by Janet Pywell
‘Mikky? I’ve found the private collector.’
‘Really?’ I sit up in bed.
‘Yes.’
‘Great! Listen, Marina, I do appreciate you helping me with this.’
‘You were always good to my father, Mikky. He said you were the most honourable thief and a pleasure to do business with—’
‘I’m not a thief anymore. You know I’m with Europol?’
‘Yes, I do, but I don’t want to know anything else. It’s no concern of mine.’
‘Well, I do appreciate your help.’
‘I know, we look after each other, you know that.’
‘Yes.’
I know very well the unwritten code in the underworld of art theft and antiquities.
‘Do you have a pen and paper?’
‘Yes.’
‘The shah’s dagger was bought by auction from Bonhams for $3.3 million.’
‘Do you have any pictures you can send me?’
‘I’ll email them to you.’
I hover the pen over the paper. ‘I need to know who the private collector is – and where they live.’
‘He’s in Basel.’
‘Basel – Switzerland?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have a name?’
‘Jeffrey Bonnington.’
* * *
The Basel Christmas Market is busy as we cross Münsterplatz in the heart of the old city. We pass the massive decorated Christmas tree and weave our way through the small, rustic wooden chalets; stalls of waffles, grilled sausages, Swiss raclette, glühwein, and Basler Leckerli – a Swiss Basel spiced sweet bread similar to the British gingerbread.
I pause to look at some handmade jewellery, but Peter glances at his watch, so I hurry beside his limping gait, past the Basler Münster Church – Basel Cathedral – into Münsterberg and up to Freie Strasse.
The main shopping street of Basel houses all the luxury brands from Swiss watches to handbags, but I’m not tempted, as we’re staying only a few hours in this beautiful Swiss city on the edge of the Rhine, on the French and German borders.
The cobbled streets and beautiful medieval and baroque architecture in Grossbasel, home to wealthier residents of the city, is south-west of the river, and we pause on the Mittlere Brücke to admire the towers of the Basler Münster Church before crossing into Kleinbasel, where it’s trendy for young people to gather for food and drinks.
Our guest is waiting at a table near the bar. Peter recognises him immediately from our charity auction evening at the London hotel only last Tuesday. He marches over with his arm extended, and the older man stands to shake his hand. This gives me time to study the private collector, and I think that he now looks older than he did barely a week ago. He has long white hair, round black glasses, a neat goatee, and a crumpled green tartan jacket. He’s a scientist and director of one of the world’s leading pharmaceutical companies – Provartis.
‘Jeffrey Bonnington,’ he says, after we introduce ourselves. ‘I’m delighted to meet you. Please sit here, and I’ll order coffee.’
‘Thank you.’ I sit in the indicated leather seat, noting the colourful tropical birds painted on the wallpaper.
‘I believe this is the “in” place to meet,’ he says with a grin, revealing a gap between his front teeth. ‘Did you know we’re just around the corner from where Hermann Hesse wrote Steppenwolf.’
‘I loved that book.’ Peter removes his trench coat and crosses his legs. ‘Thank you for meeting us.’
I slip my parka on the back of my chair, and we sit making polite conversation for ten minutes while we wait for our coffee to be served. While the men speak, it gives me a chance to watch the multimillionaire who so readily agreed to meet us at short notice.
‘It’s not a problem. I’m delighted. I’ve known Marina Thoss for many years,’ Jeffrey says by way of explanation. ‘I’m only too happy to help you.’ He smiles and continues, ‘You’re lucky to catch me. I’m leaving for the Caribbean shortly. We spend a month there every Christmas to get away from the snow and cold – well, in my case, rheumatism and arthritis.’
‘Do you have a big family?’ I ask, as he pours coffee and cream for us. ‘Thank you.’
‘My wife, Stephanie, and our two boys and their wives and children.’
There are traces of damage on his skin, brown sunspots, but he doesn’t look like he’s ever been ill in his life and certainly not riddled with pains in his joints.
