Read the book: «The Gilded Seal»
JAMES TWINING
The Gilded Seal
DEDICATION
To Amelia and Jemima
‘When the first baby laughed for the first time, its laugh broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies’
J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan
HISTORICAL BACKGROUND
This novel was inspired by the theft of the Mona Lisa in 1911 and its eventual recovery in 1913, an event which triggered one of the largest criminal investigations in history and to which the Mona Lisa owes much of her present-day fame.
All descriptions and background information provided on works of art, artists, thefts, forgery detection techniques and architecture are similarly accurate. Unfortunately, the Claremont Riding Academy, which is briefly featured in this novel, announced its closure shortly before publication, but the description was left unchanged as a tribute to the sad passing of a much loved New York landmark.
For more information on the author and on the fascinating history, people, places and artefacts that feature in The Gilded Seal and the other Tom Kirk novels, please visit www.jamestwining.com
EXCERPT
Extract from Lives of the Most Eminent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects by Giorgio Vasari (1568), translated by Gaston du C. de Vere (1912)
Leonardo undertook to execute, for Francesco del Giocondo, the portrait of Mona Lisa, his wife.
In this head, whoever wished to see how closely art could imitate nature, was able to comprehend it with ease; for in it were counterfeited all the minutenesses that with subtlety are able to be painted…
…The nose, with its beautiful nostrils, rosy and tender, appeared to be alive. The mouth, with its opening, and with its ends united by the red of the lips to the flesh-tints of the face, seemed, in truth, to be not colours but flesh. In the pit of the throat, if one gazed upon it intently, could be seen the beating of the pulse. And, indeed, it may be said that it was painted in such a manner as to make every valiant craftsman, be he who he may, tremble and lose heart.
And in this work of Leonardo’s there was a smile so pleasing, that it was a thing more divine than human to behold; and it was held to be something marvellous, since the reality was not more alive.
The Washington Post, 13th December 1913
Mona Lisa, Leonardo da Vinci’s great painting, which was stolen from the Louvre, in Paris, more than two years ago, has been found [and a man arrested]. It is now in the hands of the Italian authorities and will be returned to France.
Mona Lisa or La Joconde as it is more properly known, the most celebrated portrait of a woman ever painted, has been the object of an exhaustive search in all quarters of the globe. The mystery of its abstraction from the Louvre, its great intrinsic value, and the fascination of the smile of the woman it portrayed … have combined to keep alive interest in its recovery.
On being interrogated, the prisoner said his real name is Vincenzo Peruggia…‘I was ashamed,’ he said ‘that for more than a century no Italian had thought of avenging the spoliation committed by Frenchmen under Napoléon when they carried off from the Italian museums and galleries, pictures, statues and treasures of all kinds by wagonloads, ancient manuscripts by thousands, and gold by sacks.’
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Historical Background
Excerpt
Prologue
Part I
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Part II
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Part III
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Sixty-Seven
Sixty-Eight
Sixty-Nine
Seventy
Seventy-One
Seventy-Two
Seventy-Three
Seventy-Four
Seventy-Five
Seventy-Six
Seventy-Seven
Seventy-Eight
Seventy-Nine
Eighty
Eighty-One
Eighty-Two
Eighty-Three
Eighty-Four
Eighty-Five
Eighty-Six
Eighty-Seven
Eighty-Eight
Eighty-Nine
Epilogue
Note from the author
Website
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other Works
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
There is only one step from the sublime to the ridiculous
Napoléon I
PROLOGUE
Macarena, Seville, Spain
14th April (Holy Thursday) – 2.37 a.m.
It started with a whisper; a barely voiced tremor of suppressed anticipation that rippled gently through the expectant crowd.
‘Pronto. Pronto estará aquí.’ Soon. She’ll be here soon.
But the whisper evaporated almost as quickly as it had appeared. Snatched from their lips by a capricious wind, it was carried far above their heads into the warm night, only to be casually tossed between the swirling currents like autumn leaves being chased across a park.
It was replaced, instead, by the distant sound of a lone trumpet, its plaintive, almost feminine cry echoing down the winding, cobbled street. This time, people made no attempt to conceal their excitement, and their faces flushed with a strange inner glow.
‘Ahora viene. Viene La Macarena.’ She’s coming. La Macarena is coming.
The crowd, almost ten deep on both sides of the street, surged forward against the steel barriers that lined the route, straining to see. In between them, the dark cobblestones flowed like a black river, their rippled surface glinting occasionally in the flickering light.
The man allowed himself to be carried forward by the breathless host, sheltering in the warm comfort of the anonymity they provided. In the crowd, but not of it, his eyes skipped nervously over the faces of those around him rather than the approaching procession. Had he lost them? Surely they couldn’t find him now.
He caught his own reflection in the polished rim of a lantern being carried by a woman in front of him. His leathered skin, dark eyes glowing like hot coals, the steep cliff of his jaw, the ruby-coloured razor slash of his lips, his wild mane of white hair. The unmistakeable mask of despair. He had a sudden vision of an ageing lion, standing on some high promontory, taking one last look at his territory stretching towards the horizon and at his pride, lazing beneath him in the setting sun’s orange-fingered embrace, before heading quietly into the bush to die.
A cheer drew his gaze. The first nazarenos had swung into view. Sinister in their matching purple cloaks and long pointed hats, they trooped silently past, their faces masked with only narrow slits for eyes, a black candle grasped solemnly in one hand. Behind them, a marching band dictated a steady pace.
