by Sam Blake
He didn’t have email or a mobile phone, preferring to communicate by post, and with time tight Vittoria hadn’t been sure she would hear back from him. But a message had been waiting for her when she arrived at the hotel. Short and cryptic, it had directed her to a postcard in a nearby newsagent’s small ads noticeboard. On the reverse, she’d found the time of her appointment written in a spidery hand: Saturday 3 p.m.
Mr Bahnschrift obviously didn’t take any risks.
Or answer his front door very quickly, come to that.
Vittoria could feel eyes on her back as she waited on the landing outside. She glanced across at the walkway in the opposite block. There was no one there that she could see, but the feeling of being watched didn’t go away.
How long should she wait? She’d been told to call in at three; he was expecting her. Vittoria knocked again. Perhaps he was just a little deaf?
Her hands thrust into her coat pockets, her fingers cold despite her leather gloves, Vittoria glanced over her shoulder again. And almost jumped as she heard the safety chain on the door jangling. It opened a crack. At the bottom a small dog’s nose poked out of the gap and she was hit by the stench of tobacco. As the door opened to the limit of the chain, a tiny man wearing a cardigan and a silk cravat looked her up and down. Then, as if satisfied, he unhooked the chain and left the door ajar as he headed off down the corridor, apparently expecting her to follow him. Stiflingly hot, the flat smelled so strongly of cigarettes as she stepped inside that Vittoria began to feel her head swim.
In the living room at the back of the flat, a single armchair sat in front of a TV, the sound turned down. The whole room was meticulously clean, the magazines lined up on a low coffee table in front of the chair with military precision.
‘Now, young lady, what do you need?’ He didn’t introduce himself. His voice was raspy, his accent cockney but with a hint of something – Austrian, she thought. His manner didn’t exactly invite conversation so she wasn’t going to ask.
Pulling a plastic file out of her bag, Vittoria showed him the various notes and letters she had found that demonstrated Judge Devine’s handwriting, the original letter in its clear plastic bag and her notes for the additions. He took them and shuffled over to a table beside the window, spreading them out, nodding, as he bent over them to look closely. His hands were tiny but soft, like a woman’s hands, his fingers stained with ink
Reading over the notes, he raised a bushy eyebrow at Menten’s name, looked at her hard, as if he recognised it.
‘Come back at five. I’ll have everything done by then.’
Vittoria pulled the envelope of cash from her handbag and put down it on the table. Then he nodded to himself and, as if he’d forgotten she was there, moved over to a polished bureau and, flipping down a central fold-out desk with a flourish, pulled out an untidy box of pens and bottles of ink. The bureau was crammed with papers, a pile of passports neatly stacked on one side. Vittoria hid her surprise. The covers were different colours – green, blue, burgundy. Beside them, under a bottle of ink, was a pile of pink papers that she recognised as the old-style British driving-licence documents. It was small wonder governments had switched to plastic cards. Ruby, her receptionist at the office, was English, still had her British passport and driver’s licence. They’d laughed over them one day, comparing photographs.
Bahnschrift was obviously a master forger.
And had no need to be polite to his clients.
His back to her, Vittoria took it that she was dismissed and headed back down the hall, the dog, some sort of elderly terrier, watching her from the armchair with bright eyes.
Pulling the door behind her, Vittoria hurried down the stairs. She didn’t know quite what to do with herself for the two hours she needed to wait. Outside, turning to her left, she walked back up towards the roar of traffic on the Mile End Road, spotting a Starbucks on the opposite side. She headed for it.
Nursing her coffee, sitting in a corner as far away from the window as she could get, she pulled her phone out and tried to look busy.
Thank God nobody spoke to her.
Time ticked slowly by. She read the local paper from cover to cover. Then the Metro. Then the Evening Standard.
At five o’clock she made her way back. It was beginning to get dark.
