8

Next day they started slowly. A long breakfast was accompanied by all the newspapers. But then, around 10.30, Michael steered the hired car south, into Constable country.

They made for East Bergholt, and Dedham, and the Stour Valley, scene of so many Constable landscapes. They found Gun Hill and looked down to Flatford Mill and Judas Gap. The river looped its slow way east, black as licorice. Next they headed west and slightly north, to Sudbury, where they visited Gainsborough’s house. After lunch they headed north to Norwich, to visit Cotman’s house and gallery in the castle, where scores of Norwich School paintings were on view. They returned by way of Lowestoft, where many of Turner’s coastal abstractions and cloud studies were produced. Today, however, there were no clouds. The sunny weather continued and the uninterrupted light, sweeping across the fens, brought with it a luminous magic that not even Michael had seen before. Every blade of grass, every stem of corn, every feather of every bird, seemed brighter than before, clearer, as if seen through some magical magnifying glass. Waves beat on the beaches in an explosion of sunlight. For the moment even Molyneux was forgotten.

On their way back, they crossed the River Waveney at Beccles Marshes. On either side, the Broads stretched away, shimmering black, glazed with honey.

‘Michael!’ Isobel cried out suddenly. ‘Why don’t we do that tomorrow? You’ve taught me such a lot today. It was marvellous. Why don’t we hire a boat for the day, and I’ll take you boating? As a thank you?’

‘Terrific—if it’s sunny. But if it’s raining, forget it.’

‘Done!’ she said, thrilled by the prospect.

That night they did not eat in the hotel but at a small fish restaurant by the harbour. The halibut, which they both chose, was very fresh and simply grilled with butter and parsley. Michael was delighted to find that the restaurant had an excellent cellar and chose a Pouilly-Fumé to go with the fish. Afterwards they decided to return to the hotel for more chess and calvados but not before they had strolled around the harbour and watched some of the fishing boats putting out to sea to catch the tide. Out along the jetty it was breezy and Michael took off his jacket and put it around Isobel’s shoulders. He lit a last cigar. In the night air its smoke was quickly lost in the sea breeze. That night, when they parted, Michael kissed Isobel’s cheek once more.

Next morning, Isobel knocked on Michael’s door at eight o’clock.

‘It’s Sunday, for God’s sake!’

‘And it’s lovely!’ she shouted back. ‘The Broads—remember? Hurry up, slowbones. I’m going down to breakfast. I want to be on the water by ten. If you’re not ready, I shall go without you.’

Shaking the sleep from his head, Michael dragged himself out from under the sheets, shaved, showered, and was in the breakfast room by half past eight. ‘Banshee!’ he said, his face set in a mock-serious frown. ‘I was having such a sexy dream.’

She ignored this. ‘I ordered for you. We had fish last night, so no kippers. And no eggs—we had an omelette on Friday. Bacon, sausage, tomatoes, that’s what you’re getting.’

‘What I need is some juice.’

‘Over there, on that table. Help yourself.’

He went to a sideboard where the jugs of juice were kept. He poured a glass, drained it and filled it again. He returned to their table. ‘I’m not used to being organised in this way,’ he said, enjoying every minute. ‘Is this a side to you I haven’t seen before, FieldbloodyMarshal Sadler?’

‘Probably. But if we are going on a boat there’s no point unless we make a reasonably early start. Boats move slowly, don’t forget, so if you want to see the countryside you need more time than in a car.’

She forced the pace throughout breakfast so that they were out of the hotel by five to nine. They reached Lowestoft before nine-thirty and soon found the basin where the boats for the Broads were berthed. Michael was only just beginning to wake up.

At the office there was already a small queue of people who had had the same idea and had beaten them to it. Michael was forced to admit that Isobel was right about one thing. By the time they reached the head of the queue, the line behind them was three times as long as when they had arrived.

Since there were only two of them, they didn’t need a large boat. ‘Still, we might as well get one with a cabin and a loo,’ said Isobel. ‘You can never tell with the English weather.’

Michael was amused by Isobel’s ferocious energy and her organising capacity. ‘I can now imagine what you’re like, down on the farm,’ he said, grinning as he clambered down into the boat. ‘Is this how you treat the animals?’

‘Only the goats and the donkeys. Now hold this,’ she said, handing him a rope. ‘When the engine has been started and I give you the word, unwrap it from that metal ring and just let go.’

In conjunction with the boatman, who was explaining everything to her, Isobel got the engine going and, with a skill that even the boatman admired, had the craft free of the jetty and the other boats in no time and with the minimum of fuss.

‘You’ll be all right, miss,’ called the boatman from the bank. ‘See you tonight.’

Isobel steered gently out of the basin, juggling her way cleverly in and out between other boats that were moving in the same general direction. Then came a section of river, a sort of canal, which ran through the less attractive parts of Lowestoft. It was narrow just here, with the backs of houses and small workshops or factories on either side. Since it was still relatively early, the canal was mostly in shade and cool.