‘¡Está aquí! ¡Está aquí!’ She’s here! She’s here! A small boy with long golden hair had fought his way through to where he was standing and was jumping to try and get a better look. The man smiled at his eagerness, at his uncomplicated and breathless excitement and, for a moment, forgot his fear.
‘Todavía no. ¿Ves?’ Not yet. See? He swept the boy off the ground and lifted him above his shoulders to show him how far the procession still had to run before the solid silver float containing the statue of the Virgen de la Esperanza Macarena would appear.
‘Gracias, Señor.’ The boy gave him a faint kiss on the cheek before diving through the legs of the people in front with a snatched wave.
The first flower-strewn float shuffled past – the sentencing of Christ by Pontius Pilate. The faint aroma of incense and orange blossom drifted to him on a mournful sigh of wind and he breathed in deeply, the smells blending harmoniously at the back of his throat like cognac fumes. How had it come to this? It had all happened so long ago now. Forgotten.
He looked back to the procession and saw that the nazarenos had given way, temporarily at least, to two rows of penitentes – those who sought to repent of their sins by walking the processional route barefoot and with heavy wooden crosses slung over their shoulders. He smiled ruefully at the sight of their bruised and bloodied feet, part of him wanting to take his place alongside them, the other knowing it was too late.
A sudden break in their sombre ranks afforded him a clear view right through to the other side of the street. There several monaguillos, children dressed as priests, were handing out sweets to the people standing in the front row. They were all smiling, the peal of their laughter filling the air. All apart from one man who, his phone pressed to his ear, was staring straight at him.
‘They’re here,’ he breathed. ‘They’ve found me.’
He turned away, instinctively heading against the flow of the procession to make it harder for anyone to follow him. Elbowing his way through the crush, he came to a narrow street and darted up it, past a drunk pissing in one doorway and some kids making out in another, the boy’s hand shoved awkwardly up the girl’s top. Halfway along, he veered right down a side alley where bright banners and wilting flowers hung lazily from low, sagging balconies.
He skidded to a halt outside a large wooden gate. The sign nailed to it indicated that the building was currently being renovated by Construción Pedro Alvarez. That meant it was empty.
It only took him a couple of seconds to spring the padlock open. He stepped inside and carefully closed the gate behind him, finding himself in a small courtyard littered with paint-spattered tools and broken terracotta tiles. A dog had fouled the large pile of sand immediately to his left.
In the middle stood a well. He made his way to it. It was disused, a black grille over the opening rendering the bucket suspended above it purely ornamental. This was as good a place as any.
A match flared in the darkness and he held it to his small notebook. The dry paper clutched at the flame, drawing it in like water, the fire gnawing hungrily at the pages’ pale skin until only the charred spine remained. He glanced towards the gate. He still had time. Time to leave some clue as to what he had discovered before it was too late.
The knife bit into his palm, the blood welling up through the deep gash and then oozing through his fingers, sticky and warm. He had barely finished when the gate burst open.
‘Está allí. Te dijé que le iba a encontrar. ¡Venga! ¡Venga! Antes de que se vaya.’ He’s in here. I told you I’d find him. Quick! Quick! Before he gets away.
He looked up and recognised the little boy he had lifted above the crowd earlier pointing triumphantly towards him, a cruel look in his eyes, blond hair shimmering like flames in the darkness.
Five men shot through the doorway, two of them overpowering him instantly by bending his right arm up behind his back and forcing him to his knees.
‘Did you really think you could hide from us, Rafael?’ came a voice from behind him.
He didn’t answer, knowing it was pointless.
‘Get him up.’
The grip on his arm relaxed slightly and he was dragged to his feet. A cold, blinding light snapped on. Rafael held his other hand up to his face, shielding his eyes. A video camera. The sick putas were filming this. They were filming the whole thing.
A shape materialised in front of him, a solid black outline silhouetted against the white light’s searing canvas, the world suddenly drained of all colour. The figure had a hammer in one hand and two six-inch masonry nails in the other that he had scooped up off the floor. A kaleidoscopic undershirt of tattoos disappeared up each sleeve and formed a rounded collar where they reappeared just below the neck line of his unbuttoned shirt.
Rafael felt himself being lifted so that his wrists were pressed flat against the wall either side of an open doorway. The video operator took up a position so he could get both men in shot.
‘Ready?’
Outside, Rafael heard muffled cheering and the faint sound of women wailing and crying. He knew then that La Macarena had finally appeared on the adjacent street, glass tears of grief at the loss of her only son frozen on to the delicate ecstasy of her carved face.
She was here. She was here for him.
PART ONE
Forsake not an old friend; for the new is not comparable to him; a new friend is as new wine; when it is old, thou shalt drink it with pleasure.
Ecclesiasticus 9:10
ONE
Drumlanrig Castle, Scotland
18th April – 11.58 a.m.
As the car drew up, a shaft of light appeared through a break in the brooding sky. The castle’s sandstone walls glowed under its gentle touch, an unexpected shock of pink against the ancient greens of the surrounding hills and woodlands.
