DESPITE HIS SUGGESTION that he take the wheel, Lark slid into the driver’s seat.
“No way. My car, my rules.”
Trevor just shook his head. Lark was a force of nature. Shelby climbed into the back, so he took the front passenger seat. They’d taken the time to change into their disguises. He had his suit jacket folded neatly across his lap.
“Do you know St. Baldwin’s?” he asked,
“It’s in Soho. Siri knows the address. Although, I think I’ll rename her Danby. She gives you a little information, but when push comes to shove, she’s less than helpful.”
“You really must learn not to eavesdrop. That was a private conversation.”
Lark grinned, unrepentant. “So who is he? Scotland Yard? GCHQ?”
“Just drive.”
Lark left the A400 by darting across two busy lanes to get to the exit ramp. A driver leaned on his horn and shook a fist at her, which she either didn’t see or ignored.
“We’re not in a rush,” Shelby said faintly. “You can slow down.”
Lark glanced at her, eyes wide. “I am driving slowly.”
“Good Lord,” she muttered, closing her eyes.
Lark made her way to Frith Street and found parking. St. Baldwin’s Hospital rose huge and modern, twelve stories of glass and steel surrounded by shops and offices. As they walked past a Pret a Manger and the long row of blue rental bicycles, Trevor scanned the narrow street and surrounding buildings from behind his sunglasses. Nothing raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Going to visit Floyd was a risk, but it would be worth it if the man could shed some light on the artwork that was being destroyed.
The revolving door led them into the sizable lobby area, pristine and open. Two nurses and a security guard manned the intake desk at the far end. They bypassed it and entered an area to the right, with its rows and rows of plastic seats filled with patients standing by. The scent of fear and anticipation hung in the air.
“The elevators are over there.” Lark pointed.
They checked the sign beside the lifts. “Critical Care is on the third floor,” he said.
They entered the lift with two grim and silent teenagers.
“Anthony is alive,” one said finally. “That’s good.”
The other started snuffling. “Tanked up and drives into a lorry. How fucked up is that?”
They exited onto the third floor in front of Trevor’s group. Trevor paused while the boys spoke to an older woman, gray-haired and fierce, guarding the entryway from behind a counter. The sign on the wall behind her announced that this was the reception area. The typical computer, fax machine, and filing cabinets decorated the area. Several portable medical apparatuses rested against the wall. The sign on a door behind the counter declared it was a staff-only area. To the left, a set of swinging metal doors remained closed.
The teenagers pushed through the swinging doors. Lark leaned against the counter. “My father was admitted yesterday. Can I see him?” Her voice wobbled a little bit.
“Certainly, miss. What’s the name?”
Shelby supplied it. In moments, they were trekking down an antiseptic white corridor, lined on either side with handrails for those needing extra stability. The door to Ward 312 was closed. Lark turned the knob and swung it wide.
The ward seemed large for a private room. Besides the mobile bed and medical equipment, there was room for an armchair and two smaller visitor chairs in front of the double windows. The armchair had been pulled up next to the bed and was occupied.
“Hiya, Floyd,” Lark said cheerily. “What’s up?”
“Who are you? I’m not giving any more interviews. Talk to my barrister.”
Lark turned the cheery dial up another notch. “Nothing like that. I brought someone to see you.”
He stepped into the room. Floyd glanced at him without recognition. His disguise was holding, at any rate. Shelby came in after him. Floyd squinted at her, pulled his brows down, shook his head slightly, and stared hard at her. Trevor watched the lights flicker on inside the man’s head.
“Shelby? Is that you?” As realization dawned, he grew white as a sheet, throwing furtive glances at the woman sitting at his bedside, a hand on his arm. She looked young and sweet—and very pregnant. She gave a watery smile as she rose to greet them.
“Hello. I’m Cindy Panderson. Are you friends of Floyd’s?”
Shelby stepped forward to shake the offered hand. “We share a common love of art. In fact, there is something I’d like to talk to him about, about a collection he has on loan right now. Would that be all right?”
Cindy shot Floyd a lovingly exasperated look. “Oh, him and his art. He could go on for hours. While you talk, I’m going to go down and get a sandwich.”
Trevor closed and locked the door behind her. Floyd’s eyes rounded as recognition and fear darted through them. He squirmed back in the bed.
“You were working with them the whole time,” Floyd rasped, pointing a finger at Shelby.
“Don’t be absurd,” she snapped. “You’re the only liar here.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Lark sang in falsetto.
