by Seb Kirby
And now she had a new question needing an answer.
Why did Alessa Lando have that painting?
The realization came as something she should have known all along but which now, out of the act of remembering the dream, formed itself with a solidity that startled her.
Alessa Lando would not have had the painting unless the original had been stolen.
The theft of the Picasso was a major news story all of thirty years ago yet it was an event still talked about in the gallery and conservation circles in which she worked.
She should have felt elated at recalling this important information but her thoughts turned without warning to something she couldn’t hope to contain – the possibility of losing James.
The deepest sadness was closing in on her.
She needed fresh air.
Outside on the pavement the rain was just stopping. A cool breeze washed over her as she walked.
She knew she must find a way back to James.
Chapter 31
DI Reid found the Allegro Hotel after drawing a blank at the first two hotels he visited.
The Polish receptionist went straight to summon the manager as soon as she saw Reid’s CID card.
The manager was helpful. “Yes, I’m pleased to give you any information you need, Inspector. After the recent outrages no-one can be too careful.”
Reid smiled. “Very responsible, sir. John and Elizabeth Meredith. They’re staying here?”
The manager checked the computer. “Room 318. No ID. No credit card. No vehicle. Paying cash. I thought you’d need to know. So, I filed the report, as we’re requested to do.”
“Very good. Very responsible. Any reason why you offered them a room? Why didn’t you turn them away?”
“Normally, of course we would. That’s company policy. But the woman looked distressed. And she’s visibly pregnant.”
Reid knew this was the one. He’d observed Julia Blake on his visit to the house in Weymouth. How many pregnant women with no ID have checked into Central London hotels in the past twenty-four hours?
Still, he knew he should not abandon his normal, careful approach. With stakes this high it was important to get it right. “I’d be grateful if I could review your security camera records.”
The manager was keen to oblige. “Of course, follow me.”
Reid was led to the back office where a large TV screen sectioned into six showed the feed from the hotel’s various security cameras. Below this sat the recorder. The feed Reid was interested in covered the reception area. He rewound the recorder twenty-four hours and watched the images stream by at ten times normal speed.
It could have taken hours but luck was on his side. He soon found what he wanted. There they were, James and Julia Blake checking into the hotel.
He’d found them.
It was time to get serious about how he intended to collect on the two million.
Chapter 32
It had gone nine. Julia returned to the hotel to meet Miles.
As she walked through the lobby she noticed the hotel manager showing someone into the back office. Something about their body language gave this the appearance of official business but she could only see the tall man with the manager from behind and let the moment pass.
She hurried to her room to find Miles seated in an armchair on the nearby landing.
“How long have you been waiting?”
He stood up. “A few minutes, that’s all.”
Julia used her key card to open the door and let him in. She closed the door behind them and tripped the security lock.
“We need to talk.”
Miles waited.
“I need ID. Can you help?”
“I’ll get someone onto it.”
“We’re going to need a photo. I’ve got an old one in my bag.” She rummaged in the bag and gave it to him. “It’s three years old. One of the ones we didn’t use for the Harrington passport. It should do.”
Miles glanced at the photograph before placing it in his wallet. “You look as good as ever.”
Julia would have accepted the compliment but she did not want to trust Miles even with this.
“I don’t have a photo of Jim.”
“We’ll sort that out when we get him back.”
Julia was quick to understand what this implied. “So, there’s no word on Jim?”
Miles shook his head.
She had determined to put aside her fears and move on. “Pugot, then?”
“Yes. There’s more from Adam Weston. It was straightforward to get into the Belgian police database.”
“And?”
“Pugot wasn’t killed. He died in an accident. He was knocked down by a vehicle when crossing the street.”
“Do you believe that – Pugot, then Westland? It’s too much of a coincidence.”
“I’m sorry, Julia, it’s a stone-cold case of accidental death. A mother, Amilie Couthard, was driving her children to nursery. The children, buckled up in the rear seats behind her, wouldn’t stop crying. She turned round to quieten them and took her eyes off the road for a second but that was enough. She collided with Pugot as he crossed the road. He was flung in the air and came down on the pavement curb. His skull was fractured. Madame Couthard is remorseful and is facing charges of driving without due care and attention. You couldn’t contrive a situation like that. Pugot’s death was an out-and-out accident.”
Julia shook her head in recognition of what he was saying. “OK, so where does that leave us?”
Miles was in no doubt. “The main point is that when Bellard tracked me down at the convention both Pugot and Westland were dead. No wonder he looked scared.”
“There has to be more on Pugot?”
“There is. When Weston got into Pugot’s records he found that the much-respected art dealer had been arrested on suspicion more than once by the Belgian police.”
“Suspicion of what?”
“Dealing in forged art works.”
“Anything from thirty years ago when we know Richard Westland was involved with him?”
