Owain slumped, head bent over his laptop though she knew he was listening intently. Whatever was off between Owain and Cerys, it wasn’t due to a lack of feeling on either side.
With an aggressive glare at Owain, Jason picked up some bags from the cupboard and made for the door. ‘I’ll just be shopping then.’
She knew she’d offended him, but he would survive. She couldn’t leave Owain to fend for himself, as she’d been left. It was worth Jason’s flare of temper to provide the crutch for once, instead of being the one dependent on it.
Amy picked up the set of CCTV discs and fanned them out for Owain.
‘Pick a card.’
Seething at being ordered to pick up the groceries like he was some kind of fifties housewife, Jason dumped the empty shopping bags in the boot of his Micra and decided he was going to check on the Harley.
Dylan hadn’t called, so she wasn’t ready to ride, but maybe they could spend a couple of hours figuring it out together. Jason missed his long hours at the garage, tinkering with cars and bikes, but Dylan’s tendency to work with cheap parts of dubious origins meant he had to keep his distance. Jason’s criminal record and Dylan’s dodgy parts were too well known for either of them to prosper from that arrangement.
And the bloody shopping could wait. He had suspected Amy was blowing him off, but now he had confirmation. It wasn’t about guarding her domain from all-comers – it was about keeping Jason out. The anger faded now, replaced by sadness and a sense of loss. He wasn’t Amy’s only assistant, the one person she could completely rely on. Other people could take his place in an instant, and in some cases, do things that he would never be permitted to touch. As if he were a naughty five-year-old who couldn’t be trusted with the remote control.
As Jason drove between the Students’ Union and the museum, he glanced across at the entrances. Still cordoned off and guarded. Not only had the place lost its most iconic work of art, but it must be haemorrhaging money from the lack of tourists. The mystery nagged at him. He wanted to be part of it. He couldn’t bear to be shut out like this.
He drove past the castle before leaving the town centre, crossing the bridge into Canton. The shabby end of town was a mishmash of young professionals, new immigrants, and old Cardiffians, where a polski sklep stood next to an ancient greasy café, both frequented by hipsters.
As he turned into Dylan’s road, he spotted a familiar Mercedes 4x4 parked outside. Jason loathed posh 4x4s, the province of rich middle-class parents who wanted something to drive their children to school in and didn’t care about the hit to their pockets. But take one of those cars down a proper dirt track in the country and it would never survive the bumps, ditches, and ice-marked lanes it was supposedly built for.
He parked and marched up to the forecourt, where Dylan and Miss National Crime Agency were peering into a covered trailer attached to the Chelsea Tractor. He might hate the car, but this was his chance to get inside information on the investigation. Prove his worth to Amy and get back into the crime solving that had united them.
But any cunning plan died when he saw what was inside the trailer. The Harley Davidson touring bike was all black seduction, the newest model with an eye-watering price tag that Jason couldn’t hope to afford even with Amy’s generous salary. He felt sick with envy, yet the beautiful machine also added a touch of gloss to his impression of Frieda.
‘Now I’m the one with the admirer. Though not so secret.’
Jason realised he was staring, at both her and the bike. Her cool amusement should’ve rankled, but it just added to her confident air. He couldn’t deny her whole attitude was attractive, tantalising.
‘I figured you for a BMW girl,’ he said, trying to cover his naked admiration of more than just the bike.
‘Time for a change. I tire easily.’
‘Miss Haas was looking at your Captain America bike,’ Dylan chipped in.
She glanced back at his bike, in pride of place in the centre of Dylan’s space. ‘A loving restoration. You must be a proud parent.’
Jason shrugged, unwilling to admit his beloved bike wouldn’t even start on a mild day in autumn.
‘If only she would turn over, eh, Jason?’
Dylan, however, never knew when to keep his mouth shut.
‘I can take a look, if you like?’ Frieda offered.
‘I think we’ve got it,’ Jason said, too quickly.
But her expression didn’t flicker. Why wouldn’t she give anything away? She was another mystery to solve, and he was fascinated by her refusal to react. Professional veneer or personal protection? He longed to know the truth of her.
‘Dylan was just giving my tourer the once-over before I take her on a trip.’ Frieda reached out to caress the leather seat of her bike. ‘Sometimes it takes a professional eye to get the job done.’
‘Leaving Cardiff already? Case closed – or just not enough excitement for you?’
His tone was biting, but that professional comment had riled him. She was needling Amy and him, and he wasn’t going to stand for that.
‘Wales’ beaches won’t inspect themselves.’
‘You’re following the sand lead?’
Jason was aware of Dylan in his peripheral vision, dithering about giving them some space to talk or eavesdropping on the murder investigation some more. He shot his mate a look, and Dylan muttered something about brake fluid before making himself scarce.
‘The full analysis could take weeks. From the prison intel and the first-pass data, we have enough to narrow down the geography. We have to move fast if we want to stop the painting leaving the country – if it hasn’t already.’
‘You’re going alone?’
An Englishwoman alone in the heart of North Wales was just asking for trouble.
‘You want to be my chaperone?’
‘If you let me drive.’
