DEADLY LANDSCAPE

STUART DOUGHTY

Copyright © 2025 Stuart Doughty

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, companies, places, events and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

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Author's Note

Stuart Doughty is a British writer. Spelling and grammar usage in this book follow UK English conventions.

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Chapter 1

“He says if he can find him, he’ll kill him.”

It was my half-sister Giselle, though she preferred to be known simply as G. She was on the phone from New York City, talking about her boss.

“I hope you advised him killing an art dealer wasn’t strictly legal,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah, but he goes on about the fraud every day. How he was conned. I can’t get on with my work and he’s neglecting his own. People are noticing.”

“Hasn’t he gone to the police?”

“Of course, but…”

“…They weren’t interested.” I interrupted.

“How did you know?” G said.

“A little art fraud is outranked by serial killings, school shootings, drug cartels, attacks on the President…”

“It’s not a little fraud. He’s lost millions.” It sounded like G carried a torch for this guy. She’d first mentioned this fraud a couple of months earlier, in a casual way. I’d been equally casual and done zilch about it.

“How much does your boss earn at the bank? Couple of million a year? If he’s been shafted by a guy running a gallery for people with too much money who know nothing about art, then the cops will log it, and forget it.”

“They were interested to begin with,” said G.

“Your boss has influence, he made a noise…”

“Then the cops checked the dealer’s name which Nash gave them, found it was an alias and lost interest.” G sounded exasperated.

“Nash? That’s your boss? What’s his first name?”

“That is his first name. Nash Vitucci, Vice-President for Fraud, Security and Compliance.”

“His title must have caused a few smiles at the precinct. Shame he wasn’t VP for something else.”

“With banking fraud he’s ace. But with art he’s a no-hoper. Please, Kite, won’t you help? He knows what you do. He’s really desperate. Can’t you come over and get him out of my hair?” Sounded like it was her boss she was exasperated with. Maybe no torch-carrying after all.

“There’s a PR shindig tonight, when MacIver’s introducing me to a new client. This guy sounds desperate too. And he’s three thousand miles closer.”

G sighed theatrically and put on a pained voice. “What am I going to do?”

“Get a job in London instead of New York City?”

“I like it here.”

My phone beeped. “Hang on G. Incoming call.” I looked at the screen. “It’s Gus Lamport. I’ll call him back.”

“Your art expert guy?” G said.

“Yeah. A restorer. Was a picture dealer for a while. Look, about your VP’s fraud case, why doesn’t he call Hudson Cassoni in LA? He’ll sort him out. Particularly if Nash offers a good fee.”

“Can you send me his details?”

“Sure…” I broke off again as the office landline rang. “Hang on again, G.” I walked across the room to the desk where the phone sat, picked it up. But the caller was impatient. All I heard was the sound of disconnection. Then my phone beeped once more. Gus again.

I put G on hold and answered Gus’s call. But it was Gus as I’d never heard him before. He was panting, gasping, sounding terrified, his voice a hoarse whisper. “There’s… there’s…” He couldn’t get any words out.

“Are you alright?” I said. Gus is in his seventies. Was he having a heart attack?

“I think… I think someone’s come to get me…” Gus said.

I would have laughed. The idea of Gus being ‘got’ was ridiculous. Yet he was clearly panicking.

“I’ve discovered something… I was going to tell you… when I had more evidence...”

“Evidence of what?”

There was a stifled shriek from Gus. I heard the sound of an interior door being kicked open and the splintering crash of an object falling to the floor. I had a mental image of a fine piece of Murano glass Gus was especially fond of.

“Have you called the police?”

“Thought you’d be quicker…” Another gasp from Gus and he shouted to the intruder, “I’m on the phone to the police. Get out…” Gus was moving around the room. I heard the sound of him grabbing something. A gasp as he threw it, the crash of porcelain as it hit the floor. Then a metallic sound. A poker from the open fire in his room. He was fighting back. I heard the sound of blows. An angry cry from the intruder. Then Gus’s phone dropped with a clunk and, through it, I heard sounds of a struggle, objects crashing to the floor, the thump of blows to the body and cries of pain. Then two gunshots, followed by the tinkling of breaking glass, and a final sound which I feared was Gus collapsing to join his phone on the floor.

“Gus? Gus?” I called into the phone.

No response from him. Only the sound of fast retreating footsteps.

For a second, I was motionless. I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. Why would anyone attack an elderly, defenceless, art restorer in his own home?

Then I was moving. Fast.

I ran from the office towards the elevators, telling G, who was still waiting on hold, that I’d call her back. The elevators were both on the ground floor so I took the stairs. I did the eleven floors to reception in eighty seconds, leaping down two steps at a time. I ran through the hallway at top speed, Roisin on the front desk looked up concerned, and called out “Mr Kite? You OK?” I said nothing and charged out to the street.

My car was in an underground park a third of a mile away.

As I ran, I called my friend Liam Bolt at Scotland Yard, recently promoted to Detective Chief Inspector. He’d complained that promotion meant he was tied to a desk, but for me that was an upside. I gave him Gus’s address and the bare bones of what I’d heard on the phone.

Less than five minutes after leaving the office I was starting the car, then squealing, too fast, up the concrete ramps of the car park. Gus had an apartment over his workshop, living in the inner city street where he had been for half his life. Only three miles away. I hurtled on to the street.

Which was where everything slowed down.

A truck was delivering a large piece of steelwork to a construction site and the road was temporarily blocked. Traffic was at a standstill and a U-turn was the only option. The medieval street pattern of the City of London wasn’t built for such manoeuvres. Wrenching the wheel to full lock and back four times got me round, and in those seconds I had already planned an alternative route to Gus’s in my head. It was a mile further, but hopefully quicker. I tell people who won’t believe I never use GPS or satnav that I have a similar system implanted in my brain. And I get a curious look in return. In truth, my ability with directions and geography is simply a gift. More useful to me than gifts others have. Like, say, being able to recite to a million decimal places.

The new route involved over twenty left turns and right turns – crazy over such a short distance – but the roads were clear.

As I approached Gus’s home and workshop, I saw flashing blue lights. Parked outside were an ambulance, and a police Armed Response Vehicle.

Gus was alive, although unconscious. He had gashes on his face, blood was trickling from his mouth where he’d been punched, but the main damage was to his body where he’d been shot twice. Broken china littered the floor, a small table was upturned, an old iron sword he used to tend his open fire lay next to it. He had put up a good fight. I knelt beside him by the glass fragments from his Murano vase. The paramedics were giving him oxygen, had fitted an IV line and were doing their best to staunch bleeding from his chest.

“Gus…? Gus…?” I said. “You’ll be OK. Hold on.”

Conventional words. Inadequate words, and not necessarily true. I caught one of the paramedics eyes and his look was not optimistic. Nevertheless, feeling the need to do something, I put my hand on Gus’s arm and gave it a squeeze. There was no response. His eyes remained closed.

Outside, more sirens, and two vehicles stopped as the ambulance crew lifted Gus from the floor.

“Should I come with you?” I said, not sure what to do.

“I’d wait, if I were you,” one of the paramedics said.

I followed them out and saw Liam Bolt had arrived with one of his Detective Sergeants, with two local uniforms.

“Bad?” said Liam, hurrying towards me.

“I think so,” I said and wrinkled my nose. “God knows what he’s got involved in.”

“Dangerous business this art game,” said Liam to his sergeant, who thought Liam was joking and smiled. Liam gave him a sharp look and growled back, “If you don’t believe me, ask ex-DI Kite here.”

Inside, the ARV officers reported that the intruder was no longer on the premises, no weapon had been found and their preliminary search had found no cartridge cases. They departed to continue their patrol. Liam and his sergeant put on plastic gloves and began to examine the scene. Gus was never hot on security, in spite of the valuable paintings he often had on the premises as part of his restoration business. The attacker had forced the lock of the street door, then smashed down the door into Gus’s living quarters.

“Not subtle,” was all Liam said as he looked at the splintered woodwork.

“But robbery wasn’t what brought them here,” I said. Gus’s workshop did have good security: a padlocked steel gate over the inner wooden door. All remained locked and the key still hung on its usual hook. I put my own plastic gloves on, took the key and opened the workshop. I led Liam inside and pointed out the John Singer Sargent oil painting, which Gus had mentioned to me the previous week, still safe on his easel.

“Valuable?” said Liam.

“Half a million. Maybe more.” I breathed out heavily. “It’s inexplicable. Incredible. Why was he attacked?”

Liam nodded and sat on the swivel chair that faced Gus’s work bench, turned it round to face me and said, “You know the questions I should ask as well as I do. What do you think are the answers?”

I gave him a wry grin, even though I was feeling far from jolly. “You want to save your breath?”

“Save time,” he said, taking out a pen and notebook. “At dictation speed, please.”

I took a breath. Then I began. “Did he have any enemies? None that I know of. He stopped working as a dealer many years ago. He was a long way from all lies, cons and half-truths which are part of the art trade. He lived on his pension, plus the income from his restoration business, which was small scale.”

Liam looked up and opened his mouth.

I got in first. “You’re going to ask if he could have done something to make his attacker feel aggrieved.”

Liam nodded, pen poised again, and suggested, “Misled somebody about a picture, by mistake? Damaged something he was working on?”

“Highly unlikely. He was an expert. He knew what he was doing and he was honest. He only handled pictures with undisputed provenance. He wouldn’t work on anything which wasn’t right.”

“You mean dodgy? Stolen? Fake?”

“Exactly. He was scrupulous to avoid that kind of stuff.” I paused a moment. Liam made another note and looked up. I continued. “Away from his business, I don’t think he had any personal enemies. He was gay, had some long-term partners in the past, but none I knew of in recent years. He lived a quiet life.” I paused.

“Did he…?”

“Did he give any clue to the attacker? No, neither on the phone nor when I got here, I spoke to him but he said nothing. Not a thing.”

“Well, that’s one less thing to worry about,” Liam could always be sardonic.

I glanced at him, with a frown, not understanding.

“You know how in films or books those victim’s final words are always so puzzling. More of a hindrance than a help. ‘Why didn’t they ask Evans?’ That was one of Agatha Christie’s.” Liam paused. I gave him a look. He went on, “‘I think I could eat one of Bellamy’s meat pies’.”

“What?”

“They were the last words of William Pitt. Nineteenth century Prime Minister. Must have surprised everyone.”

Including me. Was Liam trying to cheer me up? “Gus isn’t dead yet.”

“No, of course not. Sorry. Do you want to get over to the hospital? See how he is?”

I nodded. “One more thing before I go. On the phone, he said, ‘I’ve discovered something.’ Those were his words. He said he was going to tell me, when he had more evidence. I’ve no idea what he meant.”

Liam wrote this down and closed his notebook. “We’ll give his place a thorough going-over. I’ll let you know what we find.” He paused. “And give me a call if… I mean, whenever he can talk.”

In TV dramas and movies, anxious relatives waiting in hospitals can always manage to find a seat close to the action. Then, when a surgeon comes out of the operating theatre, removing their mask, a bead of perspiration on their brow, the relative can stand up and the doctor can engage immediately, telling the mother or father that it was touch and go, however, they could relax, because little Johnny or young Mary was going to be all right.

In real life, things are less perfectly organised. Surgery and treatment are seldom carried out close to waiting relatives, and seats are in short supply.

“Oh, yes, shooting victim,” said a charge nurse in a quiet voice after looking at Gus’s details on screen. Then he told me to wait in the corridor. When there was any news, someone would come to find me.

Those waiting to be treated had the first call on seating. I wandered to a less busy area, found a space near a window, leaned against the wall and stared blankly at the opposite side of the corridor. The walls were painted a pleasing shade of deep blue. The colour of the sky on a fine morning in summer. It was only a cloudy April afternoon and already the dull light outside was fading.

I was gobsmacked by the attack on Gus. So discombobulated I didn’t know what to think. I couldn’t imagine he had a dark secret in his past, over which someone wanted revenge or retribution. I couldn’t imagine he was involved in a high-stakes dispute or argument. I couldn’t imagine he had offended or injured someone so badly they wanted to kill him. Gus was gentlemanly, mild-mannered, staunch in his opinions though never argumentative. Not a person to pick a fight. The opposite of Nash Vitucci, G’s boss in New York, whose pompous, self-inflating threat was alien to Gus’s world.

Time passed. Doctors, nurses, patients came and went. My mind remained numb. Devoid of useful thoughts or ideas.

I wished Gus had managed to say something before he was brought to the hospital. However puzzling the words, it would be something to wrestle with and occupy my mind.

“I think I could eat one of Bellamy’s meat pies.” Liam had said they were the final, bizarre words of Pitt, one of Britain’s early Prime Ministers. Surely it couldn’t be true.

I got out my phone and looked it up. To my amazement, Liam was right. No less a source than the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations gave the quote. Though it listed another version of his deathbed words too, more appropriate for a statesman, about loving his country. The Bellamy’s pie quote was labelled ‘attributed’. And when I looked again I saw Liam hadn’t got the words right either. The Dictionary gave: ‘one of Bellamy’s veal pies’.

I smiled to myself.

Then a voice along the corridor called out, “Mr Kite?”

I turned and went to the doctor who was standing there, some medical notes in his hand, though without a mask or bead of perspiration. Dr Chandrasekar was his name.

He explained Gus had suffered very serious wounds to his chest and, they suspected, a minor heart attack brought on by the shock of the attack. He was being given the best possible care though the outcome wasn’t certain. The doctor talked about the left ventricle, the aorta, blood pressure, heart rate, damage to internal organs. He talked quickly and was trying to be as informative and communicative as possible, and full marks for that, but anatomy and human biology were never my strong subjects. As long as my body works OK, I’m not too bothered about how everything fits together inside me. I nodded as the doctor piled detail on detail, yet I wasn’t really following.

What I did understand clearly was Gus’s condition was critical.

Eventually Dr Chandrasekar stopped, gave me a weak smile and said, “Any questions?”

There was only one. The obvious one, which he had avoided.

“Well… what are his chances?”

Chandrasekar hesitated. He was better on detail than speculation.

“He’s an old man, quite weak, we had to restart his heart after it stopped and …”

“Fifty-fifty?” I said.

He shook his head. “I don’t like to put odds on outcomes,” he said

Chapter 2

My phone rang. It was MacIver.

“Just checking you’re still OK for this evening,” she said in her deceptively cosy-sounding Highland accent. “Mr Michael Sissons, the new client I mentioned, is coming. Seems he’s a friend of the Managing Director. Naturally the MD wants to meet you too, show you off as part of the services we can offer. So, put a tie on if you would.”

For a moment, I said nothing.

“Kite? Are you there?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“Did the mention of a tie put you off?” She chuckled.

“No. Of course not. My mind was elsewhere… I’m at a hospital…”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” And I explained about Gus. MacIver was sympathetic, as she usually was when personal problems arose.

“If you want to stay at the hospital, the MD will understand…”

“There’s nothing I can do here. And I think… well, the prognosis is not good.”

I went home to change putting on a dark suit to go with the requested tie. Then I got the Underground back into town. The reception was basically a PR affair to promote Maskelyne Global, the company for which Fiona MacIver worked, and for which I freelanced. The focus was on the company’s Custom Insurance Division, in other words specialist insurance for antiques, museum collections, rare automobiles, historic buildings, wines and spirits and, of course, art. Which was why I had been summoned. The company’s top brass would be on parade, along with major existing customers, as well as prospects for wealthy new customers whom the marketing department had been warming up.

The event was given added gloss by being held in the central atrium of the Tate Britain Gallery.

I left the Underground at Pimlico station, only a quarter-mile from the Tate. As I approached the gallery entrance a sleek, high-end Mercedes swept in behind three taxis which were setting down guests for the reception. A handsome man of about my age, though noticeably taller, got out of the Mercedes and waved his thanks to the suited chauffeur, who turned back into the stream of traffic, and drove away along Millbank. The man had distinctive curly blond hair, and wore a three-piece suit in a bright Mediterranean blue with a lemon tie and matching silk square in his top pocket.

If his hair and height didn’t do the trick, the suit would certainly make him stand out from the crowd. As would the prominent diamond stud in one of his ears. Too big to be real? It sparkled convincingly enough.

We found ourselves walking up the steps to the gallery side by side. He turned to me, hand outstretched, a big salesman’s smile on his face.

“Hi, you from Maskelyne Global?”

“Attached to them, though I’m freelance,” I said, shaking his hand. His grip was firm, there were gold rings on his fingers, his skin was smooth and tanned. “You’re a collector, I guess?”

He grinned. “Can’t afford to collect. I’m a dealer. Looking for fresh meat, as it were.” My face must have shown surprise because he went on quickly, “No, only joking. It was good of your employer – sorry, occasional employer – to ask dealers along too. We’ll make the collectors feel at home among you insurance types.” He laughed and we swapped business cards.

He was called Oscar Fitzroy with a gallery in West London.

Looking at my card, he exclaimed boisterously, “An investigator!”  A couple of heads turned among others going into the gallery. “Which I guess means you were once a copper?”

I nodded. “Detective Inspector.”

“Does insurance pay better?”

“All I know about insurance is that me recovering a stolen picture can be less expensive than the insurance payout would be, if it were not found.”

“You save your firm money. So they can keep the premiums as low as possible.” He laughed satirically. “If only.”

We were inside the gallery now and waiting in line to be checked in. At the entrance, a handsome young pair, one male, one female, checked in guests on iPads, which they carried slung over their shoulders, then pinned on name badges. The greeters were barely out of school and looked at first like brother and sister. Both were identically dressed in black, with a similar elfin appearance and an other-worldly, almost android, demeanour. They had to be out of work models.

Oscar Fitzroy waved me to go ahead of him, as he hung back to talk to a man of similar age who had the same plummy accent and private school self-assurance as he had.

I was checked in, my name badge pinned on, I took a glass of wine from a server’s tray and moved into the atrium, where there was a throng of perhaps a hundred and fifty people. And even a photographer taking shots of the guests.

My work for Maskelyne Global brought me into contact with only a handful of company staff so I was pleased to bump into Clark Munday and his partner Roisin. Clark was the firm’s IT guru and technical investigator of bogus insurance claims. He’d also been a life-saver for me on a number of occasions. I don’t mean physically. Clark never left the office, but his network of databases and speed of online research provided answers that sometimes the police couldn’t match.

Since I’d never previously seen him out of a T-shirt, tonight was a surprise. He was smartly groomed and wearing a white shirt and tie under a dapper suit which had a nineteen-fifties vibe.

“Got it from a charity shop,” Roisin said when I commented. “Pure wool, Savile Row label.”

“Usefully large inside pockets, too,” said Clark, giving a discreet look around, before opening the jacket, grinning, and showing me what was secreted inside. Slotted in a pocket was a high quality recording device.

