by Sam Blake
He hadn’t had time to change his will in favour of Stephanie – the solicitor had insisted that that needed more planning – but his heirs were already included in the standard wording, so that was one less thing to worry about.
Then he’d got to the bank and it had taken an hour to get everything sorted out, the bonds cashed and balances of various accounts transferred. It had amounted to more than he had expected, a lot more, but thank God, whatever happened, that was safe now in Stephanie’s name.
Glancing at the CCTV camera screen in the kitchen, he saw the gates closing and a van nosing up the drive. He needed to be quick. Picking up the paintings, he opened the pantry door and slipped them inside, leaning them, front facing, against the wall. The housekeeper would be in later but they’d be safe there while he sorted out the camera people, then he could take them down to the pool house. That was a very good idea of Vittoria’s. He’d get the security guys to check the whole system while they were there. They’d had two break-ins and, even with the extra cameras they were insisting on, the insurance premiums were likely to skyrocket unless the house was like Fort Knox.
Thinking about it now, he’d better get someone out to check all the locks and maybe look at more secure fencing as well. Vittoria had always felt that the end of the garden behind the pool house was a bit weak. She was always saying there was no point having an eight-foot wall around three-quarters of the property and a shaggy hedge on the last side. And there was a public footpath on the other side of the hedge, one that ran between two public car parks. It was constantly busy with people coming to the beach, joggers and dog walkers. The front gates were electric, controlled from the house, but if the opposite end of the garden was wide open to attack it seemed all a bit pointless. Like having a locked front door but leaving the garden door open.
He had enough on his mind right now, though. Once he’d got the camera people organised down at the pool house, he’d come back and finish his research on these pictures. He really wanted to get back up into the attic and see if there was anything else up there, but he needed to do that when he had a bit of time, to go through all the trunks and boxes systematically. It was starting to look like his father had known some very influential visitors to Ireland and they’d obviously understood that art was one of those things, that, like jewellery, held its value. When he thought about the dinner parties, there had been a lot of people he didn’t know and strange chocolates, his mother getting dressed for dinner and arriving downstairs in a cloud of Chanel No. 5, the dining room glittering with the best china, candlelight sparkling off the crystal.
Vittoria had never understood his parents’ life. He’d always thought they’d host dinner parties like that but she hated to cook, which had surprised him, bearing in mind her father owned a restaurant, but perhaps that was why. She associated the kitchen with being forced to help out when she was exhausted from her dance practice. His mind drifted for a moment, back to the day they’d met. She’d had an inner glow even then, a magnetism he couldn’t describe. Every guy in the airport had had his eyes on her. And he’d been captivated. He’d waited for her outside the audition and taken her to lunch. She’d hardly eaten anything, had seemed amused by his attention. He’d just moved to TransGlobal then and was flying out of Heathrow; she’d got a permanent position with the Royal Ballet and Paris had been forgotten. She hadn’t looked back. They’d seen a lot of each other, and then that summer he’d brought her to Dublin, to the house, the bay glittering beyond the garden with reflected stars, and she’d been smitten. He’d taken time off and they’d spent every minute of her holiday together that they could, although she practised for hours every day. Until the night of the accident.
But he didn’t want to think about that now. He’d seen hints of Vittoria’s turbulent personality before but afterwards she’d been even more dramatic. Perhaps that was the nature of being an artist – as a ballerina she was like a finely tuned machine, one that was prone to the wheels falling off every now and again. Thank God Stephanie wasn’t like that. She had her moments, but she was just much, much more normal than Vittoria had ever been.
The front doorbell rang, interrupting Marcus’s thoughts, and he went to answer it. The CCTV guys were smart in navy and orange boiler suits that matched their van, tool boxes ready in their hands. Marcus had no idea how Vittoria always managed to find the most expensive tradesmen in the country to work on the house, but right now he hoped their ability and, more importantly, speed, matched their branding. He couldn’t afford any more break-ins with paintings like the ones he’d just found casually left in the attic.
‘Thanks for coming so promptly, lads. My wife wants a new camera put in the pool house and we need an extra one on the drive – there’s a bit of a blind spot on the bend. I think we might need one to cover the rear hedge too. Can you have a look at what we’ve got and make sure there are no other hidden corners?’
‘No problem. It was your wife who was here when the guy broke in, wasn’t it? She’s the ballerina?’
Marcus grimaced – the press had reported on the whole debacle.
‘Brave lady. A lot of people would have just panicked.’
‘Vittoria doesn’t do panic. She’s very controlled.’
‘Just as well. We’ll check everything, make sure all the footage is being recorded properly.’
‘Excellent. The guards thought the guy might have been in the house for some time, that he was looking for a particular painting. We didn’t tell Vittoria that, obviously – it’s bad enough that he was here at all, never mind that he might have been creeping around all day looking for something specific. He’s on the CCTV but he’s got a mask over his face. The only place that hadn’t been touched in the first break-in was our room. There’s a landscape up there that I think he must have been after.’
The first of the technicians shivered. ‘Christ, rather you than me, mate. Don’t get that in a three-bed semi in Ballybrack.’