Her palms were sweating by the time she got to the sixth floor. This time, Bahnschrift didn’t even open the door, instead wordlessly passed her a brown envelope with everything in it. She had a moment of panic wondering if he’d even been able to do it, but heading back to the top of the stairs, she stopped to quickly open the envelope. Checking over her shoulder, she unfolded the letter, and almost laughed. Despite the dim light, she could see Bahnschrift was a true artist. The new section of the letter blended perfectly with the original line and was signed, as if in haste, with Marcus’s father’s initials.
Now she had everything she needed to authenticate, not just this painting, but also the others that she had ‘found’ in the attic.
Chapter 22
LILY WAS A MORNING PERSON, and even on a Sunday she was up early. Looking out of her bedroom window, she could see that it had rained during the night and the world looked washed clean. The tennis courts and park were still quiet, the normally busy streets somehow hushed like they were taking a few moments to contemplate before the city fully woke up.
Lily had been doing a lot of contemplating herself last night. Contemplating life and a bottle of white wine. Both her flatmates were away for the weekend and she and Jack had the place to themselves. She could hear him snoring on the sofa as, still in her pyjamas, she headed for the kitchen and the kettle.
Meeting Stephanie Carson yesterday had given her a lot to think about. Although she hadn’t said it in so many words, it was very clear that Vittoria’s husband Marcus was lavishing a lot of attention on his latest mistress. Hopefully Vittoria would never know how much money her husband was spending on Stephanie, but it seemed likely to Lily that he’d helped her buy her house and was helping her financially. He obviously had the money. But that wasn’t really the point.
As Lily reached for the kettle, very pleased to have the kitchen to herself, she reached over to turn her phone on – she’d left it plugged in on the kitchen counter last night – and it immediately pipped with a text. She glanced at it as she turned on the tap. The first cup of tea of the day was better than any glass of white wine.
Lily paused, the kettle in her hand. The text was from Em.
Have you seen the paper??!! Got
my promotion, I’m on features,
baby!!!!!
Lily’s eyes widened. Boy, Emma must have been out partying last night. A slow smile grew on Lily’s face – the pictures had landed. She looked at the kettle. She was desperate to see the paper, but it was only 6.30 a.m. and the newsagent’s wasn’t open yet. The dew was hardly dry and she needed tea first. It took her a moment to realise she could check the story online. She’d get the proper copy later.
The kettle boiling behind her, Lily sat down at the kitchen table and opened her MacBook. She found the story straight away: ‘Caught in the Cock Pit’. Lily winced. Em was chancing her arm, but then it was exactly what her bosses loved. Plenty of controversy, lots of people talking. Lily checked the sharing buttons – the article had already been shared thousands of times across Facebook and Twitter. It looked like it might go viral.
Lily scanned the copy, barely there beside the huge photos, but Emma had the by-line. Lily couldn’t help but grin, delighted for her friend. And Em had listened to her – in the exposé piece below the pictures, Em had explained who the main players were, speculating on their relationship but also asking if the pictures were indeed real or purely a publicity stunt generated by Bellissima. Lily felt like punching the air. Emma was just the best.
There was no way Bellissima was going to sue – she’d love the publicity. And Marcus Devine? There was enough in Em’s ‘do-we-believe-this-or-is-it-a-con tone to make it impos
sible for him to sue. To say nothing of the fact that private individuals taking on a corporation the size of Media Holdings Inc., with its turnover of almost £2 billion, needed to be very sure of their ground. The photo looked like a selfie, so only Bellissima and Devine knew for sure if it was real or faked, and any protests he made would make it look like he was as guilty as hell. Not only of cavorting with a woman of dubious reputation who wasn’t his wife, but, much more importantly in Lily’s masterplan, in the process clearly breaking a ton of aviation security regulations. Who was to know she hadn’t smuggled an explosive device on board?
The kettle boiled and Lily got up to make her tea, her smile wide. It was time for her next move.
Chapter 23
VITTORIA AWOKE with a jerk, sweating, her back in spasm, her heart beating hard. Her eyes fixed on the milky white ceiling, she pushed her hand into her hair and focused on breathing deeply, fighting the pain and trying to work out where she was. Images jumbled in her head, the moment of the accident, more pain. Then memories of waking in hospital, the shock, merged with her lying in her bed at home, waking suddenly, conscious she’d heard something.
