Wishing she had more to go on, Trish picked up the interview again in the hope of learning more.
The journalist had not been able to persuade him to say much about his family or upbringing, beyond the fact that one of the great advantages of being an only child was that you could create a private world in which you could always lose yourself. Trish was surprised. She was an only child too, but all her energies had gone into trying to find her self.
Toby had told his interviewer that he had discovered his sanctuary in the history of art. His parents had had quite a good collection of books of their own and lived near an excellent library, so he had spent much of his solitary childhood becoming acquainted with the great painters of the past, their models and their patrons. According to the journalist, this experience had stood him in very good stead when he was deciding which career to follow after his straightforward history degree, and in even better stead when he was still at university and identified some original crayon drawings by François Clouet.
‘Clearly surprised that I knew the story, and reluctant to boast,’ the journalist had written, ‘Fullwell said very little about his great coup.’
The article went on to explain that the drawings had been sold as prints by a local antique dealer, who had not been able to see past the grimy glass and poor framing to what lay beneath. That dealer must have been spitting tacks when the undergraduate’s attribution was confirmed by the auctioneers Goode & Floore’s, who sold the drawings on for a record price a few weeks later.
‘I asked Toby Fullwell whether he had made many similar discoveries,’ the journalist had written, ‘and he laughed modestly saying: “You don’t get that kind of opportunity more than once in any career. Of course, I’m always on the lookout, but I’m not optimistic. I only wish it had been I who bought the so-called prints. Unfortunately, all I did was identify them.”’
The sound of footsteps on the iron staircase made Trish look up from the paper, and a brisk knocking at the door had her pushing herself up off the sofa. She shuffled across the polished wooden floor in her thick socks.
George reached the front door before she had even passed the fireplace. He was still wearing his huge blue-and-white butcher’s apron and now had a gravy-stained tea towel draped over his shoulder.
‘Ah, good morning,’ said a rich familiar voice. ‘My name’s Henry Buxford. I—’
‘Of course. Come on in. I’m George Henton. We met at dinner at the Shelleys’, didn’t we?’
‘So we did. That apron distracted me.’
George laughed, much too secure in his position as one of the leading solicitors in London to worry about being caught in such a domestic guise.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was in the neighbourhood, and I know Trish was trying to speak to me yesterday. Might I have a quick word with her?’
‘Sure,’ George said. ‘But it doesn’t have to be quick, does it? Stay for lunch. There’s a huge amount, and the Yorkshire puddings will start to spoil in about—’ He looked at his watch. ‘Ten minutes. Come in, Henry, and have your word with Trish while they cook.’
‘I suppose it is lunchtime,’ Buxford said. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t stay. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
Trish walked forwards to shake hands and apologize for her red nose and stockinged feet.
‘I hadn’t realized you were ill. I’m sorry to be disturbing you.’
‘It’s only a cold. I’m fine.’
‘You don’t look it. Hadn’t you better sit down or something?’
She took him round the great fireplace and offered him a drink, which he declined.
‘What have you got for me?’ he asked as she stretched herself out on one of the big black sofas. He sat down opposite her. ‘I know you’ve been trying to phone. I should have given you my mobile number.’
‘It’s only speculation so far, but there was something I wanted to ask you.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Are you afraid that Toby could be involved in money-laundering?’ she said straight out.
He didn’t flinch, or even look particularly worried. ‘No, I’m not,’ he said. ‘I’m not surprised you’ve come up with the idea, Trish. In fact, I would have been worried about your judgement if you hadn’t, but I really don’t think it’s a runner. For one thing Toby has shown no signs of paying the five million out again, and obviously he’d have to if he were laundering it.’
‘He hasn’t had much opportunity yet. The de Hooch sale only happened about three weeks ago. Couldn’t he just be waiting for the right moment? Or maybe he’s got cold feet.’
‘I doubt that.’ Buxford smiled at her, looking kind as well as honest. ‘I’ve been round all this myself, Trish, believe me. If Toby had got involved with people who wanted money laundered, he’d be working for men involved in organized crime, and that sort are remorseless. He wouldn’t be allowed to have cold feet. What else have you come up with?’
She ran through all her other ideas, watching him make notes when she reached the possibility that Toby could have been taking bribes. At the end of her account, Buxford said:
‘That’s a good start, Trish. You’ve done well.’
‘It’s kind of you to say so, but I haven’t come up with any evidence of anything. And I don’t think I’ll be able to without a proper inventory of the collection.’
‘Well, you’re not going to get that, I’m afraid. There isn’t one. It would have made all our lives a lot easier if there had been.’
‘But there must have been one at some stage. I’ve been wondering whether Ivan Gregory could have burned it when he was in that post-stroke panic you described so vividly.’
‘Not possible.’ Buxford sounded certain. ‘Even half-mad with fear and misery, Ivan would never have destroyed an important document. He was a banker for heaven’s sake! Everything about his life and training would have forbidden it.’
Trish tried not to laugh as she thought of all the financial scandals of the last few years, and all the reports she’d ever read of shredded documents and misplaced evidence.