“There are a couple of serial high-value claimants here tonight, and I’ve been trying to pin something on them for a while. If I can get chatting, I might record something useful to reject their next attempted scam.”

“He never stops,” said Roisin raising her eyebrows. “I told him MacIver should give him a percentage on claims he proves are fake.”

Clarke smiled and put an arm round her. “Then I could buy you something like that woman’s wearing.” He nodded towards a woman in a long dress in a silky material, which cleaved to her shapely body. Its silvery colour stood out brightly against the greys, browns, blacks and occasional scarlets of other female attire. The dress had a plunging neckline and one of those slits at the side, from hem to thigh.

“Stunning,” I said. “Would suit you, Roisin.”

Roisin laughed. “In my dreams. Who is she?”

Neither Clark nor I had any idea.

As we chatted, we watched the woman move between guests, talking to everybody she met, with a fixed smile on her lips and her eyes wide and glittering. All those she spoke to – both men and women – looked impressed by her radiance and by the attention she gave them. Before she moved on, air kisses were exchanged, hands touched a shoulder, numbers were noted on phones.

“Don’t gawp at her,” said Roisin.

“She’s working the room,” I said.

“Yeah. Selling something,” said Clark.

“Let’s hope it’s not herself,” said Roisin. Clark and I gave her a look. Bitchiness wasn’t one of her usual foibles. Clark’s eyes and mine turned back to the woman in the silver dress. Even in jeans, T-shirt, and no make-up she would turn heads. In the normally staid world of insurance, she was a like a visitor from the Oscars.

“Oh-oh,” said Clark. “She’s coming this way. I think we’ll circulate.” Clark smiled and patted his chest pocket.

“Watch out, Mr Kite. She looks dangerous. And that dress certainly means trouble,” said Roisin with an impish smile, as she and Clark moved away. Several years of working the front desk at Maskelyne Global had given Roisin the ability to make instant judgements of strangers. And her accuracy rate was remarkable.

Behind me, I heard the gentle clearing of a throat, followed by “Mr John Kite?” I turned. She beamed a smile and pointed to the name badge on my lapel. “Ah, yes! I’m right. Sorry to interrupt. Have you a moment to talk? My name’s Venetia Lord.” She held out a hand and we shook.

She was in her middle or late thirties, perfect skin, sparkling eyes that stayed fixed on you, never straying over your shoulder to scope out the room. Round her neck was a string of large shimmering pearls. Too perfect to be real? They glowed as if the oysters had made them specially for her.

She seemed keen to talk to me. She was talking to me. She had been for several seconds, yet I had taken nothing in. As with the doctor at the hospital, my brain was elsewhere, thinking about Gus, hoping Liam Bolt would come up with some leads, still raking through my memory for any hint as to why he’d been attacked.

I clicked back into listening mode without, I hope, making it apparent I’d been distracted. The woman had an American accent – only a slight one, as if she’d spent many years elsewhere –  and she ran an art gallery in California. She was talking about the level of crime in the art market.

It was time for me to say something. “Problem is the art market’s always been unregulated. Have you had problems yourself with fakes or fraud?” I wanted to add her name to the end of the sentence, yet, filled with thoughts of Gus, my mind had not retained the name she’d given when we shook hands. I looked at the woman’s clothing for her name badge. I could see none.

“The gallery hasn’t, but some of our clients have. Fakes, fraud and outright theft. I heard you have a great track record for sorting out these things.”

“I do my best, but I can only affect a tiny fraction of all the bad business that goes on.”

“I think you underestimate your talents, Mr Kite.” She gave me a winning smile. “I’m sure the work you do saves your company millions of pounds in payouts.”

“Is your gallery’s stock insured with Maskelyne Global?”

“Not at the moment, though I could easily be persuaded,” she said.

“There are plenty of execs here who’d love to write you a policy.”

“I have no doubt.”  She took a step nearer to me, put a hand on my shoulder as I had seen her do with others, and whispered into my ear in a conspiratorial fashion. “Actually, I’m here for two reasons. I want to get some business for myself. All these rich corporate folk need some of my art in their offices to impress their clients. I’m looking for investors.” She smiled, took a step back, gave another million dollar smile,  and handed me her business card.

“Well, good luck with that,” I said. “And please pass my name on to any of your clients who need an investigator.” I handed her my business card. “By the way, what happened to your name badge?”

She smiled a big smile. “The plastic clip broke.” She spread her hands and gave a ‘doh!’ expression.

Or maybe the couple at the door couldn’t find anywhere suitable to pin the badge.

I glanced at her card. Venetia Lord. How could I have forgotten a name like that? “Were you named after where you were born, Venetia?” I said.

“Absolutely,” she said, her eyes wide and sparkling. “Though it may not be the place you’re thinking of.” She beamed another smile.

“I was thinking of Venice Beach, California. In the city of Los Angeles. Not far from your gallery in Beverly Hills.”

She was a little surprised. “And you’re dead right,” she said with a surprised chuckle. She put a hand out and squeezed my arm as if to congratulate me. “Most Europeans think of Venice, Italy of course. You been to Venice Beach?”

I shook my head. “It’s just… I know places.” I looked behind Venetia and saw MacIver approaching with a middle-aged man. “My boss is coming over,” I said. “If you’ll excuse me. She and I need to talk shop.”

“Oh… exciting!” she said, looking gleeful, as if I’d announced we were going on an exotic holiday. She grabbed my hand and shook it vigorously. “See you around.” And she departed with a little wave.

MacIver introduced me to Michael Sissons, a man with a permanent frown, and an irritable look. His eyes darted everywhere, his feet shuffled about, he constantly checked the time, or his phone. His restlessness, I thought, was a symptom of pent-up aggression.

He also had a dubious sense of humour.

“Lovely dress that lady’s almost wearing,” he said as he glanced at the departing Venetia Lord. Not embarrassed by the old joke, he grinned at me, which caused MacIver to raise her eyebrows in annoyance.

“Aye, well, let’s get to business, Mr Sissons. This is John Kite, our investigator. Perhaps you could tell him what’s happened.”

Sissons’ impatient, agitated character made his story disjointed, with diversions, dead ends, circumlocutions and multiple expletives. I’ll give you an edited version.

Sissons had taken early retirement from his directorship of an international company, which gave him a generous severance payment as well as a lifetime pension. At the same time an inheritance from a distant relative brought in a substantial sum. He decided to invest in some art. He was recommended to a dealer, a man with a posh accent, a public school education and a degree in the History of Art from Oxford. Sissons then agreed to pay £1.4 million for a Turner oil of the seafront of Margate in Kent. A place which Sissons remembered from the biopic of J.M.W. Turner’s life. It was the town the painter visited regularly because his mistress lived there. Sissons paid the money and insured the painting with Maskelyne Global. The insurers required an independent valuation and (purely by coincidence) the valuation had been done by Gus Lamport. Gus, knowledgeable and shrewd, had reservations about the picture, and called for a second opinion. Both experts agreed the picture was not by Turner, but by a contemporary artist, nor was it a picture of Margate, it was of Folkestone, a nearby Kentish sea resort.

“You’ve complained to the dealer?” I said.

“Many times,” said Sissons. “On the phone, by email, and a letter from my solicitor threatening action. The dealer says it’s genuine.”

“No surprise,” I said.

“Flat denial of what the experts say. They refuse to accept any fault. They have invoices and receipts for the sale of the picture from other dealers, which describe it as a Turner.”

“Paperwork can be forged. Have you spoken to the police?”

“Waste of time, I thought. They’ll say it was an artistic disagreement. A difference of interpretation.”

“Or a case of buyer beware.” My tone was firm, negative.

“Caveat emptor. Yeah, I know the phrase,” said Sissons. “Flaming hell, you can’t expect me to be a bloody art expert. All I wanted was a picture to hang on the wall that looked pretty and would make me some money. I don’t want to go to court over this, make lawyers even richer. Can’t you do something? Put the squeeze on the dealer? Make him give the money back? Eh?” He was getting loud. Heads were turning.

“How do you see us getting involved, Mr Sissons?” put in MacIver, with a genial smile. “Have you any evidence the dealer was lying when he sold you the picture? Is he purposely selling paintings under false pretences?” In spite of MacIver’s smile, I got the impression the prospective new client was disappointing her.

Sissons frowned, and looked pained. “No evidence, no, that’s down to you guys. I work on hunches and my hunches are usually right.”

“You had a hunch the dealer was lying?”

“Well not before I bought the picture, obviously. That’d be daft, wouldn’t it?”

“But now you do?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“What made you think that. Apart from the experts’ evaluations?”

Sissons struggled to answer.

MacIver filled the gap. “Mr Kite would be happy to check the dealer out.” She gave me a bland smile. “Wouldn’t you, John?”

“Of course.” I nodded back, with an equal lack of enthusiasm.

“If Mr Kite finds anything suspicious, we can pass the evidence to the police.”

“And get my money back?”

“That would require a court case,” said MacIver.

Sissons was not pleased. “Why can’t you…” He waved his hands around trying to find the right words.

“Have a word with the dealer? It would need more than that,” I said.

“Like what? Smash his windows? Trash his shop? Break some bones? I’ve got some friends who are useful with their fists.”

MacIver rushed in, alarmed. “Mr Sissons, we’re a two-hundred-year-old insurance company in London, not enforcers for the Godfather in Little Italy.”

“There’s as much crime going on. Just a different sort. Look at all those West End properties bought by Russian gangsters to launder their cash.”

“We’re straying from the point,” said MacIver. “Tell us the dealer’s name, and we’ll see what we can do.” I could tell MacIver wanted to end the interview.

Sissons pulled a folded letterhead from an inner pocket and handed it to MacIver, who passed it to me. The letterhead was thick paper, expensively embossed with a plush address.

“Piers Scott-Harrod,” said Sissons. “His gallery is in Holland Park and he says he is, or claims to be, a descendant of the Harrod who started the Knightsbridge store.”

“You’ve a hunch he was lying?” I said.

“I have now. Yeah. Though he came across as a really nice guy. Cracked some good jokes. Spoke well, had some beautiful clothes. We talked about tailors, in fact.”

“How old is he?”

“Umm… Younger than me. Bit younger than you probably.” Sissons scanned around the room, searching for someone of comparable age. “About the same as that chap over there. The one with the … My God. That’s actually him. The one in the blue suit with blond hair.”

I turned to look. It was Oscar Fitzroy, the man I met outside with the diamond in his ear and the chauffeur-driven Mercedes.

“Oi! You! Harrod…!” shouted Sissons.

Oscar Fitzroy turned towards us, then moved away from those he was talking to and made for the door.

I was already heading towards him. A waiter with a tray of canapes moved in front of me. I dodged round him, but the room was crowded. I was torn between wanting to pursue the man Sissons identified, and not wishing to cause an embarrassing disruption by shoving guests out of the way. I weaved left and right between an animated group of five, a tight knot of four and a circle of seven listening to a mini-lecture from a Maskelyne Global PR.

Ahead of me, Oscar Fitzroy –  or dealer Piers Scott-Harrod – was approaching the door. Fewer people there, and he was moving faster than me. I kept my eyes on him as I jinked right to dodge another waiter filling wine glasses, then veered left to evade a large man who had sampled too much hospitality and was swaying towards the toilets. Then, seeing a gap between bodies, I surged forwards, my eyes pinned on the blond man in the blue suit looking over his shoulder as he went through the door…. and I barged straight into the glamorous Venetia Lord.

She gave a shriek of surprise, stumbled a little, and dropped her wine glass which smashed on the floor. I reached out to help her and she grabbed my arm to steady herself.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, looking towards the door where Scott-Harrod had vanished.

“Mr Kite, we meet again…”

“Many apologies I was… looking for someone. Are you alright?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for asking.”

She was still holding on to my arm, and I gently disengaged her grip.

“Excuse me…” I pointed vaguely to the door. “Have to go.” I smiled and left her standing there.

“We’ll catch up later,” she said as I disappeared through the door.

In the corridor, there was no sign of the blond man. I hurried to the stairs and ran down to the foyer. He wasn’t there. I ran out to the street where a few people were waiting for taxis. My hard-to-miss target wasn’t among them. No one in either direction resembled him.

I sprinted to the first side street. There was steady traffic but no blond haired pedestrian. I sped on to the next side street, Ponsonby Place, where the traffic is one-way in the wrong direction for someone trying to escape from the Tate Gallery. Again, no blond men, no blue suits. On the corner of Ponsonby Place is a pub, The Morpeth Arms. I burst in there at speed, and my dramatic entrance startled some of the customers and brought a momentary lull in conversation. I smiled, and nodded apologies to the barman and others. I walked briskly through the pub and once again there was no sign of my quarry, not even in the Gents toilet. I left the pub by its back entrance and crossed over the main road towards the river, wondering if he could have got away by boat. I looked over the embankment wall at Millbank Pier where lights showed the boat service was still operating, though no vessel was in sight either upstream or down.

Was that smart chauffeured car waiting for him? A lucky fluke with a taxi? Hidden somewhere in the Gallery till he saw me chase through, then slip out behind me? However it was done, it was a class disappearing act.

Frustrated, I walked back into the reception where the shards from Venetia’s broken glass were being swept up. I asked the man with the brush, “The lady I crashed into, who dropped her glass. Did you see where she went?”

“I think she left, sir.”

I let the man get on with his work and pulled out the card Venetia had given me. She was a similar age to Scott-Harrod, or Fitzroy, with similar eye-catching elegance, similar line of business, and a similar taste for expensive-looking jewellery.

They had to know each other.

More than that.

They had to be working together.

Chapter 3

I took a glass of red wine from a passing server and, before I had a chance to take a sip, my phone rang. The hospital.

Gus had died. He had not regained consciousness, his heart had stopped again and this time the doctors could not restart it.

After expressing their condolences, they asked if I knew Gus’s next of kin. I didn’t. It was strange how often we’d met, yet conversations were always about art, artists, or crime. I had never met any of his family and knew little about his personal life.

The call ended and I took a large gulp of wine, reflecting that Gus had a passion for meaty reds. He would have dismissed what I was drinking as far too thin.

I was young enough not to have experienced before the death of any close friends. My family was small, two grandparents still lived, two had died when I was too young to be aware of what death meant. The deaths which affected me most were those of my parents, both killed by criminals, with probable assistance of a crooked police officer. That had shaken me alright, yet not as much as the discovery, when I was nineteen, that both my parents were criminals themselves. And that bitter knowledge made me hate them, and skewed the impact of their deaths. It’s not in any way that they ‘deserved to die’, of course they didn’t, it was that I already felt distanced from them. As if they had emigrated or, I suppose, been sent to prison.

Gus was innocent in every way. A kind, honest, man who was helpful and generous with his time. The grief I was feeling at that moment was a new and strange emotion for me.

A strident, belligerent voice broke through my reverie.

“Did you catch him, then? Got him behind bars yet?” I turned and saw Michael Sissons was walking towards me with a hopeful look on his face.

His face fell when I told him Scott-Harrod had vanished.

“That bastard needs to be in jail,” he said, wagging a finger, as if it was my fault he wasn’t. I had no inclination to dispute the matter and simply promised to visit the dealer’s gallery as soon as possible. “Piers Scott-Harrod is definitely the name he used?”

Sissons look aggrieved I was doubting what he’d said. “Yes. Exactly as I said. Why do you ask?”

“Have you ever heard the name Oscar Fitzroy?”

“No. Who’s he?”

“The woman in the silver dress, Venetia Lord. Ever seen her before? Maybe at Piers Scott-Harrod’s gallery?”

He shook his head. “No way I’d forget a figure like that. If you’ve made no progress, I’ll be on my way.” He turned to Fiona who was hovering near us. “I’ll be in touch, Ms MacIver,” he said and stalked off, angry that a chance to confront his nemesis had been missed.

Then the Managing Director appeared at MacIver’s side. Fiona introduced me, I shook hands and the three of us chatted for a few minutes. He was complimentary about what I did. Said I was much more than an ‘invisible asset’, and actually saved the firm hard cash each year, by recovering stolen pictures which otherwise would require payouts. I nodded, mumbled some thanks, shrugged a bit, and generally played down my investigative skills. He asked some intelligent questions but, with my mind still on Gus, my answers were too short, too bland and less attention-grabbing than they should have been.

Having spent his allotted few minutes with us, the Managing Director moved away.

Fiona MacIver moved closer, unimpressed by my performance. “You’re not usually reticent, Kite. What turned you so dour? That man Sissons?” I was slow to reply and she saw the reason in my face. “Oh, it’s your friend Gus… He didn’t make it?”

“Afraid not.”

“I’m sorry. I know he was more to you than simply a professional contact.”

I nodded. “We’d become friends.” I paused a beat. “I’m no stranger to the crime of murder, yet the attack on him is totally mystifying. Completely incomprehensible.”

“Take some time off,” MacIver said. “Mr Sissons can wait his turn.”

“No. I must keep working. I must find out why Gus was killed. I owe it to him.” I looked at MacIver, she nodded gently, saying nothing. I looked around, not sure what to say or do next. Then a thought struck. “I should tell Clark about it. He knew Gus. Where is he?”

“Roisin wasn’t feeling well and left. Are you sure you don’t want a few days off?”

“No, I’m fine. And I need to start on Sissons’ case. It’s more complex than a problem with a crooked dealer. Scott-Harrod has an alias and an accomplice. The woman in the silver dress. Venetia Lord, she’s called, though that may not be her real name either.” I looked over to the entrance. “I need to ask the guys on the door a couple of questions.”

“Kite…” MacIver stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Take it easy. Don’t burst a blood vessel… Sorry. That wasn’t a good phrase.”

I waved away her apology. “Don’t worry, and don’t worry about me, Fiona. I’m not losing it. I’m in control. Nevertheless, there’s work to do. And not just with Sissons’ case. I can’t believe Gus’s death was a random murder. There was a purpose behind it and I want to find what it was.”

MacIver’s large, falcon-like eyes were fixed on me. Then she gave a nod of sympathy. “I understand your feelings, Kite, how strong emotion may lead you to imagine…”

“It’s not imagination, Fiona.”

“OK, I’ll say no more. Except… Murder’s a police job, not for us. Take it easy, keep in touch, and stay in control.”

MacIver gave me another smile and moved away to talk to colleagues.

She was right about my strong emotions over Gus’s killing, yet it was cold logic which convinced me there was a whole chain of things to untangle before I could find the reason for his death.

Right now, at the spot where Scott-Harrod or Fitzroy disappeared, I would make a start on Sissons’ case and I searched out the attractive young pair who checked everybody in. They were no longer at the entrance. All that remained of their activity there was a tray on a table with a few unclaimed plastic name tags.

Behind the table was a moveable cloakroom space, where rows of free-standing clothes’ stands on wheeled bases held coats, scarves, umbrellas. Beyond the rain forest of clothing and accessories, I saw the two models – if that’s what they were – sitting close together in a dark corner, each with a large glass of wine.

