ANNA DROVE OUT OF Wentworth Hall and headed back toward the M25, looking for a sign to Heathrow. She checked the clock on the dashboard. It was almost 2 P.M., so she had missed any chance of calling Tina, who would now be at her desk on Wall Street. But she did need to make another call if there was to be the slightest chance of her coup succeeding.
As she drove through the village of Wentworth, Anna tried to recall the pub where Victoria had taken her to dinner. Then she saw the familiar crest flapping in the wind, also at half-mast.
Anna swung into the forecourt of the Wentworth Arms and parked her car near the entrance. She walked through the reception and into the bar.
“Can you change five dollars?” she asked the barmaid. “I need to make a phone call.”
“Of course, love,” came back the immediate reply. The barmaid opened the cash register and handed Anna two pound coins. Daylight robbery, Anna wanted to tell her, but she didn’t have time to argue.
“The phone’s just beyond the restaurant, to your right.”
Anna dialed a number that she could never forget. The phone rang only twice before a voice announced, “Good afternoon, Sotheby’s.”
Anna fed a coin into the slot, and said, “Mark Poltimore, please.”
“I’ll put you through.”
“Mark Poltimore.”
“Mark, it’s Anna, Anna Petrescu.”
“Anna, what a pleasant surprise. We’ve all been anxious about you. Where were you on Tuesday?”
“Amsterdam,” she replied.
“Thank God for that,” said Mark. “Terrible business. And Fenston?”
“Not in the building at the time,” said Anna, “and that’s why I’m calling. He wants your opinion on a Van Gogh.”
“Authenticity or price?” asked Mark. “Because when it comes to provenance, I bow to your superior judgment.”
“There’s no discussion on its provenance,” said Anna, “but I would like a second opinion on its value.”
“Is it one we would know?”
“Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear,” said Anna.
“The Wentworth Self-Portrait?” queried Mark. “I’ve known the family all my life and had no idea they were considering selling the painting.”
“I didn’t say they were,” said Anna without offering further explanation.
“Are you able to bring the painting in for inspection?” asked Mark.
“I’d like to, but I don’t have secure enough transport. I was hoping you might be able to help.”
“Where is it now?” asked Mark.
“In a bonded warehouse at Heathrow.”
“That’s easy enough,” said Mark. “We have a daily pickup from Heathrow. Would tomorrow afternoon be convenient?”
“Today, if possible,” said Anna. “You know what my boss is like.”
“Hold on. I’ll just need to find out if they’ve already left.” The line went silent, although Anna could hear her heart thumping. She placed the second pound coin in the slot—the last thing she needed was to be cut off. Mark came back on the line. “You’re in luck. Our handler is picking up some other items for us around four. How does that suit you?”
“Fine, but could you do me another favor and ask them to call Ruth Parish at Art Locations, just before the van is due to arrive?”
“Sure. And how long do we have to value the piece?”
“Forty-eight hours.”
“You’d come to Sotheby’s first if you ever considered selling the Self-Portrait, wouldn’t you, Anna?”
“Of course.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” said Mark.
Anna replaced the receiver, appalled by how easily she could now lie. She was also becoming aware just how simple it must have been for Fenston to deceive her.
She drove out of the Wentworth Arms car park, aware that everything now depended on Ruth Parish being in her office. Once she reached the orbital road, Anna remained in the slow lane as she went over all the things that could go badly wrong. Was Ruth aware that she had been fired? Had Fenston told her she was dead? Would Ruth accept her authority to make such a crucial decision? Anna knew that there was only one way she was going to find out. She even considered calling Ruth, but decided any prior warning would only give her more time to check up. If she was to have any chance at all, she needed to take Ruth by surprise.
Anna was so deep in thought as she considered every possibility that she nearly missed her exit for Heathrow. Once she had turned off the M25, she drove on past the signs for terminals one, two, three and four, and headed for the cargo depots just off the Southern Perimeter Road.
She parked her car in a visitor’s space directly outside the offices of Art Locations. She sat in the car for some time, trying to compose herself. Why didn’t she just drive off? She didn’t need to become involved or even consider taking such a risk. She then thought about Victoria and the role she had unwittingly played in her death. “Get on with it, woman,” Anna said out loud. “They either know or they don’t, and if they’ve already been tipped off, you’ll be back in the car in less than two minutes.” Anna looked in the mirror. Were there any giveaway signs? “Get on with it,” she admonished herself even more firmly, and finally opened the car door. She took a deep breath as she strolled across the tarmac toward the entrance of the building.
She pushed through the swing doors and came face-to-face with a receptionist she’d never seen before. Not a good start.
“Is Ruth around?” Anna asked cheerily, as if she popped by the office every day.
“No, she’s having lunch at the Royal Academy to discuss the upcoming Rembrandt exhibition.”
Anna’s heart sank.
“But I’m expecting her back at any moment.”
“Then I’ll wait,” Anna said with a smile.
She took a seat in reception. She picked up an out-of-date copy of Newsweek, with Al Gore on the cover, and flicked through the pages. She found herself continually looking up at the clock above the reception desk, watching the slow progress of the minute hand: 3:10, 3:15, 3:20.
Ruth finally walked through the door at 3:22 P.M. “Any messages?” she asked the receptionist.
“No,” replied the girl, “but there is a lady waiting to see you.”
Anna held her breath as Ruth swung around.