Tom Kirk stepped out and drew his dark overcoat around him with a shiver, turning the black velvet collar up so it hugged the circle of his neck. Ahead of him, blue-and-white police tape snapped in the icy wind where it had been strung across the opposing steps that curved up to the main entrance. Six feet tall, slim and square shouldered, Tom had an athletic although not obviously muscular build, his careful gestures and the precise way he moved hinting at a deliberate, controlled strength that was strangely compelling to watch.
It was his eyes that were most striking, though, an intense pale blue that suggested both a calm intelligence and an unflinching resolve. These were set into a handsome, angular face, his thick arching eyebrows matching the colour of his short brown hair, the firm line of his jaw echoing the sharp edge of his cheekbones and lending an air of measured self-confidence. The only jarring note came from the series of small fighting scars that flecked his knuckles, tiny white lines that joined and bisected each other like animal tracks across the savanna.
Looking up, he was suddenly struck by the almost deliberate extravagance of the castle’s elaborate Renaissance splendour compared to the artisinal, grey functionality of the neighbouring village he had just passed through. No doubt when it had been built that had been precisely the point, the building a crushing reminder to the local population of their lowly status. Now, however, the castle looked slightly out of place, as if it had emerged blinking into the new century, uncertain of its role and perhaps even slightly embarrassed by its outmoded finery.
In the distance, a police helicopter made a low pass over the neighbouring forest, the chop of its rotors muffled by the steady buzz of the radios carried by the twenty or so officers swarming purposefully around him. Tom shivered again, although this time it wasn’t the cold. This many cops always made him nervous.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ A policeman on the other side of the tape shouted over the noise. At the sound of his voice the thick curtain of cloud drew shut once again, and the castle faded back into its grey slumber.
‘It’s okay, Constable. He’s with me.’
Mark Dorling had appeared at the top of the left-hand staircase, a tall man wearing a dark blue double-breasted suit and a striped regimental tie. He waved him forward impatiently, Tom recognising in Dorling’s ever so slightly proprietary manner evidence, perhaps, of weekends spent visiting friends with houses of a similar size and stature.
The policeman nodded and Tom stooped under the tape and made his way up the shallow and worn steps to where Dorling was waiting for him, shoulders back, chin raised, fists balanced on each hip like a big game hunter posing over his kill. Oxford had been full of people like Dorling, Tom reflected. It was the eyes that gave them away, the look of scornful indifference tinged with contempt with which they surveyed the world, as if partly removed from it. At first Tom had been offended by this, resenting what appeared to be an instinctive disdain for anyone who didn’t share their privileged background or gilded future. But he had soon come to understand that behind those dead eyes lurked a cold fury at a world where the odds had so clearly been stacked in their favour, that their lives had been robbed of any sense of mystery or adventure. Far from contempt, therefore, what their expression actually revealed was a deep self-loathing, maybe even jealousy.
‘I wasn’t expecting you until later.’ Dorling welcomed him with a tight smile. Tom wasn’t offended by his accusing tone. People like Dorling didn’t like surprises. It disturbed the illusion of order and control they worked so hard to conjure up around themselves.
‘I thought you said you were in Milan?’ he continued, sweeping a quiff of thinning blond hair back off his forehead, a large gold signet ring gleaming on the little finger of his left hand.
‘I was,’ said Tom. ‘I got the early flight. It sounded important.’
‘It is,’ Dorling confirmed, his pale green eyes narrowing momentarily, his jaw stiffening. ‘It’s the Leonardo.’ A pause. ‘I’m glad you’re here Tom.’
Dorling gripped his hand unnecessarily hard, as if trying to compensate for his earlier brusqueness, his skin soft and firm. Tom said nothing, allowing this new piece of information to sink in for a few seconds before answering. The Madonna of the Yarnwinder. One of only fifteen paintings in the world thought to have been substantially painted by da Vinci. Conservatively worth $150 million. Probably more. In his business, it didn’t get much more important than that.
‘When?’
‘This morning.’
‘Anyone hurt?’
‘They overpowered a tour guide. She’s bruised but fine. More shocked than anything.’
‘Security?’
‘Rudimentary,’ Dorling gave an exasperated shrug. ‘It takes the police thirty minutes to get out here on a good day. These chaps were in and out in ten.’
‘Sounds like they knew what they were doing.’
‘Professionals,’ Dorling agreed.
‘Just as well it’s insured, then, isn’t it?’ Tom grinned. ‘Or aren’t Lloyd’s planning to pay up on this one?’
‘Why do you think you’re here?’ Dorling replied with a faint smile, the lines around his eyes and tanned cheeks deepening as his face creased, his eyes darkening momentarily.
‘The old poacher-turned-gamekeeper routine?’
‘Something like that.’
‘What does that make you, I wonder?’
Dorling paused to reflect before answering, the pulse in his temple fractionally increasing its tempo.
‘A businessman. Same as always.’
There were other words dancing on the edge of Tom’s tongue, but he took a deep breath and let the moment pass. He had his reasons. Dorling’s firm of chartered loss adjusters was the first port of call for Lloyd’s underwriters whenever they had a big-ticket insurance claim to investigate. And during the ten years that Tom had operated as an art thief – the best in the business, many said – Dorling’s company had co-operated with the police on countless jobs which they suspected him of being behind.
All that had changed, however, when word had got out a year or so back that Tom and his old fence, Archie Connelly, had set themselves up on the other side of the law, advising on museum security and helping recover lost or stolen art. Now the very people who had spent years trying to put them both away were queuing up for their help. The irony still bit deep.