“Sorry to disturb you…” I said, moving past the Barbours, mackintoshes, and faux furs.

Both looked up. The man unwrapped his arm from around the woman and stood up.

“Want your coat?”

“No. Just a little help. Have you still got your iPads, with the names of the guests?”

They looked at each other, puzzled. “Yeah,” said the young man.

“I’m with the company hosting this event. Could you check a couple of names for me, please?”

They exchanged concerned looks. “What’s this about?” said the man.

“Nothing to worry about. I simply want to find out if someone turned up or not.” I gave them an encouraging smile.

They relaxed a little, and the young woman picked her iPad up from the floor. “Here’s mine, Dario’s is over there. Both of them are synced together.”

“Great. Could you check the name Venetia Lord, please?” I spelled out the first name.

In a few seconds the young woman said, “Not here.”

“Never arrived?”

“No. Not on the guest list.”

“OK. Could you check another, please. Oscar Fitzroy.”

The I-pad bearers gave me another curious look, and Dario raised his eyebrows at the girl. She checked her machine. “Not on the guest list either. They won’t have turned up if they weren’t invited.”

“Fair point,” I said.

“Anyone else?” she said.

“Just one more. Piers Scott-Harrod. Piers is P…”

“I can spell Piers. Is the second name hyphenated?”

“Check both please.”

“Nothing,” she said. “Under either spelling.”

The young man, Dario, had been looking over her shoulder during her searches. “There’s no one called Piers Scott or Piers Harrod. No one called Piers. There are no Oscars either, and no one called Lord. Except for one who’s a real Lord. If you see what I mean.”

“A peer of the realm, yes. Do you remember checking in a woman wearing a long, silvery dress? She was in her thirties. Slight American accent.”

The young woman turned to Dario. “The one showing a lot of boob. You checked her in.”

Dario nodded, turned to me. “I remember her. She wasn’t called anything like you said.”

“OK. Thank you very much for your help,” I said. “Have another glass of wine.”

“I expect we might,” the young woman said, and both of them stared at me as I moved away, mystified by my apparently nonsensical enquiry.

Next I asked around to find who had organised the event and discovered, unsurprisingly, it was a PR company. The firm had not worked for Maskelyne Global before and the person in charge, a woman called Becka Thwaite, was there herself to check everything was running smoothly.

I tracked her down. Flamboyant hair, eye-catching costume jewellery, and vivacious personality, though teamed with a demure black dress in order not to upstage the guests.

“Enjoying the party? How did we do?” were her first words as I introduced myself and she shook my hand vigorously.

“Yes, fine, fine. Very good,” I said

“Marvellous. I’m so pleased. We specialise in music events, film premiers, awards after-parties. So, to be frank, this was a bit staid for us.” She laughed. “But you insurance people seem perfectly normal.” She laughed again and patted my shoulder.

“I’ve come to ask you a favour…” I began.

“Anything, darling. How can I help?”

I explained briefly what I did for the company and how a copy of the guest list would be useful, “for research purposes.”

“I’ve got the guest list on my phone. Shall I send it to you?”

“That would be very kind.”

“No trouble at all, darling.” She tapped at her phone.

“Did you organise the photographer as well?”

“Of course. Pavel has a superb eye, I think. Well worth the expense.”

“Could I possibly…?”

“You’d like some souvenirs?” She paused, gave me a curious look. “Or perhaps for ‘research purposes’, too?”

I smiled. “Let’s call it that.”

Becka’s eyes widened, sparkling with interest. She leaned closer, conspiratorial, and lowered her voice. “Are you chasing a criminal, darling?”

“Not sure yet,” I said.

“Well, let me know the outcome. All my details are on the file. If you catch a villain because of this reception, it’d be a great story. For me, as well as your company. Good luck, darling.”

Later at home, I printed out the guest list and pored over it, trying to track down how Venetia Lord, Oscar Fitzroy and Piers Scott-Harrod had got into the party. It sounds counter-intuitive, yet people often chose aliases with similarities to their real names. Same initials, same sounds. It keeps things simple, helps them remember different identities. With this in mind, I searched for names which bore any resemblance at all to those of the two gallery owners.

I could find none. Not even any anagrams. Several guests were listed as Gallery Owner. None of them had a gallery in Beverly Hills, nor in the same part of London as Scott-Harrod’s.

Were Venetia and Oscar/Piers simply a couple of gate-crashers? Not criminals, but chancers trying their luck to sell art to rich people? Venetia admitted that was a reason for being at the reception. Yet, the couple on the door with their I-Pads seemed efficient enough not to let anyone enter without being on their list. Furthermore, Michael Sissons was adamant he recognised Scott-Harrod. The two dealers had to be on the guest list under different names.

My phone rang. It was G. On speakerphone, with her boss Nash Vitucci at her side. Nash quickly took over the conversation.

“I called your friend Hudson Cassoni as you advised, and he’s real busy at the moment. Said he can’t take on anything else. Said I should persuade you to come out to the States instead. Like because, even if for nothing else, he’d like to catch up with you.”

“That’s nice of him, Mr Vitucci, however…”

“Call me Nash, please.”

“Sure. The trouble is, Nash, I have a case right here in London and also an associate of mine – well, a friend really – died this evening after being attacked.”

“My God, that’s terrible.”

“And also puzzling. He wasn’t a cop or investigator, he was an elderly art expert and restorer. I’m helping the police on that case too, so…”

Nash broke in, not interested in my life. “Could I tell you a little about my problem, please, John, if you’ve a couple of seconds. Though I guess it’s getting late in London…” It was. It was past midnight. “You see why I think you could help me more than Mr Cassoni – great investigator that I’m sure he is – is that one of the criminals involved in my case is English. At least I’m pretty damn sure she is, though I don’t know where she actually lives.”

“She told you she was British?”

“No. She said she was born in the Netherlands. Amsterdam. But she spoke English with what I reckoned was a British accent. Didn’t sound Dutch at all. And she says she has a gallery in London. So if nothing else, I wondered if you’d be kind enough to mosey along to her gallery and check out things for me.”

“What exactly was the problem with the picture you bought from her?”

“She swindled me. Conned me. I blame myself for lack of due diligence but, you know, when you fall in love with a picture it’s hard to resist the temptation to buy it.”

“And hard to resist the sales talk as well.”

“Dead right. She talks the talk alright, this woman. And also … how can I put this without annoying your sister Giselle sitting here…?”

“G’s only my half-sister, Nash, though maybe she could give you a suitably politically-correct description?”

“After Mr Vitucci first met the dealer,” put in G, in her coolest, deadpan voice, “he was colourful in his description of her physical attractiveness, and made reference to certain body parts.”

I chuckled softly. Vitucci roared with laughter.

“And I was rebuked,” he said. “Harshly, and correctly.”

“Then after you’d been… seduced into the deal, what exactly was the con?”

“I agreed to buy, purely as an investment, a one-half share of a picture which was being purchased by the dealer lady for thirty million dollars. I transferred the fifteen million, the picture remained in its security vault, then six months later I discovered by chance this bitch of a dealer had sold three other one-half shares, each for the same fifteen million. She’d raked in sixty million for the picture, twice what it cost. So the value of my share reduces from a half of thirty mill, to a quarter.”

“From fifteen million down to seven point five,” said G. “A loss of fifty per cent.”

“Giselle’s good on figures.” Nash’s tone was ironic and amused, not bitter.

“Have you seen the picture in question? Examined it?”

“No. I’ve only seen high resolution images. The picture is in Switzerland at Geneva Freeport, in one of those warehouses where no sales tax is payable.”

“I know them. So looking at the worst case scenario, it’s possible your artwork is not as described, is a forgery, or maybe doesn’t even exist.”

Nash Vitucci was for once momentarily silent. Then in a low, strained voice said, “Giselle – I mean G – did float that as a conceivable eventuality. The idea kept me awake at nights.”

I thought a moment. I sensed both G and Vitucci were willing me to help. Vitucci because he was used to getting what he wanted, and G because she was inexplicably keen to work with me on an investigation.

“Let me call Hudson,” I said eventually. “See if I can twist his arm.”

“That’d be great, John,” said the bank VP. “And you could check out the London end.” A statement not a question.

G was silent.

“Give me some details, if you would. The woman’s name. The address of the gallery. Anything you’ve got.”

“I’ll leave you with G. She’ll fill you in,” said Vitucci. There was a pause, a slight rustle of clothes, sounds of movement, a distant click of a door. I said nothing until G said quietly.

“OK. He’s gone. Just me.”

“What’s he like to work with?”

She hesitated a moment. “Exciting, actually. Takes people by surprise. Gets things done.”

“Makes money for the bank?”

“Of course. He’s clever. That’s why he’s angry about this con. This fraud.”

“Dabbling in something he doesn’t understand.”

“Maybe. But don’t tell him that or…”

“Or he’ll bust your ass.”

“At least. Anyway, the dealer is called Tulip Lock and her gallery is on King’s Road.” G dictated the details over the phone.

“Did he buy the picture when he was in London?”

“No. She had a kind of pop-up inside another New York gallery, run by a guy called Oscar Fitzroy and he...”

“Oscar Fitzroy? A British guy?” I jumped in fast.

“You know him? That’s amazing.” G sounded elated.

“Let’s say I encountered someone claiming the same name. Then he evaded me.” 

“Oh, wow! So he’s a villain too. I mean, how many men are called Oscar Fitzroy?”

“Maybe more than you think, G. If there’s an Academy Award for criminal impersonation, this guy might qualify.”

“What?”

“I think it’s an alias. And I met another potential client this evening with a similar fraud. It’s possible the two cases are connected.”

“That’s really great. So you’re up to speed already. I’ll tell Nash you can help.”

“No, not yet. Cool it, G. Don’t get his hopes up.”

I talked her down from her excited state and she promised not say anything until I had investigated further.

The call ended and I went online, found the gallery, looked at a Streetview image, noted its email and phone number.

The website informed me Tulip Lock’s was one of London’s leading dealers in the  contemporary art scene, situated in the ‘iconic’ Chelsea street where ‘swinging London’ began in the 1960s and, it read, is still the ‘beating heart of all that is cool, sophisticated and fashionable’. The gallery also claimed to have reciprocal links with major dealers in Hong Kong, Paris, Frankfurt, Monaco, Los Angeles and New York City. There was a short, uninformative biography of Tulip Lock, which, like the art she sold, was full of concepts, plans and ideas, instead of concrete facts. Another piece of concrete evidence that was missing from the bio was a photograph of Tulip. Maybe Tulip herself was nothing more than a concept.

And the gallery dealt in conceptual artworks. The sort of stuff I find tedious, though some artists have become very rich producing work which ordinary, intelligent people may regard as nonsense, and not even art at all. The dealers, taking their forty percent or so, become as wealthy as their client artists.

In the banking world, Vitucci worked side by side with hundreds of people who were smart, razor-sharp dealers themselves. Why was a perceptive, shrewd and quick-witted man like Nash Vitucci taken in by this dealer and her gallery? In a field where he was an amateur was he simply seduced by Tulip’s good looks? Or was Tulip more pro-active? Was she ready prepped, with sales talk finely honed, and scouting for free-spending, willing dupes? Was that what took her to New York City? Was she targeting high-earning Wall Street types, in the same way as Venetia was targeting rich clients of an insurance company in London?

Then I remembered something G’s boss had said about Tulip. She claimed to have been born in Amsterdam. The Netherlands is famous for its production of garden bulbs, especially tulips. You can take a holiday tour of the bulb fields in spring. Venetia told me she was named after the place of her birth, was this also the case with Tulip?

Tulip spoke with an English accent. Venetia sounded American. Yet accents are not impossible to change. In movies, British actors play American characters and Americans play British characters.

Could Venetia and Tulip be the same person?

I’d seen Venetia, I had no photo of Tulip. Yet, there was a simple way to check. I snatched up my printout of the guests at the reception and scanned it for Tulip Lock.

No such person on the list.

I was deflated. I’d been convinced.

I had to think again. If the glamorous woman in the silver dress came to the reception in London under a name that was neither Tulip nor Venetia what was it? Following my personal logic that criminals’ aliases never differ too much from each other, and one or both initials are repeated, I grabbed the printout again.

Tulip Lock and Venetia Lord both had last names beginning with L. Was there another last name beginning with L which had a first name in the same style? Possibly a place name. Possibly something closely linked to a specific country or city.

The names on the list were alphabetically ordered by last name and there were eight women whose names began with L. Ruth Lascelles, Lisa Lazenby, Maria Lewkowicz, Olivia Lindegard, Isla Leach, Carina Lovini, Freya Loughrey, Tanya Lyubimova.

I looked at the names and was immediately dejected. I could see no geographical connections and it seemed my theory was wrong. I took a breath, then forced myself to study them again, more closely. Now Isla stood out. As far as I know, there is nowhere named Isla, but there is the Scottish island of Islay, famous for its several whisky distilleries. Islay is pronounced ‘eye-la’, exactly the same as the name Isla. The other stand-out feature of Isla Leach is the last name is a monosyllable. Like Lock and Lord.

I imagined the voluptuous Venetia spinning a yarn. “My parents were on holiday on Islay when a sequence of bad storms blew up. The airport was closed, the ferries cancelled and my mother went into premature labour. That’s why I’m called Isla.”

Venetia Lord, Tulip Lock, Isla Leach. I was convinced they were the same person. And which of those was her real name? I reckoned none of them. Roisin said her dress was dangerous. The woman inside the dress certainly was.

Chapter 4

I slept in fits and starts, trying to think of any motive which fitted the facts of Gus’s murder. I woke from a doze at 3.40 a.m., and realised I hadn’t called Hudson Cassoni in Los Angeles as I promised Nash I would. But Hudson may still be busy at work and I didn’t want to start a sequence of phone tag, with Hudson calling back when he finished for the day, which could be 5 a.m. or later UK time.

I emailed him instead. Working on the idea that Venetia was both Tulip and Isla, I asked Hudson to check out Venetia’s gallery in Beverly Hills. Was it legit, or did anything strike him as phoney or suspicious? I asked to check all three names against any police databases he had access to.

I woke properly at 7 a.m. to a call from Liam Bolt. He’d heard about Gus’s death and passed on his condolences.

“I’m sure you’ll miss him,” he said. “And not simply for the information he provided.” An unusual moment of sincerity from Liam, and he went on quickly. “We’ve a lead on the intruder. The murderer. A passer-by saw someone leaving Gus’s place at speed and we found him on CCTV. The man was picked up in a street round the corner by car. We’ve traced the car, it had been stolen earlier and was found burned out on waste ground in Mitcham.”

“Any ID on the killer?”

“No CCTV of the occupants setting it alight or departing the scene. And however much they enhanced the CCTV of outside Gus’s place, we got nothing usable. The fire destroyed everything in the car. Seems the murderer changed his clothes while being driven away, left them to burn.”

“So no DNA?”

“Only studs from jeans, zips, metal fasteners. He was all in black when he left Gus’s, but he could have been in a pink and white safari jacket with a straw hat when he got out of the car.”

“Professionals. Well prepared.”

“They must have been expecting a payday at Gus’s.”

“You still think they were after the picture he was restoring?” I said.

“I guess they were going to restrain him, make him unlock his workshop and grab the… what was it? The John Singer Sargent painting.”

I said nothing.

“You’re not saying anything,” said Liam. “That means you don’t agree.”

“Gus has never had intruder problems before. No burglaries or attempted burglaries. If this killer was after the picture, he would have been tooled-up. Why didn’t he force open the workshop door? Either before or after he attacked Gus? Why run off scared?”

“Thieves do,” said Liam. “They lose their nerve, bottle out. You know that.”

It was true. Burglars have the same fears we all do. Even experienced thieves are wary of disturbing anyone inside a building, and always nervous of being caught. Only psychopaths are completely brazen.

“None of what I heard on the phone sounded like a burglary gone wrong. It sounded like they’d come there with the sole intention of killing or at least hurting Gus.”

DCI Bolt said nothing.

“Liam, you’re not saying anything. Does that mean you don’t agree?”

“No. The opposite. I was trying out the other theory to see how it sounded. And it sounded crap. I wanted to hear you demolish it.”

“Did I persuade you?”

“Totally. Trouble is, if burglary wasn’t the motive, why would anyone want to kill Gus?”

“That’s what kept me awake last night.”

“Not surprised. I was racking my brains, too. And I had a brilliant idea, about a person who can get to the truth.”

“Who?”

“Well, Gus had few, if any, relatives. Most of his friends are dead. You knew him better than anyone else.”

“You want me to investigate?”

“However much I tell you not to, I know you will. You can’t help yourself. I can’t get you on the team officially, but I won’t stand in your way.”

“You passing the buck, Liam?”

“Not at all. It’s… bereavement therapy. Keeping you active.”

“Huh!” I gave a sarcastic cry of outrage at Bolt’s nerve, presumption, and bad joke. “You mean an unpaid assistant.”

“Well, don’t do it, then. Leave it alone. Fine by me. Stick to art stuff.”

I breathed out heavily, exasperated. He knew I was desperate to discover why Gus had been killed. After a suitable silence: “I’ll need access to Gus’s property.”

“Of course. I’ll let the scene of crime people know. When they finish, a uniform will stay there till the street door’s repaired. Gus’s next of kin have been traced and someone’s arriving later for a formal identification of the body and will secure the property. Good luck, Kite. Keep in touch.” Bolt was annoyingly jolly. And cavalier. Maybe his promotion had gone to his head.

When I got to Gus’s place a police photographer was taking shots of the damaged door and I moved inside with him as he lined up angles on the broken Murano glass on the floor. There appeared to be nobody else in the property, though I could smell coffee coming from the kitchen. Gus always used a distinctive extra strong blend and ground the beans himself.

Then a uniform appeared from Gus’s kitchen and was startled to see me, leaping to the conclusion I was Gus’s next of kin. I explained who I was and with DCI Bolt’s authority would be searching Gus’s study and workshop, areas the intruder had apparently not entered. The constable nodded, said, “OK, sir,” then offered the photographer and me some coffee. “I couldn’t find any instant,” he said, “I had to mess about and make a whole pot.”

For old times’ sake, and feeling a slug of caffeine would give my brain a useful jolt, I accepted a cup of the potent brew.

No sooner had I taken my coffee into Gus’s office than an email came from Becka Thwaite, the party organiser. She sent me a link to a website where I could view the pictures taken by her photographer the previous evening.

She wrote: I don’t do this for everybody, however, your story excited me. In return, I’d love it if you could leave a review and a few kind words on my website. Here’s the link. Some super glam guests, but I’m suspicious of the florid-faced guy in green tie!! Is he your suspect? Do tell. Becka XX

In spite of her charm offensive, I was grateful to Becka, and complied with her quid pro quo by leaving some praise and thanks on her site. She was excellent at PR, though not so hot at judging criminal types. The florid-faced guy with the green tie was Michael Sissons.