Marcus laughed. ‘Bet you’re a damn sight closer to the pub there too.’ He stood back to show them into the hall. ‘Here, it’s this way. We’ve a CCTV room next to the kitchen – all the recording equipment’s in there.’
Leaving the technicians to start work, Marcus went back to his iPad in the kitchen. And looked long and hard at the images of the paintings. They were all lost, had been looted by the Nazi regime. Marcus closed his eyes. He’d never have expected his father to have actually consorted with these types of people, to have drunk and dined with the Nazi party. But part of Marcus wasn’t surprised: his father was as right wing as they came, and he was a man’s man – he’d never allowed Marcus’s mother to learn to drive. It was as well they’d died so close together or she would have been forced to get the bus into town, leaving two very fine Mercedes parked in the double garage. They were collectors’ items now, a sports car and a saloon, both fire-engine red. When his father went out he liked to be noticed. Perhaps that’s why he had married one of Ireland’s most celebrated actresses. Perhaps it was his mother’s legacy that had drawn Marcus to Vittoria and then Stephanie. Who knew.
His strongest memories of his mother were clouds of perfume, cigarette smoke and gin cocktails. She’d slept almost all day and had shone in the evenings at their celebrated dinner parties, while Marcus had been brought up by a nanny. Several, actually, all young and very pretty. It was only as he’d reached university that he’d finally realised the reason for that, had become aware of his father’s string of mistresses that included several of his friends’ wives. But Richard Devine was one of those men that everyone wanted to know. Charismatic and charming, as well as very, very wealthy, he’d had it all.
It was strange, but Marcus realised he hadn’t thought this much about his father since his funeral, the enormous church in Foxrock crammed full. He’d been sent off to boarding school in Blackrock, even though they only lived down the road, so he really hadn’t seen much of his parents during term time, and in the summer his mother had vanished to Antibes, a
nd his father had sailed. Quite often, he’d just played tennis and swam the whole summer, hanging out at the yacht club, occasionally helping with the junior sail training.
But none of that mattered now: what mattered was looking after his unborn son and how he was going to get through this meeting tomorrow.
Perhaps this was his father finally stepping up and helping his own son when he was against the wall? The money these paintings would generate would take the pressure off completely. Marcus smiled – he could almost buy his own airline with the profits from the sale of these paintings if the estimates online were anything to go by.
Perhaps that was something he should seriously consider.
He was going to win this case – there was no question in his mind – and he was going to make sure he destroyed the rag journalist who had run the story in the process, to say nothing of this Bellissima tart. Marcus shook his head. He had no idea why she’d picked him – maybe it was because the tabloids were already interested in him. Whatever the reason, he was quite sure she was behind it, looking for publicity for her book. The stupid bitch was going to get some shock when they all ended up in court.
Chapter 41
VITTORIA WAS ALREADY sitting on a bench in Russell Square when Lily got there. It was only a five-minute walk from the tube station and busy even in the late afternoon, the gated park attracting students from the nearby University of London, businessmen taking time out, as well as mums bringing their children home from school or the shops. Winter was on the way, the leaves on the lime trees floating lethargically to the ground.
Lily headed for the middle of the square where a fountain sent up jets of water from a paved circle, pigeons bathing in the puddles and bubbles. One was pure white and making a very thorough job of staying that way. All his feathers were fluffed out as he dipped into the water, evidently enjoying his ablutions. Lily smiled. She was sure he wasn’t a homing pigeon but she wondered what he’d think of a huge flock of his relatives being released amid a flash of crystals in the New York sunshine.
The sound of bubbling water and birdsong, together with the rustle of the surrounding trees, made the circle of benches that surrounded the middle of the square a popular place. But busy was good. The more people who saw an accidental meeting between strangers, the better. From the moment the postcard had arrived that morning, Lily’s stomach had been churning with a potent blend of nervousness and excitement. What did Vittoria need to speak to her about? Did she have news?
Spotting Vittoria’s crisp bobbed haircut from behind, Lily went and sat down on the opposite end of the bench she was sitting on, glancing at her politely as she did so. Pulling out the popcorn she had in her satchel, she scattered some on the ground around her feet, immediately attracting a huge number of hungry pigeons. It was like they communicated by telepathy, calling their friends to join them.
Like the other people seated around the fountain, Vittoria appeared to be watching the pigeons, taking a few moments out from a busy life. She was wearing a boxy black jacket and a red and black scarf tied cleverly at the neck. Perhaps it was that or her high-heeled ankle boots that made her look so elegant. Lily wasn’t sure, but everything she wore was a complete contrast to Lily’s layered sweaters and scarfs, her floral dresses or denim dungarees.
They couldn’t be more different. Or, as Lily had realised during their first meeting, more similar.
As Lily threw down another handful of popcorn, Vittoria looked at the birds flocking around her feet. ‘They’re amazing, aren’t they? I’ve been wondering how the white ones manage to stay white in this city. I always seem to have a fine layer of grime all over me whenever I’ve been walking around for the day.’
A woman with a pushchair stopped beside them, her toddler delighted with the scrambling birds. Lily smiled at her, turning to Vittoria. ‘I love this square – it’s so peaceful, even with all the traffic and madness outside.’