Isobel shivered. ‘Can you look out the map? The man said there’s one in the main cabin.’

‘Going below,’ shouted Michael, laughing. Isobel’s bossiness was quite new but he liked it. He found the map and went back to where Isobel stood by the wheel. They were now coming out of the town and into open countryside. Sunshine flooded in on all sides.

‘Isn’t this relaxing?’ said Isobel, holding her face to the sun. ‘That sound of water slapping against the boat. Comforting, being the centre of all that attention.’

‘Any duty-free on this tub?’ Michael asked. ‘I’ve only got two cigars.’

‘No, but we can make for Havana, if you like.’

They examined the map and decided to sail in a big circle, following the River Waveney as far as Haddiscoe, then along the New Cut to Reedham, where there was a swing bridge and a pub where they might have lunch. After that, they would sail through Reedham Marshes and look at the windmills, as far as Burgh Castle, where Breydon Water started. Finally they would return past Waveney Forest and the remains of St Olave’s Priory.

By now the traffic was spreading out as some of the other boats turned down different reaches of water. Soon they had long stretches of the Broads to themselves.

‘It beats roads,’ said Isobel. ‘No traffic light, no cones, no jams, no police.’

‘No pubs yet, either.’

‘Philibloodystine.’ She laughed. ‘Like some coffee?’

‘What? This tub has Pullman service?’

‘You bet. It’s in my bag over there. I brought a thermos from the hotel.’

With the coffee Michael finally came round. Afterwards he lounged on the seat watching the flat countryside go by, listening to the ducks and moorhens, feeling the sun on his face and the backs of his hands. He watched Isobel steering and imagined her body moving under her shirt.

They chugged past an old construction which Michael saw from the map was known as Black Mill. Some words of Constable came to mind: ‘Old rotten banks, slimy posts, and brick works. I love such things.’

The golden morning passed slowly by. The soft breeze, carrying with it the smell of the sea, not so far off, kept the day from becoming too warm. Michael was given a turn at the wheel, during which time Isobel took off her shoes and hitched up her skirt again to give her legs some sun.

Shortly after twelve they sighted the swing bridge at Reedham. As they passed underneath it, Michael saw beyond, at the end of a bend, a ferry and a white-painted pub, The Ferryman. ‘Aha! Right on cue. Rum break.’

Isobel supervised the mooring. Then, when they were safely tied up, Michael jumped ashore and went to buy some drinks. He came out to find Isobel sitting on the bank, her legs again displayed to the sun.

‘I bought cider. It brought us good luck last time.’

‘Mmm.’ Isobel had her eyes closed. She opened them, took the glass, drank, then closed her eyes again and lay back. ‘Amazing how a day like this bleaches all your problems.’ She spoke to the air.

Michael lay alongside her. ‘Don’t get used to it. Monday tomorrow; back to Helen’s.’

She reached over to slap him. Michael caught her wrist and held it. For a moment they lay, with him holding her arm. Then, but not immediately, she disengaged herself.

They lay in the sun till Michael ordered lunch, sandwiches and cold chicken drumsticks. Isobel hadn’t moved when he came back. In fact, he thought she was asleep until she said, ‘God, I feel lazy.’

He knelt down by her and held a drumstick over her, just above her mouth. ‘Here you are.’

She opened her eyes, then parted her lips.

Michael lowered the drumstick till she could grip it with her teeth. For a moment she nibbled at it while he held it. Then, when the grease from the chicken began to settle around her lips, she lifted a hand and took the remains from him.

During the afternoon the sunshine continued and they wound their way sleepily past Berney Arms Mill, Churchfarm Marshes, Howard’s Common, Seven Mile House. They saw eel fishers at Somerleyton and a kingfisher in Oulton Dyke. They saw two huge, white carthorses drinking water. Near Wheatacre Marshes, Michael inspected the map. ‘You know, in about a mile we shall be very close to Aldeby, where Helen Sparrow’s studio is. I wonder how she’s getting on, whether she’s come up with anything yet.’

In reply, Isobel accelerated. ‘Let’s get past as quickly as possible. I don’t want to think about tomorrow until tomorrow.’

Around six, they found themselves in Oulton Broad and entering Lowestoft. Other boats were heading in too and they had to slow down. They were both sitting by the wheel now.

When they reached the basin, the boatman saw them coming and moved forward to direct them where to berth the boat. ‘You can’t get next to the jetty,’ he shouted. ‘Pull alongside those boats there, then climb ashore over the other craft.’

Isobel brought the boat very neatly alongside, so slowly that Michael was easily able to clamber on to the other boats between them and the jetty. He handed the boatman the rope which Isobel had given him, then he went back to help her.

A bigger launch was now nosing into the basin but its helmsman had little of the skill Isobel had shown. Just as she was climbing from one boat to another, the launch nudged the outside deck of the boat she was leaving. Isobel was surprised—she had her back to the basin—and she missed her footing.

