by Rob Wyllie
Frank shook his head. 'Well, I spoke to her father not that long ago and he didn't say anything about that. On the contrary, I remember exactly what he said. That Jeremy was all right. So it wasn't that I'm pretty sure.'
Hart gave a faint smile. 'Yes, they're nice, her parents. Good solid folks.'
'I haven't met the mum,' Frank said, 'but aye, Terry Clarke's a good bloke. And he's totally convinced that his daughter wouldn't have taken her own life, and yet I'm getting the sense that you're not so sure. Why would that be Jeremy?'
For a moment he hesitated. 'I..it was just... well as I said, she seemed troubled. There was something on her mind, but of course at the time, it never entered my mind that she would kill herself. But afterwards... there was that suicide note on Facebook...'
'Which she never actually sent,' Frank said.
'No, she didn't. Look Inspector, I don't really understand what this is all about. Are you saying her death might have been... well, suspicious?'
He shrugged. 'I don't know if it will make you feel better or not, but aye, we've uncovered certain information that raises that possibility. It's early days, but you see we found another case with some quite disturbing similarities. A lad called Luke Brown who died in exactly the same way. He was one of these interns too. Assigned to some insurance company. Arixa or Avimto or something like that.'
'Alexia maybe? Maybe that's who you mean.'
Frank nodded. 'Aye, that was it. Alexia Life. You know something about them?'
'Two years ago Alexia were facing nearly half a billion in losses over that hurricane that hit the south-west of the US. Remember it? You see, they should have re-insured it out through Lloyds but they'd decided to keep most of the risk in house so that they could book the full premium value to their accounts. It was a huge mistake on their part.'
'I won't even pretend to understand any of that Jeremy,' Frank said. 'Just give me the edited highlights if you would.'
'There's not much more to say. It was a massive cock-up, but if you're looking for a connection back to Hugo Morgan then you're barking up the wrong tree I'm afraid.
'Why do you say that Mr Hart?'
He gave a condescending smile. 'Alexia are a mutual. They're owned by their members, not by shareholders.'
◆◆◆
Connections. That's what you were always on the look-out for in a case, and as Frank headed back to Atlee House, he gave a mental shrug of the shoulders. Two good-looking interns, two tube-station deaths, the Oxbridge Agency. Three connections, and in his mind, that was already too much to be just coincidence. Sure, it would have been all neat and tidy if Hugo Morgan had been involved with Alexia Life too, but he wasn't and that was something he would have to deal with. And anyway there would be something else, he just hadn't stumbled across it yet.
Now he needed to chase up the half-wit Ronnie French to see how he'd got on up in Oxford with Sophie Fitzwilliam, and then a bit more legwork, see what he could find out about that lad Luke Brown. He might do that himself or ask French to do it, and while he was at it, he could take wee Yvonne Sharp along with him.
Then it would be useful to speak to that brother of his, take him for a pint and see what they knew about Morgan. And if Maggie just happened to be there too, that would be nice. And awkward.
Chapter 17
It was an anniversary that would never ever be forgotten, but not one to celebrate. Two years on from what she now called meltdown day, the day when every ounce of sense she had ever possessed had evaporated. The day when, maybe, she had tried to end her life and that of her beloved Ollie. Except that in her waking hours, she was unable to remember a single thing about it. It was inconceivable that it had been a deliberate act, that she had planned it and executed it so coldly, and that, as Camden Social Services had asserted at the time, she had been only too aware of the likely outcome. Inconceivable, but she could never be quite certain, which is why the terrible dream came back, again and again, night after night.
Perhaps it should have been expected that last night it should have been particularly vivid, given the significance of the date, but maybe the copious quantities of red wine she had consumed during the evening might also have had something to do with. The date with Robert had been lovely, an early visit to the cinema followed by a late supper, and this time she hadn't slept with him. He had been absolutely fine about that, and in fact expressed some surprise about the turn of events on their first date. He had seen her to a cab, kissed her gently on the cheek, and expressed a wish that they could do this again.