I scanned quickly through a couple of hundred photos and found one usable shot each of Venetia and Oscar/Piers, which I copied and saved.

Then MacIver called.

“Has he called you?” she began, her voice urgent. “Vitucci, I mean. He called me ten minutes ago. I worked out it was only 5.45 a.m. in New York. Apparently he’d already insured his share of this picture through the firm before he got to know of the fraud. So now, as an existing client of ours, he’s hired us, i.e. you, to investigate the fraud.”

“He’s a hard man to say no to, Fiona. And his case seems connected to Michael Sissons’ problem. The same people are doing the scamming, either side of the Atlantic.” I explained to MacIver about Piers and Venetia, and their various aliases. “They both have galleries in London and New York under different names and there’s another in Beverly Hills. Which means a customer may never know who they’re really dealing with. The galleries may be not much more than fronts for fraud.”

“I’ll pass that on to Sissons,” said MacIver. “He’s also a man in a hurry. He called this morning asking for a progress report.”

My phone beeped, and I glanced at the screen. “Incoming call, Fiona. New York.”

“I’ll let you talk to him. Keep in touch.” And MacIver ended the call.

“Good morning, John. If it is still morning with you. In any case, I hope it’s a fine one,” said Nash Vitucci. “First of all, I’m coming to London. I really want to be with you when you track down this she-wolf who ripped me off. I want to tell her exactly what I think. And I’d like to give Tulip Lock a bloody nose.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I said.

“Absolutely,” he said. “Should I bring G with me?”

“You want G to assault Tulip?”

“No, no. Forget what I said. I’ve never hit a woman. I was talking… figuratively. But about G, I can fix for her to get time off. I reckoned you might like to take the chance to meet up.”

“Well, that’s kind. Though of course, we only met for the first time a few months ago. Most of our lives we never knew the other existed.”

“She told me the story. Incredible. Well, now you can take the chance to catch up on all those years. Anyway, we’ll be arriving early tomorrow morning. See you soon.”

“Nash, hold on a moment. I’ve traced the woman who sold you the share in the picture, and also a British man who is working with her. They look charming and handsome, but they’re hardened scumbags, not amateurs. They could be dangerous. And mixed up with other criminals who you wouldn’t want to meet.”

Nash chuckled. “You’re warning me off coming to London? Don’t worry. I’ve got to come to London in any case for work, and I promise you won’t have to ride shotgun for me.”

“OK. But I have to advise that…”

“Sure, sure, I understand.”

“Well, before you get on the plane, I have photos of those who I think are Tulip Lock and the man known as Oscar Fitzroy who runs the gallery in New York where Tulip had her pop-up …”

“You do? Smart work, John. Glad to have you on my side.”

“I’ll send the images to you. Please check it’s the woman you bought the picture share from, and also if you recognise the man.”

“Of course. Send the images to G, if you would. She’ll forward them to me wherever I am. See you.”

He ended the call.

G called almost immediately. She must have been monitoring what Nash was doing.

“You always start work at six o’clock in the morning?” I said.

“It depends,” her tone was anxious, no time for pleasantries. “Nash suggested I go to London with him. Did he tell you this?”

When I confirmed this, G groaned. Which surprised me.

“I thought you might be dating,” I said.

“No way.” She was horrified by the idea.

“Isn’t he your type? Hot. Dishy. Rich.”

“He’s good-looking alright. And obviously rich. He’s also hyperactive, short attention span, terminally impatient, egotistical…”

“You were praising him yesterday.”

“Well, he’s two-faced. And sneaky. He snuck a look at my phone when I was in the bathroom to get your number…”

“My number’s on my website.”

“I know, and he could have simply asked me for it. Can’t you find a reason for me not to come?”

“He suggested you and I should have a family get-together.”

“As if. There’s a conference he’s going to. He wants me to sit beside him in expensive, slinky clothes to make him look more important. I’ll be twiddling my thumbs.”

“If you wanted, there’s something you could do for me in New York. It could get you out of coming to London, being his trophy assistant.”

“I’m nobody’s trophy, Kite.” G’s voice was hard. She paused. A change of tone. “Is this an investigating job?”

“Let’s call it gentle enquiries.”

“Yee-haw! Yes, please.” She was ecstatic now. “Tell me all about it.”

“Nash bought his picture from the London-based Tulip Lock in the Oscar Fitzroy gallery in New York. Fitzroy has a gallery in London under another name, Tulip has another gallery in Beverly Hills also under a different name, and I’m sure they work together.”

“Wow! Mix and match. I guess the confusion is intentional.”

“I’m sure they’re both frauds and swindlers.”

“I’ll check it out right away. Give me the details.”

“Will Nash let you stay in New York?”

“If I say it’s a vital part of his fraud enquiry, of course he will.”

“What about your bank work?”

“Galleries don’t open till ten or eleven. I’ll have done several hours here by then.”

“OK, G. But take it easy. And…”

“Yes, I know, I know. Be careful.”

I paused a beat before saying, “You don’t really know, do you? You haven’t done this kind of thing before.”

G sounded hurt. “Kite, don’t be like that. You don’t know everything about me. In fact you don’t know half of what I’ve done in the past.”

“Exactly. That’s why I’m worried.”

With some reservations – with quite a few reservations, in fact – I sent G the shots taken at the reception and details of the Oscar Fitzroy gallery in New York. Her enthusiasm was great and she was highly astute. She was also reckless and cut corners. Not unlike her boss, I guess.

I felt guilty using her, yet she could well get results which were as good as a professional investigator.

With a temporary pause in phone calls, I sat down at Gus’s desk and looked around. His last words to me before he was attacked were, “I’ve discovered something… I was going to tell you…  when I had more evidence...”

It seemed likely that whatever he discovered was the reason he was attacked. Therefore I had to discover what he discovered.

He said, “More evidence…” Had he written anything down? If he had, where was it? Would I recognise it as evidence if I saw it?

His computer had been removed by the police for examination, along with his phone, but there still remained a large quantity of material to hunt through.

Paperwork.

Gus’s professional expertise relied on documentary evidence. Records, history and archives. He therefore had hoarded, filed and classified all kinds of information. Rows of differently-coloured lever-arch files were ranged on shelves, crammed with everything from bank statements to auction catalogues, from tax returns to details of art exhibitions he’d visited, from notes on criminal cases in which he’d been an expert witness to meticulous records of his restoration work.

Impressive organisation, though I saw nothing useful for me.

On a lower shelf, next to his desk were piles of things waiting to be sorted and filed. Cuttings from newspapers and magazines, postcards of artworks which had taken his fancy, guidebooks to historic houses. There was also a small pile of A4 printouts of typed documents. I picked up the top one – five sheets stapled together – and found they were Minutes of meetings of a Board of Trustees. Trustees of the Benevolent Fund of the Society of Artists, Auctioneers, and Dealers in Art and Antiquarian Books.

A bit of a mouthful that title, although Gus had mentioned it before. The Benevolent Fund owed its existence to an endowment from Simon Zimbalist, an art and antiques dealer who, like the better known Sir Joseph Duveen, became fabulously wealthy selling European art to American millionaires. Originally from a Russian Ashkenazy family, Zimbalist moved to Britain in the late nineteenth century and it was here that his career hit stratospheric levels. He was a persuasive salesman, even a hustler, and some of his artist attributions were dubiously optimistic, even fanciful. Yet he was also a generous benefactor to major galleries and other artistic enterprises.

Knowing many talented artists fell into penury as they grew older, as did many dealers at the lower end of the trade, Zimbalist founded the Benevolent Fund in the 1920s, with a Board of Trustees to manage his endowment. The Trustees were unpaid and were drawn mostly from the art world. Gus had been one of them for many years and, I believed, had served the Fund loyally and diligently. I could not imagine the charitable Benevolent Fund had any relevance to the case and returned the papers to where I found them.

I moved back to Gus’s desk, where the drawers were all unlocked and contained nothing unexpected. On top of the desk was a traditional, hard-cover, ‘week-to-view’ diary for the year. I flicked through it. My name was mentioned a few times when we had met for dinner or a drink, usually when I had asked Gus for input on a case I was working on.

I searched for anything suspicious, or out of the ordinary, but since it was only April, over half of the diary was blank. Searching the previous year’s diary could be more useful, and I remembered he stored these records of his past life in an attic room.

I climbed the narrow, uneven stairs and quickly found diaries dating back to 1973, all neatly shelved in chronological order. I opened the previous year’s, turned the pages and saw nothing unusual. Bookings for restoration work, a few meetings with me, and four meetings of the Trustees of the Benevolent Society, each marked: trustees 2pm.

There was one meeting each quarter: February, May, August, November. Four regular meetings in the course of a year. That made sense. Except… In his current year’s diary, hadn’t I seen something quite different?

I rushed down the rickety stairs, back to Gus’s desk and checked this year’s diary. trustees 2pm was marked for a date in February, then there were three more meetings, two in March and one in early April. The last being only eight days previously. Not four meetings in a year, four meetings in ten weeks.

Urgent business? A sudden increase in hardship among their members? Or something else?

On the date scheduled for the first of the three most recent meetings Gus had also written: Thalia 11.30 above extra trustees 2pm. The next special meeting of the Trustees was also marked Thalia 11.30, as was the third Extraordinary Meeting where Thalia was again scheduled to meet Gus at 11.30. Who was Thalia?

I reached across to the printouts of the Benevolent Fund minutes. As with most minutes of meetings, there was list of those present at the top. Thalia Rice was listed as the Chair.

There was no indication of what had caused the flurry of activity among the Trustees in recent weeks because minutes relating to the recent meetings had not yet been distributed.

Was Gus investigating some malpractice at the Benevolent Fund?

Thalia Rice and Gus had private pre-meetings. They had to be good friends, even confidants.

Or possibly, implacable enemies.

Either way, I had to talk to her. Had she heard about his death? Would she have any leads for me?

On Gus’s desk also was an old-style address book. It looked about fifty years’ old, its front cover was missing, pages were loose and torn. I checked the ‘R’ section and found Thalia Rice. Her name and details were a comparatively recent entry, written in ballpoint, unlike earlier ones in fountain pen or pencil.

I called her number. My call went to voicemail and I left a message explaining I was a friend of Gus’s and asking her to call me. There was a landline number in Gus’s book too, and I called that. Again my call went to voicemail and I left another message.

Gus would have recorded whatever evidence he found, he was that kind of person. He wasn’t a great computer user and I felt the police would find little of interest when they searched his hard drive. Gus would have recorded his evidence on paper as handwritten notes. Where would he have secreted it?

I went downstairs and found a joiner was repairing the street door, and fixing a large padlock to replace the broken Yale. I unlocked the door to Gus’s workshop, trying to avoid the grey fingerprint dust smeared over it and looked in there. The Sargent oil painting lay on his bench. Cotton-buds, various liquids and solvents stood ready to continue the cleaning process before restoration began.

I searched the workshop thoroughly. The only paperwork consisted of invoices, estimates, and receipts for his restoration work.

I left the workshop, locked the door behind me, and saw coming in past the joiner a man of about fifty. Navy raincoat over a grey suit, discreetly-striped shirt, burgundy tie.

There was no family resemblance, yet this could only be Gus’s next of kin. I introduced myself and expressed my condolences. His name was Nathan Edrich and he was an accountant, his everyday, muted office wear doubling as clothes suitable for identifying a body. He spoke to the police officer first then agreed to chat to me. We sat together in Gus’s study.

“Last time I was here was probably thirty years ago, when I was a student in London,” Nathan said, looking around.

“What was your relationship to Gus?” I said.

“I called him uncle when I was young, though strictly speaking we’re cousins. My grandfather was the brother of Gus’s mother. My parents have died. I’m an only child. From what I understand, you knew him better than I did.”

“He was very helpful to me. Though we only met to talk about art and crime,” I said.

I looked around Gus’s study, thinking back over the years. With both my parents killed more than fifteen years ago, I suppose Gus had been something of an uncle figure to me. Or even a father substitute.

Nathan filled the silence. “Do you have any idea why he was attacked, Mr Kite?”

I shook my head. “That’s what I’m trying to discover. And so are the police. The Scotland Yard officer who’s leading the investigation is a mate of mine and he needs all the help he can get.”

“You want to know if Gus had any enemies, any problems?”

I nodded. “Exactly. Or any reason that someone should break in.”

Nathan shook his head and shrugged. “He still sends me a card on my birthday and one at Christmas, yet, the thing is, I know next to nothing about his life. I hadn’t seen him for twenty years.”

“Any other members of the family who had more contact?”

Nathan made a guilty face. “Don’t think so. Looks like we were neglecting the old man, doesn’t it?”

“Does the name Thalia Rice mean anything to you?”

“Afraid not. Who is she?”

“A colleague of Gus’s. Chair of the Trustees of a Benevolent Fund for artists and art dealers.”

Nathan perked up. “Ah. I’ve heard of them. The cards Gus sent me. You know how charities produce Christmas cards? Well his were always produced by that Benevolent Fund. Had a picture on the front painted by one of their members.”

“For how long was Gus sending these cards?”

“Years and years. Probably since I was a teenager. It was a charity he supported strongly. He even left money to them in his will.”

“Are you his executor?”

“Yes. When I heard what had happened, I dug his will out of a drawer and had a quick look. Do you think it’s relevant to the murder?”

I shrugged as sympathetically as I could. “Clutching at straws, really.”

Nathan Edrich had nothing else to offer. We swapped contact details, I repeated some hackneyed consoling words and said goodbye.

As I left through the newly-repaired front door, and went out into the street, my phone rang. It was Thalia Rice.

“Mr John Kite?” said a cultured, middle-aged female voice when I answered. “You left a message on my phone. How did you get my number?” She spoke suspiciously, as if I’d infringed her personal space.

I started to explain. “Gus is dead?” She was deeply shocked, even horrified. “My God! I can’t believe it. That explains why he’s not answering my messages.”

“He was attacked in his home and shot. Seems he also suffered a heart attack. He was taken to hospital, unconscious, and they couldn’t save him.”

“Oh, my God.”

I heard a quiet sob from Mrs Rice.

“Sorry to give you this bad news. You were close?”

“Not exactly. I mean, I’d known him several years. Respected him… Though we didn’t socialise…. God…”  She broke off. I heard her breathing hard, as if pulling herself together. Then more strongly, “Do the police have a suspect? What did they want, for heavens’ sake? Do the police know why he was attacked?” There was real concern in her voice.

“They’re trying to find out and I’m giving them help.”

“It must have been one of those psychopaths, released on parole too soon, or by mistake. People who kill but don’t know why. What do you think?”

She wanted answers, and I had none. “That’s a possibility, I suppose.”

She hurried on, “Or a wrong identification. They meant to get someone else. What about that?”

“That’s rare, I’m afraid. While it might happen in a street attack, like a drive-by shooting, Gus was at home. And if you discount a psychopath, it means somebody had a reason to attack him.”

What I said made her silent for a moment. Then she went on, sounding now like a senior police officer upbraiding his lazy subordinates  “Have you any leads at all? Any suspects? You must have some idea who could have done this. Gus had no enemies at all. None I can think of.”

“That’s why I called you, Mrs Rice. You know him through the Benevolent Fund Board of Trustees. You’re Chair, I believe.”

“That’s correct. How do you think the Benevolent Fund could be involved?”

“I’m exploring what Gus has been doing recently, and who he was meeting. You had three private meetings with Gus before special meetings of the Board of Trustees.”

This surprised her. “Who told you that?” Her tone suggested I’d been prying.

“Gus marked them in his diary. With the permission of the police and his next of kin, I’ve been searching his paperwork because, before he was attacked, he told me he had some evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

“He didn’t tell me. And I have found nothing yet.”

“I see...” Her tone was undecipherable.

“Except I came across these extraordinary meetings of the Benevolent Fund Trustees. Four in ten weeks instead of the usual four in a year.”

“And you think that has some bearing on his death?”

“At the moment I’m not sure, that’s why I’d like to talk in person, Mrs Rice, if you’re agreeable. Could I come and see you?”

“Well… When were you thinking of?”

“Soon, if possible. You live in Dorking, I think.”

“I do, yes.” She still sounded suspicious and there was another long pause. I was sure she was about to find a reason not to see me.

“May I ask… You’re treating Gus’s death as murder?”

“He was shot twice by a man who smashed down the door. It wasn’t an accident.”

“I see,” she said, once more, then paused. “You believe there is something significant in these meetings of the Benevolent Fund?”

“It’s the only lead I have. However insignificant it may seem to you.”

There was another pause. Then in a different, more positive tone, she said, “Yes. Why not? I’ll certainly do anything I can to help. When can you get here?”

“Would three o’clock suit you?”

“I’m doing an intensive bridge course, Saturdays at four o’clock. Can you make it by two?”

“Certainly. See you soon, Mrs Rice.”

I wasn’t sure how I had induced her change of mind, but I was glad I had.

Throughout the call I had been standing outside Gus’s front door. Now I put the phone away and turned left towards where I had parked. As I did so, I noticed a glint from inside a black Range Rover Discovery parked opposite. A camera lens? I turned quickly towards the car, where the driver was turning back to face the wheel and putting what could be a camera on the passenger seat.

Somebody was watching visitors to Gus’s house.

Chapter 5

I stood gazing at the vehicle, daring it to move, daring the driver to get out and speak to me. The driver was of Asian appearance, clean-shaven and in western clothes. Tasteful, casual clothes from what I could see. He didn’t seem interested in me, or he would have driven away when he saw I’d spotted him.

The watcher picked up a bunch of documents and shuffled through them, with an air of concentration. It looked like acting and the papers looked like a prop, nothing to do with his line of work. He was a pro, a fellow private investigator, or perhaps a cop, or even an intelligence agent.

Why was anyone watching a dead man’s house?

I turned, walked away and called Clark Munday. Through the interconnected world of car insurance, Clark was able to find the owners of almost any car in the world. Strangely, and this was a first for me, Clark was not in his office, nor even in the building. Nor was his partner Roisin. Eventually I got through to MacIver’s PA, Amber, who said they had both taken half a day’s leave at short notice. Even more unusual.

I headed back by Underground to the City to get my car. Thalia Rice lived where public transport was limited, in a rural village outside Dorking in Surrey, with a quaint name.

Abinger Hammer in Surrey takes its name from an iron works that carried on business there in medieval times. Any sign of heavy industry has long since disappeared and today it’s hard to imagine a more tranquil place. It’s in the area known as the Surrey Hills, where Box Hill, Leith Hill and others rise steeply and attractively from sea-level. Yet, they’re pimples by world standards. Their summits are all under one thousand feet. Narrow, windy roads and unspoiled villages provide sequestered homes for the wealthy.