‘Watch out!’ Michael cried, seeing what was happening. He leaped forward to catch her. Just in time he managed to grab her as one of her legs slipped against the gunwhale of the middle boat of the three tied alongside each other. One arm grabbed Isobel’s elbow, the other he threw around her waist and pulled her to him. At that moment, and while he was still trying to keep his own balance, Michael was suddenly filled with an immense sexual longing, stronger than he could remember. The full impact of touching Isobel, feeling the muscles of her stomach under her shirt, the smell of her, released inside him a burst of sensual energy that only now he realised had been held in for so long. He wanted to ravish her.

Instead, now that the danger was over, he bent to examine her leg which had slipped on the gunwhale and scraped the skin. It was painful and unsightly but not serious.

‘You’ll live. What you need for that is more halibut, I’d say. Shall we go to the same restaurant tonight?’

Isobel nodded. ‘But I’d like to bathe this first.’

That night, at dinner, she had a surprise for him. ‘There’s really only one thing more peaceful than what we did today.’

Michael was tempted to respond in his own way, but held his tongue. ‘Oh yes?’

‘Mmm. Parachuting.’

‘You’ve done it?’

‘Eighteen times.’

‘Don’t you need to be just a little bit crazy to do that sort of thing?’

‘I hope you’re wrong. I knew a man before Tony who had been in the parachute brigade. The first two or three times were a bit scary—and my father was very much against it. But that only made me more determined.’ She grinned. ‘But nothing ever went wrong. Drifting down on a sunny day like today, feeling the breeze swish past you … I suppose that most of the time we associate a sinking feeling with bad things. But when you parachute you just go on sinking and sinking and sinking. It’s not like flying at all. You’re amazed at how much air there is, at how high the sky can be.’

They left the restaurant to find that, as on the night before, the air had turned quite cool. Isobel had brought a sweater with her this time, but even so she shivered.

‘Shall we walk to the end of the quay, like last night?’ said Michael. ‘Or are you cold?’

‘I’m cold. But let’s do it all the same. You can smoke there without doing too much damage.’

They strolled along the quay without speaking. Michael took out a cigar and licked the end. His thoughts drifted back again to Isobel’s fall earlier in the day. He wanted to lick her. Cables slapped on the masts of moored yachts as if applauding his thoughts. With difficulty, he got his cigar going: the breeze coming off the sea was now quite strong. Isobel shivered again and Michael put his arm around her shoulders.

The end of the quay had a small lighthouse. They stood near it and watched as a ship steamed steadily out of the harbour, the dark, mysterious silhouettes of its crew already busy, bending and pulling and winding.

‘Look,’ said Michael, pointing. ‘They don’t seem at all aware of how romantic they are. Where do you think they’re going? Leningrad? Santiago? Piraeus?’

Isobel looked up at him. ‘Newcastle?’ She smiled.

Michael kissed her as she smiled. He kissed her more forcefully than he had meant to, but all the longing he had been feeling earlier was there, and now saw its chance.

Though surprised by the force of his kiss, Isobel soon responded. She kissed him back but she also began to run her fingers over his shoulders, beneath his jacket. ‘I’m not trying to undress you,’ she said after a moment. ‘But could I borrow your blazer. I’m freezing.’

He laughed, took it off, and wrapped it around her shoulders. Then they walked back down the quay and round the harbour. Two more ships were preparing to leave, the men shouting to each other, operating winches and clanging and banging on metal. The smell of sea water and fish was now mixed with diesel oil and cigar smoke.

Outside the hotel they stood for a moment, watching again the lights of the fishing boats as they moved out to sea. Isobel stroked Michael’s hand. ‘Tonight,’ she whispered, ‘even Newcastle seems romantic.’

Michael leaned his body against hers and kissed the top of Isobel’s head. Then he led her into the hotel.

At reception he was handed his key but was surprised to find a piece of paper with it. ‘A message for you, sir,’ said the man at the desk.

Michael unfolded the paper and stared at the writing.

‘What is it?’ asked Isobel.

Michael began moving to the hotel stairs. ‘It’s from Helen,’ he whispered. ‘It says to call her. Urgently.’

‘The painting’s gone!’

‘Helen, no! Please God, no.’ Michael groaned into the phone. ‘You mean stolen?’

‘Michael, I’m so sorry. It was all my fault. I finished what you asked around teatime this afternoon. It was such a lovely day …’

Yes it was, thought Michael. But not any more.

‘… and one of the local gardens is open to the public. Just today, I mean. I went for a quick peek. I was gone an hour, no more. And I locked up. But when I got back this man had broken in—’

‘You saw him?’

‘Yes, and no. Yes, he was still here when I came back and I disturbed him. But I didn’t see his face. He was wearing a motorcycle helmet—’

‘Helen! Stay there, we’re coming over. Tell us the rest then. We’ll tell you what it’s all about. I’m sorry, too, for putting you at risk. Very sorry … There’s something I should have told you … Look, it will take us ten minutes to check out, twenty-five minutes in the car. Hold on!’