Before she could say anything, David and Nicky reappeared from their walk and had to be introduced to Henry. By the time they had gone to get rid of their outdoor clothes, Trish had moved on to one of her other doubts:
‘You told me that you’d had three rounds of interviews for the directorship of the gallery, Henry.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve been wondering what it was about Toby that made him seem so peculiarly suitable, and so trustworthy, that you felt you could give him all this power over the collection.’
‘He was easily the best of the applicants, judged by any criteria,’ Buxford said in the voice of one who would accept no contradiction. Then he pushed back the sides of his immaculate grey hair in the gesture she was coming to believe he used whenever he was feeling particularly uncomfortable, and added: ‘But he is also my godson.’
More sodding favours, Trish thought, which made her voice irritable as she said: ‘Ah, I see. Now I know why you wanted a private investigation of what he’s up to. I couldn’t understand why you didn’t call in the police straightaway.’
‘That’s not fair.’ He was brushing back his hair again. ‘If I’d had any evidence of crime, I would have gone to them. But, as you’ve pointed out, there isn’t any evidence. I hoped you’d find some.’
‘Then I’m sorry I haven’t done a better job.’
There was a clattering sound from the kitchen. Buxford stood up.
‘Your lunch is clearly ready, and I must go anyway. Your idea about kickbacks is clever. Convincing, too. I wish I’d thought of it myself. I’ll look into it. And you will call me if you come up with anything else, won’t you?’
‘Of course. But you know, I’ve been thinking: the idea of bribery only brings us right back full circle to where you started, albeit on a more personal scale. Why would Toby want the money?’
‘We don’t pay him much,’ Buxford said, without any of
the embarrassment Trish thought he ought to feel.
‘Exactly. So you’d notice if he were spending above his income, wouldn’t you?’ She paused.
‘True.’
‘So why would he be tempted by a bribe he couldn’t spend? Unless, of course, he wanted it for something illegal and untraceable.’
‘Like drugs, you mean.’
She could hear George’s voice in her mind: Oh, come on, Trish. You’re obsessed. You see drugs everywhere.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s possible but unlikely. I’ve seen no signs of addiction in Toby. There are no needle tracks, and I’ve never seen him display any of the aggression or idiocy cocaine produces.’ Buxford checked the time on his watch. ‘I really must go now. Phone me again whenever you need me. My wife will always take a message at home if you can’t get me on the mobile or at the bank.’
Trish showed him out, then took her place at the lunch table, where David soon showed signs of having as healthy an appetite as George himself. That was one worry out of the way. They must have got on well over yesterday’s rugby expedition.
‘Pretty good to have a man like Henry Buxford on dropping-in terms, Trish,’ George said, refilling her wineglass. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ she said, laughing at his obvious envy.
‘How did it happen?’
‘Antony asked me to look into something for him. But I haven’t done very well. I just hope that’s not going to piss them both off.’
George refilled her wineglass. He was too accustomed to guarding his own professional secrets to ask her for details. ‘So what if it does? Antony Shelley is not your boss. You’re a self-employed member of the Bar, for heaven’s sake. I know you think he’s only one rung short of God, but you ought to have grown out of that kind of hero worship by now.’
Several answers suggested themselves to Trish, some of them almost as sharp as his voice had just been. She saw that David had put his knife and fork together, even though there was still at least a third of the food on his plate, so she took the easy way out and grinned at George, ignoring his tone.
‘I worship all my heroes, as you very well know, O Most Heroic of the Lot.’
He laughed, looking a little ashamed of himself, and blew her a kiss. David started to eat again.
Chapter 11
Helen’s back felt as though it was about to snap in two. She put her hands behind her, massaging the muscles either side of her spine. All the orderlies seemed to have disappeared, so she was having to cart buckets full of stinking dressings to the incinerator. She could hardly bear to bend down again. The smell made her gag, and the weight dragging at the pain in her back was almost unbearable.
‘Nothing’s as bad as the men suffer,’ she muttered aloud. She couldn’t work out why everything was so much more difficult than usual. Maybe now that Jean-Pierre was back and she knew what being happy was, the usual semi-miserable life she’d always had in the past was that much harder to bear.
‘Hélène?’
His voice made her smile, even though she’d just caught the full whiff of the dressings. Gangrene, she thought. There was no mistaking that smell. She let the buckets clank down on the muddy ground again and straightened up.
‘Let me help you with those buckets.’
‘They’re foul.’
‘All the more reason. Walk with me. Show me the way.’
He did it all for her, using his beautiful hands to manipulate the heavy tongs much more effectively than she’d ever been able to do. The revolting dressings spluttered and began to burn. The smell was even worse. She gagged and turned away.
When he had finished he came to find her again.
‘You are exhausted,’ he said. ‘You should be lying down. And you should be off duty now, unless they’ve changed the shifts suddenly.’
She rubbed the back of her hand against her sweaty forehead. ‘No. But we’re even more short-staffed than usual. I can’t go off duty yet. We’re still on the morning dressings, and it’s already six o’clock. We can’t leave the night shift to do them all.’
‘All the more reason for you to rest. I will tell the sister you must lie down.’