Glancing around the room, she began to surface from the nightmare, to register the elegance and neutral colours of the room, remembering that she was in The Hogarth Hotel in London. The door to the en suite was ajar, just as she’d left it, her leather jeans lying over the back of the padded corner chair. She’d closed the heavy curtains tightly but the huge round mirror above the desk-come-dressing table picked up a sliver of light, reflecting it in a fluid pool on the slate grey carpet.
Relief began to flood through her.
She wasn’t in hospital or at home.
Thank God.
Lying in the crisp cotton sheets, memories of the break-in were closest to the surface, feelings of terror stirring up everything she had buried about the accident. Vittoria caught her breath. She’d woken suddenly the night of the break-in too, like now. Listening hard, she had tried to filter out the sounds of the old house, the distant suck of the sea on the beach, the swish of the trees on the avenue moving in the wind. The huge curved glass sash windows in her bedroom were impossible to double glaze and let in every sound.
Vittoria had fallen in love with Alcantara the moment she’d seen the house with its sea views and stunning gardens. It reminded her so much of home with the constant sound of the surf. She pulled the duvet around her and, easing into a more comfortable position, took a deep breath, her heart only beginning to calm. The fear was still real, too real. There were cameras all over the grounds at Alcantara – it was a huge property, had a top of the range security system that was connected directly to the gardaí.
But that night she’d been expecting Marcus to come home and had left the alarm turned off.
Vittoria gripped the sheets, trying to control her breathing. She closed her eyes tightly, willing the picture of the door slowly opening to leave her. But it was imprinted on her memory. The dark shape slipping into the room. The silhouette of the gun. She’d shouted at him, and after a moment that was frozen in her memory, the man had disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared, the sound of his feet pounding the stairs echoing through the house. She’d hit the panic button but the shock of what could have happened wouldn’t leave her.
Vittoria turned over slowly towards the window, burrowing into the bed-clothes. Where had Marcus been that night? He’d said he was coming home for dinner when she’d spoken to him earlier that day. And everything had been confirmed. But as time had ticked on, and the food had started to congeal, she’d realised he wasn’t coming home. And he wasn’t answering his phone – it was going straight to voicemail. Furious her careful plans for the evening would have to be abandoned, she’d sent a text to reorganise everything and had decided go up to bed with a book.
She hadn’t bothered putting the alarm on. Marcus wasn’t flying for a few days so it was more than likely he’d arrived in Dublin and had met Aidan for a few drinks in the yacht club or somewhere. He never remembered to turn the alarm off when he’d been drinking, and the last thing she wanted was to be woken up by the siren going off – she’d had wall-to-wall meetings scheduled for the next day after an intensive session with Yana, the Russian ballerina, first thing.
That night, waiting for him, Vittoria had dozed off, her book beside her. Then she’d woken with a start, sure she’d heard something. Half-asleep, she’d assumed it was Marcus coming in, but he usually made a lot of noise, banging doors on his way up. And as she’d surfaced from sleep, she’d realised that the house was quiet. Too quiet. She’d strained her ears, listened hard. Then she heard it again. The sound of a door gently opening, a board creaking on the landing.
And she’d known someone was in the house.
And that it wasn’t Marcus.
Vittoria pulled The Hogarth’s feather pillow under her head. She wasn’t sure if she would ever be able to forget that night. Thank God the panic alarm worked independently from the main security system.
He should have been there. Everything would have been different if he’d been there.
Vittoria shivered. She’d been so shocked when the guards had finally arrived that she’d hardly been able to speak. They’d tried to call Marcus but his phone must have been off. Then they’d tried Aidan, who had been in the car and on the way over before the garda had even finished the phone call. He’d wrapped his arms around her and stayed with her until Marcus had finally turned up after lunch the next day. He’d been held up in London and hadn’t thought to call, apparently. That was Marcus all over.
