chapter twenty-six

 

London 2011

 

As they walked to Christie’s, Michael’s heart and brain were full of anticipation, matching his full stomach. One object of anticipation was walking quietly beside him, and he sneaked a glance while she gazed at a window display. Her profile showed him one of her blue eyes, the neat, small nose, full lips and light brown curly hair. Together with her slim figure, he thought she was perfect, and he wanted to get to know her better. The air of sadness she projected added to her attraction for him, but also told him she was, for the near future at least, off limits. He was happy to wait. Although he’d had no ulterior motive when he said he wanted to visit Guernsey, Michael was pleased with the outcome. Staying in her house would allow him to find out more about Fiona, and if he could help bring her brother’s killer to justice, that would be even better. Might even earn him a few brownie points, he smiled to himself.

The other object of anticipation, the valuation, came closer as they approached Christie’s entrance and Michael turned to her, saying, ‘Fingers crossed.’ She grinned, holding up her crossed fingers as they entered the building. The receptionist announced their arrival and moments later a thin, middle-aged man wearing heavy black-rimmed glasses came through to greet them.

‘Roger Baines. And you must be Miss Torode and Mr Collins. Please, come along to my office. Charles has gone to collect your painting, which I haven’t seen yet, but I gather he’s rather excited about.’ He led the way to a beautiful panelled room with a large antique desk and leather chairs. They had just taken their seats when Charles arrived with the painting wrapped in its grey blanket. With a quick grin of acknowledgement, he pulled back the material with a flourish, presenting the picture to Roger.

‘Hmm, I see. Let me have a closer look.’ He took out a magnifying glass and studied the picture inch by inch while Michael held his breath. Roger’s face remained inscrutable as he asked about provenance. Fiona handed over Teresa’s statement and explained about Sam’s validation. His eyebrows raised a fraction before he read Teresa’s story. Michael noticed Charles shifting from foot to foot in barely concealed anticipation. Fiona, on the other hand, looked composed, leaning back in the chair, legs crossed.

Finally, Roger looked at Michael, a faint smile hovering around his mouth.

‘Well, I have to agree with our esteemed Professor Wright’s conclusion. This is a genuine Renoir, no question. And we would be more than happy to act on your behalf in a sale.’

Michael sagged with relief.

‘Thanks. And your valuation?’

‘At auction, it might fetch around four and a half million, if we catch enough interest. Which, be assured, we would. At the very least it wouldn’t go below three million.’ The smile grew a little.

‘That’s even better than I’d hoped, thank you.’ He glanced at Fiona, whose smile stretched from ear to ear, probably matching his own, he thought. ‘And if we decided to sell privately? I understand you offer this option?’

‘Yes, and it might be worth considering if you want a quicker sale. Our next Impressionist Auction is not until November and will be well attended. Auctions tend to achieve a better price, outdoing our highest valuations sometimes,’ he added, stroking his chin, ‘but I think we could safely ask for three and a half million privately. I know keen collectors who would be interested in acquiring a new Renoir privately.’

‘I’ll need to discuss the options with my grandmother, the legal owner. What about the commission and costs involved?’

Roger quoted him their terms. Their services didn’t come cheap, but Michael knew that. They’d still come out considerably better off than they were now, he reminded himself. They agreed Michael would confirm which path they would follow by the next day and shook hands. Roger finally allowed himself a warm smile.

‘It will be a pleasure to represent you, Mr Collins. We’ll talk soon. Goodbye, Miss Torode.’

Charles escorted them to the entrance, a smug expression on his face.

‘Old Baines doesn’t give much away, does he? You wouldn’t know from his expression he’s over the moon about your painting. It’s a real feather in his cap to take on the sale of an undiscovered Renoir, you know.’ He kissed Fiona on the cheek. ‘Thanks again for thinking of us. Some of the fairy dust will be sprinkled on me when my bonus is calculated.’

Fiona laughed. ‘I’m glad, Charles. Take care.’

