chapter two

 

Guernsey 2011

 

Something was wrong. The alarm didn’t blast out as he pushed open the back door of the shop. Standing still, he heard a noise. Someone was in the shop. Or more accurately, the basement. Nigel paused as he closed the door quietly behind him, his heart hammering against his ribs as he debated what to do. Whoever was in there knew how to disable a burglar alarm otherwise lights would be flashing and a discordant wail would be piercing the air. Best to shut them in the basement and call the police. Following the thought, he crept into the main shop, guided by the dim light coming through the rear window. His eyes adjusting to the dimness, Nigel tried to pick out the area where a rug should cover the trapdoor. For a moment he wondered who could have known about the basement, only discovered a few weeks before when they completed the renovations and replaced the flooring. Odd. And why the basement when the shop was full of valuable antiques?

Crouched at the edge of the hole, light from a torch casting shadows below, he was about to push the open door downwards when a hand snaked up and grabbed his arm. Before he could pull free another hand came up, and he found himself pinned down, struggling to breathe.

‘Don’t make a sound, or you’re a goner,’ a voice hissed. ‘I’ve got a knife and I ain’t afraid to use it.’

Nigel was in no state to shout, his throat bone dry and the air in his lungs squeezed out of him. Gasping, he found himself dragged back towards to the office. The door was kicked shut behind them, and the light flicked on. For a split second, Nigel caught a glimpse of his attacker. A large, heavy man with a lined face and muscled arms. His heart sank. He couldn’t possibly overcome him, not as he was now. A few years ago, yes, but…something was thrown over his head, it felt rough with an oily smell, and he wanted to retch but couldn’t, fighting to breathe. He found himself thrust onto a chair and muscles screamed in angry protest as his arms were pulled back behind him. His breath came in short bursts as they were secured with what felt like tape. Tight. Then his feet. He couldn’t move. Oh God, what the hell is he going to do to me?

‘You must be the owner of this place, yes?’ The rough voice had an odd accent, a hint of Guern but something else, too. Nigel strived to recognise it. He hadn’t known the face either, so not someone he knew. Strong hands grabbed his head, pulling it back so hard, the pain in his scalp and neck was unbearable. Perspiration trickled into his eyes.

‘Answer me! You the owner?’

‘Yes,’ he whispered, the effort of replying almost too much.

‘Right, so where’s the painting? The Renoir? The one stored with the others in that basement.’

Nigel’s mind reeled. How could he know about the Renoir? They’d only found it after discovering the basement. Was probably there years…

Another rough yanking of his hair made him yelp with pain. Should he tell the truth? Or pretend ignorance? By now every muscle in his body hurt, the pain worse than anything he’d ever endured and his brain was turning to mush. He couldn’t cope. The violence had triggered an attack, and he knew, from experience, it would get worse. But he couldn’t endanger Fiona.

Sucking in what air he could, Nigel said, ‘I don’t know anything about a Renoir. Haven’t seen it. You must be mistaken–’

‘Don’t mess with me! I know what was down there. You must have moved it. Tell me, or it’ll be the worse for you.’

His assailant’s hands moved to his waist and tugged at his belt. The next thing he knew it was round his throat, being pulled tighter and tighter as the man urged him to tell the truth. He struggled to draw breath as the blackness descended.