BRYCE FENSTON’S GULFSTREAM V executive jet touched down at Heathrow at 7:22 P.M., and Ruth was standing on the tarmac waiting to greet the bank’s representative. She had already alerted customs with all the relevant details so that the paperwork could be completed just as soon as Anna returned.
For the past hour, Ruth had spent more and more time looking toward the main gate, willing the security van to reappear. She had already rung Sotheby’s and was assured by the girl in their Impressionist department that the painting had arrived. But that was more than two hours ago. Perhaps she should have called the States to double-check—but why question one of your most reliable customers. Ruth turned her attention back to the jet and decided to say nothing. After all, Anna was certain to turn up in the next few minutes.
The fuselage door opened and the steps unfolded onto the ground. The stewardess stood to one side to allow her only passenger to leave the plane. Karl Leapman stepped onto the tarmac and shook hands with Ruth before joining her in the back of an airport limousine for the short journey to the private lounge. He didn’t bother to introduce himself, just assumed she would know who he was.
“Any problems?” asked Leapman.
“None that I can think of,” replied Ruth confidently, as the driver pulled up outside the executive building. “We’ve carried out your instructions to the letter, despite the tragic death of Lady Victoria.”
“Yeah,” said Leapman, as he stepped out of the car. “The company will be sending a wreath to her funeral,” and without pausing, added, “Is everything ready for a quick turnaround?”
“Yes,” said Ruth. “We’ll begin loading the moment the captain has finished refueling—shouldn’t be more than an hour. Then you can be on your way.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Leapman, pushing through the swing doors. “We have a slot booked for eight thirty and I don’t want to miss it.”
“Then perhaps it might be more sensible if I left you to oversee the transfer,” said Ruth, “but I’ll report back the moment the painting is safely on board.”
Leapman nodded and sank back in a leather chair. Ruth turned to leave.
“Can I get you a drink, sir?” asked the barman.
“Scotch on the rocks,” said Leapman, scanning the short dinner menu.
As Ruth reached the door, she turned and said, “When Anna comes back, would you tell her I’ll be over at customs, waiting to complete the paperwork?”
“Anna?” exclaimed Leapman, jumping out of his chair.
“Yes, she’s been around for most of the afternoon.”
“Doing what?” Leapman demanded, as he advanced toward Ruth.
“Just checking over the manifest,” Ruth said, trying to sound relaxed, “and making sure that Mr. Fenston’s orders were carried out.”
“What orders?” barked Leapman.
“To send the Van Gogh to Sotheby’s for an insurance valuation.”
“The chairman gave no such order,” said Leapman.
“But Sotheby’s sent their van, and Dr. Petrescu confirmed the instruction.”
“Petrescu was fired three days ago. Get me Sotheby’s on the line, now.”
Ruth ran across to the phone and dialed the main number.
“Who does she deal with at Sotheby’s?”
“Mark Poltimore,” Ruth said, handing the phone across to Leapman.
“Poltimore,” he barked, the moment he heard the word Sotheby’s, then realized he was addressing an answering machine. Leapman slammed down the phone. “Do you have his home number?”
“No,” said Ruth, “but I have a mobile.”
“Then call it.”
Ruth quickly looked up the number on her palm pilot and began dialing again.
“Mark?” she said.
Leapman snatched the phone from her. “Poltimore?”
“Speaking.”
“My name is Leapman. I’m the—”
“I know who you are, Mr. Leapman,” said Mark.
“Good, because I understand you are in possession of our Van Gogh.”
“Was, would be more accurate,” replied Mark, “until Dr. Petrescu, your art director, informed us, even before we’d had a chance to examine the painting, that you’d had a change of heart and wanted the canvas taken straight back to Heathrow for immediate transport to New York.”
“And you went along with that?” said Leapman, his voice rising with every word.
“We had no choice, Mr. Leapman. After all, it was her name on the manifest.”