‘Thank you for sparing us the time,’ Peter says. He clears his throat. ‘We won’t keep you unnecessarily—’
‘Let’s cut to the chase,’ Jeffrey says with a grin. ‘You’ve come a long way to speak to me, and we can dispense with the formalities. You’re interested in a cultural item that I have in my collection, I believe?’
He looks at Peter and then to me. His eyes are resting on my lips when he adds, ‘It’s no secret in the art world that I have a unique collection, but I don’t broadcast it.’
‘We’re interested in a dagger that belonged to Shah Jahan,’ I reply.
Jeffrey Bonnington’s eyes narrow at the mention of the dagger.
I continue, ‘It was the—’
‘I know what it was,’ he interrupts me, ‘and I also know he built the Taj Mahal in homage to his wife.’
I ignore his sharp tone and say, ‘Bonhams sold the original dagger …’
‘It was no secret that I bought it.’ He bristles. ‘It’s not something that I brag about, but yes, I added it to my collection – my private collection.’
‘Collection?’ Peter leans forward.
‘I buy artwork for the company and several banks, but this was for me. It’s what interests me. I have a variety of swords, daggers, and knives. They’re not to everyone’s taste, but they are my, what shall we say, interest, passion, hobby?’
He shrugs and smiles, as if everyone was such an accumulator. His fingers are slim and well proportioned, and I imagine him in a laboratory bent over a microscope, analysing details of diseases, compounds, and remedies with the same intensity as reading the inscription on the shah’s dagger.
‘It’s worth a substantial amount of—’
‘Yes, I’m sure you know how much I bought it for; it was a few years ago, and it was an investment.’
‘A valuable investment.’ I’m determined to finish at least one sentence.
He stares at me. ‘I’m sure you’ve done your research, and you have probably investigated my background, too, and you will know that I inherited a considerable sum of money from my father’s property investments. In turn, I developed an interest in pharmaceuticals and my own company merged with Provartis in 1996, and to this date, I am still a member of the board and own a considerable number of shares.’
‘You don’t have to explain your finances to us.’ Peter stirs his coffee.
‘Where is your collection?’ I ask.
Jeffrey Bonnington looks surprised but he recovers and answers quickly, ‘My private collections are in various places. I’m not naive enough to have them on display in my house.’
‘You mean they’re in a bank vault or somewhere safe?’ I persist.
He pauses before answering.
‘If you’re referring to the shah’s dagger, then I can assure you that it is firmly in my possession.’
‘In Switzerland?’
‘You’ll have to take my word for it.’
‘May we see it?’
‘That won’t be possible.’ He pulls back the cuff of his sleeve and regards his Rolex for a few seconds, long enough for it to be a hint. ‘I am in rather a hurry.’
I lean forward.
‘We just need to know that the original is definitely in your possession and that it hasn’t been stolen.’
‘Stolen?’
‘Yes. I saw one a few days ago in London,’ I lie.
He stares at me, then glances at Peter. ‘That’s impossible.’
‘When did you last see the dagger?’ I ask.
He doesn’t answer immediately, and then he asks slowly, ‘Did it have the nasta’liq inscription on the blade with the official title, date, and place of birth of Shah Jahan?’
‘Yes,’ I lie. But I’ve done my research, and I add, ‘It also had the honorific parasol, and you know what that is …’
‘The ancient pan-Asian symbol of royalty and divinity.’ He rubs his nose with his forefinger.
‘Yes.’
He drains his coffee and places the small cup back on the saucer.
‘Look, I can tell you that my dagger, the original, is safely locked away. Now, is that everything?’ He looks around for the waiter to ask for the bill, but Peter raises his hand first to get the attention of the well-dressed barman.
I reach into my bag and I pull out two photographs, both A4 in size, that Marina Thoss had so thoughtfully emailed me last night. One image shows the dagger, and the second shows a close-up of the blade and the inscription is legible. I place them silently on the table.
‘This is what you purchased at auction.’