“What are you doing with him, then?”
Shelby pinned him with a glare. “I don’t think you get to play the victim here, Floyd.”
Floyd had the grace to flush, but then pointed to his heavily bandaged abdomen. “You seem to have fared well. I’m the one who was stabbed and almost died.”
“You’re the selfish bastard who bargained for your own freedom, leaving the rest of the hostages behind,” Trevor said. The ass. “Not to mention dating another woman with a pregnant wife at home.”
Shelby shook her head. “That’s the least important detail right now. I’m glad to see you’re recovering. The man who stabbed you? Crawley? He is genuinely insane.”
He looked slightly mollified at that.
Trevor glanced at the door. They had precious little time. Any minute now, they were going to be interrupted by a nurse or doctor on their rounds, or by the young wife returning to her husband’s bedside.
They had to move this along. Shelby was an expert at reading people, though, and finding common ground with which to establish trust and confidence. He needed to let her lead this conversation.
“Floyd, I need your help. The police think I was involved somehow with the Bedlamites. I need to prove my innocence, but to do that I need information.”
He looked at her suspiciously, but finally judged her to be sincere. “What information?”
“The collection in the main exhibit hall. The surrealists. What do you know about them?”
Floyd wrinkled his brow at her. “About the collection? About the donors? What?”
It had been too broad a question. Shelby narrowed it down.
“What’s so significant about the Edward Shamblet pieces? Why did the Bedlamites choose those to deface?”
Floyd pulled his mouth down, remembered hostility in his eyes. He pointed an accusing finger at Trevor. “Why don’t you ask him? He’s one of them. Millions of dollars destroyed in an instant. My insurance is going to go through the roof.”
Trevor clenched his jaw to prevent any words spilling out. Even now, the man focused on the money. The value of the paintings, the cost of insurance.
“And a lot of art history,” Shelby said. “So let’s make sure we catch them so they can’t do any more harm. I know the basics of Shamblet and his work. But was there something special about those two paintings?”
Floyd thought about it. “They were post-World War Two finds. Shamblet had a studio and gallery in Southampton, but they were destroyed during the Blitz. He had other works, not just in galleries but in private homes as well. He had the artwork he kept in his own home, too. It’s thought that he took all the rest and shipped them out of the country, because his paintings are rare today. That’s why the destruction of the Autumn in Madrid and Memories of the Gods is such a tragedy.”
Trevor stepped forward. “Any idea where he might have shipped his art? Or why? This was after the war ended?”
“No,” Floyd corrected. “The rumors at the time were that he basically smuggled everything he could out of the country during the war, so that if Germany did invade Great Britain, he wouldn’t lose his life’s work. But there is no record where he sent them, as far as I know. The rumors centered around stolen artwork during World War Two were thoroughly catalogued and investigated by Olga Berkowicz in her book Stolen Riches: European Art and the Third Reich. You might want to talk to her. She teaches in Kingston, I think. What’s this all about? How is this going to prove your innocence?”
“I don’t know,” Shelby admitted. “But you’re going to cooperate fully, unless you want your young, pregnant wife to find out what you do on the side.”
His face became pained. “You didn’t have to say it. You see that I’m cooperating, right?” He nudged his chin toward Trevor. “So what are you, some sort of undercover cop?”
Trevor kept his face blank. “Something like that.”
“Well, you didn’t do dick to stop me getting stabbed, did you?”
Trevor felt his eyes go cold. The asshole was lucky Trevor didn’t stab him a second time here and now. “Let’s fast forward to the present.”
“I don’t know much else.”
Shelby scratched her nose. “Well . . . what other museums have Shamblet paintings or sculptures? The two in London were also ruined.”
“I know there’s one sculpture privately owned that’s on loan to a museum in Wales. There are several in America, and one or two in Europe. I’m not sure.”
“Can you think of any reason the Bedlamites might have chosen his works in particular?” Trevor thought it best not to mention Whitcomb. “Someone hate him? Did he double-cross someone? Did he have an affair while married?” He couldn’t control the hard edge that crept into his tone at the last.
“Like me, is what you’re implying?” Floyd flushed red again. “Sorry. I’m not an expert.”
“All right,” Shelby said. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.” She scribbled the number of her prepaid phone onto a paper napkin on his bedside table next to the remains of lunch.
“And, of course,” Lark said, smiling brightly at Floyd, “if we think of any other way you can help us, we’ll be back.”