Tom didn’t blame Dorling. If anything he found his shameless opportunism rather endearing. The truth was that the art world was full of people like him – crocodile-skinned and conveniently forgetful as soon as they understood there was a profit to be made. It was just that the memories didn’t fade quite so fast when you’d been the one staring down the wrong end of a twenty-year stretch.
‘Who’s inside?’ Tom asked, nodding towards the castle entrance.
‘Who isn’t?’ Dorling replied mournfully. ‘The owner, forensic team, local filth.’ The slang seemed forced and sat uneasily with Dorling’s clipped sentences and sharp vowels. Tom wondered if he too felt awkward about their past history and whether this was therefore a deliberate attempt to bridge or otherwise heal the gap between them. If so, it was a rather ham-fisted attempt, although Tom appreciated him making the effort at least. ‘Oh, and that annoying little shit from the Yard’s Art Crime Squad just showed up.’
‘Annoying little shit? You mean Clarke?’ Tom gave a rueful laugh. In this instance the description was an apt one, although Tom suspected that it was a term Dorling routinely deployed to describe anyone who hadn’t gone to the same school as him, or who didn’t feature on his regular Chelsea dinner-party circuit.
‘Play nicely,’ Dorling warned him. ‘We need him onside. We’re co-operating, remember, not competing.’
‘I will if he will,’ Tom shrugged, unable and perhaps unwilling to suppress the hint of petulance in his voice. Clarke and he had what Archie would have called ‘previous’. It didn’t matter how much you wanted to draw a line and move on, sometimes others wouldn’t let you. Tom felt suddenly hot and loosened his coat, revealing a single-breasted charcoal-grey Huntsman suit that he was wearing with an open necked blue Hilditch & Key shirt.
‘There’s one more thing you should know,’ said Dorling, pausing on the threshold, one foot outside the house, the other on the marble floor, his square chin raised as if anticipating a blow. ‘I had a call from our Beijing office. They only just heard, but Milo’s out. The Chinese released him six months ago. No one knows why.’
‘Milo?’ Tom froze, not sure he’d heard correctly. Not wanting to believe he had. ‘Milo’s out? What’s that got to do … you think this is him?’
Dorling shrugged awkwardly, his bluff confidence momentarily deserting him.
‘That’s why I called you in on this one, Tom. He’s left you something.’
TWO
New York City
18th April – 7.00 a.m.
They hit traffic almost immediately they turned on to Broadway, brake lights shimmering ahead of them like beads on a long necklace, umbrellas bobbing impatiently along the sidewalk. The rain, thick with the evaporated sweat of eight million people, crawled in greasy rivulets down the glass, flecking Special Agent Jennifer Browne’s faint reflection in the passenger-side window as she sipped coffee from a polystyrene cup.
Most agreed that she was a beautiful woman, perhaps even more so since she’d broken thirty, as if she’d somehow grown into the slender, elegantly curving five foot nine frame that had made her appear a little gawky when younger. She had light brown skin and curling black hair, her father’s African American colouring having been softened by her mother’s Southern pallor. But her large, honeyed hazel eyes were pure Grandma May, a fierce woman who claimed to have met the devil on two separate occasions; once on the ship over from Haiti, the other on her wedding night. To her regret, Jennifer had been too young to verify either of these stories with her grandfather before he’d died.
And yet despite what others said, Jennifer had never really considered herself to be attractive, citing her younger sister as an example of a far more natural and intuitive beauty. Besides, she’d never been that concerned with what people thought about how she looked. It was, after all, a poor proxy for character, which is what she preferred to be judged on.
She stifled a yawn, the mesmeric fizz of the wipers across the windshield exposing the effects of too many late nights. She certainly could have done without today’s early start. Then again, she’d not had much choice. Not when FBI Director Green himself was calling the shots.
‘This is taking for ever,’ she said restlessly as they shuffled forward another few feet and the caffeine began to bite. ‘Cut across to Eighth when you hit West Fourteenth.’ She glanced up and caught the driver eyeing the firm outline of her breasts in the mirror.
‘Sure thing.’ He nodded awkwardly, his eyes flicking back to the road.
She sat back, her annoyance with the driver offset by her amusement at herself. Only nine months in and she was already well on her way to being a real New Yorker – not only irrationally impatient but also utterly convinced of her ability to navigate to any point in the city faster than anyone else. Not particularly attractive traits, perhaps, but ones that nonetheless gave her a sudden sense of belonging that she hadn’t felt for a long time. Too long.
Twenty-five minutes later they turned on to West 89th Street and drew up outside the elegant façade of the Claremont Riding Academy, the oldest continuously working stable in the state, according to the sign fixed to the wall outside.
Jennifer scanned the street – Green’s usual security detachment was already there, a lucky few sat in one of the three unmarked Suburbans, the rest sheltering in the doorways opposite, water dripping on to their shoulders and the toecaps of their polished shoes. He was early. That was a first. Whatever he wanted, he clearly didn’t plan to hang around.
She stepped out of the car, a long coat worn over her usual urban camouflage of black trouser suit and white silk blouse. Not the most exciting outfit, she knew, but then she’d learnt the hard way that people would grasp at anything to categorise you into their rigid mental taxonomies. Certainly, given how hard it was to make it as a woman in the Bureau, let alone an African American woman, she’d rather be classified as frigid than as a potential fuck, which, convention had it, were the only two points on the scale that female agents could operate at. Besides, in a way it suited her – it was one less decision to make in the morning.