Jeffrey Bonnington leans forward and, pushing his glasses further onto his nose, he inspects the images, tilting the coloured pictures to see them better.
I then show him my sketch of Monika and Ali’s tattoos.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘I was with the person who has this dagger.’
He places my sketch back on the table. ‘It’s not real. It’s been tampered with.’
‘I can assure you that—’
‘If you are here to blackmail me, or to try and get money out of me, it won’t happen. I have given you my time willingly, but this is too much …’
He stands up and reaches for his coat.
Peter also stands up. ‘We are not here for the money. We just need information. A lot of lives depend on it.’
Jeffrey pushes his arms into his coat. ‘The dagger, the original Shah’s dagger that I purchased, is safe—’
‘Do you think this is a good imitation?’ I stand up and face him.
‘Perhaps,’ he replies grudgingly. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Where is the original?’ I ask.
‘I can’t tell you. It’s safe. Good afternoon and thank you for the coffee.’
‘Wait!’ I say; he stops and turns to look at me. ‘Where would you get a replica made?’
‘I wouldn’t. I don’t need to.’
* * *
He’s at the door of the cafe when I catch up with him.
‘Mr Bonnington, is it a coincidence that you were in London last week at a charity event for Raymond Harris?’
‘What do you mean coincidence?’ He pauses, blocking the entrance, and then steps aside as the door opens and another client enters.
‘Let’s go outside?’ I suggest, and he stands aside to let me pass. I wait for him in the street, and Peter follows. I tuck my parka into my neck against the cold.
‘Mr Bonnington, I know that you’re familiar with Islington and that you support the politician Raymond Harris—’
‘It’s no secret.’
‘But tell me something – don’t you think it’s more of a coincidence that the dagger you claim to have in your private collection is being used as a cult talisman to initiate children into drugs gangs in London?’
‘What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Your dagger is a symbol of intimidation for young kids. These very children that Raymond Harris is determined to protect. He’s involved in the Dixon Trust that is a haven for these children.’
Jeffrey Bonnington looks bemused. He replies, ‘I think you’ve come a long way for nothing. You’re certainly on the wrong track if you think I or Raymond Harris are involved in any illegal drug trade. I haven’t spent my whole life fighting to improve the drug trade – legally developing antidotes to diseases and illness around the globe, fighting infections – only to be accused of being involved in a sinister underworld of illicit drugs involving children born into poverty. It simply isn’t my style.’
Peter holds out his hand. ‘Thank you. And I’m sorry that we have offended you. We just wanted to ensure that your dagger was firmly in your private collection where it belongs. You can see how worried we were when we saw this one. It’s the image of the one you own.’
‘It might be a replica. But I can assure you this has absolutely nothing to do with me, and if you want to take it up with anyone, then speak to Chief Inspector Mulhoon at the Met. He will vouch for me.’
‘Thank you. I’m sure that won’t be necessary.’ Peter’s smile is sincere as he shakes Bonnington’s hand, while I keep my hands firmly in my pocket.
‘Well, I’ll be telling Mulhoon about your visit,’ he says, tugging his collar closer to his neck. ‘Good day to you both.’
* * *
We stop at the Christmas market for grilled sausages and glühwein. Although we’ve been awake and travelling since before dawn, I’m not hungry. But I do need fresh air. All around us, people wear bobble hats, mittens, and scarves; they huddle companionably at barrel tabletops, enjoying the warmth of nearby fires.
‘That was a waste of time,’ I mumble to Peter.
He’s ordering us a snack and drinks.
‘What did you expect?’
‘I don’t know. He’s a pompous ass, and on top of it, he’s going to speak to Mulhoon, who in turn will get onto Joachin, and he’ll know we were in Basel. He’ll also find out that I lied about the dagger, telling him that I’d seen one in London exactly the same.’
Peter laughs and bites into the spicy sausage. ‘It could only happen to us – well, to you, Mikky. It was a bit of a wild goose chase to come here.’