“Yes. They’d charged him once back then but the prosecution hadn’t stuck. He was acquitted on a technicality. The police collected evidence against him by tapping his phone but they hadn’t taken the trouble to get a magistrate to approve the tap. Pugot’s lawyer had the evidence ruled inadmissible and Pugot was acquitted.”
“So, despite the fact that Westland became one of the most highly-regarded artists of his day, back then, he could have been involved in forgery with Pugot?”
“We don’t have proof, not yet, but as you said, Julia, Westland could paint anything.”
“And his wife, Peggy, told me there was a link between the three of them, between Westland, Pugot and the art thief Bellard. What kind of paintings were in Pugot’s gallery when he was arrested back then? Did the Belgian police files have details?”
Miles nodded. “Modern stuff. Picasso. Braque. Matisse.”
“Does the record mention specific paintings?”
Miles shook his head. “We couldn’t find that information. Maybe it hasn’t survived.”
Julia smiled. “Westland was good at the modern masters. They were his biggest influences.”
“So, let’s say Westland made forgeries for Pugot.”
“He would never have called them that.”
“Copies then?”
“Yes, copies. Just what was it about them that would get Westland killed? The paintings he made must be relevant.”
Miles had still not given up on the skepticism that made him a good investigative journalist. “Maybe it’s a possibility, even a likelihood, but it doesn’t get us any closer to understanding what’s happening now, why you and Jim are on the run, why Jim’s missing.”
At the renewed thought of not knowing where James was, Julia could feel despair returning despite her best attempts to shut it out. “No, it doesn’t. And, yes, it’s true, I don’t know where Jim is.”
She was
struggling to avoid crying now. “You’re right. There’s a missing piece. Something important that set this whole thing off and we don’t know what that is. It’s something about Pugot and the paintings, I’m sure of it.”
Miles wanted to comfort her but knew he had to keep his distance. “I’ll get back to Weston. I’m sure he can find more.”
“I think Peggy Westland knows more. She took a long time to tell me anything about Pugot and I’m sure she was holding back. She told me Westland went out to Ghent more than once back in the early days and that he was shaken to hear of Pugot’s death but she wouldn’t elaborate. I need to see her, face to face and get her to tell me what she wasn’t prepared to say over the phone.”
Julia picked up the phone and called Peggy Westland. “It’s me, Julia. I promised I wouldn’t bother you again, Peggy, but James is still missing. I don’t know where to turn.”
“There’s been no news?”
“I need to see you. Can I come over?”
“I’ve told you all I know.”
“Can I come over anyway?”
Peggy Westland conceded. “All right, if you think it will help.”
Miles whispered, “I’ll drive you.”
Chapter 33
We landed at a deserted airport outside of Huntsville. I was loaded into an SUV and taken to Walls Unit, the correction facility.
I tried to tell the guards at the admission station that I should not be here.
The lead officer shoved me against a wall. “If you weren’t saying that, we’d surely have the wrong man.”
He had more to say. “Harrington, Charles. Not so many calling themselves Charles these days. Can’t see that helping you in here.”
His colleague gave a toothless smile. “Tough times ahead, Charlie.”
“You can’t do this.”
“Yeah, he’s the right guy.”
There were smiles all round. “We’re just kiddin’, right. You’re here to look around.”
Agent Craven appeared. “Yes, he’s on a prison visit with me.”
He took me through three sets of locked and barred doors and into a viewing room where we watched as an incoming prisoner was showered and deloused. His head was shaved and he was in an orange jump suit and banged up in an isolation cell in no time with no one to listen to his complaints. The cells, like the rest of the place were nineteenth century and frightening.
Jet lag closed in and I fought not to give in to it.
How did these people have the power to bring me here like this?
How had I become this far separated from Julia that I could no longer protect her?
As we toured the cellblock, Craven took pride in letting me know that Walls Unit was known for having executed over four hundred since capital punishment was restored in Texas back in 1982.
From the cells there was no protest as we passed. Those inside this place were long past any hope that their complaints might be heard.
Craven paused as we were about to leave. “Why did we bring you here? We thought you should get used to the idea that we’re serious. This is what brother Miles will get. Each day like this for thirty years. Think about it.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You now want to play ball?”
I nodded. “Tell me what you want.”
“OK. Let’s get out of here. Then we’ll talk.”
The lead officer didn’t show much pleasure as he unlocked the exit. I could hear him complaining under his breath to his colleague. “Must be a special. No one tells us a thing. Bring them in. Send them straight back out. Who gives a damn?” Then something for Craven to hear. “And we never got the chance to give him a decent haircut.” There were more smiles.
I caught sight of myself reflected in a nearby window. The after-effects of the drugs and the military transport across the Atlantic had not yet worn off and made me look desperate. I doubt if even Julia would have recognized me.
It wasn’t long before I was back in the SUV, heading back to the military airport.