Three quarters of an hour later she was tucked up in bed, her cheeks still rosy red, partly through excitement but mainly because of the wine. She drifted off thinking pleasant thoughts of love and marriage, soon to be ruthlessly replaced by the replaying of that horrible scene that could not be erased. She awoke at 4am, shivering with sweat and with a pounding headache, and thereafter was unable to get back to sleep. She tossed and turned for an hour or so before giving up, and at five-thirty she was in the shower, the hot jets of water helpless against her growing hangover. At least the coffee helped a bit, the extra spoonful of finest Columbian thrown into the cafetiere producing a powerful caffeine hit that went some way towards dragging her into the day.
But today was auction day and likely to be an interesting one, and so gradually she found her spirits rising. More than that, it was looking pretty conclusive that Miss Lotti Brückner was one hundred percent authentic, meaning that matter could be brought to a conclusion and she could, if she chose reveal her true identity to Robert. Although that was going to be very risky, because she would have to tell him why she had posed as Magdalene Slattery. Firstly, there was every chance that he would be angered by her deception and want nothing more to do with her. Secondly, and this was the thing that worried her the most, he was bound to tell Lotti, and that could make it very awkward indeed with Hugo. But she wasn't going to worry about any of this today.
The bidding was scheduled to start at midday with the auction room open from 9am for viewing. The Casagemas was one of the star lots, heavily promoted on the auction-house's website and having pride of place on the front page of their catalogue. They had been undecided whether or not Jimmy should come along, and he was not keen, but she had managed to persuade him it was worth having a final check on Lotti's fidelity before they wrapped up the investigation.
The viewing gallery was packed to the rafters when she arrived at around eleven, hawk-eyed auction-house staff mingling with the crowd, focussed on separating the serious bidders from the more numerous window-shoppers. Glancing around the room, she saw that Jimmy was already there, catalogue in hand, staring vacantly at a large gilt-framed painting of an undistinguished hunting scene. Alongside him stood Lotti Brückner, looking as ridiculously beautiful as on the previous occasions they had met. And still looking annoyingly young for her age.
'Morning boss,' he said as Maggie joined them. 'Sorry, I mean darling Magdalene.' He leant over and kissed her on the cheek. If Lotti had noticed his little slip-up, she didn't say anything.
'Good morning Magdalene,' she said brightly. 'I was just saying to James, I think it's going to be an exciting day. We have a very big attendance and I recognise many regular collectors. We may see some very big bids.'
'And what about our Casagemas?' Maggie said, slightly nonplussed by her colleague being addressed by his undercover name. 'Is there a lot of interest?'
Lotti nodded. 'Yes, there is. It's a pity from our point of view that they have marketed it so heavily, because that will of course push up the price. But that does not matter so much with fine works of art since it only establishes the baseline value should you choose to sell it in the future. So it will still be a good investment if we managed to secure it, I'm sure of it.'
'Good to know,' Jimmy said, stroking his chin in the manner of an expert he had seen on the Antiques Roadshow. 'Good to know.'
They were approached by young man wearing a nametag that identified him as Harry
Radford-James, Valuer. He pointed up at the painting.
'Good morning ladies, sir. It's an interesting piece isn't it? Very classical in subject matter but a good example of the genre.' Correctly surmising that Maggie was the buyer, he had directed his smiling gaze at her. 'The price will be modest I think, but it would be an excellent addition to anyone's collection.'
It seemed that Lotti knew him. Giving him an affectionate look she said, 'Yes very good Harry, but we both know that this is a very unremarkable work. I'm afraid you will have to find some other prey.'
He seemed unperturbed by her barb. 'But art is a very personal thing, isn't it Lotti? What about you sir, do you find it pleasing? I noticed you were studying it quite intently.'
'Nah,' Jimmy said. 'It's crap.'
Harry laughed. 'Well between you and me sir, I think you may be right. But please, don't tell my boss that I said that. Anyway, I hope you have a good auction and as Lotti suggested, I'll slip off now and see if I can find another victim.' He gave a half-wave and ambled away.