Michael banged down the phone and started to grab his clothes. As he did so he relayed to Isobel what Helen had told him.

‘A helmet!’ gasped Isobel.

‘How on earth did he find us?’ Michael growled through his teeth as he stuffed shirts into his suitcase. ‘We were so damn careful. Did he follow you, or me?’

‘I’m certain he didn’t get off the train with me,’ said Isobel, thinking back. ‘There were only three others, I remember it clearly. You don’t think he was in disguise, do you? Oh, Michael!’ Isobel brushed his cheek with her fingers but then went to her room to pack her suitcase. Michael wracked his brains for the weak link in his plan. He was certain Molyneux hadn’t been on his train.

Downstairs, the receptionist was surprised they were checking out so late and assumed they had had a fight. They had to pay for the night they were going to miss but neither of them gave a thought for that. They were soon in the car.

Michael headed north on the Lowestoft road, then turned off at Wrentham. The rented car wasn’t anywhere near as nippy as his Mercedes but at that hour—nearly 11.30—there was little traffic, the road was flat and straight and they made good time. They arrived at Helen’s just before midnight.

The stables were a blaze of light and, as soon as she heard the car, Helen came out to meet them.

‘This has never happened before,’ she said without preamble as they climbed the stairs. ‘I’m so sorry, Michael.’

‘What happened, Helen? Are you all right? He didn’t hurt you, did he?’ As he said this, Michael was startled to see, beyond the doorway, that the studio was in chaos. ‘You had a fight?’

Helen nodded. ‘More of a scuffle, really. He was hiding behind the door when I came back, and grabbed me. He was very tall and strong. He was wearing big motor-cycle gloves and gripped my flesh—here.’ She held out her forearms for Isobel and Michael to see a row of purple bruises.

‘What happened then?’ Isobel looked drawn.

‘We struggled. I kicked him. I got one arm free and threw some turps over him.’

‘Did you see his face at all?’

‘Not really. His helmet had a dark visor. I grabbed some brushes and tried to poke him where it might hurt.’

Despite themselves, Isobel and Michael smiled.

‘And …?’

‘It didn’t work. He forced me back into the kitchen and locked me in. Then he left with the picture. That was about five o’clock this afternoon.’

‘So how long were you locked up?’

‘Nearly four hours. I had to unscrew the entire lock and dismantle it with a knife. The screws were old and rusty and the knife kept buckling. I phoned you as soon as I could.’

Michael took out a cigar but didn’t light it. Instead, he fingered it as he explained to Helen about the Landscape and Molyneux. She listened, growing more intrigued as the story wound on. ‘So you see why I’m sorry, Helen. We thought it was good security not to tell you anything. But if we had done you might not have gone out and you would never have been hurt.’

Helen waved a hand. ‘I’m still in one piece, Michael. If I’d been here the whole time, it might have been worse. He was a very strong man.’

‘How did he find you? That’s what I don’t understand,’ said Michael. ‘We were so careful, we even came on separate trains as far as Cambridge.’

‘I think I can answer that,’ said Helen, moving to the mantelshelf. She picked up a piece of paper. ‘He dropped this in the scuffle.’ She handed it to Michael. ‘It’s an invoice I sent you. It has my address on it.’

Michael took the paper and stared at the heading. In black capitals it said, ‘HELEN SPARROW FINE ART: PICTURE RESTORATION AND CLEANING’, and gave her address, phone number and VAT number. Michael breathed quietly. ‘He could only have got this by breaking into Justice Walk.’ His mind went back to that late-night figure he had seen in Lawrence street. Oh no!’

They stood in silence, staring at the remains of the picked lock on the kitchen door.

After an interval, Michael said, softly, ‘Have you called the police?’

‘No.’

‘I’d better do it now. Burglary, assault, theft. That must constitute an entire crime wave in Aldeby.’ He moved to the phone.

‘Michael, hold on.’ Isobel spoke in barely more than a whisper. ‘Helen, why didn’t you call the police? That would have been my first reaction.’

Helen hesitated, then smiled sheepishly at Isobel. ‘It’s your picture, your property that’s been stolen. So if you want to report it I can’t stop you. But, from my point of view … well, if I go to the police, it might get out … other people might not send me pictures if they think I’m a security risk.’ She looked across to Michael. ‘I know you have lost a painting and I’m mortified about that. I know you’ll never send me any more business … but … but I’m not really hurt. A few scratches and bruises. I can tidy up the studio in a couple of hours. The kitchen doesn’t really need a lock anyway.’ She looked at Isobel, then was silent for a moment. ‘Unless you have to report the theft, I would rather not report the break-in or the assault.’

Helen sank into a chair, not meeting anyone’s eyes. There was silence in the room.