Thalia Rice lived in a picture-perfect house in a picturesque spot down a narrow lane hidden away from traffic and passers-by. The house was designed by the arts and crafts architect Charles Voysey around 1900, and bore a plaque to prove it. The garden was the work of his close friend, the great garden designer Gertrude Jekyll.

The garden faced south, the sun was shining and it was warm enough for us to sit outside under a wisteria bush now bursting into lavender-coloured bloom. Rice was wearing a dress made from a fabric by another archetypal arts and crafts designer, William Morris. We were only twenty miles from central London, yet sitting there with her made me think I was back in another century.

Mrs Rice was a neat, precise, straight-backed woman in her late sixties, with a figure that was still trim. I imagined she took regular hikes on the local hills. She was a widow, but not the stay-at-home kind. Her working life had been spent in the civil service.

“Department of Trade,” she said, “driving a desk mostly. I did alright. Regular promotion. Overseas trips. Brussels, the US, China. That kind of thing.”

“How did you come to chair the Trustees of the Benevolent Fund? Have you got an artistic background?”

“I’ve always painted, actually, in a semi-pro way, My credentials rely on my late husband’s work. He was an art dealer, a successful one. What I know about art I learned from him.”

“You collected paintings?”

“In a modest way.”

“These special meetings of the Trustees of the Benevolent Society…”

Thalia Rice interrupted. “Extraordinary Meetings. That’s the correct name for any company or society meeting which is held outside the regular schedule.”

“Yes. So, I believe. Gus wrote the word ‘extra’ in his diary.”

She gave a tight smile. “He was always very correct.”

“What were you discussing at these extraordinary meetings?”

“Well, the usual kind of things…”

“Surely unusual things. Otherwise there’d be no need for the extraordinary meetings. Extraordinary meetings suggest extraordinary business.”

She remained cool. “Or urgent things. Where a decision is needed quickly.”

“And what were the urgent or extraordinary things were you discussing at these meetings?”

“There was a bit of a mix-up in the accounts and we were trying to untangle it before the year-end. Our accountant, good man that he is, had tied himself in a knot – and tied the accounts in a knot, too. It took quite a while to sort it out.”

“The accountant was there?”

“He was on holiday. That was the problem.”

“What level of assets does the benevolent Fund have?”

“I’m proud to say a few millions invested in the stock market, government bonds and the like. Which, thankfully provide enough for our current commitments.”

“Does the Fund own property? Any other assets?”

“No property. We rent office space and that’s where we keep some of Zimbalist’s own collection of pictures – that’s our founder Simon Zimbalist. Other of his pictures are on loan to national collections. And we have some of his papers, books, that kind of thing.”

“What about your private meetings with Gus? They weren’t purely social?”

Thalia Rice laughed. “No. You know it’s amazing Gus was eighty-three. His mind was always sharp, active, no sign of aging at all. Obviously he was a bit creaky in the legs. Like we all become at that age. His hair was grey, but he had plenty of it, and still attractive. When I first joined the Trustees, I actually flirted with him a bit. Then I realised he, you know, he played for the other side. Is that how you came to meet him?” She gave me an intense look.

“No. It wasn’t,” I said, trying not to get side-tracked into reminiscence.

She smiled. “I thought not. Now tell me about…”

I interrupted. “Mrs Rice, before we go off at a tangent… These special meetings you had with Gus… Were you discussing the problems with the accounts all the time? I had no idea that Gus was a financial wizard.”

“He’s not. We were looking at the broader picture, wondering whether to replace the accountant, whether our Treasurer had been lax or inefficient. We were… chewing the fat.”

“You met at 11.30 a.m., the full Board met at 2 p.m. Even allowing an hour’s break for lunch that would be three meetings of ninety minutes. I’m surprised that an art restorer and a retired civil servant, neither with qualifications in financial management, spent four and half hours debating the Society’s accounts.”

Thalia Rice looked straight at me. Our eyes met. She was calm. “You don’t appear to believe what I’m saying.”

“With respect, Mrs Rice, no, I don’t.”

“Why is that?”

Her voice was sweet, reasonable. She was unruffled and serene. In contrast, I was becoming tense. “I’m trying to find why somebody wanted Gus dead. And I don’t think it was anything to do with careless book-keeping. Was there anything sensitive or secret which the two of you discussed which could explain why somebody broke into his house, smashed some of his most prized possessions, beat him up, then shot him twice at point-blank range?”

Thalia Rice’s mood switched in a heartbeat. Her eyes filled and tears trickled down her cheeks. She covered her face, dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, and sprang up from her seat. I stood too, concerned by her distress. “I’m alright,” she said. “I’ll take a little stroll. No need to follow.” She walked away towards a bed full of spring flowers, daffodils, tulips, hyacinths, and stood looking into the far end of the garden, her back towards to me, her arms folded in front of her.

What had I said which brought about the change in her?

Beyond Mrs Rice, a large man with a hoe in his hand emerged from behind some flowering shrubs, alerted perhaps by her movement. The man, well over six foot, with a gym-honed body, stood looking in Mrs Rice’s direction. Checking she was alright? Even though her back was towards me I could tell she was looking at the man. Then I caught a slight sideways movement of her head, and the man turned away and started to hoe the soil between the shrubs.

In a couple of minutes, she turned and walked determinedly back to where I was. “I’m sorry. His death has been a shock,” she said, sitting down. Her face was tense, pale and drawn.

“Of course.” I left a pause. “Your gardener looks a powerful kind of bloke.”

“Gardener…?” For a moment she didn’t seem to know who I was talking about.

“With his build, he’d do well as a security guard or bouncer.” I smiled innocently.

“Yes, I see what you mean.” She was back on track now, smiled back at me and looked down the garden to where the big man had disappeared behind some foliage. Then she looked straight at me, calm and collected once more and said, “Have you any more questions?”

“Gus was murdered because he knew certain information. He told me on the phone, moments before he was shot, that he had ‘discovered something’. Those were his words. I’m trying to find what he’d discovered. If you know what it was, I’d like to know.”

Thalia Rice shook her head gently and dropped her eyes down to the ground.

“No idea at all?”

“No. I can’t imagine,” she said.

“Have you had any threats recently?”

“What?” Her face jerked upwards, her eyes wide and staring again, her lips folded tight together.

“Any threats? Unusual visitors? Strangers hanging around the village? Unknown vehicles parked outside your house?”

Thalia shuddered, folded her cardigan tighter around her. “No, I haven’t.” Her voice was quiet yet also determined.

“You said your late husband was an art dealer. I wonder if you know a couple of younger dealers I came across. A woman called Venetia Lord and a man named Piers Scott-Harrod?”

Her eyes moved away from me and she looked up to the branches of a large, old apple tree, profuse with creamy blossom.

“Where – I mean, how –  how did you meet them?” she said.

“At a party.” I looked directly at her. She was still gazing at the faraway tree as if searching her memory.

“Why are you asking me about them?”

“They’re fraudsters.” Her face turned back to me. “I want to track them down. It’s possible your paths may have crossed.”

“Interesting, unusual names,” she said with the hint of a smile. “I feel sure I would’ve remembered them if I had met them.”

“How about a lady called Tulip Lock?”

There was no reaction to the name. Thalia’s smile was unforced, genuine. “She sounds like a garden expert. Or a fortune teller.”

“Isla Leach?”

She smiled again. The name meant nothing to her, she said. “Are these all pretty young ladies? Sounds a good party.” She gave a little laugh. Trying too hard to be at ease when she was on edge, I thought.

Thalia Rice was holding back, relying on her bureaucratic experience to fudge, to talk around the issue rather than tell the truth. Her distress at Gus’s death was genuine, not faked in any way, but I was sure she knew why he’d been killed. Even so, I felt I’d pushed her far enough for a first meeting.

I left her my card, and asked her to call me if she remembered anything of relevance.

“Enjoy the bridge course,” I said.

“Twice a week. Saturday afternoon, Tuesday morning. I’m a glutton for punishment.” She was talking too much. It was clear she was relieved to see me go.

I hadn’t questioned her about the sinister muscleman who emerged from the shrubbery. Whoever he was, he wasn’t a gardener. I’m not the most green-fingered of people but even I can hoe weeds better than the big man did, and the clean white trainers he was wearing are not the best footwear for gardening.

He looked like a minder or security man. Had Thalia Rice hired him for protection?

I drove away slowly from Thalia Rice’s, checking for any signs of her house being watched. Then I drove a couple of circuits of the village, looking for out-of-place or suspicious cars or people.

All seemed normal.

I had spotted a café in the village and realised I had not eaten or drunk anything since breakfast. I parked and went in. But they were about to close. I checked the time: it was 3.55 p.m. Around the time people in Britain, in offices, factories, farms, or at home, often have a tea break. With maybe a biscuit. Or even a slice of cake. Some hotels make a big thing of Afternoon Tea.

Why would a café, or tea shop, close at the very time of day passers-by might want refreshment?

I bought a take-away tea in a cardboard cup, and a bun in a paper bag, and sat outside the tea shop on a wooden bench in the sun. The manager of the tea-shop brought in the sign reading ‘open’ and their blackboarded menu, which had been tied around a convenient tree. Then behind me, locks were locked and bolts bolted, and I watched the action in the main street, of which there was little.

Some shopping, some dog-walking, and mums meeting children from school. And dads doing the same. An elderly couple, with sticks, taking a slow walk to improve their circulation. Or heart-rate. Or anything, I guess.

Then I saw it.

The Range Rover which was outside Gus’s place a few hours earlier. Same Asian-looking driver. The car cruised by at thirty, and I shrank back under the tea shop’s awning to avoid being spotted.

After seeing the car at Gus’s, I checked regularly on the drive to Abinger Hammer and was certain I was not followed. The Range Rover was clean, shiny and its SUV bulk made it stand out from other cars. I wouldn’t have missed it.

I got up and went to the road’s edge to see where the Range Rover was going. I watched it U-turn at a small village roundabout two hundred metres away and drive back in my direction. I finished my tea in a single gulp, stuffed the last piece of bun into my mouth,  disposed of the paper and carboard in a bin and got into my car. I lay down on the passenger seat until the Range Rover passed by, then followed it at a careful distance.

The Range Rover was heading now towards where Thalia Rice lived. It slowed and turned with some caution down the narrow lane which led to her house. I got the impression the driver’s trip past the tea shop had been a mistake. He’d missed this small turning and overshot his destination. Opposite Thalia’s house, he stopped, blocking half the width of the lane. The driver was once again taking a photo. A shot of Thalia Rice’s house and its entrance.

I was mystified. Gus and Thalia were colleagues, not friends. Who was interested enough to watch and photograph where they lived?

I overtook the Range Rover and drove on a mile until I found a place for my own U-turn. Then I drove back and found the Range Rover had gone down Thalia Rice’s drive and was now parked by her front door. The big man in the white trainers was standing under the porch talking to the driver. He was no longer armed with a hoe, though his posture was determined and resolute, even a little threatening. His arms were folded and he stood straight-backed. You don’t get past me, was the message he sent out.

The driver was standing still, one hand in the pocket of his chinos, and, judging by his lack of movement, he was listening and saying nothing.

I couldn’t stop again or the driver would recognise my car.

I drove on until I found a service station to stop in, and tried Clark again.

This time he answered.

“You alright?” I said.

“Yeah. Fine. Absolutely. Couldn’t be better.” He sounded unusually cheerful. More than cheerful. Slightly manic.

“Sure? I heard you had taken leave. And you left the reception early, I thought…”

“All fine. We left early because Roisin had a bit of a tummy upset. So I never got the chance to record any incriminating chat from the guy who keeps making claims. Talking of unwell, I mean, worse than unwell. Sorry, that sounds terrible. What I mean is, I heard about Gus Lamport.” Clark wasn’t usually this clumsy with words.

“Yes. Dreadful. The police have no leads and I’m trying to find a motive.”

“Shall I send you his notes?”

Had I heard right? “His notes? What notes?”

“Gus left some notes with me. For safe keeping. Didn’t he tell you?”

“No. When was this?”

“Ten days ago. He said it was for you if anything should happen to him. I thought he was talking about when he got older and was maybe in a care home… I wasn’t expecting… well, you know.”

“What are the notes about?” Was this the breakthrough I’d been waiting for?

“Not knowing the background, they didn’t make much sense. Also, they’re in longhand, and his writing’s terrible. Scribbly. I scanned them and Roisin started to transcribe them. Then, well… she got interrupted…”

“Are there any names mentioned? Or dates? Any organisations?”

“There’s mention of a Benevolent Society, a woman called Thalia and someone with a foreign name which neither Roisin or I could make out.”

“Simon Zimbalist?”

“It certainly starts with a Z. This stuff is important, then?”

“Absolutely. It could be the reason he was killed. I wish he’d told me, rather than jot down notes.”

“He said he didn’t want to bother you because he didn’t have much that was definite.”    

I let out a sigh. Sadness and frustration. If only Gus had been more bothersome.

“I’ll get Roisin straight back on to it and she’ll send it to you a.s.a.p. Sorry about the delay.” Clark paused. “Anyway, if it wasn’t that you called about, what was it? A car?”

“Please.” I gave him the Range-Rover’s number plate and I heard him tapping at one of his keyboards.

Then he said, “Oh.” There was a pause, then, “Got trouble here.”

“What’s up?”

“Not for me. For you. This car’s not in the system. That means it’s royalty, or an embassy, the intelligence services, some billionaire with friends in high places, who knows what...”

“It wasn’t the king driving. And the guy in the car didn’t look like he worked for MI5…”

“Isn’t the point of MI5 that you can’t tell who they are?” Clark was back in top gear again.

“That may be the point. Not always what happens. The guy driving was more casual than I hope MI5 are. Not security conscious.”

There was a thoughtful pause from Clark. “What colour is the car?”

“Black.”

“It is a series 7, isn’t it, not a series 6?”

I hesitated. “Well…”

Clark gave a sarcastic laugh. “You don’t know the difference, do you?”

Clark often tried to embarrass me over cars or tech. “I’ve moved away. No eyes on the vehicle.”

“I know, you do the art and detection, and I do the cars and IT. OK, give me a minute.”

There was the sound of rapid typing from Clark.

Then: “I think it’s a cloned plate. They made a bad choice because the vehicle they copied the plate from isn’t an exact match. The restricted plate is a Series 6. They maybe came across it in a royal park or outside an embassy. The vehicle they nicked must be a Series 7. Lots of those on the streets. They screwed up, in other words. But tried hard.”

“So only a moderately clever criminal…” I said.

“Could be bad actors. Terrorists. Anyone…” said Clark. “Though the upside is it rules out being tailed by the king or queen.”

“Agreed. Thanks, Clark. Great stuff. I look forward to Gus’s notes when Roisin’s finished.” The call ended.

When I saw the Asian guy outside Gus’s house I wondered if he was a private investigator like me. Though why would such a person need the extra security of false number plates? What on earth did a criminal, a terrorist, or anyone suspicious want with Gus or Thalia Rice?

As Roisin said of Venetia’s dress, it meant trouble.

Chapter 6

6.35 a.m. next day, a message from Clark:

Roisin not well last night. She’ll get the typescript to you in a few hours.

I wondered what the problem was and why it had recurred.

In a different time-zone, Hudson Cassoni was about to check Venetia Lord’s gallery in Beverly Hills. In London, there were two galleries on my list, one in Tulip Lock’s name and one in the name of Piers Scott-Harrod.

In spite of what her website claimed, the Tulip Lock gallery was not actually in Chelsea. King’s Road is a long road and the further west you travel the less exclusive it becomes. Her gallery was actually in Fulham. Nothing wrong with Fulham, simply not such an evocative, exclusive name as Chelsea.

In spite of its location, the Tulip Lock gallery looked the business. Expensive shop-fitting and a stark white interior. A young woman sat behind a fragile-looking Perspex desk with a laptop that looked box-fresh. She came from the same mould as the greeters at the reception: slim, black dress, pale make-up, model-like poise.

“Good morning,” she said with a gentle smile, a breathy, aristocratic tone and a languorous intonation. “If there’s anything you’d like to know about the artworks please ask.”

The works on display were by artists I had not heard of and of a type which  gives contemporary art a bad name. Abstract or Abstract Expressionist or Abstract Conceptual, or just Conceptual. Don’t know the difference? Not sure I do. Except “conceptual” includes duct-taping a fresh banana to a gallery wall with a sticker which reads, ‘Is this Art?’

Would you pay for that? I sure as hell wouldn’t.

Because of the inherent simplicity of these kinds of artworks, they must be easy to forge. In the gallery, was a piece purportedly by Banksy, the secretive guerilla-street-artist who paints amusing, and often satiric, cartoon-like figures on the sides of buildings, walls and bridges. The six-foot square chunk of brickwork with silhouettes of animals and an amusing caption was purportedly from a building demolished soon after his cartoon was completed. Well, it could be. Or it might have been put together in the yard behind the gallery yesterday.

The prices for the works ranged from a few thousand to several hundred thousand. How many did they sell? One a week? One a month? One every three months? The assistant looked untroubled by the prospect of any business being done. She was engrossed in what looked like a romantic fantasy novel.

As invited, I asked her some questions.

Where did Tulip Lock live? In the USA. Which was a surprise.

Did she have a gallery in the US? No, only in London.

Why was that? London was more conducive to her style.

Did Tulip Lock know an American art dealer called Venetia Lord? The assistant didn’t know and did not react to the name.

Did Tulip Lock know an art dealer called Isla Leach? I said I’d heard they had worked together. The assistant did not know. No reaction to the name.

How about Piers Scott-Harrod? I said I heard they had studied together at the Courtauld Institute. The assistant had not heard of him, nor of the renowned Courtauld Institute, and did not know where Tulip had studied.

Again there was no reaction to the name.

I thanked the assistant for her invaluable help, left her to read in peace, and made my way to the gallery with Piers Scott-Harrod’s name attached. Once again, this gallery cheated by associating itself with one of the most exclusive and expensive areas of London. Although the gallery was actually situated north-west of the Park. Almost in Shepherd’s Bush, which has a much less exalted vibe altogether.

This gallery, like the first, was smart and professional-looking. A similar well-bred young woman with slimline features was baby-sitting the premises. Her laptop was actually closed and she was reading not a romantasy, but, surprisingly, a classic biographical work, Lives of the Artists, written in the sixteenth century by Giorgio Vasari. He was one of the movers and shakers of the time and had all the great Italian painters on his contacts list. Maybe I’d get more information out of this young woman.

“You must be a history of art student,” I said to break the silence.

She looked surprised and I pointed to her book. Then she blushed and said, “Yes, this is a holiday job for pocket money.” Her name was Edie, pronounced Eddie, I was told.