'Nice lad,' Jimmy said, 'although a bit posh for me.'
Lotti smiled. 'They are here to help the lots to sell. Even the poorer ones. He was only doing his job. But come, we must move through to the sale room to get a good position. Somewhere towards the rear of the room is normally best, but seated, not standing.'
Maggie was intrigued. 'Why is that Lotti?'
'It makes it easier to see who is bidding against you. For example, if it is someone you know is very rich, or has a big interest in a particular type of work, you know you will have to bid very high to win. And so maybe you decide it is not worth it. And I prefer to be seated so that it is difficult for them to see you.'
They made their way in, finding seats just one row from the back. The room was rapidly filling up and within a few minutes it was standing room only, with hopeful bidders packed three-deep along the rear and down the sides of the room. The auction-house's staff were already on the platform, the auctioneer flanked by half a dozen colleagues who would be taking the telephone bids from keen buyers from around the world. At twelve midday precisely, things got under way.
'Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and I hope you're all well and ready to raise your arm when I catch your eye.' A ripple of laughter spread through the room. He was younger than she expected and with a rich northern accent, in stark contrast to the plummy received pronunciation that seemed to be de rigour in his trade. A Lancastrian, she decided, speculating that he might perhaps be from Oswaldtwistle or Ramsbottom or Rawtenstall or any other of these delightfully-named former mill towns.
'Eighty-seven lots we have today, each one a gem in its genre, and many with no reserve.' His comic emphasis on the last two words was greeted with a loud 'Ooh' and a crescendo of applause. Maggie smiled to herself. She hadn't expected a vaudeville act at such an august gathering but it was certainly entertaining.
The first few lots were unremarkable, quickly dispatched by the auctioneer and none achieving more than two thousand pounds under the hammer. The Casagemas had been allocated lot fifteen, relatively early in the running order, but its position had been chosen quite deliberately by the auction house. The catalogue was by any standards relatively run of the mill, but at the last minute they had managed to secure a minor but attractive early work by Hockney, which had been listed towards the end of the sale. As Lotti had explained to them in perfect colloquial English, you couldn't really expect an auction to be a success if there wasn't anything to keep the bums on seats through to the end of the programme. The hope was that collectors who missed out on the star attraction - in this case the lovely landscape by Picasso's pupil - would stick around for the Hockney so as not to go home disappointed.
The screen behind the platform was now filled by the arresting abstract of a white-washed Spanish town.
'Lot fifteen, a very pretty little landscape by Carlos Casagemas. This is authenticated by the leading authority on the artist's work in Barcelona, the city of his birth. A genuine work, and one of his last before his tragic death. And of course today, we are offering this remarkable work at no reserve.'
Maggie could feel her heart start to pound as the auctioneer got the bidding under way. 'Where do we want to start with this?' he said, beaming out at the audience. 'Do I see twenty pounds?' A huge gust of laughter reverberated around the sale room. At the end of the platform, a colleague raised an arm and mouthed something in his direction.
'We're underway,' he shouted. 'Twenty thousand pounds, on the telephone, thank you. Do I see twenty-five? Twenty-five anywhere? In the room, yes thank you sir, down there on the left. Twenty-five has it. Looking for thirty now. Thirty thousand pounds.'
Maggie got to her feet and peered forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of this new bidder, but he was tucked away on the right hand side of the room and obscured by a pillar. Lotti tapped her on the arm and whispered. 'Don't worry about that. We don't need to bid right now but we will watch carefully before we make our move. But forty-five thousand, that is our maximum bid, isn't it?'
Maggie nodded uncertainly. 'Yes that's what we agreed I think.'
At the other end of the platform, a second colleague gave a discrete nod.
'Thirty thousand. On the telephone. A new bidder. Do I have thirty-five? Thirty-five. Thank you sir. We're in the room again. Forty thousand, anyone?'
Alongside her, Lotti gave an almost imperceptible nod. The auctioneer, catching her eye, smiled.
'Forty thousand, thank you madam. Forty-five. You sir? No? Forty-five I'm asking. A sublime work with an impeccable provenance. Forty-five thousand. Do I have it?'