A ramp covered with a deep carpet of dirt and wood shavings led up to the riding school itself. She made her way inside, suddenly aware of the smell, an incongruous mixture of horse and leather and manure amidst Manhattan’s unforgiving forest of steel and concrete and glass. There was a time, she mused, when the whole city would have smelt this way, when the clatter of hooves and the foghorns of ships arriving in the harbour had signalled the forging of a new city built on hope and ambition. She decided she liked this smell. It seemed somehow real. Permanent. Relevant.
Ahead of her a single horse was trotting robotically in a wide circle defined by the space between the walls and the bright blue pillars supporting the whitewashed brick ceiling above. A young girl was perched unsteadily in the saddle, golden braids peeking out from under a pristine black velvet helmet. An instructor was standing in the centre of the school, swivelling on the heels of his scuffed brown riding boots as he followed the horse round and round, occasionally bellowing instructions.
‘Excuse me,’ Jennifer called, as the horse rode past and the man turned to face her. ‘I’m looking for Falstaff.’
‘Falstaff?’ He eyed her curiously as he walked over, his muscled thighs sheathed in pale cream Lycra jodhpurs. ‘You’re here for Falstaff?’
She nodded firmly, hoping that he had not noticed the slight uncertainty in her own voice. Green’s call had been hurried and muffled by the sound of a passing siren. Seven thirty a.m. Claremont Riding Academy. Ask for Falstaff. Don’t be late.
‘How many times? Keep your heels down,’ The instructor suddenly barked, his eyes fixed beyond her shoulder. Jennifer glanced behind her and saw the young girl blush crimson as she wheeled away, heels firmly pressed down against her stirrups, braids bouncing frantically off her shoulders. The instructor’s searching gaze followed her as she circled past, his face set into a disapproving frown.
‘Yes, Falstaff. You know where I can find him?’
The man glanced at her sceptically, before giving a vague nod to his right.
‘They’re waiting for you upstairs. First floor. Back and right. That’s it. Good girl. Hands out in front. Now remember your posture. It all comes from the posture.’
With a faint word of thanks, Jennifer headed over to the spot he had indicated. A wide, curving ramp led up to the stabling floor above, the stone worn and gouged by generations of hooves and over-indulged Upper West Side kids.
Two more of Green’s men were positioned at the top of the ramp, transparent earpieces snaking inside their collars. They waved her down a central aisle that led to the far end of the stables, narrower passageways containing loose-boxes leading off to the left and the right. The boxes themselves were painted white and in various stages of decay and disrepair, with wooden slats missing or broken and the wrought-iron railings thick with rust and overpainting. Saddles, reins and various other pieces of tack and frayed rope were hanging haphazardly from the peeling walls or slung over skewed gates. A stereo dangled from an overhead beam, the music clearly more to the taste of the Mexican workers mucking out than the horses whose mournful heads she could see peering over the stable doors.
Another of Green’s men was waiting for her at the end of the main aisle. He silently steered her to the right. The sound of voices drew her to the final stall where a tin plate was attached to the door with twine. A name had been punched into it with a blunt nail – Falstaff.
Jennifer frowned, momentarily disconcerted. She’d assumed Falstaff was someone whose parents had either had an irrational love of Shakespeare, or a questionable sense of humour. Not a horse.
With a shrug, she stepped into the box. Jack Green had his back to her and was locked in conversation with two smartly dressed men, one noticeably older than the other. The younger man looked up sharply when he saw her. Picking up on his cue, Green spun round to greet her.
‘Browne.’ He gave her a fleeting smile. ‘Good.’
Green was one of those cookie-cutter DC insiders who seemed to roll off a secret production line in some rich white neighbourhood on the outskirts of Boston. Crisp creases in his suit trousers, ironed parting in his brown hair, plump cheeks, perfect teeth and irises like faded ink spots on crisp linen sheets, his gaze constantly flitting over your shoulder, in case someone more interesting should come into the room behind you.
He’d lost weight since the last time she’d seen him, adding substance to the Bureau gossips who contended that he’d recently re-married and that his new, much younger and richer bride, had him on a treadmill three times a week. True or not, he still had a way to go; the material around the top button of his trousers was buckling under the stress of holding his stomach in. And if there was a new wife, she’d certainly done nothing to improve his taste in ties, this morning’s offering a garish blend of different shades of orange.
‘Morning, sir.’ She shook his hand.
‘Thank you for coming. I know it’s early.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ she said generously. ‘I normally go for a run at this time anyway.’
He gave her a look that was caught somewhere between sympathy and admiration, before gesturing first towards the older man, then his younger companion.
‘I’d like you to meet Lord Anthony Hudson, Chairman of Sotheby’s, and Benjamin Cole, his opposite number at Christie’s. Gentlemen, this is Special Agent Jennifer Browne from our Art Crime Team.’
‘Call me Ben.’
Cole gave a wide, teethy grin, his dark brown eyes searching hers out earnestly and then darting away when she tried to hold his gaze. She wondered if the others knew he was gay. Probably. He was immaculately dressed in a black suit and open-necked white shirt, the glint of a thin gold chain just visible in the cleft of his collarbone. She guessed he was in his early forties, although he looked maybe ten years younger, the healthy glow of his long pointed face betraying a daily routine of wheat grass, exfoliation, free weights, soya milk, pilates and expensive moisturiser.