The pictures in this gallery were far removed in style from those which Tulip was selling. Here were nineteenth and twentieth century pictures by mostly British and European artists. Not the greats, the second or third team players. Plus a few reserves as well. Were they genuine? Gus would have had an opinion, I had no way of judging. The labels firmly attributed the pictures to named artists with their dates attached. There was no caution, no hedging of bets with phrases like ‘attributed to’, ‘follower of’, or ‘school of’. Bold attributions had been the way Simon Zimbalist and Sir Joseph Duveen did business. They wanted rich buyers to have complete confidence they were buying a picture by Rubens, not something by Rubens’ second-best student.

Prices here were up to six figures.

I asked some similar question as before. The art student had not met the gallery owner, though “I’ve heard he’s lovely.”

“That’s good to hear,” I said. “I’ve heard from elsewhere he’s a bit of a shit.”

“What?” The student’s eyes widened in horror. “I can’t believe that. Orlando’s a friend of one of Mummy’s girlfriends. Well, actually a friend of a friend of Mummy’s friend. That’s how I got this vacation job.”

“Who’s Orlando?”

The student was disconcerted. “The owner of the gallery. Orlando Figges. Who you were asking about.”

Was this another alias for Oscar Fitzroy? Certainly the initials fitted my rule-of-thumb. Or maybe his real name? I said, “I thought it was owned by a guy called Piers Scott-Harrod.”

Edie shook her head and smiled at my apparently foolish question. “Never heard of him. Sorry.”

“Let me ask another,” I said. “What’s the name of your mum’s friend of a friend of a friend?”

Her smile became a giggle. Another daft question she thought. “You won’t know her.”

“Try me.”

“Don’t be silly,” the girl said, smiling again.

“Let me see if I can guess the name of this friend.”

My persistence puzzled her and her smile became a frown. Then it intrigued her and her frown became a quizzical look, eyebrows raised. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“I’m one of the good guys,” I said. “No reason to be alarmed.”

She grinned. “Anyone can say that.” Only nineteen or twenty, but cynical.

“Give me three goes. If I win, I’ll buy you a drink.”

Edie grinned. “Cool.” Then her grin faded. “Though I’m not supposed to drink at lunchtime.”

“It needn’t be an alcoholic drink.”

“That’s not much fun.” She pouted.

“And if you want to invite a boyfriend or girlfriend as well, that’s fine.”

“What?”

“If you’re nervous of going to a pub with a man twice your age.”

She looked me up and down. “You’re not forty, are you?”

“Nearer to it than you are.”

She giggled. “Anyway. You won’t get it. Her name. Unless you know her. And if you do, you’re cheating.”

“Venetia Lord,” I said.

“No.” Her voice was firm, confident of me losing.

“Tulip Lock”

“No way.”

“Isla Leach”

She was stunned, then recovered quickly. “You’ve been leading me on. You obviously know her. That’s not fair.”

Was Isla her real name? Two dealers with so many names between them. My head was spinning. “Have you a friend who knows Isla? Apart from your mother.”

“Yeah. So?”

“Is she around? I’d like to know more about Isla. Can your friend meet us for a sandwich and a drink?”

“I’m not supposed to leave the gallery.”

This seemed unlikely. I gave her a look. “How long have you worked here?”

“Five weeks.”

“How many pictures have you sold in that time?”

“None.”

“How many people come in to look around?”

“Some days nobody. You were the first today.”

“How often does the phone ring?”

“Never.”

“Take an hour. Nobody will know.”

She leaned forward on her desk, intrigued, and her eyes bored into me. When she was older she’d make a good police detective with that glare. “Tell me who you are.”

An hour later, Edie had closed the gallery, and we were in a pub with her friend Sienna. Sienna had rushed by taxi from a riding lesson and was still in jodhpurs and riding boots. Working with the horse had obviously made her thirsty because she had already downed half of her pint of the strong Belgian beer Leffe.

“I’ve got a picture of Orlando somewhere,” she said, flicking through Facebook. “Here,” Sienna held her phone towards me. “There’s Orlando with Isla. It’s an eighteenth birthday party we were at.”

“I wasn’t invited,” said Edie.

“Whose birthday? A relation of Orlando’s?”

“No. He’s a friend of the family,” Sienna said.

The photograph showed the woman I’d met who called herself Venetia Lord alongside the man I’d tried to follow from the Maskelyne Global reception. The man who told me his name was Oscar Fitzroy, the man our client Michael Sissons identified as Piers Scott-Harrod.

I told the two women.

At first they assumed I was joking, or teasing, then they realised I wasn’t, and quickly became intrigued.

“The other names you mentioned,” said Edie. “Who are they? Friends of Isla?”

“Not exactly.” I held back, not sure whether revealing the aliases was a good idea. Then it struck me our conversation would be passed on to the two girls’ mothers and eventually filter back to Isla and Orlando –  if that was their real names –  which might not be a bad thing. It could flush them out of concealment.

“I met the woman you know as Isla the other day and she told me her name was Venetia Lord. She even gave me her business card with the address of an art gallery in California.”

“My God!” said Sienna and Edie in unison, wide-eyed, hands over mouths, looking from me to each other, then back to me.

“Are you a private detective?” said Sienna.

“Absolutely,” said Edie. “Exactly what I was thinking.” Then to me, “Do you think Mummy knows any of this? Has Isla done anything wrong?”

“Has Orlando done anything wrong?” said Sienna. “He’s so gorgeous-looking I can’t believe he has.”

“I can’t say exactly what’s going on.”

“Hey, you can’t leave us gasping, in suspense,” said Sienna. “I’ll get more drinks then maybe you’ll tell us everything.”

“I don’t know what the truth is at the moment,” I said.

“Well, it’s all so incredible and amazing, we need more drinks in any case.” Sienna went to the bar with Edie. I looked at the Facebook photo. They were standing with arms around each others’ shoulders, though not in the way lovers would present. Piers and Venetia, or Orlando and Isla, were obviously close, but not a couple. Not lovers. Good friends? Relatives?

Venetia/Isla must have overheard part of the discussion between Sissons, MacIver and me at the reception. Her intervention was deliberate.

The two students returned in high spirits with a bottle of wine and two glasses for themselves, and a half-pint of beer, which was all I wanted. To their disappointment, I told them nothing about my investigation and gently tried to tease information from them. Neither of them had heard the Venetia and Tulip alibis before, and neither was aware the woman they knew as Isla had any connection to an art gallery. Likewise, they had no knowledge of the names Oscar Fitzroy or Piers Scott-Harrod.

“He probably claims to own Harrod’s,” said Edie giggling, as she emptied her glass of  wine before Sienna refilled it.

“Piers, Orlando, Oscar, whatever he’s called, looks so hot I can’t believe he’s a villain,” said Sienna flicking through Facebook posts again.

“Actually John looks pretty fit too,” said Edie with a glassy-eyed smile at me.

“Don’t think we should go there,” I said, aware that I was technically old enough to be their father.

“Girl I know, my age, is going out with a bloke who’s forty-two,” Sienna said.

“Not necessarily a good move,” I said coming over paternalistic.

“Here,” Sienna said, not listening to what I’d said, passing me her phone. “Look at that picture. Even a straight man would say he’s handsome.”

In the photo, flattered by the sunlight and a quirky angle, the dealer did have film-star looks. The sun also sparkled off something in his buttonhole.

“What’s this badge Orlando’s wearing?” I said.

“Some new company he’s started apparently.” She flicked through her photos and found another. “There. You can see it better.”

Edie leaned over. “Looks like the Eiffel Tower. Is he starting a travel company?”

“He was going on about how wonderful it would be and how much it would earn him, though he didn’t actually say what the company did.”

“Huh. Money laundering,” said Edie.

“You’re not serious?” Her friend was shocked.

Edie shrugged. “Who knows? Quite a cool design, whatever it is,” said Edie, passing the phone back to her friend.

“Just a moment,” I said, stopping her. There was a female figure standing behind Orlando who I recognised. It was Thalia Rice.

“Do you know that woman?” I pointed to the phone.

Edie and Sienna looked. And shook their heads.

“She came with an old guy,” Sienna said. “They weren’t many old people there.”

“Have you got a shot of the old guy?” I said.

Sienna flicked through more images. “Here.”

I looked at the screen. In the background of a shot, Thalia Rice was standing talking to an old guy I knew very well. It was Gus Lamport.

What was he doing there? I paused a moment, my brain whirling. “Do either of you know where Isla or Orlando lives?”

The young women looked at each other, thinking. Neither did.

“I could text Mummy,” Edie said.

“Say a customer was asking,” said Sienna.

“Why would they ask about Isla in Orlando’s gallery?” said Edie.

“Say they’re American. Say they met them both in California.”

Edie thought a moment and wrinkled her nose. “Doesn’t sound logical. Better if I say they’re asking about those ancient things she sells. The African and middle-eastern stuff.”

Sienna nodded with enthusiasm. “Perfect.”

Edie’s thumbs danced over the keypad.

“What’s this ancient stuff,” I said.

“Like stone figures, carvings, bits of tombstones…” Sienna said, refilling her glass once more.

“Genuine. Not reproduction?”

“Oh yeah. They’re all dusty and some are really big and heavy.”

“You’ve seen them?”

“Only once. A few years ago. They were all in the basement of her house.”

Edie looked up from her phone. “Mummy says she’s on the Underground. Doesn’t have the address with her, but it’s in Langstrath Square, and the number’s got a seven in it.”

“That’s very good of her,” I said.

“Langstrath Square is near the river…” Edie began.

“They had a sailing boat. A big one,” said Sienna.

“It’s OK, I know where the square is.”

Both girls gave me a look.

“It’s the only street in London with that name, and I happen to… well, I won’t explain.”

The girls looked at each other with raised eyebrows and turned back to me, leaning across the pub table.

“Did you have an assignation there?” whispered the now semi-intoxicated Sienna.

“Assignment, she means,” said Edie in a similar stage-whisper, “were you investing… investigating someone there?”

I smiled. “No, I’ve never been to Langstrath Square before. You’ve been very helpful. More helpful than you realise. Thank you very much. And thank your mother, too. There’s one last thing…” I turned to Edie. “If Orlando comes into his gallery while you’re there, I’d be very grateful if you’d let me know.” I handed her my card.

Edie was gleeful, squeezing up close to Sienna. “He is an investigator, look.”

“Ssshhh,” said her friend. “He may be under cover.”

Both girls giggled and hugged each other.

It was time to leave. I thanked them both for their help, gave them my best wishes for their university courses and future careers. I paid the tab, and left to a chorus of “See you soon”, with them discussing whether to order more wine, or coffee, or both.

The help I got from the two students was greater than they could have imagined. I believed I had established at last what the dealers’ real names were. Isla Leach and Orlando Figges. Or at least, that was how friends in London knew them.

Beyond that, my mind was reeling. Thalia specifically denied having heard of Isla Leach, yet she and Gus were at a party with her and Orlando. Was she covering up for Orlando and Isla? Was she related to them?

Were Isla/Venetia/Tulip and Orlando/Oscar/Piers involved in Gus’s death? Were they responsible for his death? And if so, why?

Chapter 7

Of all the tens of thousands of streets in London, Isla Leach could not have chosen a better one to live in, from my point of view, than Langstrath Square. I had not lied when I said it was the only one of that name in the metropolis, and that made finding her house easy.

The square was in Chiswick, west London. On the way, driving past some shops my eye was caught by a print shop with colourful advertising banners.

An idea came to me which might be useful in gaining access to Isla’s house.

I stopped, went into the shop and enquired about business cards.

“Sure. Twenty-five pounds a thousand. Ready tomorrow,” said the Pakistani man behind the counter.

“I only need ten. But I’ll pay the same. No, I’ll pay double if you can do them now.”

The shop guy gave me a strange look, then grinned and laughed. “Oh, I get it. You’re playing a joke on someone.”

I nodded. “Yeah. That’s it. They played a trick on me. I thought I’d do the same.”

“Of course,” said the man. “I do it straight away. Have you the copy? The text?”

“I’ll do it now.” I took out a pen and he handed me a pad to write on.

More quickly than I imagined, Asif handed me my printed cards. In classic Times New Roman font, black on cream card, I was ‘Eric Anstruther, Dealer in Ancient Art.’ The phone number and email address were both phoney, and I had avoided in my choice of alias the same-initials-syndrome.

“What you going to do?” said Asif, looking at the card and grinning, “sell somebody the Pyramids.”

He laughed and I laughed. “Good plan,” I said.

Chiswick is in West London, close to the Thames, and was where the painter, cartoonist and engraver William Hogarth lived in the eighteenth century, as did J.M.W. Turner in the nineteenth century. But in those days Chiswick was the countryside. An ideal place to find open space and fresh air outside London. Chiswick is still attractive, but busy and crowded, with the constant drone of planes coming into Heathrow.

Langstrath Square was only one street away from the river in an area which has no high embankment or river wall and the road that runs closest to the Thames is often a few inches under water at high tides. In spite of that, it’s a chic and sought-after place to live.

Langstrath Square was hardly a square at all, at least not like the famous London squares. It was no more than thirty metres at its widest point, cobbled in the middle, and an odd shape. Definitely not square, more of an oval. Sienna’s mother said Isla’s house number had a seven in it. There were only fifteen properties in the square, all different, and number seven was unoccupied, in the middle of what looked like total renovation. Which was Isla’s?

I was drawn to a well-proportioned old building, the most impressive in the square, with the date 1794 carved into the stone pediment over the door. It felt like the sort of place an art dealer would want. Maybe the prominent construction date had stuck in the mother’s mind instead of the street number. It was double-fronted and ran to four floors. Its upper rooms would have good views of the river and its prime position would make the house worth several millions. How Isla could afford to buy it I didn’t know. Maybe she was renting. Maybe there was another fraud in progress.

I rang the bell. A woman wearing a housekeeper’s or cleaner’s tabard over her clothes opened the door. Her reaction was interesting. It was plain she’d been expecting someone else and had a greeting ready. When she saw me, her lips pursed, her face straightened and her brow creased. I was something of a disappointment to her. Even a source of concern.

I asked for Isla Leach. She was not in, I was told, though at least I had picked the right house. I said I’d learned she dealt in Greek, Roman and other artworks from ancient civilisations, and that she had a gallery in the house.

The housekeeper, whose features and accent suggested a Russian or Slavic origin, denied there was any kind of gallery at the premises.

“Where does she sell these ancient artefacts?” I asked. “Online? At antiques fairs? To the trade only?”

The housekeeper shook her head, then, in English which got more broken and confused as she went on – which was odd, since until that moment she’d spoken English fluently – she told me she’d not worked long for Isla. “Only a few weeks, ” and knew nothing about Isla’s work.

“What a shame,” I said. “I was given her name by a friend of hers, Tulip Lock. Do you know her?”

The housekeeper stared at me, said “No,” and repeated the fact she was new to the job.

“Does Orlando Figges live here too…?”

I never got an answer because I heard a motorbike come to a halt behind me. This drew the housekeeper’s attention and her eyes looked over my shoulder, interested in the bike’s arrival. There was a silence as I waited for her reply to my question. Her eyes switched back towards me, frowning now. “Why do you ask? What you want?”

“Merely to purchase some ancient and exotic artworks.”

“What’s your name? I tell Isla you called.”

I delved into my pocket, pulled out one of the cards I had printed and handed it to the housekeeper.

“Thank you for your help,” I said. But the housekeeper was already retreating into the house and shutting the door. The housekeeper’s reaction to the biker’s arrival suggested she knew him and/or was expecting him. Yet she also looked wary. Frightened even. Was she frightened of me, or was another aggrieved client chasing Venetia/Tulip/Isla in the same way Sissons and Nash Vitucci were?

I turned to look at the motorbike. The rider had removed his helmet and was not looking at me, nor looking at the house. He was looking at his phone. I walked past, giving him a sidelong glance. He had close-cropped dark hair, almost military in style, with the addition of distinctive sideburns which extended along his jawbone.

I walked a short way into a side street which led directly to the riverside, then turned, and came back towards Langstrath Square, stopping by the front garden of a corner house. Its tall, bushy hedge gave me cover, out of sight of the biker and out of range of the bike’s mirrors. The biker was not in a hurry. Perhaps he’d been waiting for me to disappear. He looked around, as if admiring the local architecture, but presumably checking I had gone. Then he pulled the bike up on its stand and went to the front door of Isla’s house.

The door was opened so quickly I guessed the housekeeper had been keeping watch.

A conversation ensued on the doorstep. It was clear the couple knew each other. The biker removed a small package from his backpack and handed it to the woman. She put it into a pocket of her tabard as the biker talked and she nodded, as if receiving instructions. Both were nervous of being watched. The woman looked around constantly, and the biker turned his head from time to time to check behind him. The woman nodded a final time and the biker made to go, then she stopped him. Now it was her turn to speak and his to listen. I guessed she was talking about me, a surprise visitor asking awkward questions. She was pointing in the direction I had gone and once more the biker looked around, then nodded meaningfully.

It felt like time to go. I walked away from Isla’s house, towards the river, and planned to continue in a wide circle back to where I had parked. Behind me I heard the motorbike start up.

I increased my pace a little and turned right into a lane which ran parallel to the Thames. It was one of those streets which are so close to the river it was often partly covered by water at high tide.

I heard the bike turn into the lane behind me, and I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder. The biker couldn’t fail to notice me. And he didn’t. He drove past me slowly, staring at me through the visor of his helmet. Once past, he accelerated and shot away down the road.

Then he turned. And, with a roar, headed straight back towards me

Chapter 8

The lane was narrow, less than three metres wide, built for horses and pedestrians, a remnant of the time when Chiswick was countryside, with no separation between motor traffic and those on foot. No footpath, no pavement.

On the river side of the lane was a tall stone wall, once sheltering a wharf, now a sailing club. On the other side, a bushy, impenetrable hawthorn hedge fronting a row of houses.

The bike was heading straight for me.

I was hemmed in. No parked cars offered shelter: parking there was banned because of the narrowness of the road, and the regularity of it being part of the river for an hour each day.

The bike was thirty metres away. Less than two seconds. No time to think of options.

Above my head was a low-hanging street lamp, fixed to a bracket on the stone wall. A cast iron remnant from Victorian times, preserved and conserved.

I sprang up, hands outstretched, grabbing the rusty ironwork, hoping it was well preserved and conserved. I pulled my knees up level with my waist.

The bike shot past directly underneath me. The rider’s helmet only inches from my feet.

The bike skidded to a halt and began a turn.

If he tried the same manoeuvre again, I would kick him in the face. If nothing else, it should at least knock him off his bike.

Then there was a shudder and a lurch from the iron bracket I was holding. It came away from the stonework, and I fell to the ground, leaving the lamp bracket hanging lop-sided from a single bolt.

Along the road, the biker completed his turn and headed for me once again.

In front of me on the tarmac, half buried in mud and dead leaves, was a long, thin piece of wood. Flotsam. Washed there by the river, left behind when the tide turned. I pulled it up, surprised to find it was nearly ten feet long and pleased the timber was hard and solid, not rotten. I held it out like a lance towards the charging motorbike.