Michael was the first to break it. ‘I’m sorry, Helen. I sympathise with what you say. But we must report the theft. Two thefts, one here and, almost certainly, one at my house. I don’t know if he took anything else but we’ve got to get that picture back. That’s what the police are for—’

‘I agree with Helen,’ Isobel cut in.

‘What? But—’

Isobel interrupted again. ‘Listen, Michael. It’s late, you’ve had some drinks and your brain’s not in fast-forward, as you would say. In the first place, we exposed Helen to this attack. She was put at risk, bruised and locked up because of us. Therefore, if she wants us to do something for her in return, the very least we can do is listen to her. But forget her problem with the bad publicity. You can forget the burglary in London too. Molyneux broke into your car and took nothing, so I bet all he stole from your house was that invoice, that tiny piece of paper with the information he wanted—’ Michael tried to interrupt but she waved him down. ‘Listen to me for a moment. Don’t forget that the painting is mine and, if I don’t want to report it missing, it’s my decision. In any case, what are we going to tell the police? Will they believe us? The picture is only valuable theoretically. We don’t know if Molyneux is his real name and neither Helen nor you has ever seen him.’

‘They’ll believe all this chaos. They have records of the aliases that criminals use.’

‘Michael! You know perfectly well that Molyneux is no ordinary thief.’

‘We have a picture of the painting. The police could circulate it.’

‘But Molyneux’s not going to sell it, is he? He can just sit on it until we lose interest. Assume he is a known criminal, that Molyneux is even an alias known to the police. Say they question him. He was wearing motor-cycle gloves so there are no fingerprints here, we can’t identify him and he will simply hide the picture until everyone has forgotten this business, then quietly start up all over again.’

‘But we can’t just do nothing.’

‘That’s not what I am suggesting,’ said Isobel. ‘We haven’t asked Helen the most important question yet.’ Isobel turned. ‘When you cleaned the picture, what did you find?’

Helen was relieved to be talking about something else. ‘I started on the patch of grime at the foot of the column just so I could get used to the picture. Then I cleaned that face you mentioned, with spirit … it was interesting because there was a small pear-shaped tear under the grime, tiny but an exquisite pearl of water. Then I had a go at the area you specifically asked to be cleaned.’

‘And …?’

‘I found two things. The first was very curious. The monk, the monk with no face, in fact didn’t have feet either, or not ordinary feet. They were furry with sharp bits, pointed, like claws really.’

‘And second?’

‘In front of this monk, directly in front of the sharp toes, was a stone slab, a floor-tile really. Hexagonal, with a design on it.’

‘What sort of design?’

Helen shook her head. ‘It was too vague to make out. Sorry.’

‘Damn,’ hissed Michael.

‘No, that needn’t matter,’ said Isobel. ‘Think. Maybe the vagueness of the tile is deliberate. Remember, the monk is dressed in a Franciscan habit, Michael. It directed us to Lewell Monastery. That must be where the tile is. There must be a floor-tile at Lewell which has the design clearly etched. That design contains the next clue. Don’t you see, Michael, Molyneux has to go back to Lewell.’

Michael stared at her. He was experiencing a mix of emotions he had never felt together before. Admiration, for Isobel’s cleverness. An unease at her disregard for the police—she’d picked that up as a journalist in foreign parts, he assumed. And the way that she stood in the studio, her skin aglow with the fire that now burned inside her, as she thought it all through, brought back the sexual longing that had been extinguished with the message to call Helen.

Isobel continued. ‘Which means,’ she said, half smiling, half grimacing, ‘that we have to leave for Dorset right away. Molyneux has a four—or five-hour start, maybe a bit more. He won’t know exactly how much time he has over us because he won’t know how soon Helen freed herself or how quickly she got on to us. That’s our one chance. He can’t have got to Lewell before dark and, if he feels safe enough, he may prefer to leave his search for the tile until daylight tomorrow.’ Isobel looked at her watch. ‘It’s now coming up to half past midnight. From here to Dorset will take … what? … five or six hours in the dark?’

Michael nodded.

‘Are you ready?’

‘Just like that? You want to leave, just like that? We arrived barely half an hour ago, Helen’s been attacked and locked up, for God’s sake … we can’t just leave her.’

Isobel looked at Helen and smiled. ‘Helen’s in better shape than you are, Michael. At least mentally. And the best thing you can do for her is not sit here and mollycoddle her. All she wants from you is an assurance that you don’t need to go to the police. Right?’

Helen smiled and nodded. ‘Your man Molyneux’s not going to come back here, is he? I’ll go to bed and tidy up tomorrow. Don’t worry about me, Michael. I’m exhausted and I’ll sleep like a baby. I just hope you get your picture back. Go on, Michael, get going. Isobel’s right. It’s your one chance to catch him now. The more you delay, the more likely it is that you’ll miss him. Phone me tomorrow some time and let me know what happened. Move!’