The men shook hands and Michael took Fiona’s arm to lead her out of the building, trying to keep a straight face.

‘Fairy dust!’ he cried when they were clear. ‘Does he need more fairy dust?’

‘Now, behave yourself, Michael. He’s very sweet, and every girl needs a gay friend in her life, and he got us into the big man’s office pretty darn quick, didn’t he?’ She smiled at him, and for an insane moment, he wanted to pick her up, whirl her around and plant a lingering kiss on her lips. It took a huge effort of will to hold back.

‘You’re right, I apologise. I have some gay friends myself from college days.’ They stood on the pavement, his hand on her arm. ‘Where to now?’

‘Victoria for me. I need to get the Gatwick Express.’

‘How about I get you a cab?’

‘No need, it’s the next stop from Green Park, as I’m sure you know. But thanks for the offer. What about you?’

‘Might as well go home and get organised for my trip. So, Victoria will suit me too.’ Michael grinned, glad to spend a bit longer in her company. He picked up her bag and they headed back to Green Park station. Once on the Tube, they found themselves squashed together in the crush, their bodies bumping into each other. Fiona kept her eyes down, as if uncomfortable with their closeness. Neither spoke during the short journey, and it was with some relief Michael jumped out, Fiona close behind.

‘Aren’t you travelling on?’ she asked, looking surprised.

‘Soon. I thought, as a gentleman, I should escort you to your platform.’ Placing a hand under her elbow, he steered her through the crowd heading for the elevators. Later, they stood on the platform where the Gatwick Express was waiting to leave. It was time to say goodbye.

‘Thanks so much for coming over, Fiona, and I look forward to catching up at the weekend. I’ll give you a ring when I’ve booked my flight, okay?’

‘Sure. See you soon.’ She smiled at him.

Moving closer, he kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Bye. Have a good flight.’

He waited while she boarded the train and found a seat and waved as the train left. She waved back. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, Michael headed back towards the Underground, his head nearly bursting with a myriad of thoughts.

 

♦♦♦

 

Fiona arrived back at Louisa and Paul’s house somewhat drained. The time in England had been more of an emotional rollercoaster than she’d expected. A mixture of grief, sadness, pleasure and celebration. Her friends welcomed her with their usual consideration, not pressing her for details as they shared a supper. She told them all had gone well and that the grandson, Michael, was coming over at the weekend to help. Paul’s eyebrows rose at this, but he didn’t comment. Fiona said she’d explain more the next day, but needed an early night. Once in her room, she unpacked on auto-pilot, barely able to concentrate and feeling close to tears. She’d arranged to meet John the next morning at ten and crawled into bed seeking a dreamless sleep.

Friday morning she was a different woman. Refreshed and energised, ready to focus on the aim of catching Nigel’s killer. Michael sent her a text earlier to say he’d booked a flight for Saturday morning and she replied saying she’d collect him. At breakfast, she gave her friends a potted version of events during her time in England, not mentioning the times she’d spent alone with Michael. They were particularly impressed with the painting’s valuation.

‘I’d no idea it would be that much. I know you’d said it could be in the millions, but thought you were a bit optimistic. Not that I know anything about art, Charlotte’s more au fait with that world.’ Louisa beamed at her.

‘It’s never entirely predictable, but whatever it finally goes for, the family have insisted I receive ten per cent as a reward. I tried to refuse, but they stood firm.’

‘Quite right too,’ chipped in Paul. ‘Without you, they might never have got the painting back.’ He stood, collecting his phone and keys. ‘I’m off, see you at work,’ he said to his wife, ‘and catch up this evening, Fiona. Have a good day.’

Louisa eyed her warily.

‘So what’s with this Michael coming over? And what’s he like?’

‘He wants to help us catch the killer and also see the place where his grandfather and mother were born. Nothing unusual. He’ll stay at my house.’ She stirred her muesli as she thought of how to describe him. ‘He’s a sculptor and lives in London, visiting the family home occasionally. In his late thirties and seems nice.’ Her voice neutral.

