building he’d been searching for came into sight. The single painting on display in the small window next to an old wooden door was the only clue to the nature of the shop. Etienne raised the knocker and rapped sharply twice.

  After a few moments the door opened, and an elderly gentleman greeted them.

  “Etienne Castel and my associate.”

  “Come in. Come.” He led them down a darkened passage and into a back room.

  Lit only by a small window, the room was devoid of furniture. A few paintings hung on the wall, but it was the one set on the easel that grabbed Etienne’s attention.

  He walked over and bent forward to study it closer until Kate’s footsteps behind him distracted his concentration.

  “Are you looking to see if it’s real enough?”

  His lips quirked upwards. So she thought he was setting her up? “Careful, you’ll insult Meneer Janssen.” Etienne straightened and turned towards her. “He has a reputation of only dealing with the real thing. I’ve no concern that the painting’s not the original. I’m just admiring the skill of the artist.”

  He swung his gaze to the old man who was waiting patiently, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

  “I’ll take it. The money will be transferred later today.” He reached inside his jacket pocket to pull out a card. “Please arrange for it to be shipped to this address.” A glance over his shoulder confirmed that Kate was looking at one of the other paintings on the wall. He passed the small velvet package over with his card.

  Janssen gave a silent nod of acknowledgement and slipped it into his pocket. “Of course, Monsieur Castel. It will be my pleasure as always.”

  Etienne bid him goodbye before following Kate’s stiff back down the hallway and out through the door. She was furious about something, and no doubt he was about to find out exactly what was wrong.

  “I can’t believe it.” She rounded on him as soon as the door was shut. “I thought it was bad enough that you were involving me with a forged painting, but to make me witness a transaction for stolen goods is too much.”

  Had she seen the exchange? No. She was still talking about the painting. He fixed a lazy smile on his face. “Are you going to report me?”

  He almost laughed at her groan of frustration.

  “You know I can’t. Apart from the fact I’d probably lose my job. I’ve got no proof.”

  He met her heated gaze with a steady one of his own. “That’s because I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  She pushed him out of her way. “As if I’m going to take the word of a criminal.”

  He caught a hold of her hand, stoppi
ng her from walking off. “Kate, what do you know about me?”

  “Really?” She rolled her gaze skywards. “Your name is Etienne Castel. Playboy extraordinaire and renowned international art thief.”

  He cocked his head. “Hmm. Have I missed something?”

  “Plenty,” she mumbled. “What do you mean?”

  “Have I ever been caught?”

  “No.”

  “Have I ever been to jail?”

  “No.” Her voice held a wary tone. “Though you’ve seen the inside of a few police stations.”

  “Helping with their enquiries.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  He shrugged. “Believe what you want, but know this. I, Etienne Castel. Playboy extraordinaire.” His lips quirked upwards at her description. “Just bought a minor painting by a well-known artist with money from my own bank account. I’ll even show you my statement if that will make you feel better.”

  A sigh of resignation escaped her lips. “You mean this legitimises your reason for being in Maastricht.”

  “Précisément. I even had one of London’s finest insurance investigators with me to ensure everything was above-board.”

  Two high spots of colour appeared on her pale cheeks. He was right; charm wasn’t the way to obtain Kate Jackson’s assistance, but manipulating her sense of justice would place her exactly where he wanted.

  He carried on down the street. “I knew the moment you started following me that we were going to get along famously.”

  The sound of her boots on the pavement grew louder as she came up behind him. Etienne turned, took her hand, and tucked it through his arm, pulling her snugly towards him. She smelt of summer and roses. An incongruous scent for someone so rigid.

  “So how do you explain the Coeur d’Occitània?”

  Make that tenacious.

  “Don’t try and deny it. The rumours have been rife ever since the summer.”

  “I don’t deny it. However, I own it legally, if not morally. You see, Kate, not everything is black and white. Life has a habit of being a bit grey in the middle.”