‘No,’ she said in sudden panic. If anyone guessed what there was between them, she would be shipped straight back to England, and she really would never see him again. ‘I’m almost finished. You go on ahead. I’ll follow.’
‘As soon as you can, ma mie.’
She smiled. If they had been alone, she would have kissed him, and she could tell from his eyes that he knew that.
It was nearly two hours before she reached the small inn where they always met now. The landlord had known him for years, Jean-Pierre had explained, and he was well paid to keep his mouth shut. It was the safest place to meet for miles around.
‘Ah, Helene,’ he said, laying his lips against her skin, just above the miniature. ‘You are still wearing it.’
‘It is all I have to remind me that you’re not part of a dream when you are away. Oh, Jean-Pierre, I love you so much.’
‘And I, you, ma mie,’ he said, peeling away her dress before starting to take down her hair. He loved pulling out the pins and watching the blonde mass cascade down over her naked shoulders. Her whole body ached for him and as his lips travelled over her skin they lit a fuse of tingling delight.
Much later, he lay back, breathing heavily. She curled herself against his side, laying her hot face on his shoulder. He patted her head with his other hand, then fell into the kind of sleep that made her feel lonelier than ever. She still had to school herself to wait until he woke.
There was no reason to feel alone, she told herself as she had so often before. From this absence at least, she knew he would return.
It was only ten minutes this time, much less than usual, and so her muscles had not even begun to stiffen. He took her head between both his hands and kissed her.
‘I am sorry that I could not get back here any sooner this time,’ he said when they were lying side by side, her hand tucked into his. ‘I hope you have not been working too hard without me to remind you to rest. I could not believe they have been making you burn the dressings now.’
‘We have been very busy, but I have had a little time off. Last Saturday Myrtle and I walked to the next village.’ She wasn’t going to tell him that she had been trying to learn as much as she could about art and architecture. That might only underline the ignorance of which she was so ashamed. ‘One of the men had told me there was a beautiful church there, but when we found it we saw that it has been wrecked.’
‘Blown up?’ Jean-Pierre said.
‘No. Much worse than that. It was deliberate. The crucifix has been bent forwards so that it lies dangling just above the altar, some of the glass has been smashed, and all the paintings are riddled with bullet holes. It made me understand why you are so worried about yours.’
Jean-Pierre shivered in spite of the heat, and his hand tightened on hers.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said at once. ‘I didn’t mean to remind you, or make you worry even more.’
‘It’s not the paintings that make me afraid now,’ he said. ‘It is you, ma mie. Walking so close to the Line with only Myrtle to protect you? It is mad. Far, far too dangerous. You could be—’ He pulled himself up, coughed, then started again more calmly: ‘Anything could happen to you, Helene. Promise you won’t take risks like that again. You matter far more to me than any painting. You must promise.’
Helen rolled over on to her side, so that she could see his face properly. He looked terrified. She brushed his face with her hand, as though she could remove the fear. But his expression did not change.
‘I’m afraid for you all the time now, ma mie. You must promise.’
‘All right, Jean-Pierre. But you must promise, too. It is harder for me to bear the fear when you go away and I don’t know where you are or when I will see you again. You at least know exactly where I am and what I am doing.’
‘Hélène,’ he said as he leaned forwards to kiss her, pushing his knee so gently between her legs that she barely noticed what was happening. A moment later, he was hanging over her, his lips brushing her eyebrows, her lids, the end of her nose, her lips. He had never wanted her again so soon. Nothing mattered now but him.
Toby stood in the middle of the basement, staring at Jean-Pierre’s treasure store. His privileged access to it had once seemed like a certificate of his worth. Now it was the opposite, a continual reminder of every way in which he had fallen short of what he should have been.
Once, long ago in Cambridge, he had thought of art forgery as mischief rather than crime and forgers as gentle, scholarly types. Now he knew those were only the amateurs. Professionals were like Ben, in it for big business, prepared to stop at nothing and as brutal as any other criminal.
Someone was knocking on the door again. Couldn’t they read? The sign clearly stated that the Gregory Bequest collection was closed on Sundays.
There was a spyhole in the front door, but he wasn’t going to risk leaving the basement while there was someone outside. The hall floorboards creaked and would betray him to anyone with working ears.
His mobile rang. He looked at it lying on the workbench, a small harmless black-plastic rectangle with a crack in it, and he hated the thought of what he might hear through it. Was it Ben? He didn’t think so. He couldn’t feel the same iciness digging into his spine today. So maybe it was Margaret, offering news of the boys’ safety. He grabbed the phone.
‘Ah, Toby, good! It’s Henry Buxford here. Everything all right?’
Shaking with a mixture of relief and dread, he licked his cracking lips and winced at the small pain. ‘Fine, fine. Why? Where are you?’
‘Outside your house, dear boy, hoping to come in and have a chat. Where are you?’
‘Halfway to Cambridge, I’m afraid,’ he said, turning his back to the outside wall of the basement. Thank God for mobiles! He was pretty sure that sound couldn’t leak out up to street level from here, but if it did, maybe Henry would take it as an echo from his own phone.
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