It would be much safer if you had several pictures and continually bought and sold them through various nominees, making your money look more and more legitimate each time.
And it would be better still if one of those nominees could be the director of a well-established institution run by a trust of the greatest and the best the Establishment could provide.
‘I wonder,’ Trish said aloud.
She thought back to Buxford’s original description of the Gregory Bequest collection. As far as she could remember, he had made it pretty clear then that no one had any idea what was in the packages that still hadn’t been unwrapped. Which would make it remarkably easy for someone with money to launder to pretend that his own paintings were part of the collection.
Buxford was one of the most intelligent people Trish had ever met. He was also at the top of one of the professions that had to take the greatest care to avoid unwitting involvement in money-laundering. He must have thought of this for himself. So why hadn’t he said anything about it in all that long briefing in the wine bar?
Helen’s hands felt raw by the end of her shift and her eyes were smarting. She told herself it was tiredness not tears that made them burn and water like this. But it happened every time she watched another eviscerated boy die in front of her. Some of the nurses managed to distance themselves, but she hadn’t yet learned the trick of it.
If only Jean-Pierre had come back, she thought, she might have been able to bear it more easily. Sometimes when she woke in the night she wondered whether she had been mad to believe she would ever see him again.
Perhaps she had bored him last time he had been with her. That wouldn’t be so surprising. After all, what had she got to offer a man like him? She knew nothing about art or architecture. She barely spoke his language and had never even been to Paris. She was young and ignorant and unsophisticated. It had probably been nothing but stupid vanity that had made her believe he could love her.
She pulled the handkerchief out of her sleeve and scrubbed her eyes with it. It only made the tears fall faster. The huge white moon was a shifting blur as she stared up at the sky, fighting for control.
Chapter 7
The fish pie was ready before Jess arrived at the Southwark flat on Thursday evening. Trish had provided the small amount of help George allowed and she’d laid the table and opened the first bottle of wine, while Caro let David show her the latest treasures in his room.
‘Let’s not wait for Jess,’ Trish said, taking the empty tray back to the kitchen. George had the tight look about his mouth that meant irritation wasn’t far away. ‘She knows David needs to eat and get to bed. She won’t mind if we start.’
‘It’s just that fish pie goes so gluey if one leaves it too long,’ he said.
Trish stuffed the tray in its rack and straightened up to remove the drying-up cloth he had draped over his shoulder so that she could hang it over the rail in front of the double oven.
‘No, it isn’t,’ she said cheerfully, kissing him. ‘It’s that you can’t bear people being late.’
‘Nag, nag, nag,’ he said, taking her head between his hands and kissing her properly. She let her lips open and wished they were alone. George’s hands brushed her nipples.
‘You’re quite right, of course,’ he said, when they’d forced themselves to pull apart. ‘D’you really think Jess won’t mind if we start?’
‘Not half as much as I’ll mind if you get grumpy.’ Trish brushed his hair back from his face. ‘And Caro can sort her out if she does. Caro can sort out anything.’
‘Let’s hope so, in view of the boy’s current agitation. OK. You’d better tell them that we’re about to eat.’
Caro was sitting cross-legged on the floor of David’s room, while he stood behind her, showing her his drawings of the different sorts of bowmen at the Battle of Agincourt, and leaning against her strong back. Trish thought she’d never seen him so relaxed.
They both looked up. Caro was obviously tired, but in the child’s company she seemed more peaceful than usual. Her brown eyes never faltered, but there were times when the lids looked like hoods, protecting them from too much horror. Tonight they were just ordinary eyelids, with unfairly long lashes, brushing up against the brow bone as she smiled at Trish.
‘Hi!’ she said. ‘Are we making too much noise?’
‘No. It’s just that supper’s ready and we thought we might start without Jess, so that we don’t crash bedtime. Have you washed your hands yet, David?’
‘No. I’ll go and do it now, Trish. I won’t be long.’
There was a bathroom attached to his bedroom, which had once been Trish’s only spare room. She and Caro left him to it and strolled through the big living room towards the chimney and the open hearth beneath, with its illicit wood fire crackling out comfort. On the far side was the long refectory table, which would have seated fourteen without too much trouble. The five laid places looked a little sad, Trish thought, all up at one end.
‘Has he said anything?’ she asked Caro, having made sure he wasn’t just behind them.
‘Not yet. And I didn’t want to rush it. We’ll see what transpires over supper. If necessary, I’ll put him to bed for you and raise it then. OK?’
‘Sure. How have you been, Caro? You look tired.’
She wagged her head from side to side in a familiar gesture, which meant that either work or her relationship with Jess had been giving her problems, but that she wasn’t going to moan about them. Her face was much broader than Trish’s, but that was only because the bones were bigger. Caro had as little spare flesh as anyone who trained for forty minutes in the gym three times a week and ran for light relief at weekends. She kept her hair short, too, layered around her beautifully shaped head and just curling forwards from behind her ears.
Tonight her earrings were the gold anchors Jess had once given her. The first time Trish had seen them, she’d liked them so much she asked where they came from. Caro had surprised her by blushing; then she’d said:
‘Oh, Jess had them made for me. She always says that I’m her anchor.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ Trish had said, noticing the hesitation in her friend’s voice.