'I think it was the right moment,' Lotti whispered. 'It will slow down from now I think.' She pointed to the stage, where one of the assistants manning a telephone was shaking her head.
'Do I have forty-five? I will take forty-two if that helps.'
For a moment it seemed as if the bidding had stalled. The auctioneer scanned the room anxiously, then looked along the row of his colleagues, who shook their heads in unison. He glanced at the screen on front of him, his face now wearing a frown, but no internet bidder came along to offer salvation.
'Fair warning,' he said, sounding rather deflated. 'I'm selling... make no mistake...I'm selling...to you madam at the back of the room...selling at forty thousand once... forty thousand twice...'
Maggie squeezed Lotti's arm and gave a smile. But then suddenly there was a collective gasp from the room as the auctioneer evidently caught the eye of the bidder at the front of the room.
'Fifty thousand pounds. Fifty thousand. I have it here in the room. Thank you sir.'
'What do you want to do?' Lotti whispered. 'I think we are now up against a bidder who really wants this picture.'
Maggie could feel heart pounding in her chest, which she realised was stupid. Magdalene Slattery, rooky art collector, wasn't real, and anyway she was spending Hugo Morgan's money, not her own. But somehow, crazily, she had caught a dose of auction fever.
'What do you think Lotti? Perhaps it's worth more than we thought.' Without waiting for her reply, she shot up her arm and shouted 'fifty-five.'
'Fifty-five thousand! Thank you madam. At the back of the room. Do I have sixty? This lovely work by young Carlos Casagemas. Solid provenance. Sure to grace any collection. Sixty thousand I'm looking for. Do I have it anywhere?' Now the excitement in the room was palpable, as they looked forward to two motivated buyers slugging it out over a piece which had already reached more than twice its perceived market value. And it seemed the mystery bidder was not yet ready to drop out.
'I have sixty thousand pounds. Thank you for your bid sir. Madam, are you in? Can I have sixty-five?'
Maggie looked first at Jimmy, who simply shrugged, then at Lotti, who was now wearing a serious expression.
'I think we are reaching the limit of value Magdalene,' she said. 'Perhaps just one more bid but I would not advise going much further.'
'Ok,' Maggie said, raising her hand.
&n
bsp; The auctioneer gave a nod of acknowledgment. 'Sixty-five thousand. Thank you for your bid madam. Sir, do I have seventy?' It wasn't possible for Maggie to see directly how the mystery bidder responded, but it was clear from the reaction on the platform that he had indicated a 'no'.
'I'll take sixty-seven if it helps,' the auctioneer said, smiling in the bidder's direction. 'Sixty-seven I have. Do I have sixty-eight? Madam?'
'Go straight to seventy,' Lotti whispered. 'I think that will finish them off.'
Maggie nodded. She was enjoying this, playing with Hugo Morgan's Monopoly money, and a second later she was on her feet yelling. 'Seventy!' at the top of her voice. There was a burst of laughter around the room and a beaming smile from the auctioneer.
'Thank you madam, thank you.' It seemed the mystery bidder had already signalled his intention to go no further, as the hammer was raised in anticipation.
'I'm selling at seventy thousand pounds... in the room...make no mistake...fair warning...once...twice...' and then with a theatrical flourish, he slammed the hammer down on the wooden lectern.
She wasn't sure if she saw him first, or it was he who spotted her. Whatever the order of events, there was no getting away from the fact that it was an awkward situation, for when the hammer had come down, Jimmy, overacting furiously, had taken her in his arms and kissed her full on the lips. Taken by surprise, she had involuntarily succumbed and returned both the embrace and the kiss, which between them lasted several long, and much to her surprise, blissful seconds. It must have been during this interlude that the mystery bidder appeared from behind the pillar. Robert Trelawney, with a strikingly attractive forty-something redhead clinging to his arm in a manner that suggested they were more than just friends. The parties made their way to the aisle to greet one another. And it was awkward, there could be no doubt of that.
'Robert...'
'Magdalene...'