‘I see. Is he married?’ Louisa asked, head on one side.

‘Don’t think so; he didn’t say.’ Fiona realised that he hadn’t said anything about a wife or girlfriend, only that he’d come close to marrying when young. Surely, if he were involved with someone, he wouldn’t have suggested coming here to help?

‘Well, I look forward to meeting this “nice” sculptor when he’s over,’ Louisa said dryly, standing to clear the dishes. ‘We must have him over for dinner one night. How long’s he staying?’

‘No idea. I assume a matter of days. It’s a long weekend isn’t it, with bank holiday on Monday? Are you two working?’

‘I’ve got the three days off, but Paul will be working tomorrow.’ She stacked the pots in the dishwasher and turned around. ‘We must do something, meet up with the others, perhaps. If you feel up to it?’

‘Sure, why not, would be fun.’

 

Fiona had just parked on the Crown Pier when her mobile rang.

‘Miss Torode? Inspector Woods. How are you?’ He sounded cheerful.

‘I’m fine thanks. Do you have some news for me?’

‘Yes, the toxicology results are in, and they’re negative, and I’ve arranged with the coroner to hold the inquest next Friday. In the meantime, the death certificate can be issued and the body collected by the funeral directors. I’m sorry it’s taken so long.’

‘Thank you; I’ll organise it.’ She swallowed, the horror of Nigel’s death rushing back into her mind. ‘Do you still intend to recommend suicide to the coroner? I believe John’s spoken to you about our investigation.’

She heard a fit of coughing on the line before he replied.

‘Sorry about that, know I should give up the fags. Yes, John did explain things to me, but unless you have concrete evidence, my hands are tied. However, if you can provide genuine doubt, we might get an open verdict, as I said to John. Have you made any progress?’

‘Yes, and as it happens, I’m on my way to John’s office now. We need to discuss a few things, and perhaps he could phone you back?’

‘No problem. Goodbye for now.’

Fiona’s mind swirled as she made her way up Pier Steps and into High Street. The thought of organising the funeral was scary. Knowing you had to do it one day was different to being told you could go ahead. When her parents died, Nigel was there to help and did most of the organising. She gritted her teeth to stop a cry bursting out. She couldn’t let her beloved brother down, but it was hard.

By the time she was a couple of doors away from John’s office she would gladly have downed a stiff vodka, but settled for a large cappuccino, buying one for John at the same time. Once in his office, she thrust his cup at him and collapsed in a chair without speaking. He waited until she’d taken a scalding gulp, before asking, ‘What’s happened?’

Through tears, she told him of the phone call.

‘Ah, I see. Here,’ he passed her a box of tissues.

She blurted out how alone she felt, with no-one to help her with the funeral arrangements. He took her cup, putting it down on the desk and hugged her.

‘I’m sure any of your friends will help, and I’d be honoured to offer my services. You’re not alone, Fiona, far from it. Come on, drink your coffee and we can talk.’ John returned to his chair behind the desk, taking a sip of his drink. ‘Thanks for my coffee, by the way.’

Fiona slowly calmed down, taking sips of coffee as her tears dried. She knew John was right, she did have people who would be only too happy to help her, and his offer touched her. He’d become more than a hired detective, he was a friend, as reliable as Louisa had promised.

‘Before I forget, Michael’s flying over this weekend, arriving tomorrow.’ She explained why and where he’d be staying. John’s face creased into a smile.

‘That’s good news, I liked the man, and having him stay in your house is inspired.’ He tapped his fingers on the desk, and Fiona could almost hear the cogs whirring in his brain. John would have a plan, she was sure.

She told him about the valuation and authentication, including the family’s offer of a reward.