‘Maybe, but I’m not sure I like the subtext. An anchor is right down there under the water, stuck in the mud, while the ship’s dancing away on the surface, usually in the middle of a flotilla of admirers.’
That had been the closest Caro had ever got to complaining about her partner. Trish had watched them afterwards, and decided that Jess, like a lot of other actors, was so insecure that she had to flirt with everyone to get the reassurance she needed to believe herself worth anything at all. Trish had tried to tell Caro that she didn’t think there was any need to worry. As far as Trish could see, Jess was safely besotted with her.
‘So,’ George said three minutes later, as he was ladling out vast helpings of fish pie. ‘What have your people discovered about this body in the Thames, Caro? Presumably it was murder.’
Trish closed her eyes. She and George had always differed over the best way to help David. She wanted him protected from everything that might remind him of his mother’s death, but George thought that merely stopped him growing the kind of shell everyone needed to survive. He thought the situation called for what he always described as ‘a little ordinary insensitivity’. And boarding prep school.
‘I don’t know, George,’ Caro said, without even blinking. ‘But then the case isn’t being handled by my bit of the Met and I don’t know any of the officers involved. Frankly, you probably know as much as I do from the papers.’
‘At school,’ David said, surprising Trish with the firmness of his voice, ‘they’re saying the man was probably an illegal immigrant, killed because he was going to tell the police about the traffickers who’d brought him in.’
‘I suppose that’s possible, but it’s not a theory I’ve heard before. What else are the Blackfriars Prep Irregulars saying?’
‘I haven�
��t talked to them, Caro,’ David said, looking worried again. ‘And I don’t know who they are.’
‘It was just a joke,’ Caro said. ‘In some of the Sherlock Holmes stories, Holmes uses a group of boys to find things out for him and he calls them the Baker Street Irregulars. Are there any other theories at school?’
‘Yes. They think he could be a drug dealer killed in a turf war with another gang.’ David kept his gaze fixed on Caro’s face, while his fork mashed the fish into a disgusting-looking paste. ‘But I didn’t know there were any gangs round here.’
‘Don’t play with your food,’ George said sharply. ‘If I’ve given you too much, just put your fork down tidily and leave it alone.’
David bit his lip.
‘If you’re stuck, may I have it?’ Caro said. ‘I missed my lunch and I’m starving.’
He looked up at her with something close to worship. He lifted his cutlery in one hand and shoved the almost-full plate towards her, accepting her clean one in return.
‘That’s great. Thank you. And you mustn’t think that because the body was found at Blackfriars, that’s where it went into the river,’ Caro said, forking up the pulverized fish and potato. ‘There are ferocious tides in the Thames, which could have brought it here from miles away.’
Trish watched blood returning to David’s bitten lip and pale cheeks.
‘I never thought of that,’ he said, picking up his water glass. When he had swallowed, he added: ‘It was really good, George. I’m sorry I couldn’t finish it. Thank you very much.’
Jess arrived just then and distracted everyone. When Trish had poured her a glass of wine, and invited her to sit down on David’s other side, she followed George into the kitchen.
‘I know, I know,’ he said, standing with his back to the oven, before she could even open her mouth. ‘I shouldn’t have snapped at him. But there are times when his pickiness drives me mad.’
Trish didn’t answer. She wasn’t going to tell him it didn’t matter, and there was no point repeating what she’d already said so often in the past about how threatening food could seem to people like her and David.
‘Will you take the dish in while I get another bottle?’ George said calmly. ‘We’re running a bit low.’
When he had followed Trish to the table, he bent to kiss Jess’s cheek.
‘I’m sorry I’m so late, darling,’ she said, pushing back her streaky blonde hair, and gazing up at him, much as David had gazed at Caro. ‘There was another producer hanging around today with news of a new classic serial they’re about to cast. I couldn’t pass up such a good schmoozing opportunity.’
Trish glanced back at Caro, to see her stolidly eating her way through the second plateful.
‘Caro, have you ever had anything to do with money-laundering?’ Trish said, mainly to draw her attention away from Jess’s antics. ‘Or the art market?’
‘No. They’re both far too specialized for me,’ she said, looking up in surprise. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, just some El Vino’s gossip I overheard. Someone was talking about the connections between the art world and organized crime. Money-laundering was the only one I could think of. I wondered if there were more.’
‘Definitely,’ Caro said, looking happier. ‘Artnapping’s the thing these days. Far more common, too.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, you know, Trish; like kidnapping. They steal well-known paintings and offer them back to the owners or the insurance company for a ransom. It’s easy enough to do, and most insurers will pay up. There aren’t many experts who would happily see a Van Gogh destroyed just to save money. But we don’t usually have anything to do with it. You’re not allowed to pay ransoms in this country, even for pictures.’
‘No,’ George agreed, reaching for the bottle again. ‘Although it’s easy enough for private individuals to do offshore. David, you ought to be in bed. You’ve got school tomorrow.’
David looked at his plate, then glanced sideways up at Trish, who nodded quickly and said she’d forgotten to watch the clock. His lower lip edged forward.