Reluctantly, Michael allowed himself to be led outside to the top of the stairs. ‘If Molyneux were to come back, I’d never forgive myself—’

‘He won’t,’ hissed Helen, and gave him a gentle shove.

Inside the car he flashed the headlights as a farewell and nosed out into Aldeby High Street. There was no sign of movement. Michael judged that it was quicker, at that hour, to stick to motorways, rather than cut directly across country. By twenty to three they were west of London, had reached the M3 and were hurrying past Runnymede. It began to rain. Then it began to teem—so bad it was dangerous to travel at more than seventy. Michael managed eighty for most of the way. They were both on edge and barely spoke. Stonehenge flashed by, barely visible in the rain. Around Sherborne it began to get light. They approached Higher Lewell just after half past five. It was still raining.

They pulled up alongside the monastery. ‘No sign of anyone?’ said Michael, twisting round in his seat to survey the ruin. ‘Are we too late or too early, I wonder.’

‘Let’s hide the car,’ said Isobel. ‘Then find a place where we can keep a lookout while one of us hunts for the tile.’

They drove on a little. About a third of a mile beyond the village there was a barn set back slightly from the road. Michael was able to manoeuvre the car behind it. The farmer who owned the land would hardly be pleased, if he were to notice, but at least the car couldn’t be seen from the road.

They walked back.

‘What’s our plan?’ said Michael.

‘One of us keeps a lookout, in case we are ahead of Molyneux. The other searches for the stone slab or tile.’

‘Okay. You do the searching.’

They reached the entrance to the monastery, where there was a stone arch standing all by itself. Michael hovered there, where he could see the road in both directions. The rain gusted against the walls of the monastery, forming dark, whisky-coloured stains of damp. The wind whipped tiny waves on the puddles in the road. Michael used the arch for what shelter he could but even so the rain had soon numbed his cheeks. He glanced at his watch. He had been waiting nearly fifteen minutes. How many stone slabs could there be, for Christ’s sake –

Suddenly, he heard a car engine.

He looked west, in the direction of the sound. In the distance, a dark blue van was coming towards him. He turned and swiftly followed the path inside the monastery, calling softly, ‘Isobel! Car!’

He hid in what was left of the nave. There was no sign of Isobel.

He heard the blue van approach. Then it stopped. Michael couldn’t see where but it must be nearby. Had Molyneux seen him as he ran to hide? Was he coming the rest of the way on foot so as to take them by surprise? Didn’t Molyneux travel by motor-cycle anyway? Michael shivered, not simply from the cold.

He heard footsteps. They stopped. They started again. Then the van door slammed and its engine sprang to life. It seemed very loud in the morning air. Moments later the van flashed by and Michael was just able to read ‘Devon & Dorset Dairy’ on the side. It was the milkman.

Relaxing, he took out a cigar. He was just about to light it when he heard more footsteps, much closer this time. He tensed. A voice said, ‘Michael?’

It was Isobel.

He stepped forward and looked to his left. She was standing half obscured by another doorway and she was beckoning. He walked towards her. As he approached, she retreated beyond the door and he followed her across what had once been the north transept. She stopped, her head bent and her eyes looking at the ground in front of her feet. Michael stood at her side.

‘There,’ she breathed, pointing.

Michael looked down, ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Shhhit! We’ve been left at the gate.’

The floor of the transept was covered with stone slabs—except that one had recently been dug up. The earth it had covered was still fresh and the scratch marks at the edges of the adjoining stones were only too visible.

‘That’s what our monk was looking at.’

‘And it contained a clue.’

‘Yes. Whatever was carved on it helps with the next figure.’

They both stood in the rain, staring at the ground.

Isobel said, ‘He came straight here.’

‘Yes. We should never have doubted that. We’re dealing with an obsessive mind here. He takes no chances. And he dug up the stone, like he stole the pamphlets, so we can’t follow him.’

They trudged silently back to the car. The summer rain still fell, clattering on the barn roof like stampeding horses.

As he nosed the car out from behind the barn, Michael said, ‘A slow trip back to London, I think. I don’t know about you but I’m feeling fairly whacked. We can have breakfast on the way and think about what we’re going to do now. It’s still not too late to call in the police, though I think we might as well leave that till we’ve seen what damage Molyneux did at Justice Walk.’

‘Who is Molyneux, for Lord’s sake? I wonder how many Molyneuxs there are in the phone book?’

‘What’s the point? We don’t know that he lives in London and, as you yourself said, we don’t even know if it’s his real name.’

‘Didn’t I read somewhere that criminals give themselves the same initials and the same first name, so that, if they bump into someone they know, that other person won’t give the game away?’

‘Maybe you did. But I can’t see what use it is.’

‘No, I’m just thinking out loud in case it provokes an idea in your head. If his name isn’t Molyneux, why did he choose it? Isn’t it an Irish name? Maybe he’s Irish.’