A bike doing sixty-miles-an-hour meeting a piece of timber held stationary in my hands could do more damage to me than to the bike.

Nevertheless… As he shot towards me, I jabbed the piece of wood towards the rider’s head.

At the last second, the rider swerved out of the way, missing my wooden pike by inches. As he flashed past I threw the timber at the bike’s wheels, hoping to get it between the spokes. I missed. The rider continued down the lane, then slowed and turned for another run.

I picked up the long piece of wood again. My only means of defence.

This time I rethought my tactics.

The bike charged towards me. I waited for it, this time holding the timber like a javelin. When it was twenty feet away I hurled the pole forwards, aiming at the rider’s body – and side-stepped fast.

As I threw my spear, the rider swerved away towards the hawthorn hedge. The timber missile missed the bike and the rider’s body and landed diagonally between the rider’s arms, outstretched on the handlebars. It lodged there, half on the handle bars, half on the rider’s legs. The biker was distracted. He took one hand off the handlebars to remove the timber, but also took his eyes off what was ahead.

The bike was now closer to the bushy hedge than before. The front end of my missile, sticking out several feet in front and to one side of the bike, was caught by the spiky hawthorn. The timber pole swung sharply round, swiping the rider’s remaining hand from the bike, unbalancing, then toppling the bike.

Bike and rider fell to one side and both slid along the lane for fifty metres before crashing into the base of the stone wall. I retrieved my pole from the hedge and ran towards the downed rider. As I ran, he pulled himself to his feet. To my surprise, he looked unhurt, only stunned. Seeing me sprinting towards him, he righted his bike and started the engine. The bike, too, seemed undamaged and, before I got near enough to grab him, he was off down the lane again and disappeared from view.

I chucked away the life-saving piece of old timber and started back towards my car.

Who on earth was he? A minder for Isla? If he was, why wasn’t he with her? Who had given him instructions to attack me? The housekeeper? Yet, when I watched them together at the door, the biker seemed the senior partner. Just an off-the-cuff attack? If his job was to protect Isla, possibly Orlando too, running down people in the street would bring police attention on to them.

I set off back to my car, leaving the riverside and walking now by the most direct route. I had not gone far before another vehicle attracted my attention. A car this time, a Porsche 911 convertible. It was the less the car I noticed, than the driver. Because, even on this none too warm April morning, the driver was showing himself off by having the top of the car down, making him super visible.

The curly blond hair and good looks were unforgettable. It was Orlando Figges aka Piers Scott-Harrod aka Oscar Fitzroy.

He drove past me and turned into the square where Isla’s house was. I ran back to my previous vantage point behind the shrubbery of the corner house. Orlando – I shall call him Orlando now, assuming it’s his real name – Orlando had parked in the spot where I first saw the biker, he had kept his engine running, and tooted his horn. Picking up Isla, I wondered?

I left him there and raced to get my own car, only a few hundred metres away, and drove back as fast as possible. Isla was getting into the Porsche as I drove down a side street leading into the square. The Porsche took off and I followed, allowing as usual plenty of space between us. An open-top car on a sunny but chilly day was not hard to track. Egotism, exhibitionism, showing-off, plus huge self-confidence: that seemed to be how Orlando and Isla operated. They’d taken a big gamble in getting invited to the Maskelyne Global event. If they’d ever considered the risk that one of their victims might be among the art collectors, they discounted it, or calculated the risk was worth taking if they could hook and land more suckers.

Cool customers and unpredictable, therefore dangerous.

They were going towards Heathrow Airport. Not taking a flight, I assumed, because they had no baggage. What the Heathrow area is well stocked with, apart from aircraft, is hotels. For fly-in, fly-out meetings for people too busy, or too important to drive into central London.

I was right. Orlando and Isla drove into one of the better class business hotels and parked. I followed them and watched them get out. Orlando was in an impeccable dark suit, glossy shoes, white shirt. Less ‘arty’ than at the reception, more serious business executive. His tie, though, even from a distance looked a specialist piece of design. Does Hockney do ties? Jeff Koons does plates and rings, maybe he’s branched out to apparel? Whoever designed it, the tie looked ultra exclusive. Something to impress the punters. Something for them to remember him by.

Isla was in a lime-green skirt suit. The skirt was short, the blouse unbuttoned low. Something else to impress and leave an unforgettable memory.

Orlando was wearing a small badge as he had at the eighteenth birthday party and I pulled out my binoculars to study it. It was like the tiny buttons US secret service agents wear and, even with binoculars, I couldn’t make out all the detail. I saw the shape which Edie described as the Eiffel Tower, though to me it was more like a transmitter, or radio telescope. There were also some letters, too small to read at that distance.

Before they went into the hotel, Orlando took something from his pocket, and went towards Isla, taking hold of her jacket. She shook her head, thinking it unnecessary. He said something which persuaded her, showed her the badge in his own lapel, and with an amused chuckle, Isla succumbed to him placing one of the same button badges on her lapel.

A promotional meeting, then, for their new company.

I let them get ahead of me. They moved from car park to reception, from reception to elevator.

In the foyer of the hotel I studied the board which was headed: today we welcome with a list of those who were holding functions there. Most were companies I’d never heard of and usually their names gave little away about their business. Only one hinted at any connection to the visual arts. The Myorzli Landscape Company. Or was I looking for connections where there were none? The title was open to several meanings. Landscape paintings? Landscape gardeners? Landscape designers? Land or real estate agents?

Myorzli Landscape sounded distinctly foreign. Their natural habitat felt far away. Whatever the company was, they were meeting in the Guildford Room on the eighth floor between 12 noon and 2 p.m. What had they come to Heathrow to discuss? I searched online for Myorzli Landscape. There was nothing. Zilch. Strange. An online presence is usually the first thing a start-up will establish.

I took a seat in the hotel reception to think out my next move and saw a diplomatic car from the Syrian Embassy pull up. Two smartly dressed men got out, came into the hotel and studied the today we welcome board, as I had done.

“Ah… Myorzli,” one of them said, pointing to the company name and exchanging a few words in Arabic with his companion. They took the elevator to the eighth floor. Close behind them, a couple in business clothes, speaking German, did much the same. They identified Myorzli and took the elevator up to eight. A few minutes later, a Chinese man and a woman were dropped off by what looked like another embassy vehicle and went up to the eighth floor. Then came two men who I placed as Pakistani, but could possibly have been from Bangladesh or even Myanmar. They were followed by a couple of South Africans and two men from Isla. Again the identification was easy because they came in embassy vehicles. More circumspect was a single man who arrived by Uber, who had a Middle Eastern appearance and a man and a woman speaking Russian who walked up to reception, presumably having left their own transport in the car park.

It was a small-scale United Nations General Assembly. Everybody going to the Myorzli meeting was wealthy or important, and often both. Some were government representatives.

I couldn’t believe Orlando and Isla were attending such a meeting. Was it possible they were hosting it? The idea seemed absurd. Yet I would have thought the same three days previously about Gus Lamport being murdered. The attendees looked like potential customers for Orlando and Isla’s frauds, but what had ‘landscape’ got to do with anything? Was it a cover? Was the company name a play-on-words, a cheeky reference to landscape art?

I had to get closer to the action.

I shunned the elevator, as always, and took the stairs.

On the eighth floor was a general hospitality area, where delegates were being served coffee. Neither Isla nor Orlando was there. I went to the entrance to the Guildford Room itself where a brutish-looking doorman was checking invitations. I glanced into the room and saw both of my targets. They stood in front of a dais on which was a table and two chairs, and behind that a large video screen. A technician came up to them and Orlando handed him a flashdrive, presumably containing video material. Orlando and Isla were preparing to address their guests.

There were no fliers, posters or other documentation visible. What on earth were they selling?

The last of the guests lined up to go into the presentation and I joined the end of the queue. When I reached the doorman, I said, “Afraid I’ve left my invitation at home. Very stupid of me.”

“Admission is by invitation only,” the doorman said.

“Of course, but can’t you check your list and find my name there?”

“There isn’t a list. For security. Invitation only. It said that on the invitation. Sorry sir.” He prepared to close the door to the conference room.

“I had a telephone call from Mr Scott-Harrod yesterday reminding me to come,” I said.

“Don’t know the man, sir.” The doorman was blunt, he didn’t want any misunderstanding. “You should have remembered your invitation.”

“And I had lunch with Oscar Fitzroy and Orlando Figges last week. They were looking forward to meeting me here.”

“Don’t know them either, sir. If you’d like to make your way downstairs…” My persistence was in vain. The doorman put a meaty hand on my arm and pushed me firmly in the direction of the elevator.

I didn’t resist. I got to the elevator as the doors opened and an African man in a military uniform got out and hurried to the doorman. His uniform was impressive – a general, I thought – but disconcerting. Frightening, even.

Downstairs, I went back to my car to wait for the meeting to end and tried to work out what the fraudsters were doing. I searched for Myorzli again, without ‘landscape’ or ‘land’, and still there were no results. Well, hardly any. I found a couple of people listed who had the surname Myorzli. They were Russians with no attachment to a company. I figured Myorzli had to be a transliteration of a Russian word, which I guessed would be spelt мёрзлый. I looked it up. There is such a word, and it means ‘frozen’.

All very interesting, but did it get me anywhere? No, it didn’t. Frozen land made me think of Antarctica, Siberia, Canada.

I was about to start the car and head off, thinking I had wasted enough time at the hotel when the embassy and chauffeured cars which had brought the delegates, were returning. Along with several taxis. The presentation must be ending.

Within a few minutes, those I had seen before were pouring out of the hotel. None of them were speaking, even to their colleagues, and all kept stony faces as they got into their transport. Diplomats, negotiators, politicians, commercial spies, military people. Whatever they were, they all knew better than to display any emotion which might be observed and analysed by their rivals and enemies.

The delegates were whisked away quickly. I waited for Orlando and Isla, who appeared in due course. Instead of joining Orlando in his car, Isla said goodbye to him with a hand on his arm, got into a taxi and was driven off.

I got out of my car and moved quickly towards Orlando.

“Oscar! Hello again,” I said in a jovial way, holding out my right hand. “Good to see you again, Mr Fitzroy.”

He was off-guard, fiddling with the key to unlock the car. He looked at me, and didn’t seem to remember.

“The other night. The Maskelyne-Global do at Tate Britain,” I said.

“Ah, yes… Of course.” He was being polite. He didn’t remember my face. “Be so kind as to remind me of your name.”

“It’s John Kite.”

I smiled more broadly. His smile wavered.

“We were discussing the problem of Mr Michael Sissons’ picture. The so-called Turner he bought from you.”

“Actually, I don’t recall having that conversation with you or anyone. So if you’ll excuse me…”

“Ah, maybe it’s my mistake.” I clicked my fingers. “I know what it was. I wasn’t talking to you but to your identical twin. Mr Piers Scott-Harrod.”

He reacted only fractionally before his suave salesmanship continued. “Never heard the name. Sorry.”

“You also trade as Orlando Figges, don’t you? Fact is, whatever your real name is, what you sell isn’t real. Either they’re fakes or you cheat your clients with bogus deals. In same way as your friend does. I’m referring to Venetia Lord of course. Or Tulip Lock or Isla Leach. Three names each. That’s really quite impressive.”

He telegraphed his punch so obviously that I had plenty of time to react. As his right swung towards me, I grabbed his forearm and twisted it hard behind his back, then I turned him round to face the car and pushed him down until his face was hard against the bodywork, just behind the headlamps.

“No need for violence, Orlando. Though Mr Sissons wants his money back. And it’d be a good idea to cross a few noughts off the prices of the pictures in your gallery. What do you say?”

“I’m an honest art dealer. No fakes or frauds. I’ve never heard of this Sissons.”

“Have you heard of Gus Lamport? Art restorer.”

“No, I haven’t. Let me go.” His speech was distorted, like a bad ventriloquist’s, because his mouth was kissing metal.

“Who was that biker hanging around Isla’s house?”

“What?” He seemed disconcerted by mention of the biker and I felt his body relax. “Who do you mean?”

“Man with distinctive facial hair, friend or colleague of the housekeeper or cleaner. Delivered a little package to her. Is she Russian? Is he Russian? Maybe someone you’ve cheated on?”

He said nothing. I got the impression he was worried.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to ask another question because my neck was circled by a brawny arm and clamped in an iron-like grip. It was the doorman from the meeting room strangling me. As I released Orlando to deal with the attack I saw him get up from across the front of his car.

“Thanks, Raoul,” he said to the guy holding me. “Work him over.” Then he straightened his suit, got into the Porsche and for a few moments watched me have my throat crushed.

I was struggling hopelessly against my attacker’s superior weight, jabbing my elbows into his ribs, kicking back into his shins, trying to hook a foot behind one of his legs to trip him. I was running out of air, feeling weaker by  the second. He was holding me tight and I was almost immobile, still alongside Orlando’s car. With my last remaining strength I lifted my legs, shoved my feet against the Porsche’s bodywork and, a split-second before Orlando drove away, I pushed as hard as I could.

I felt Raoul stagger. He took a step back, but Orlando had parked adjacent to a little grassy strip which divided up the parking spaces and Raoul was standing in front of the kerbstone which edged the grass. His backward step hit the kerb, he tripped and toppled backwards, still holding me close. I fell on top of him. I’m not much more than 170 pounds but the direct blow was enough to take the wind out of Raoul. He released me, gasping. I sprang up, aimed a kick at his balls, which made him gasp some more, then went back to my car, leaving the big man still on his back writhing in agony.

As I drove towards the car park exit, I passed a familiar car. The black Range-Rover. It was parked on the opposite side of the hotel entrance from my position. The driver was in the car with his head down. Making notes? Checking his phone? Had he seen me talking to Orlando? My struggle with Raoul?

The driver was every bit as keen on chasing Orlando and Isla as I was.

Chapter 9

I drove home revolving my head and massaging my neck, which hurt with the pressure of Raoul’s meaty arm. Back at the house, I forgot all about the pain because the efficient Roisin, in spite of her illness, had typed up Gus’s notes and emailed them to me. I opened the file.

First, was a letter addressed to me.

Dear John

If you ever get to read this, none of the information contained herein may be of any use or interest. I have recently been troubled by proposals discussed at meetings of the Board of Trustees of the Benevolent Fund of the Society of Artists, Auctioneers, and Dealers in Art and Antiquarian Books. The proposals were initiated by the Chair of the Trustees, Mrs Thalia Rice, who I have known since she was appointed, fifteen years ago.

I don’t know how things will develop but thought it worth writing some notes before I became too forgetful to recollect events.

I have made a few enquiries – amateur detective work, if you like – and you may be amused, however I uncovered things which bother me. I have not troubled you with this yet because I may have missed a simple explanation for what seems mysterious. Nevertheless, I have taken advantage of Clark Munday’s kindness to preserve my findings and pass them on to you when he thinks fit.

That Gus was running an investigation was surprising enough. Yet he was doing himself down by suggesting there was little to investigate or he’d missed a simple explanation. What he had discovered was important and firmed up some of my own suspicions.

As Clark said, Gus’s notes were scrappy and not always easy to follow. At other times they were verbose and discursive, and drifted from the point. What follows here is my precis of what Gus wrote, as transcribed by Roisin, with her notes in square brackets.

Chair of Benevolent Fund Trustees, Thalia Rice, is behaving strangely, haphazardly. Known her for years, respect her, like her. But she suddenly seems to have lost all judgement. And sense. I worry about future of the Fund.

She plans to sell the papers of Simon [illegible - Zim..???] – guy who set up Fund and endowed it. He was Russian/Ashkenazy extraction. His papers were left to Society under his will and apparently contain family stuff back to 19th cent. Nobody has researched what there is. Even Thalia hasn’t read them all. All papers in storage.

Thalia has received half million pound offer for papers from guy called Orlando Figges. Art dealer from Canada. Never heard of him. Not listed anywhere.

Thalia says Fund needs the money – True. I argued a proper archivist should research Z’s papers to check what’s there, in case it’s not simply old birthday cards and shopping lists. Thalia said all the endowments and Fund are safeguarded, and outside the sale.

I said get legal advice. She said offer is only on table for two months, and archivists and lawyers expensive. True as well, but worth it, I said.

We argued. First time ever.

Set up private meeting before full Board. Her and me. Got nowhere. She’s adamant.

I asked to meet Orlando Figges. She invited me to party!!! Thalia is family friend of someone related to Orlando F.

Before party: Researched Orlando Figges. He has links to dealer called Piers Scott-Harrod (What a name! nom de guerre, surely?) Has gallery North Kensington.

Visited P.S-H. gallery (March 2025)  A few good (& over-restored) pictures at monstrous prices, otherwise tarted-up tat, also at monstrous prices. Mutton dressed as lamb. [Is that right? R.]

Also phoned round the trade. In 2022 Scott-Harrod sued by purchaser of £300,000  picture which was ‘not as described’ (i.e. fake or copy). Settled out of court. No press coverage. Purchaser forced to sign…. [illegible initials, could be NDA, for Non-Disclosure Agreement. R]

Scott-Harrod has links to another dealer based in Los Angeles. Venetia Lord.

Coincidentally, had call (April 2nd 2025) from [illegible] in Paris, asking my opinion of Scott-Harrod. He wants to buy three pictures from them (Total:8 million). They have heard bad rumours in the trade and fear he will default.

At party. Lots of beautiful young people. Orlando Figges blond, curly hair, exceptionally attractive. If I were younger…! Had brief chat about his plans to buy Z’s papers. Claimed he dealt in manuscripts, books etc. as well as pictures. Had buyer interested in family history of Russian/German/Ashkenazy families, as Z was. Told him we wanted to research before agreeing anything. He said time was running out, would be foolish for Trustees to delay. I said Board would not agree to his plan, because rules say votes on such matters had to be… [Partly illegible. Think it’s Latin abbrev. ‘nem. con. = ‘No one against’ – R.] He said ‘Change the rules. That’s how to get things done.’ I told him not to be ridiculous. I added there were pictures in his associate’s gallery, (Scott-Harrod’s) which were palpable later copies but marked and priced as if by original artist. I said, ‘You may call that changing the rules, I call it a criminal offence.’ He just walked away. Clearly thought I was an old fool.

Later Thalia asked me what I thought of him. Told her to beware snake-oil salesmen. She said I was over-reacting. I said: he may be an Adonis but you mustn’t fall at his feet. You’re so enthusiastic to sell these papers anyone could think you’re having an affair with him. To show I’m joking, I smile. She takes offence. Slaps my face!!! God. That shut me up.

Next Board meeting not quorate, two ill (long covid, flu) and James Mountain missing. Therefore no vote taken.