‘He wouldn’t even tell us where he keeps his collection. He’s ex-directory, and even Marina didn’t have a home address for him. He uses a Swiss bank as his secure address, which you couldn’t hack into even if you wanted to—’
‘You have to let it go, Mikky.’
‘He was playing with us,’ I complain. ‘It was awful.’
‘We didn’t factor into account that he inherited lots of property, and although his main home is here in Switzerland, the dagger could be as far away as the Caribbean.’ Peter raises his empty glühwein glass to the bearded man behind the stall for a refill.
‘The dagger could be stashed away in a bank vault here in Basel,’ I add.
‘Based on all the collectors and people that you’ve met, what does your instinct tell you?’ Peter asks.
I shrug and take the glass he offers me. ‘Thank you. Erm, I’m not sure. It depends on how close Jeffrey is to his wife and family …’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, if you were married to him, would you like a roomful of weapons on display? Or would you say, “Jeffrey, please …”’ I imitate a woman with an affected high voice. ‘“Go and put your toys in your room. Our guests don’t want to play with those nasty, dangerous weapons”?’
Peter laughs.
‘Do you think he’s worth looking into?’ I ask. ‘Should we dig deeper?’
‘To what purpose? What now? We know Jeffrey Bonnington owns the original dagger, but so what?’
‘Well, Jeffrey says he has the dagger; do you think we’ve spooked him enough so that he might go and check his collection to make sure it hasn’t been stolen?’
‘Stolen? We can’t spend days here following Jeffrey Bonnington. He might make a phone call to someone to check. Besides, I don’t think that the dagger used by the drugs gang in London is authentic. Maybe someone – the Asian – just modelled it on this dagger because he saw it on the Internet and he had a replica made.’
‘Do you think Jeffrey will contact us if the dagger has been stolen?’ I ask.
‘I think he’s more likely to contact his insurance company …’
‘How do we even know the Asian has a dagger?’ I complain and drain my glass, looking expectantly at Peter, but he’s ignoring me.
‘I think we have a problem,’ he whispers, and tu
rns his back away from the crowds. ‘We’re being followed.’
Chapter 11
“Little crimes breed big crimes. You smile at little crimes and then big crimes blow your head off.”
Terry Pratchett
‘Who would follow us?’ I ask Peter.
We both stand facing the food stall, with our backs to those around us. We’ve moved naturally close together, as if we’re lovers, and I lean my head against Peter’s shoulder so we can speak quietly.
‘Who knows we are here?’
‘What do they look like?’ I ask.
‘Beard, five-eight, brown coat, green cap.’
I reach into my bag and raise the iPhone to take a selfie of us, trying to gauge the people around us, but there’s no one matching Peter’s description of the man, so we move again, a different angle – another selfie – to survey the scene around us.
‘Come on, let’s go and get some waffles,’ Peter suggests, taking me by the arm.
‘I feel sick,’ I reply.
‘Play along,’ he whispers, guiding me to a sweet-smelling stall, where he orders two waffles with chocolate.
‘Hold these,’ he says, passing the sweet chocolate to me, then he disappears, leaving me standing alone in a crowd of Christmas shoppers.
I wait, glancing around, my photographer’s eye taking in the smallest detail, the fleeting glance, the subtlest of movements, and then I spot the bearded man.
He fakes interest in a ceramic dish on a nearby stand, then glances at me, but I move away. He follows me, very slowly, checking the distance each time, careful not to alert me.
I catch a glimpse of Peter, who has manoeuvred himself so that he’s positioned on the far side of the man. I toss the waffles in the bin, then move quickly – the man appears to realise, and he turns around to run, but Peter blocks his path.
I grab the man’s hand and press my phone into it.
‘Thief!’ I shout, holding my phone in his hand. ‘He’s taken my iPhone.’
The man’s mouth opens in disbelief just as Peter takes a step forward. There’s scuffling, someone shouts, I scream, and then Peter’s reassuring voice says, ‘It’s alright. I’ve got him.’