‘Hmm. Could be. We could ask around along those lines, I suppose. Might do some good. I can try Sotheby’s again.’

‘It’s so frustrating, not knowing what sort of person you are up against. It’s like jungle warfare.’

‘No bacon and sausage in the jungle,’ said Michael, turning into the car park of The Lamb at Hindon. ‘Breakfast.’

They were both ravenous and devoured everything that was put before them. They felt better physically but that was as far as it went. On the rest of the way back to London they were quiet. The rain was clearing, the day was brightening, but it looked as though their adventure was over. Isobel was thinking about going back to the farm and didn’t want to do it. The mood of the previous evening, when they had both been preparing to spend the night together in Southwold, had entirely evaporated.

Michael switched on the car radio, so that they could catch up with the news. Save for one item it was the usual diet: Beirut, Belfast and brothels still making the headlines. The exception was an announcement from Los Angeles that the actress Miss Margaret Masson was to be married again. This time the lucky man was Dr Edward Whicker, a plastic surgeon. A wedding in a matter of days was anticipated.

Michael cheered in a lacklustre way. He was £500 richer. ‘That’s fifty of my favourite cigars,’ he said, trying to make a joke of it.

Isobel punched him on the shoulder but her heart wasn’t in it. The good news only highlighted their plight over the Landscape of Lies.

Isobel went with Michael to Justice Walk. She wanted to see what damage Molyneux had inflicted when he had burgled the house. She had been right. There was no damage save for a window in the basement which had a small hole cut out of it and by means of which Molyneux had got in. Inside the house the only signs of disturbance were at Michael’s desk. ‘He knew we had to have the painting cleaned,’ said Michael, staring at the invoices from Helen which were scattered over the study. ‘If he did follow us on Friday and saw us leave by train he knew he had a clear run here. He out-thought us. Once he found these invoices, it was a fair bet that’s where one of us had gone. He probably got to Helen’s a few hours after we did and let her finish the cleaning before he broke in. More snake than fox, eh?’ Michael looked at Isobel. ‘I’ll bet there are no fingerprints on the window downstairs and that he let himself out by the front door. He’s messed up my papers but nothing is missing except one slip of paper. You’re right, it’s not even worth mentioning to the police.’

She retrieved her suitcase from the hire car and took a taxi to Montpelier Mews. They were both exhausted and she wouldn’t let him drive her. They planned to sleep until evening, then have a late supper together and decide what to do.

After Isobel had gone, Michael found the house very empty. He recalled fondly the breakfast of Isobel’s which he had enjoyed the previous Friday. Feeling sorry for himself, he turned to the only comfort available. He lit himself a cigar and, despite the early hour, poured a Laphroaig.

Then, with his hands full in the way he liked, he sat by the telephone answering machine and played back his messages. His mother had called. The Australian collector had phoned from Sydney, wanting to discuss the Gainsborough. Ed McCrystal had called to congratulate him on winning the Margaret Masson bet and adding that another wager was in the wind—would he please call back soonest. And Julius Samuels had rung. The portrait was ready, he said. There was no coat of arms in the picture but plenty of jewellery. That was good news. The bad news was that Julius’s daughter had given birth to a son in Australia and he was taking six weeks off to visit the child. He might even retire when he got back.

Involuntarily, as the Landscape of Lies project appeared to be going off the boil, Michael found his mind turning back to the other deals the gallery was involved in. The Gainsborough, for instance. If the Australian was calling all the way from Sydney that seemed to indicate he intended to buy—good news. And, now that Julius had finished the nineteenth-century portrait, maybe Michael could put a name to the face. It was a pity there was no coat of arms but you couldn’t have everything and the jewellery would help. If he could identify the woman that would boost the price significantly—more good news.

Before he went to bed he called Helen. There was no reply. Probably having lunch somewhere, he thought. Trying to pretend that nothing had happened.

He went up to bed. He stared at the Cozens for a few moments. As he put out what was left of the cigar, Michael reflected that it didn’t look as though he was going to know Isobel Sadler any better. So far as their relationship was concerned, nothing had happened.

He was wakened by the peal of the phone. At first he was perplexed by the light. It didn’t feel like morning. Then he remembered: it wasn’t.

He groped for the receiver. He hated sleeping in the afternoon and, on holiday, always tried not to, however much he had drunk at lunch. Waking up in the early evening was almost as bad as going to bed in the early evening, as he had been made to do as a child, at just the moment when his parents were getting ready to entertain.

‘Hrrgh?’

‘Ah! I’d recognise that speech defect anywhere.’

‘You sound cheerful. What time is it?’

‘Just after seven.’

‘Hrrgh.’

‘I love it when you talk dirty.’

‘I hope no one’s listening to this conversation.’

‘Is this what passes for conversation in the art world?’

‘Did you call for a reason? I know you’re bossy on boats but—’

‘I want to ask a favour.’

‘Hrrgh.’

‘Exactly. Michael, can we have a night off?’

He reached for a cigar.