‘But whatever you do, don’t call him Tony,’ he continued.
Hudson looked as jaded and shopworn as Cole was bright and fit, the dated cut and frayed corners of his pinstriped suit suggesting that it was some sort of family heirloom or hand-me-down. His eyes had almost disappeared under his eyebrows’ craggy overhang, while his cheeks were lined and drooping like a balloon that has had the air let out of it, and his lips were cracked and frozen into a permanent scowl. She placed him at about fifty-five; not quite retirement age, but definitely counting the days. She had the sudden impression that he was weighing her up, as if he was gazing at her through the crosshairs of a rifle on some distant Scottish moor and estimating the distance and wind speed before pulling the trigger.
‘I recognise you both, of course.’ She nodded, reaching out to shake their hands.
Hudson was a Brit, a blue-blood distantly related to the Queen who’d been shipped in to schmooze Sotheby’s mainly North American clientele with canapés and a touch of old-fashioned class. Cole on the other hand was a Brooklyn-born hustler who, despite barely being able to spell his name when he first joined the Christie’s mail room, had risen to the top on the back of a silken tongue and an unfailing eye for a good deal. The two of them neatly represented the social spectrum of both the auction world and the clients they served.
‘Then you’ll also know why I asked you to meet us here.’ Green waved semi-apologetically at their surroundings. Hudson shifted uncomfortably in mute agreement, his eyes fixed reproachfully on the thin coat of dust, straw and feed that had already settled on his gleaming handmade shoes.
‘I can guess,’ Jennifer confirmed with a nod.
A few years ago both Christie’s and Sotheby’s had faced anti-trust cases over allegations that they were fixing commission levels through a series of illicit meetings in the back of limousines and in airport departure lounges. Huge corporate fines and even jail sentences had resulted, although Sir Norman Watkins, Hudson’s predecessor, had managed to avoid incarceration so far by refusing to return to the United States. The stables, therefore, offered a suitably discreet venue for Hudson and Cole to get together, given that in the current climate they daren’t risk being seen in the same room, let alone meeting in private as they were now.
‘Anthony,’ Green turned to Hudson, ‘why don’t you explain what this is all about.’
‘Very well,’ Hudson loosened the inside button on his double-breasted suit jacket, the lining flashing emerald green. He bent down stiffly and picked up a gilt-framed painting that Jennifer had not noticed leaning against the stall.
‘Vase de Fleurs, Lilas, by Paul Gauguin, 1885,’ he pronounced grandly, as he held it up for her to see. It was quite a small painting, featuring a delicately rendered vase of bright flowers against a dark, almost stormy background. ‘Not one of his most famous works perhaps, since he had not yet adopted the more primitive, expressive style that characterised his work after moving to Tahiti. Nevertheless it already betrays his more conceptual method of representation, as well as reflecting clear influences by Pissarro and Cézanne.’
‘Don’t worry, I don’t know what he’s talking about either,’ Cole laughed.
Hudson twitched but said nothing and Jennifer suspected he quite liked Cole and his irreverent manner; probably even slightly envied it.
‘You’re auctioning it?’ she guessed.
‘Next week. It belongs to Reuben Razi, an Iranian dealer. A good client of ours. So far, we’ve had a very positive response from the market.’
‘Is it genuine?’
‘Why do you ask that?’ Hudson snapped, pulling the canvas away from her protectively, his eyes narrowing as if he was again lining her up in his rifle’s crosshairs.
‘Because, Lord Hudson, I’m guessing you didn’t ask me up here just to show me a painting.’
‘You see?’ Green smiled. ‘I told you she was good.’
‘Don’t worry about Anthony.’ Cole clapped Hudson on the back. ‘You just hit a nerve, that’s all.’
‘Show Agent Browne the catalogue,’ Green suggested. ‘That’ll explain why.’
Cole flicked open the catches on his monogrammed Louis Vuitton briefcase and extracted a loosely bound colour document that he handed to Jennifer.
‘This is the proof of the catalogue for our auction of nineteenth and twentieth-century art in Paris in a few months’ time. A Japanese conglomerate, a longstanding client of ours, has asked us to include a number of paintings in the sale. One in particular, stands out.’ He nodded at the document. ‘Lot 185.’
Jennifer thumbed through the pages until she came to the lot mentioned by Cole. There was a short description of the item and an estimate of three hundred thousand dollars, but it was the picture that immediately grabbed her attention. She looked up in surprise.
‘It’s the same painting,’ she exclaimed.
‘Exactly,’ Hudson growled. ‘Someone’s trying to rip us off. And this time, we’ve bloody well caught them with their hand in the till.’
‘This time?’
‘Both Lord Hudson and Mr Cole believe that this isn’t an isolated incident,’ Green explained solemnly.
‘And that, Agent Browne,’ Cole added, suddenly serious, ‘Is why we asked you up here.’
THREE
Drumlanrig Castle, Scotland
18th April – 12.07 p.m.
It seemed less a castle than a mausoleum to Tom; a place of thin shadows, cloaked with a funereal stillness, where muffled footsteps and snatched fragments of hushed conversations echoed faintly along the cold and empty corridors.
It was an impression that the furnishings did little to dispel, for although the cavernous rooms were adorned with a rich and varied assortment of tapestries, gilt-framed oil paintings, marble-topped chests, rococo consoles and miscellaneous objets d’art, closer inspection revealed many of them to be worn, dusty and neglected.