‘We’ve a few similar at home.’ Vittoria smiled. ‘I’m from Dublin. There are some grand Georgian squares like this, and we’ve got a fabulous park called St Stephen’s Green right in the middle of the city.’
‘I’ve never been to Dublin – is it lovely?’
‘Very.’
Acknowledging the two women on the bench, the woman with the pushchair moved off.
Vittoria leaned over to open her handbag, resting on the wooden seat between them, her voice low. ‘We need to be quick but I’ve got something for you.’
Lily glanced at her as Vittoria slipped a stiff paper bag out of her black leather handbag and absentmindedly put it down between them, continuing to search in her bag as if she was looking for something.
Lily moved her satchel onto the bench in front of the bag. ‘What is it?’
‘Take a look.’
Lily slid the paper bag towards her, behind her satchel, and made a show of flipping back the soft leather flap, at the same time slipping her hand inside the small paper carrier. She caught her breath. She could feel a set of keys and tucked in beside them, a thick envelope. Her eyes open wide, Lily sat stock still and stared at the pigeons pecking at her feet. She knew how important it was that this looked like a casual conversation, two strangers meeting and chatting about the weather, but she suddenly had a massive urge to throw her arms around Vittoria. She kept her voice low, little more than a whisper.
‘How? I mean … how?’
‘The amulets. I gave him back three of them. He has a fairly heavy Russian friend, a business associate, who needs all of them rather urgently. I think he might call into the shop on Monday to get the last one. It’s in the bag as well. His problem is with Croxley so you’ve nothing to worry about – just have it ready for him.’
Lily glanced at her quickly, anxiously. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely.’ Vittoria paused. ‘I gave Croxley a painting that he was going to show the Russian – his name’s Sergei. I suggested he leave it in the shop. It’s quite valuable and that’s the most secure place he has access to.’
‘But he won’t be able to get it if we’ve got the keys?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure the Russian will ask for it when he collects the amulets.’
‘I’ll have a look for it as soon as we get back in.’
Vittoria nodded. ‘Croxley thought this guy Sergei’s boss would be very interested in it.’ She smiled. ‘Now, to make everything run smoothly, I need you to do something for me. It’s not complicated at all, but it needs to be done precisely as I tell you. Precisely.’ She glanced at Lily and tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘On Friday night at six I need you to go to The Hogarth Hotel and book in to room 520. It will have suddenly become available. There’s cash in the envelope in the bag.’
Lily pursed her lips for a moment and, without looking at Vittoria, reached inside her satchel for her sketchbook and a soft B pencil. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Vittoria’s brow cloud for a moment, but Lily hummed as she began to sketch the strutting white pigeon and the scene around them.
With everything going on at the moment, to get what Vittoria needed her to do absolutely right, Lily knew she needed to write it down. There was already so much swirling in her head – but discretion was an absolute priority and a list floating about that Jack might find could take a lot of explaining. Lily needed to hide the information, and what better way than in a drawing of the park. She drew in the child’s buggy, viewed from behind, a badge on the back embossed with the number 520.
‘That’s really very good. I wish I could draw. It’s a gift to be able to record a moment like this so accurately.’ Vittoria’s voice was full of admiration.
Lily glanced at her, smiling. ‘I like to get the detail right. It makes such a difference.’
‘So true. Can I watch?’
Lily grinned. ‘Of course.’ She put her satchel – and the paper carrier bag containing the money and the shop keys – on the paving stones at her feet, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Vittoria shifte
d in more closely as Lily deftly drew in some more pigeons.
Lily desperately wanted to ask why that particular room, why 520 was so important, but Vittoria continued, her voice low. ‘The Hogarth Hotel, don’t forget.’
Balancing the sketchbook on her knee, Lily sketched an open book in the top corner of her page. The Hogarth Hotel had been named after Virginia Woolf’s publishing company.
‘Take a bag with some clothes and wash things so it looks like you’re going to stay. You’ll be given two room key cards – both operate the door and the lights.’
Lily nodded curtly as if to herself as Vittoria explained. ‘Leave one key in your room, with your coat and bag – unpack so your things are in the bathroom – take the other key and go home.’
Lily drew a bag underneath the child’s buggy in her picture, a toothbrush sticking out of the flap, a bunch of toy keys lying beside it.
‘On Saturday morning I’m going to drop an envelope in to your shop. Inside will be my mobile phone.’ Vittoria looked at her hard, then looked at the picture. Lily drew a phone in the buggy pannier. Beside her, Lily heard Vittoria take a breath. ‘This is the important bit. On Saturday I need you to go back to your room. At 3.15 p.m. use the connecting door to go into 521, the room next door. It’ll be open.’
‘How?’
Vittoria smiled, ‘Let me worry about that.’
Lily drew a clock on the apex of a building in the background, marking in the time.
It only took Vittoria a few more moments to explain, Lily’s pencil moving swiftly across the page.
And then they were finished.
Lily put the pad on the bench beside her and leaned down to her satchel for another handful of popcorn. She threw it out to the pigeons, her voice low. ‘You’re sure that’s it? That’s all you need me to do?’