‘I’ll take you,’ Caro said brightly. ‘If you like.’
He put his hand in hers and dragged her towards his room.
‘Why are you really interested in money-laundering?’ George asked when they’d gone. He refilled all the wine glasses.
‘There’s a case that’s come in to chambers,’ Trish said. ‘Even though it’s not mine, I was curious, but I don’t want to bore Jess.’
‘You couldn’t,’ she said with a blinding smile, before turning back to George. ‘Does it come your way much?’
‘I hope not,’ he said with a short, barking laugh. ‘It’s one of my many nightmares. In the old days, before all solicitors had compliance officers tracking every bit of money that comes in, criminals would just send in a whacking great cheque, before phoning up a couple of weeks later to say that it had been mailed in error. The accounts department would go through their books, see that the individual concerned didn’t owe the firm any money, and write out a cheque of their own straightaway. Bingo! Clean money.’
‘How amazing!’ Jess said with all the fervour of a child watching a firework extravaganza. Trish thought of Caro’s careful avoidance of all exaggeration and unnecessary emotionalism and felt even sorrier for her.
‘It’s not so easy now.’ George smiled at Jess. ‘But, as Trish said, it’s a dull subject. How were the rehearsals today, Jess?’
Trish hardly listened to the answer as she mentally drafted the questions she was planning to put to Henry Buxford.
Caro and Jess got up to leave two hours later, and Trish escorted them to the door while George fetched their coats.
‘Thank you for sorting bedtime, Caro,’ Trish said while he was out of the way. ‘It could have been a sticky moment. Did David say anything more about the body?’
‘Not much. But I really don’t think you need worry. He’s a bright boy and he’ll be fine. He’ll forget it as soon as something else exciting happens at school.’
Trish hugged her, then turned to say good night to Jess. She seemed to be treating George like a climbing frame as she reached up to kiss his cheek. He looked over her shiny blonde head at Trish and smiled with such a familiar look of mock terror in his eyes that she only just stopped herself laughing out loud.
We will be all right, she told herself, once he and David have shaken down and I’ve stopped trying so hard to keep them both happy at the same time.
Chapter 8
The Hieronymus Bosch didn’t look too bad, Toby decided as he passed it for the fourth time. He could probably bid for it without raising too many suspicions. If he hadn’t known it was a fake and had been thinking of buying it for real, he would have had it X-rayed to examine the under-drawing. Given Bosch’s habit of constantly changing his mind as he painted, it should have been easy to see whether this was genuine or a copy. Then to be absolutely sure, he would have taken the panel to the Prado to compare it in detail with the real thing. As it was, he hoped there was no one else interested enough to take any such precautions.
On the other hand, he thought as his breakfast muesli churned in his stomach, if no one else were interested at all, he would never be able to get the price high enough to satisfy Ben’s boss. You couldn’t go bidding in millions when no one else was prepared to offer more than a few hundred quid, which was probably all this wretched fake was actually worth.
He wondered who had painted it, and where they’d got the panel itself and the paints. There must be a mini-factory somewhere, breaking up rotten old coffers for wood of the right date, and making their own paints to ensure they used only ingredients known at the time the pictures were supposed to have been painted.
Ben had promised from the start that they’d be fed on to the market slowly enough to look convincing. Even he had been able to see that one ‘lost’ painting might come up every so often but that if you put two or three into every old master sale you’d lose all chance of p
ersuading buyers they were real.
All in all, it wasn’t such a bad plan, Toby told himself, trying to make it seem ordinary and bearable so that he could forget the threats to Mer. At least Ben’s team had had the wit to pick a dullish subject that might well have escaped notice in some church or other over the past five hundred years.
Toby walked on and stood for much longer in front of a very dubious Dürer drawing, peering and shaking his head, before ostentatiously checking the glossy catalogue.
‘You’re not really interested in that bit of old tat, are you, Toby?’ said a voice from behind him.
He turned to see the arts correspondent of the Daily Mercury, a waspish man called Mark Sapton, who was always on the hunt for gossip and scandal. Toby felt faint with relief that he hadn’t been standing in front of the Bosch when Sapton arrived.
‘God no!’ he said, sharing a cheerful sneer. ‘I just couldn’t believe the catalogue description.’
‘I know. Standards are slipping horribly, aren’t they? I can never decide whether it’s wishful thinking or straight dishonesty. You busy? What about lunch?’
‘I wish I could,’ Toby said, lying easily, ‘but I’ve got to get back. Too much to do. Next time, maybe.’
‘Sure. See you.’ Sapton walked on in search of an easier target.
This was definitely not the time to have another look at the Hieronymus Bosch, Toby thought. He hoped he’d spent long enough in front of it to satisfy whomever Ben had sent here today to spy. Now all he had to do was bid for the wretched thing, and pray that he could push the price up high enough to please Ben and so keep Mer and Tim safe.
As he walked down towards the Embankment so that he could pass Blackfriars Prep on his way back to the gallery, Toby tried to persuade himself that Ben’s threats hadn’t been serious. It was ludicrous to think that anyone, however criminal, would really torture or kill a child just to get a better price for a faked old master.
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