‘I’ve stayed several nights in the mews and I’ve hardly seen my hosts. They’ve asked me out to dinner tonight and I ought to accept. I ought to take them out. Otherwise I’ll leave tomorrow without repaying any of their hospitality. Nothing is lost if you and I make it lunch tomorrow instead. I don’t know what to suggest anyway—do you?’

Michael swung his feet out of bed and on to the floor. ‘I’m not awake yet; I don’t know.’ He couldn’t admit he had no suggestions either. He wanted to see Isobel.

‘There you are, then. I’ll come to the gallery in time for lunch tomorrow.’

Michael reached for the matches. ‘I suppose that’s all right. I must take the car back—the rental people will be missing it by now. And I should fix the window in the basement.’

‘As your friend Lady Bracknell said, “A life crowded with incident”.’

‘Hrrgh!’

‘Have you called Helen yet?’

‘No reply.’

‘Oh dear, I hope she’s okay.’

‘I’ll try her again, as soon as I’ve finished talking to you.’

‘I’ll let you get on then. See you tomorrow, around one.’

Michael hung up feeling unreasonably lonely. Isobel sounded so goddam cheerful. Was there some man around that he didn’t know about? That only made him more gloomy.

He lit a cigar and drew on it, reflecting on the Cozens as he did so. It usually had a wonderfully settling effect on him but not this time. It was one of the pictures that had been cleaned by Helen. The invoice was among the wad downstairs, one of those Molyneux hadn’t stolen.

He dialled Helen’s number. This time he was relieved to hear her answer on the third ring.

‘Helen? Michael Whiting.’

‘Oh, it’s you. Good. How did it go?’

Michael told her.

‘So you’re no further forward. Oh, Michael, I’m so sorry. I feel it’s all my fault—’

‘Now you are not to feel that way, Helen. It wasn’t your fault at all. If anybody is to blame, I am. I underestimated Molyneux. I knew he was cunning and I knew he was nasty. I knew that he had broken into Isobel’s house and I should have guessed he might break in here. But I didn’t.’

‘Will you … Michael, will you still be giving me work …?’ Helen said it so timidly that Michael realised how important his business was to her.

‘Of course I shall. Of course. In fact, I learned this afternoon that Julius has just become a grandfather again. He’s off to Oz for a while to see the baby. So I’ll be sending you more stuff, not less. Don’t worry about this Molyneux business. It doesn’t change our professional relationship at all. Next time you’re in town, though, it wouldn’t be a bad idea if you popped into the gallery and took a look at this portrait which Julius has just cleaned. You can see what varnish he has finished it off with. I like the way he does it and so do the punters. If you can do the same I’ll be very happy.’

‘Fine. I’ll come as soon as I can. No problems with Julius, eh? Unlike me.’

‘Don’t be so down on yourself, Helen. As a matter of fact this picture wasn’t at all straightforward. Julius found a Victorian portrait of a woman under a sickly saint and we had hoped to find a coat of arms or a banner which would help identify her. We were out of luck, though. No heraldry at all, unless the jewels she is festooned with are a clue. But that research is my job, not Julius’s.’ He changed the subject. ‘You’re sure everything is all well with you? No aftereffects? And is the studio all tidied? I called at lunchtime and there was no reply.’

‘Yes, everything is straightened out. Don’t worry, Molyneux hasn’t been back. I had to go out earlier on to deliver a picture to Ipswich museum and that took a couple of hours. So relax, Michael. I’m fine. I’ve recovered my nerve already, so I can’t have been that badly affected. Just keep sending the work.’ She laughed, to make light of it.

Michael hung up and got dressed.

The rest of the evening was the most tedious he had known in a long while. First he tackled the basement window. The best he could manage in the circumstances was a cheap print roughly the size of the window-frame tacked on to the wood. Provided it wasn’t examined too closely it should be a deterrent.

Returning the rental car to a location where it was not expected did not prove at all easy or at all cheap. In fact, had he had more time it would have been less exorbitant to have driven the damn thing all the way back to Cambridge and caught a train back, first class.

His mood was not improved when he returned home shortly after ten to find a message from Isobel on the answering machine. ‘It’s eight-thirty and we’re at a restaurant near—where are we?—oh yes, Chelsea Wharf. My hosts said they would like to meet you and had you been in you could have joined us. But you’re out, too bad. You’ll probably go “Hrrgh” when you hear this—sorry. See you tomorrow.’

Michael did not say ‘Hrrgh’. He said something else. He then stormed into the kitchen, took a bar of chocolate from the fridge and a bottle of Tormore from the cupboard. He selected a number two Montecristo and an old black and white Rita Hayworth movie. He switched on the movie, kicked off his shoes, poured a whisky and broke off the first of the chocolate. He soaked the chocolate in the whisky and slid it on to his tongue. He stretched himself on the sofa, lit the Montecristo and proceeded to get gloriously, seriously drunk.