If he’d let her know that he wasn’t coming home, so many things would have been different. She’d have put the alarm on for one thing.
Vittoria turned over again to face the bedroom door, the stiffness in her back easing. She had no idea what time it was, but it felt early. And now she was wide awake. Sitting up, she reached for her phone and, out of the corner of her eye, immediately saw what had woken her. She’d asked for the Sunday papers, quite a few of them, and the staff had slipped a magazine under the door. She could see a piece of notepaper folded into it – probably telling her that rest of the papers were hanging on the doorknob of her room. Vittoria rolled her eyes. It must have been the sound of the magazine on the carpet that had disturbed her sleep, the door rattling as the heavy bag of papers was hung up.
Opening her phone, Vittoria saw that it was only 7.30. She’d ordered breakfast for 9.30 and knew she really should go back to sleep for a few hours. She could go through all the papers over breakfast in bed.
She had a feeling Edward Croxley would be in touch this morning too. Vittoria pursed her lips, thinking. What exactly had he said on the phone?
The thought made Vittoria begin to relax. She was back in control now. Sitting up in bed, she pulled the pillow straight behind her, her mind more alert. She wanted to get to the bottom of Croxley’s phone call yesterday. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed to explain the whole drama with the card game.
If Croxley was looking for something small, something hidden in the shop, he’d need time to find it. And short of getting a job working for Lily’s brother Jack, ‘winning’ the shop had actually been quite an inspired move. It sounded like these small items were of very significant value and Jack would be just as interested in them as Croxley was, if he knew what they were.
Vittoria found the recording on her phone and played it back. There was a lot of background noise, the rustle of tissue paper, cars passing on the road outside, but Croxley’s voice was clear enough – she knew she could get it cleaned up when she got home, but right now if she played it again … It took a few more goes and then she caught it, the words she’d been sure that she’d heard when he was speaking to the mysterious Sergei: ‘museum’ and ‘blood’.
So whatever was in the shop was small, extremely valuable, and from the sarcasm she’d heard in his voice, sounded like it came from a museum located somewhere there had been bloodshed. Which sugges
ted a warzone or occupied area? That suggested the Middle East to Vittoria. Hadn’t the museum in Baghdad been looted a few years ago? She couldn’t remember who by, but she’d seen it on the news: the building had been ransacked, thousands of priceless antiquities destroyed or stolen. Her curiosity piqued, Vittoria opened Google on her phone. What could be very small and portable but very valuable, have come from a museum like that and be of interest to a Russian collector?
For the amount of trouble Croxley was going to, whatever he was looking for had to be very rare, but it could be anything. The more she searched, the more Vittoria felt she was right about the museum. It had to be Baghdad. Although what on earth the item could be, she had no idea. There seemed to be endless possibilities.
But it must have had ended up in the shop relatively recently, Vittoria guessed. Had Jack bought something unwittingly that the item was being smuggled inside? Vittoria frowned and screwed up her face. She needed to talk to Lily to see if any of this sounded familiar, and she needed to do it before she left London.
Over lunch at the Calvert Vaux Hotel in New York, they’d decided that if they needed to meet they would contact each other by post. Vittoria just needed to send Lily a note inviting her to … Vittoria thought for a moment – it needed to be somewhere very public and busy where they could talk but without anyone noticing them – the National Gallery? They could very easily stand in front of a painting and appear to be discussing it. But the British Museum was closer and always packed. And, Vittoria’s mind worked fast, if whatever Croxley was looking for was from the Middle East, perhaps that was the floor they needed to meet on – Lily might see something that jogged her memory. Yawning, Vittoria leaned over to put her phone on the locker next to the bed. The British postal system was very reliable. If she posted a card on Monday it should be with Lily on Tuesday morning. Vittoria’s flight wasn’t until eight o’clock that evening from London City airport. If she met Lily in the afternoon, they would only need a few minutes for Vittoria to explain her suspicions.