The words were out before he’d thought them through, but he immediately liked the idea. Time to play with a beautiful bike, and get to know the beautiful woman who so puzzled him.
‘I’ll let you try her. I’m leaving in an hour. Where should I pick you up?’
‘I’ll meet you here,’ Jason said.
A woman on a motorbike showing up outside Amy’s would likely give her a heart attack.
Amy. Shit.
Jason wasn’t a free man. He had responsibilities to Amy. But if Owain was installing himself in their living room, he didn’t see why he couldn’t follow another lead. The young detective was capable of fetching in the sandwiches and Amy could make her own tea.
‘Better let the boss know then,’ Frieda said, reading his mind.
‘She’ll get it,’ he said, knowing exactly how big a lie that was.
Chapter 11
Forty thieves
‘There’s something odd about this girl.’
Amy continued to scan the flickering images on her screen, glancing at Owain’s reflection in the blank third monitor. ‘Odd?’
Owain waved his index and middle fingers vaguely at the centre of the screen. ‘She’s walked up and down the Impressionists gallery four times, but she’s not looking at the paintings.’
Amy paused her video as Owain tilted the laptop screen towards her. He played the footage at double-time and Amy watched one solitary woman flit around the gallery, inspecting every picture’s frame and every statue’s base without looking at a single work of art.
‘Checking out the security system,’ Amy said. ‘Can you get a good angle for a still?’
Owain stopped the video and moved to capture it.
‘Move it on a little,’ Amy nudged, and he obeyed. ‘There, stop. She was turning out of that glare. Worse angle, but clearer image.’
‘She’s probably too short for our thief,’ Owain said. ‘Look at her against “The Blue Lady” here. She’s nowhere near tall enough to c
ut the top of the frame.’
‘He wasn’t working alone. Keep looking – there may be others.’
Amy scanned through more footage, the chaos of the main hall causing her temples to ache. Or maybe that was her brain telling her to ease up on the caffeine, a war between the sluggishness of her sleepy brain and the need to quell the anxious fluttering in her chest.
Jason had been gone an awfully long time. She tried not to think about it, but he usually completed a basic two-day shop in under forty-five minutes including travel both ways. One hour and fifteen minutes had passed since he’d left the flat. What if something had happened to him? Her fingers itched to bring up the GPS tracker and locate his phone. Or the small coin-sized tracker she’d slipped into the lining of his favourite leather jacket, the one in the dashboard of the Micra, or the one in the shell of his motorcycle helmet. She liked to be prepared for any eventuality.
She almost missed the girl mounting the stairs two at a time to get into the galleries above. She flicked to the camera footage of the Impressionist gallery, but the girl was nowhere to be seen after ten minutes of scanning. Amy changed to the main art gallery on that floor and spotted her. She entered the gallery and continued her strange routine, checking frames – but only of certain pictures. Amy marked their positions on her gallery outline map, hoping to find some correlation between the pictures she picked. Artist, perhaps? Dollar value? Or maybe just the shopping list of her employer?
When Jason came home, she’d send him round the gallery to mark the positions of all the paintings. The CCTV footage was too poor for identification and he needed something to occupy him.
She had to maintain his interest in the work. Assistant to Amy Lane was only an attractive job title so long as Amy’s work was stimulating. Without the police cases, the thorny private investigations, what was there to keep him here? Amy didn’t flatter herself that she was enough. It was murder that had drawn him in and it would be murder that kept him close.
The man caught her eye because he was so still. He sat on the bench nearest ‘The Blue Lady’ and stayed there for forty minutes, looking at something on his phone. Occasionally, he would glance up at the picture, squint for a moment and then return to the phone. As his right hand cradled the phone, his left hand squeezed the edge of the bench, working its way all around the edge.
Eventually, he left his spot – but not before Amy had taken a series of stills. Another potential suspect. Amy noted down the timestamp and the location on her map.
As soon as he left, another man took his place, sitting in the exact same spot for seventeen minutes, before moving on. He also had his phone in hand. ‘Filming?’ Amy muttered.
‘Say again?’
Amy had forgotten Owain was in the room.
‘I have a pair of strange men sitting in front of “The Blue Lady” with their phones.’
‘I have a middle-aged woman doing the same.’
Amy reviewed the stills. ‘But only for a few minutes. It’s an unlikely crew.’
‘Maybe they’ve been recruited in? A cell structure – each of them only knowing their part and no one else’s.’
The lift doors whispered open and a ball of tension dissolved in Amy’s chest.
‘Jason. Can you go to the museum and map out—’
‘Can’t.’ He hauled two large shopping bags through the living room and into the kitchen. ‘I have to go away for a bit.’
Her heart stopped, a squeezing fist occupying its position in her chest. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe.
‘Something happened?’ Owain said, worried. ‘Is Cerys—?’
‘She’s fine. Coming over for dinner. Frieda and I are taking the fight to North Wales. Show them Gogs what’s what.’
Frieda. Her anxiety morphed into white-hot anger, not enough diazepam in the world to calm the storm.
‘You work for me. Me.’
‘It’s for your investigation. I’ll phone in every day.’