“Anna,” she exclaimed. “It’s good to see you.” First hurdle crossed. “I wondered if you’d still be on this assignment after the tragedy in New York.” Second hurdle crossed. “Especially when your boss told me that Mr. Leapman would be coming across to collect the picture personally.” Third hurdle crossed. No one had told Ruth she was missing, presumed dead.
“You look a bit pale,” continued Ruth. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” said Anna, stumbling over the fourth hurdle, but at least she was still on her feet, even if there were another six hurdles to cross before the finish line.
“Where were you on the eleventh?” asked Ruth with concern. “We feared the worst. I would have asked Mr. Fenston, but he never gives you a chance to ask anything.”
“Covering a sale in Amsterdam,” Anna replied, “but Karl Leapman called me last night and asked me to fly over and double-check that everything was in place, so that when he arrives all we have to do is load the picture onto the plane.”
“We’re more than ready for him,” said Ruth testily, “but I’ll drive you across to the warehouse and you can see for yourself. Just hang on for a minute. I need to see if I’ve had any calls and let my secretary know where I’m going.”
Anna paced anxiously up and down, wondering if Ruth would call New York to check her story. But why should she? Ruth had never dealt with anyone else in the past.
Ruth was back within a couple of minutes. “This just arrived on my desk,” she said, handing Anna an e-mail. Anna’s heart sank. “Confirming that Mr. Leapman is scheduled to land around seven, seven thirty, this evening. He expects us to be waiting on the runway, ready to load the painting, as he’s hoping to turn round in less than an hour.”
“That sounds like Leapman,” said Anna.
“Then we’d better get moving,” said Ruth, as she began walking toward the door.
Anna nodded her agreement, followed her out of the building, and jumped into the passenger seat of Ruth’s Range Rover.
“Terrible business, Lady Victoria,” said Ruth, as she swung the car around and headed for the south end of the cargo terminal. “The press are making a real meal of the murder—mystery killer, throat cut with a kitchen knife—but the police still haven’t arrested anyone.”
Anna remained silent, the words throat cut and mystery killer reverberating in her mind. Was that why Arabella told her that she was a brave woman?
Ruth pulled up outside an anonymous-looking concrete building, which Anna had visited several times in the past. She checked her watch: 3:40 P.M.
Ruth flashed a security pass to the guard, who immediately unlocked the three-inch steel door. He accompanied them both down a long, gray concrete corridor that always felt like a bunker to Anna. He stopped at a second security door, this time with a digital pad. Ruth waited for the guard to stand back before she entered a six-digit number. She pulled open the heavy door, allowing them to enter a square concrete room. A thermometer on the wall indicated a temperature of 20 degrees centigrade.
The room was lined with wooden shelves, which were stacked with pictures waiting to be transported to different parts of the world, all packed in Art Locations’s distinctive red boxes. Ruth checked her inventory before walking across the room and looking up at a row of shelves. She tapped a crate showing the number 47 stenciled in all four corners.
Anna strolled across to join her, playing for time. She also checked the inventory: number forty-seven, Vincent Van Gogh, Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear, 24 by 18 inches.
“Everything seems to be in order,” said Anna, as the guard reappeared at the door.
“Sorry to interrupt you, Ms. Parish, but there are two security men from Sotheby’s outside, say they’ve been instructed to pick up a Van Gogh for valuation.”
“Do you know anything about this?” asked Ruth, turning to face Anna.
“Oh, yes,” said Anna, not missing a beat, “the chairman instructed me to have the Van Gogh valued for insurance purposes before it’s shipped to New York. They’ll only need the piece for about an hour, and then they will send it straight back.”
“Mr. Leapman didn’t mention anything about this,” said Ruth. “It wasn’t in his e-mail.”
“Frankly,” said Anna, “Leapman’s such a philistine, he wouldn’t know the difference between Van Gogh and Van Morrison.” Anna paused for a moment. Normally she never took risks, but she couldn’t afford to let Ruth call Fenston and check. “If you’re in any doubt, why don’t you call New York and have a word with Fenston?” she said. “That should clear the matter up.”
Anna waited nervously as Ruth considered her suggestion.
“And have my head bitten off again?” said Ruth eventually. “No, thank you. I think I’ll take your word for it. That’s assuming you will take responsibility for signing the release order?”
“Of course,” said Anna, adding, “That’s no more than my fiduciary duty as an officer of the bank,” hoping her reply sounded suitably pompous.
“And you’ll also explain the change of plan to Mr. Leapman?”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Anna. “The painting will be back long before his plane lands.”
Ruth looked relieved and, turning to the guard, said, “It’s number forty-seven.”
They both accompanied the guard as he removed the red packing case from the shelf and carried it out to the Sotheby’s security van.
“Sign here,” said the driver.
Anna stepped forward and signed the release document.
“When will you be bringing the picture back?” Ruth asked the driver. “I don’t know anything about—”
“I asked Mark Poltimore to return the painting within a couple of hours,” interjected Anna.
“It had better be back before Mr. Leapman lands,” said Ruth, “because I don’t need to get on the wrong side of that man.”
“Would you be happier if I accompanied the painting to Sotheby’s?” asked Anna innocently. “Then perhaps I can speed up the whole process.”
“Would you be willing to do that?” asked Ruth.
“It might be wise given the circumstances,” said Anna, and she climbed up into the front of the van and took the seat between the two men.
Ruth waved as the van disappeared through the perimeter gate and joined the late-afternoon traffic on its journey into London.