‘This place reminds me of an Egyptian tomb,’ Tom whispered. ‘You know, stuffed full of treasure and servants and then sealed to the outside world.’
‘It’s a family home,’ Dorling reminded him. ‘The Dukes of Buccleuch have lived here for centuries.’
‘I wonder if they’ve ever really lived here or just tended it, like a grave?’
‘Why don’t you ask them? That’s the Duke and his son, the Earl of Dalkieth,’ Dorling hissed as they walked past an old man being supported by a younger one. Both men nodded at them solemnly as they passed by, their faces etched with a mournful, almost reproachful look that made Tom feel as though he had invaded the privacy of an intimate family occasion. ‘Poor bastards look like somebody died.’
‘That’s probably how it feels.’ said Tom sympathetically. ‘Like somebody who has been a member of their family for two hundred and fifty years has suddenly dropped down dead.’
‘It’s much worse than that,’ Dorling corrected him, eyebrows raised playfully. ‘It’s like they’ve died and left eighty million quid to the local cat’s home.’
The hall had been sealed off; a square-shouldered constable was standing guard. From behind him came the occasional white flash and mechanical whir of a police photographer’s camera. Tom felt his chest tighten as they stepped closer, Dorling’s words echoing in his head: ‘He’s left you something.’
The disturbing thing was that Milo and he had always had a very simple agreement to just keep out of each other’s way. So something serious must have happened for Milo to break that arrangement now, something that involved Tom and this place and whatever was waiting for him on the other side of that doorway. The easy option, Tom knew, would have been to refuse to take the bait, to walk away and simply ignore whatever lay in the next room. But the easy option was rarely the right one. Besides, Tom preferred to know what he was up against.
Seeing Dorling, the constable lifted the tape for them both to stoop under. To Tom’s right, some forensic officers in white evidence suits were huddled next to the wall where Tom assumed the painting had been hanging.
‘There’s nothing here,’ Tom almost sounded relieved as he glanced around. Knowing Milo as he did, he’d feared the worst.
Dorling shrugged and then motioned towards two men who were standing at the foot of the staircase. One of them was speaking to the other in a gratingly nasal whine, a shapeless grey raincoat covering his curved shoulders. The corners of Tom’s mouth twitched as he recognised his voice.
‘It was opportunistic,’ the man pronounced. ‘They walked in, saw their chance and took it.’
‘What about the little souvenir they left behind?’ the other man queried in a soft Edinburgh burr. ‘They must have planned that.’
‘Probably smuggled it in with them under a coat,’ Dorling agreed. ‘Look. I’m not saying they didn’t plan to come here and steal something, just that they weren’t that bothered what they took. Probably wouldn’t know who da Vinci was if he jumped up and gave them a haircut.’
‘Would you?’ Tom interrupted, unable to stop himself, despite Dorling’s earlier warning.
The man swivelled round to face him.
‘Kirk!’ He spat the name through clenched teeth, yellowing eyes bulging above the dark shadows that nestled in his long, sunken cheeks. His skin was like marble, cold and white and flecked with a delicate spider’s web of tiny veins that pulsed red just below the surface.
‘Sergeant Clarke!’ Tom exclaimed, his eyes twinkling mischievously. ‘What a nice surprise.’
Tom could no longer remember quite why Clarke had made it his personal mission to see him behind bars. It was a pursuit that had at times verged on the obsessive, Clarke’s anger mounting as Tom had managed again and again to slip from his grasp. Even now, he refused to believe that Tom had gone straight, convinced that his newly acquired respectability was all part of some elaborate con. Still, Tom didn’t mind. If anything he found Clarke mildly amusing, which seemed to make him even angrier.
‘It’s Detective Sergeant Clarke, as well you know,’ Clarke seethed, the sharp outline of his Adam’s apple bobbing uncontrollably. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I invited him,’ Dorling volunteered.
‘This is a criminal investigation,’ Clarke rounded on him. ‘Not a bloody cocktail party.’
‘If Tom’s here, it’s because I think he can help,’ Dorling replied tersely.
‘For all you know, he nicked it himself,’ Clarke sneered. ‘Ever think of that?’
The man standing next to Clarke turned to Tom with interest.
‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’ He was about fifty years old, tall, with wind-tanned cheeks, moss green eyes and a wild thatch of muddy brown hair that was thinning from the crown outwards.
‘Bruce Ritchie,’ Dorling introduced him to Tom. ‘The estate manager. Bruce, this is Tom Kirk.’
Tom shook Ritchie’s outstretched hand, noting the nicotine stains around the tips of his fingers and the empty shotgun cartridges in his waxed jacket that rattled as he moved his arm.
‘I take it you have some direct … experience of this type of crime?’ He hesitated fractionally over the right choice of words.
‘Too bloody right he does,’ Clarke muttered darkly.
‘Can I ask where from?’
‘He’s a thief,’ Clarke snapped before Tom could answer. ‘That’s all you need to know. The Yanks trained him. Industrial espionage. That is until he decided to go into business for himself.’ Clarke turned to Tom, a confident smirk curling across his face. ‘How am I doing so far?’
‘Agency?’ Ritchie guessed, his tone suggesting that, far from scaring him off, Clarke had only succeeded in further arousing his interest.