‘I’m pleased for the family, only wish I could have been there at Christie’s to see Michael’s face. Well done.’ John drained his cup and leaned forward. ‘We now have to decide what we tell Woods. With the painting verified and owner found, the situation’s changed, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes, and Michael could confirm to Woods about the Renoir’s history and the connection to the Domaille family.’ Fiona pushed the thought of the impending funeral to one side, galvanised by the idea of proving Nigel’s death was no suicide.

John nodded.

‘Exactly! We’re building up the links, but it’s still circumstantial, and we haven’t a clue about Duncan’s whereabouts. We need to draw him out.’ More drumming of fingers on the desk ensued, and Fiona waited patiently.

‘With Michael’s permission, we could get an article in the Evening Press about the find of a valuable work of art and the owner coming over from the UK to claim it. It can mention a Guernsey connection and that more will be revealed later. We can’t say anything about you and the shop, or about Michael staying in your house, but that doesn’t matter. Duncan will make the connection and hopefully try and steal it. What do you think?’ His excitement was palpable, and she was caught up in it.

‘Brilliant! But we can’t leave Michael like a sitting duck. Duncan, if it is him, is dangerous.’ The thought of anything happening to Michael made her grow cold.

‘That’s okay; we’d have the police on our side, remember. Once I tell Ron what we know, I’m sure he’ll cooperate. We could have men watching the place, and I’ll be one of them,’ he said, grimly. ‘Somehow, we need to make it look like you’re back at your house. He’s not going to try anything in daylight, so if Michael has your car and it’s in the drive, he’ll think you’re in. So far the cameras I installed haven’t picked up anyone arriving other than the postman. I guess our friend’s been lying low. From his viewpoint, there was no urgent need to try again soon.’

‘Yes, but wouldn’t he prefer to break in when I’m not there? Safer, surely.’

John shifted in his chair.

‘Not if he wanted to know where the painting was, and you’re the only one who could tell him. He couldn’t assume he’d simply find it, unhidden, in the house.’

The penny dropped.

‘Oh! You mean he’d force me to tell him like he tried with Nigel?’ She remembered her brother saying the man had hurt him and shivered.

‘Exactly. And it’s another reason why I think he’s stayed away from Colborne Road. You’ve not been there. He must be wondering where you are, so if we tell the media the finder of the valuable work of art has been away, trying to trace the owner, then he’d have an answer. Right?’

Fiona let it sink in, looking for a catch. She nodded.

John rubbed his hands together.

‘I’ll go and see Ron, explain what we’ve discussed and see if he can find out more about Duncan and where he’s been for the past thirty years. It might give us a clue as to where he’s holed up here. When’s Michael arriving? Do you think he’ll agree to be bait?’

‘Tomorrow morning and I’m picking him up so will run it past him. I’m sure he’ll be happy to be bait, as you put it.’

 

Fiona sat on a seat watching the waves break on the shore at Bordeaux Harbour, one of her favourite little spots on the island. She was drinking another much-needed coffee after spending time at the funeral directors’ at The Bridge, a few minutes away.

The same firm had provided a wonderful funeral for her parents, some of the staff remembered her and Nigel, and it had added to the emotion. When people are kind and solicitous, as these were, it tended to make her more tearful. They took her gently through the options, and she managed to choose a coffin and decide on Le Foulon in St Peter Port for both the funeral service and burial. Their parents were also buried there, although their funeral had been at the Town Church because of a large number of mourners. Fiona wanted Nigel’s funeral to be more private, solely family and friends, which she thought would have been his choice. Never one to be the big centre of attention and not keen on crowds, he’d struggled to cope with their parents’ grand funeral.

She stood, needing to stretch her legs, and taking her shoes off, walked onto the sand, her head still full of unwanted images and thoughts of past funerals and the plans for Nigel’s. A date was yet to be confirmed but was likely to be about ten days. Once a date was set, a notice was to be placed in the Evening Press. There was much still to do; the vicar, hymns, prayers. Fiona wished she could press a ‘forward’ button, such as those on machines, and it all be over. And then her life could begin again.