Chapter 34
Julia called into the florist in the rear of the Peter Jones store in Sloane Square.
Miles stayed with his vehicle, saying he’d drive round until she’d finished.
The way the florist was stocked made no disguise of the fact that their main business was providing bouquets of condolence – lilies, chrysanthemums, gladioli, carnations. It was unremarkable when you considered the ageing, wealthy population of the immediate area.
Julia wanted something less solemn, something respectful, yes, but holding out hope of future happiness. She chose a dozen long stemmed red roses.
She waited in Symons Street until Miles came past to pick her up again. They drove the short distance to Peggy Westland’s smart apartment overlooking a square in Wilbraham Place. Miles parked and wished her good luck. “I’ll stay here.”
There was a long wait for a reply when Julia pressed the button on the aged intercom. She couldn’t help thinking Peggy Westland had decided to avoid her after all, but then came the crackle of the call being picked up inside. She spoke into the receiver. “Peggy. It’s Julia Blake.”
There was a whir of the electronic bolt as the outer door opened. Julia stepped inside the entrance hall and made her way up a flight of stairs to the apartment. Peggy Westland opened the door before Julia had time to ring the bell. “Come in, my dear.”
Julia handed over the bouquet. “Thanks for seeing me. I’m sorry to trouble you again and I know I promised I wouldn’t do this.”
Peggy accepted the roses with a smile. “You shouldn’t have. They’re beautiful.”
Julia followed her into the kitchen where Peggy unwrapped the roses, laid them out on a counter and searched for a suitable vase. She chose a valuable-looking Art Deco vase and began using scissors to trim the rose stems to the right length. “I did tell you. There’s nothing more I can add about Richard.”
Julia sat on a chair at the kitchen table. “James is still missing. He’s not been seen since he went to meet Miles at Charing Cross. That was over twenty-four hours ago. I need your help.”
“What makes you think I can help? Have you been to the police?”
“I can’t go to them.”
“Why ever not?”
Julia had a decision to make. If she was going to get anything more useful from Peggy than she’d revealed over the phone, Julia would have to take her into her confidence. There were risks. She didn’t know how far she could trust Peggy yet there was no choice but to take that risk. “You heard what happened in Florence?”
“Some of it. A murder, wasn’t it?”
“More than one. And, worse than that, I was kidnapped and raped.”
Peggy stopped arranging the roses. “Oh, my dear, I had no idea.”
“It’s something I have to live with.”
“You’re being very brave in telling me this.”
“I thought you’d need to know, to help understand the situation Jim is in. That I’m in.” Julia paused. She took a deep breath. “The same people who kidnapped me then are involved again now, I’m sure of it. There’s some feud, something from the past that’s come back to threaten us and I think Marcel Pugot is central to it. Can you please think back to what Richard told you about him? Why did Richard need to visit him?”
Peggy abandoned work on the roses and came to sit on the chair facing Julia. “Then, this is more serious than I thought.”
Julia reached forward and held Peggy’s hand. “You will help?”
“You know my feelings about the risk to Richard’s reputation. You promised me nothing would be said or done that could result in his life’s work being ruined.”
“Look, I promise with all my heart I’ll do everything in my power to avoid that. He was a great artist, an inspiration to me. There’s no reason why I’d want to say or do anything to harm his reputation now.”
Peggy fell silent. She paused. It was clear she was weighing with great care what to do next. Then, h
aving made up her mind, she stood and went from the kitchen to the dining room. She opened the bureau drawer and removed a plain envelope.
She passed over the envelope. “I wasn’t going to show you this. Richard unearthed it from where he’d been keeping it when he heard what had happened to Pugot. He told me it was their insurance policy, something that would keep them safe.”
Julia took the envelope. It was addressed to Richard Westland and carried a Belgian stamp. The postmark was dated 30.11.1983. Julia opened it and removed a single sheet of paper. She read it with care.
From Van De Baere solicitors, Gent
To Richard Westland, or the members of their family
My name is Marcel Pugot You will perhaps remember me as the dealer who sold you the painting.
I no longer have to apologise to you since you will only be reading this letter if l am no longer with you, but apologise I will. I did not intend any harm to you or your family. It was business. Just business. I hope you will accept this.
My purpose in writing is straightforward. I want you to know who was responsible in the deception, who planned the theft of Picasso’s Weeping Woman and the means of fooling you and others into thinking that the fake I sold you was the real thing. That person was Alessa Lando.
You should know you have received this letter on instruction of my solicitor that it should be sent only in the event of my death.
Yours
Marcel Pugot
Peggy Westland spoke first. “I thought you’d know what it means.”
Julia found it difficult to reply. Here it was. The key she’d been searching for. The reason for the threats against her, against James and her family.
“Yes, Peggy. I know exactly what it means. Thank you. Thank you for showing it to me.”