‘That’s right,’ Tom nodded, realising now that Ritchie’s stiff-shouldered demeanour and calculating gaze probably betrayed a military background. Possibly special forces. ‘You?’
‘Army intelligence,’ he said with a grin. ‘Back when we didn’t just do what the Yanks told us.’
Clarke looked on unsmilingly as the other three men laughed.
‘So you don’t agree that this was opportunistic?’ asked Ritchie.
Tom shook his head. ‘The people who did this knew exactly what they were here for.’
‘You don’t know that,’ Clarke objected.
‘Opportunistic is settling for the Rembrandt or the Holbein nearer the entrance, not deliberately targeting the da Vinci,’ Tom retorted, sensing Clarke flinch every time he moved too suddenly.
‘Do you think they’ll try and sell it?’ Ritchie pressed.
‘Not on the open market. It’s too hot. But then that was never the plan. Best case they’ll lie low for a few months before making contact and asking for a ransom. That way your insurers avoid paying out full value and you get your painting back. It’s what some people say the National Gallery in London had to do to get their two Turners returned, although they called it a finder’s fee.’
‘And worst case?’ Ritchie asked with a glum frown.
‘If you don’t hear from them in the next twelve months, then chances are it’s been taken as collateral for a drugs or arms deal. It’ll take seven years for it to work its way through the system to a point where someone will be willing to make contact again. The timings run like clockwork. But I don’t think that’s what’s happened here.’
‘You’re just making this up,’ Clarke snorted with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘You don’t know anything about this job or who pulled it.’
Tom shrugged.
‘Four man team, right?’
‘Maybe.’ Clarke gave an uncertain nod.
‘I’d guess two on the inside and two on the outside – a lookout and a driver. The getaway car was probably stolen last night. Something small and fast. Most likely white or red so it wouldn’t stand out.’
‘A white VW,’ Ritchie confirmed, his obvious surprise giving way to an irritated frown as he turned to Clarke. ‘I thought we’d agreed not to release any details yet?’
‘We haven’t,’ Clarke spluttered.
‘I know because it’s his usual MO,’ Tom reassured him.
‘Whose?’
‘His name is Ludovic Royal,’ Tom explained. He’s known in the business as Milo. French, although he would argue he’s Corsican. Turned to art theft after five years in the Foreign Legion and another ten fighting in West Africa for whoever could afford him. He’s ruthless and he’s one of the best.’
‘Why’s he called Milo?’
‘Back when he first got started a client, some Syrian dealer, stiffed him on a deal. Milo hacked both the guy’s arms off, one at the elbow, the other at the shoulder, and left him to bleed to death. When the photos leaked to the local press in Damascus they dubbed it the Venus de Milo killing. The name stuck.’
‘And that’s who you think did this?’ Ritchie sounded sceptical.
‘It’s too early to say,’ Clarke intervened.
‘Have you found the gambling chip yet?’ Tom asked. ‘It’s a small mother-of-pearl disc about this big, with the letter M inlaid in ebony.’
Clarke glared furiously at Dorling. ‘What else have you told him?’
‘Nothing,’ Dorling insisted.
‘I don’t care who’s told who what,’ Ritchie said firmly. ‘I just want to know what it means.’
‘Milo likes to autograph his scores,’ Tom explained. ‘It lets the rest of us know how good he is.’
‘The gambling chip is his symbol,’ Dorling confirmed. ‘They’re pretty common in the art underworld,’ he paused, deliberately avoiding Tom’s gaze. ‘Tom’s was a black cat, you know, like the cartoon character. That’s why they used to call him Felix.’
Ritchie nodded slowly, as if this last piece of information had somehow confirmed a decision that had been forming in his mind.
‘What do you know about the painting?’ he asked.
‘I know it’s small, about nineteen inches long and fifteen wide, so it won’t be hard to smuggle out of the country,’ Tom began. ‘I know it was painted between 1500 and 1510 and that a total of eleven copies were produced by da Vinci’s workshop. Yours was the original.’
‘What about its subject matter?’ Ritchie pressed.
‘Who cares?’ Clarke huffed impatiently.
‘It shows the Madonna pulling the infant Jesus away from a yarnwinder, a wooden tool used for winding wool,’ Tom replied, ignoring him. ‘It’s meant to symbolise the cross and the fact that even her love cannot save him from the Passion.’
‘Some of the copies even have a small cross bar on the yarnwinder to make the reference to the crucifixion more explicit,’ Ritchie confirmed with a nod. Then he paused, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to continue.
‘Is there something else?’ Tom ventured.
‘You tell me,’ Ritchie said with a shrug, pointing to his right.
The forensic team had shifted to one side and Tom could now see the panelled wall where the painting had hung between two other works. But instead of an empty space, something seemed to have been fixed there. Something small and black.
‘They found the gambling chip you described in its mouth,’ Ritchie explained, earning himself a reproachful glare from Clarke.
‘In what’s mouth?’ Tom breathed.
He stepped closer, his heart beating apprehensively as the shape slowly came into focus.
He could see a head, legs and a long black tail. He could see a small pink tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth. He could see trails of dried blood where it had been nailed to the wall and a pool of sticky dark liquid on the top of the display case beneath it rendered a translucent pink by the light shining through the glass.
It was a cat. A crucified cat.
He glanced sharply at Dorling who gave him a telling nod.
‘I told you he’d left you something, Felix.’
The free sample has ended.