‘You’re taking off with some London bitch—’
‘You don’t even know her.’ Jason’s body was all hard lines, steeled for a fight.
‘Neither do you!’
‘She’s police, Amy. I’m not hanging out with some drug lord.’
‘Not this time. Not yet. How can I trust you not to die out there?’
The anxiety and anger spiralled together, until she was spinning in a dizzy haze. When Jason left her protection, bad things happened. Fist fights, gunshots, running for his life. She couldn’t ensure his safety on such short notice, not in North Wales with its patchy mobile signal and poor CCTV coverage.
She’d stood up, but she didn’t remember when, facing him down like a matador with a bull. Except Jason wasn’t charging. His mouth was a grim line, but his eyes were dark and pained. Hurt.
‘You don’t trust me to go.’
‘I don’t trust her!’
‘I’m going, whether you like it or not.’
‘If you go, I’ll … I’ll…’ Fire you.
But she wouldn’t do that – couldn’t even make the threat. He knew he held all the cards. She would never fire him and he could do exactly as he pleased. She was too afraid of losing him, even to protect him.
‘I’ll be back in a couple of days,’ he said.
She could tell it was a lie. He had no idea when he was coming back. How long he was leaving her, placing himself out of her reach and in danger.
‘I can take care of things here,’ Owain said.
But she didn’t want him. She wanted Jason. Jason, who knew all her little idiosyncrasies, her favourite snacks when she was stuck on a problem, and exactly how she took her tea.
She wanted them to be a team again. She wanted him to rely on her, as she depended on him. But she knew she was losing control, losing him, and she had nothing that could stop the car crash occurring in front of her.
‘I’m going to pack,’ Jason said, and didn’t look back as he left her.
Gripping the edge of the desk, Truth fought the urge to run. Every cell in her body urged her to get out, flee far away. She had to get away from here, away from her.
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes. Counted to ten.
She wasn’t going to leave. She was going to see this through. Even after years of trying and never quite achieving, she had never yet quit.
She wouldn’t let that painted stare drive her away.
Waiting for a response was agonising. She didn’t even know if the message had been received, if it was being discussed, if someone had called the police. It was the uncertainty that killed her, fuelled her desire for flight.
But where would she go? She had no one who could take her in, and she could not live with herself if she left, nor with the consequences. Not now. All her hopes were pinned on Renoir’s infamous whore.
No, Truth had to wait. When the museum reopened, she would check out the lie of the land, see what could be seen. She had spotted the others and she had to ensure they came nowhere near the upper galleries. She hoped they would remain shut, but the museum management were money men who cared only for profit. They would not keep their prize pieces hidden from gormless eyes and grabbing hands.
Art should be reserved for an elite who could appreciate it. The Salon in Paris and the Royal Academy in London knew the truth of it. Those who tried to buck the trend, bring art to the masses, only achieved true greatness in death – where their radical thoughts could be separated from their grand works. When they became, instead of the anarchists, part of the establishment to be rebelled against.
Was Truth an anarchist now, a rebel? She had stolen a painting, killed a man. But theft and murder were sins old as story – nothing radical in sin. They were the price of her devil’s deal, the price of the life of a woman who did not love, did not hate, but merely expected her to do her duty.
If th
is continued, waiting without answer, she would have to take matters into her own hands. The television revealed nothing, but the police might catch her scent at any time. She might have to take care of those in the know, perhaps even those who pursued her. She needed to buy more time, except time was trickling through the glass with every passing day. She was losing with every minute lost.
‘The Blue Lady’ smiled at her with her nothing eyes.
‘Slut,’ she said and spat.
The glob of spittle struck the net curtain and gravity tumbled it over the lace to the floor with a splat. Anarchy. Rebellion.
Disgusted, she turned her back and ignored the laughing eyes of the bitch.
She only had to wait.
Chapter 12
Over hill and vale
Amy hadn’t said goodbye.
Jason had packed his bag and marched into the hallway in his leathers, ready for another fight. But she’d just stood there, fiddling with her fraying hoodie sleeve, watching him. Her eyes were wide, huge dark pupils eclipsing all but a slither of green around the edges, black holes in her drawn, milk-pale face.
He did not speak and she said nothing, and he was gone before he could regret it.
Except now he felt it. He’d known working with Amy would be difficult from the first moment he stepped into her domain, and expecting it to get easier had been foolish. Being Amy’s friend was as much hard work as being her cleaner or her assistant. Every time he thought he understood, she demanded more – and he was running out of life to give.
But he also had his faults, no point denying it. He had something about him that stopped her trust being total, keeping parts of the work from him, trusting Owain the copper over Jason the ex-con. And how had he reacted to that? By running off to North Wales with a woman she hated on sight, even if that was totally misguided. What was there to hate about Frieda?
He parked up outside Dylan’s, behind Frieda’s Mercedes, and waited in the car. The sky was a mixture of oranges, pinks and shadows, and he reckoned they only had an hour or so before they lost the light completely. But the country lanes were better by headlights – you could see a driver coming by the glare off the hedgerows, and only a heavy-duty lorry would have difficulty passing a touring bike on a back road.
Captcha Thief (Amy Lane Mysteries) Page 6