Before next meeting, Thalia and I talk again. She, trembling a little, tells me that fellow trustee James Mountain (who also opposed sale of papers) is dead. Hit and run accident. Asks if anyone’s threatened me, suggesting James’ accident wasn’t an accident! Thinks I should keep low profile on board. Most extraordinary. Surely she wouldn’t make story up? Or would she? Is she threatening me in some way? Secret deal with Figges? Wondering about her probity and trustworthiness.

Will research Thalia’s background more. She’s mentioned being in Canada once or twice – for work? Possibly she met Orlando Figges there. An undeclared bond/friendship between them? If so she ought to say.

Also heard fantastical story from the always unreliable [names illegible. Possibly ‘Brian Pren…’? - R] who heard from one of his Foreign Office chums that Thalia had a long affair with a spy. Good tale. Certainly nonsense. So makes me wonder about James Mountain hit and run story.

As ever,

Gus

PS More notes at home, though not all make sense to me. (And wouldn’t make sense to you.) Will go through them, edit and send another letter after the meeting next month.

I was gobsmacked Gus had done so much and grateful for his leads. I was also depressed Gus hadn’t ‘troubled’ me as he wrote. I wish he had. If he had involved me, I could have helped and, I hoped, saved him from his fate.

Gus’s most disturbing evidence was about Thalia Rice. She had given little away when I was at her house, and was obviously under pressure to hide the truth. It was strange she went to an eighteenth birthday party, which are usually for close family and youngsters, and also invited Gus along. Was she really a distant family friend of Orlando Figges? Or had he dragged her there to try to prove his integrity among normal, law-abiding folk?

Gus assumed the rumour about an affair with a spy was ridiculous. On the other hand, I put the odds on it being true at fifty/fifty. Thalia Rice travelled extensively in a high profile government job and it was eminently possible she had met spies at official functions.

I began a conventional search online.

Thalia Rice didn’t have a Facebook account, nor Instagram, nor LinkedIn. I could find nothing on her in Wikipedia, either, yet I assumed a long-serving, senior civil servant like her would have left some trace. I found some references to her in government documents while she was at the Department of Trade, though nothing of interest. I was becoming frustrated with my lack of success when Hudson Cassoni called from Los Angeles.

“Hi there, buddy,” he said. “Raining with you?”

“No, a clear night, after a bright spring day. Got smog have you?”

“No, no. That’s a cliché.”

“Yeah. Like it’s always raining or foggy in London town.”

“Actually…” Hudson gave a confessional kind of chuckle. “Actually, today the cliché’s correct. We do have smog. Though not from forest fires. It’s temperature inversion, therefore damp. Dank, you’d say.”

“Dreech. That’s what MacIver would call it.”

“Good Scottish word. Sounds like it feels. Temperature’s struggling to get to fifty here. Now this Venetia Lord. Huh! Nice name, shame about her pictures. Not my thing, but they obviously appeal to some. You should see her prices.”

“I can guess. Many customers in her gallery?”

“Nobody there except me and the assistant. I thought he was asleep at first, which would’ve been weird because there was techno-electro-funky stuff blasting out of speakers big enough for the Hollywood Bowl, then he took out his earbuds, noise-cancelling he said, and asked if he could assist. Well, we got talking and he didn’t know much about art, was doing a creative writing course at UCLA. Though my first impression was him being on a basketball scholarship. He was six-five, big hands and biceps, spent more time in the gym than at his laptop.”

“Maybe he was doing both. There was a guy at university with me doing both ancient Greek and applied mathematics.”

“Could make sense, I guess, if you stick to Pythagoras and Euclid.” Hudson chuckled. “Anyway this hunk must be there as chick-bait. He sits near the window in short shorts, sneakers and a tight T-shirt and the billionaires’ wives stand looking through the glass and drool.”

“You said there were no customers.”

“Obviously the ones out shopping today didn’t like the pictures either. Anyway, I asked the hunk in trunks about Tulip and Piers and all the other names. He’s not heard of any of them. Told me Venetia lives in London, England, and has a gallery in Beverly Hills because it’s more conducive to her style.”

“Do you think the art was genuine?”

“Hard to tell with this minimalist, conceptual stuff. It could all be as authentic and legit as the stuff in MOMA. It could be bait – like the hunk – to get people into the gallery. When they show interest in a work they’re told; ‘Sorry that one’s reserved or sold or something. But we have others.’ Then they get something from a back room which looks similar and pocket half a million from something they made yesterday.”

“I like it Hudson.”

“Glad you do. Was working on that one a while. The rents on the street aren’t the highest in town, she’s off the main drag, but they’ll need good income to pay the dues.”

“Yes. Same in London. How would you sum the gallery up in three words?”

“Mmm… Didn’t feel right. Needs more investigation.”

“Six words.”

“Yeah, I always deliver two hundred percent.” Hudson guffawed. “Who’s checking out the gallery in New York City? I could be free if the expenses are right.”

“Giselle. My half sister. She’s covering it.”

“Hey, you’re a family firm now?”

“Purely temporary. She’s based in New York, works in banking. Security and compliance.”

“Give me her number. Sounds like she might need a helping hand.”

“No way Hudson. Your idea of a helping hand is not the same as mine.”

“Give her my number then.”

“Why are you keen to meet? You don’t know anything about her?”

“I reckon a female version of you would be pretty cool. And devastatingly attractive. And Giselle’s a great name.”

“Are you trying to give me back-handed compliments? And if you ever do meet her, don’t call her Giselle. She hates the name.”

“What does she answer to?”

“Not telling you. Thanks for the research.”

And the call ended soon afterwards.

And my phone rang immediately.

“Were you talking to somebody about me?” It was G.

“How did you guess?”

G laughed. “Only joking. When I called, your line was busy. I didn’t think you really were talking about me.” She paused, and came back intrigued. “Who was it?”

“The guy I mentioned to Nash. Hudson Cassoni, an old friend. Lives in Los Angeles.”

“Hudson’s a cool name.”

I gave a laugh. “He said the same about Giselle.”

“Arghhh! I’ve gone off him already.”

“Anyway, how was your first investigation?”

“Well, I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. At the Tulip Lock Gallery, I mean. It looks smart. It was quiet. People were whispering.”

“There were other customers?”

“Just a couple. All I can say is the prices are ridiculous. Mmm… Well, that’s all I can say. Sorry.”

I said nothing, wondering if I should ask Hudson to fly to New York.

“Are you disappointed?” G sounded deflated by my non-reaction.

“Not at all. I wasn’t very specific about what I wanted you to do. Did you ask about Venetia and Piers?”

“I dropped their names as if I knew them but…”

“But nothing bounced.”

“Exactly. The names stayed dropped. On the floor. Dead. So I tried a bit of sleuthing. But didn’t get much.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, the woman at the desk, the assistant, was typing a reply to an email. I tried to read it over her shoulder but she was too far away. I couldn’t get closer because there was another desk with a printer on. Then she decided to print everything out. I was standing right by it, so I had a clear view. The email she sent was to somebody in the UK. I saw ‘.co.uk’ very clearly.”

“To a company?”

“No to a person. Someone called Thalia Rice. Rice as in Basmati.”

I said nothing for a moment.

“Kite? Have you gone to sleep?”

“No. I met Thalia today. She’s… a person of interest, as they say.”

“Oh, wow!”

“What was the email about?”

“I couldn’t stand there reading it, could I? They’d have noticed.” G paused. “I saw the subject. It said ‘Canada’.”

“Canada?”

“Yeah. Heard of it? Actually, since the email was a reply the subject would’ve been Re: Canada.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Why?”

“Not sure.” I paused a beat, then murmured, “What’s Thalia planning in Canada?”

“I told you, I couldn’t read the message.”

“Sure. I was just…”

“Talking to yourself.”

“Yes. This is good stuff, G. Better than you know.”

“Did you give my number to your friend, Hudson?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“He sounds intriguing. An American version of you.”

“He doesn’t drive a Thunderbird, or live on a ranch, or have an arsenal of weapons in his garage.”

“Sounds promising, then.” G laughed. “See you, Kite. Nash should be in the UK soon. I’ve got spreadsheets to work on. Bye.”   

Next I called Liam Bolt.

“Got a name for the killer?” he said.

“No. You?”

“We’ve checked the location where the killer’s car was stolen and only got some shadowy figures on a neighbour’s doorbell camera, nothing usable. Where the car was burned, we did find one interesting object in the ashes at the bottom of the car. It’s like a miniature plasterer’s or bricklayers trowel. Though flexible. It had a wooden handle which has burnt away.”

“An artist’s palette knife,” I said.

“Ah, yes, of course.”

The thematic link with Gus’s work felt too close for comfort. It seemed like a bizarre red herring. I told Liam what I thought.

He wasn’t put off. “Could have been dropped by the killer. Perhaps they took it to slide open the lock on the front door.”

“It didn’t work, and they smashed it in anyway.”

“Or they used it to get into the car they stole,” Liam Bolt went on. “It’s not a method I’ve seen before, though the flexibility of the metal would be useful. So what have we got? An artist who kills? Or a killer who likes painting?”

I played along though still unconvinced. “A tough guy on a long sentence who did one of those rehabilitation courses in prison.”

“Yeah. Though he wouldn’t have been allowed a palette knife inside, potential lethal weapon. So it could be someone who did a course like you say, got keen, and carried on when he was released.”

“Or it could have already been in the car when they stole it.”

Liam was still enthusiastic about this potential clue. “Whatever you think, it’s worth a search of the records for artistic murderers.”

“And… while they’re doing that…”

Liam interrupted quickly. “Oh-oh. This sounds like favour time.”

“Since I’m unofficially helping you on Gus’s murder, I thought you could unofficially help me on my fraud case. Unless you’re too busy in meetings with the top brass, now you’re a Chief Inspector.”

“Too busy with twice as much paperwork, too. Go on, Kite. What do you want?”

“Just two names to check.” I gave him the details for Venetia / Tulip / Isla.

“That’s three names.”

“Only one person. And she may have more names for all I know. There’s a guy as well. Piers Scott-Harrod aka Oscar Fitzroy aka Orlando Figges”

“That’s six names altogether. You said two a second ago.”

“Two people.”

“Yeah, but six names. Checking six takes three times as long as checking two.”

“Well, I might as well give you a third.”

“You mean a seventh.”

“This one’s only got one name. Three people altogether.”

He sighed. “What’s the name.”

I gave him Thalia Rice.

“Who’s she?”

I outlined what I knew about her and her relationship with Gus. I heard Liam Bolt tapping his keyboard.

“I wouldn’t expect a top civil servant to have a police record, and she hasn’t. Not even a speeding fine. Why are you suspicious?”

“She lied to me when I met her, and was evasive. She was devious with Gus. There’s a heavy at her house who seems to be her minder. It’s possible she’s being blackmailed, though I don’t know why, and it could even be false imprisonment. And she has a connection to the fraudulent dealers I’m investigating.”

“You think she’s got an alias as well?”

“Not impossible.” I paused a moment. “I was thinking of searching her house.”

“Mmm. Interesting…,” said Bolt, musing, then at his most cynical, “you’ve been out of the police service a number of years so you’ve probably forgotten that behaviour like that is actually against the law.”

“Surely not?” I said, playing along.

“Yeah. Afraid it’s true.” Bolt paused a beat and his tone changed, becoming more serious. “You think she’s a suspect?”

“Not for murder. But suspicious, certainly. There’s a link between those doing the art fraud scams and Gus’s murder. Orlando Figges, which seems to be the guy’s real name, is trying to buy some old documents from the Benevolent Fund where Gus was a Trustee. Nobody at the Fund knows much about them, nevertheless, there’s something hidden away there which Orlando wants. That’s why he’s offered half a million. And Thalia is keen to sell.”

“Gus wouldn’t play along so he was killed?”

“That’s the theory I’m working on. Because the trustees need a unanimous vote to agree the sale. And another trustee called James Mountain was apparently killed in a hit-and-run a few weeks ago. Whatever is being planned here it’s bigger than selling a few duff pictures, and ripping off some rich people who can afford it anyway. The key to what they want is in the old documents they’re trying to get.”

“You need to find them.”

“That’s exactly why I want to break into Thalia Rice’s house.”

“Aren’t two hundred year old documents worth a half a million pounds likely to be in a secure vault?”

“Mrs Rice is Chair of the Trustees. She seems to be playing a solo game.”

“You said the voting had to be unanimous.”

“If she can frighten some away from turning up, or incapacitate others, until she only has a rump of the trustees left, she can get her way.”

Bolt thought for a moment. “ Anything else?”

“Canada.”

“Go on.”

“That’s all. It was the subject of an email she sent to one of the art dealers I’m investigating.”

“Even if my jurisdiction reached as far as Canada – and I’m thankful it doesn’t because there’s enough in London to keep me busy for a hundred years – even if it did, I’d need more than a single word before I could investigate.”

“Sure. That’s why me breaking in is a good idea. Cuts through the crap. Achieves things you couldn’t.”

Bolt breathed in sharply. “Two things. We never had this conversation. I won’t appear for your defence when you’re charged. And I won’t visit you in jail.”

“That’s three things.”

“Nevertheless, what you’re planning is a good idea.”

“Four things.”

“Don’t get caught. Five things. And have you considered if this Thalia is being falsely imprisoned in her own house, as you suspect, how are you going to break in when, and I quote, ‘when she’s not there’?”

“Six things. Any more?”

“Final thought, Kite. If these arty people are behind the murder of Gus and planned the hit-and-run, the burnt palette knife could be theirs. Or they could have suggested it to their hitman as a useful tool. I think it’s significant.”

Liam had a point.

“Seven-all. It’s a draw.”

Chapter 10

Next morning Clark phoned to tell me he was worried.

“This Range Rover with the wrong plate. It kept me awake. Didn’t make sense. Then this morning, I wondered if, instead of your guy stealing a black Range Rover Series 7, he’d rented one.”

“Why rent a car then change the plates?” I said.

Clark stated the obvious for my benefit. “If he hadn’t done so, I could have traced him in two minutes.”

“Of course,” I said. “And renting a vehicle saves all the hassle of stealing one. Particularly if auto theft isn’t your speciality, and the cops aren’t after you. As long as you change the plates back and return the car on time.”

“So I called around a bit,” said Clark. “Said we had a claim in for a collision with a black Range Rover Series 7, but the plate didn’t stack up. Did anyone know anything, I said. In the end someone did. Bloke I know a bit – Ambrose – called to say they’d had a Range Rover Series 7 returned just now with scratches around the rear number plate. The renter said he’d reversed into a wall, Ambrose said it looked like he’d tried to remove or change the plate.”

“You surpass yourself, Clark.”

“Yeah, well I’ve been floating since yesterday morning, feet not touching the ground, blissful even. So I ignored all the usual stuff and spent time on this.”

I didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t the Clark I knew at all.

“Are you… alright?”

“Absolutely. Like I said earlier. Couldn’t be better.”

“I thought you were ill yesterday. And Roisin.”

“I was fine. So’s Roisin. She was a bit…well, it’s to be expected… ”

“What?”

“I didn’t tell anyone yesterday. It was all a bit of a shock. We had the morning off to go to the hospital. To get it confirmed…”

“Confirmed?”

“Roisin’s having a baby. Guess I should say we’re having a baby. Though that sounds anatomically impossible. Anyway…”

This was a surprise. “That’s great, Clark. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. I think. I mean…I’m on cloud nine and all that, but everyone says it’ll change our lives. Didn’t know what to do yesterday, whether to open champagne or carry on as normal. How many babies are born each year? Millions and millions. Not that special really.”

“Special for you, though.”

“Yeah…” Clark let out a long breath. He sounded exhausted.

“That’s why Roisin felt ill at the reception and you had to leave early.”

“Yeah…” He paused a moment. Then he made a decision. “Right. I might head off early this evening.” A momentous decision for Clark who always worked long hours.

There was  pause.

“You haven’t told me what you got from the rental firm?”

“God... Sorry. Aren’t pregnant women supposed to get forgetful? Or a bit ditzy? Perhaps I’m having sympathy symptoms. Umm… I’ve got it here. Somewhere… Yes. The Range-Rover driver was called Saami el-Begum. An address in London.” He spelt the name and read out the address.

“Thanks Clark. It’s too soon for your early finish, so can I throw you another?”

“Go on. Everything feels unreal today anyway. I’ll do favours for anybody.”

I read out the plate number of the motorbike which tried to run me down. I heard Clark tapping away and then, “Easy. The owner is called…” He paused and read the name slowly. “Timofey Stanislavovitch Rodchenko. Russian?”

“Certainly. Thanks Clark. That’s it. And congratulations to you and Roisin. And thank her for sending Gus’s notes.”

“She said unravelling Gus’s scribble actually helped the nausea. Did Gus have anything important?”

“Yes. Tell Roisin I’m really pleased she managed it. It could be game-changing.”

Also potentially game-changing was Clark’s info on the Range-Rover driver. A Muslim name. I wasn’t sure why, but that felt significant. Who was he working for? The meticulous changing of the number plate meant they were trying hard not to be traced, and therefore were experienced professionals. Their two tiny slip-ups – the wrong series Land-Rover and slight carelessness with tools which left traces on the car – would not have mattered had Clark not been obsessive about cars and a stickler for getting things right.

The address Clark had obtained from the car hire company was in Weybridge, where the River Wey joins the Thames. It’s an outer suburb to the south-west of London, and an affluent area. Not a place I’d associate with fundamentalist terrorists or indeed any kind of crime. But it was where Saami el-Begum lived.

I was close to home now, but I changed course to Weybridge.

El-Begum’s house was in a middle-class residential street, pleasant houses, with good-sized gardens. A Ford Focus was parked in front of his garage. I pressed the doorbell, and it actually rang, rather than give a recitation of Allahu Akbar which is what happens in some Islamic homes.

The door was opened by the guy I’d seen in the Range Rover.

“Mr el-Begum?” I said.

“That’s me.” He smiled. “Though I usually drop the ‘el’ and anglicise my name to Sam Bejam.” He paused a beat. “Remember the supermarket chain?”

I nodded. “Didn’t they go bust?”

“Taken over. About twenty years ago. I’ve no connection of course, but I like saying, ‘my name’s Bejam. Like the frozen food chain.’” He smiled again. “Just call me Sam.”

Another person with two names. Though not a fundamentalist, at least.

“My name’s John Kite. I happened to see you at Thalia Rice’s house in Abinger Hammer yesterday. Also outside the workshop in Clerkenwell of Gus Lamport, who was shot and killed two days ago. And at a hotel near Heathrow yesterday.”

He nodded. “I saw you in Clerkenwell. Police?”

“No.” I handed him my card. He looked at it and gave a surprised laugh. Which disconcerted me.

“You’d better come in,” Sam said.

“Are you alone?”

“Yeah. My wife’s out at work.”

Definitely no supporter of the Taliban.

He led me into a sitting room which was brightly and colourfully decorated, with no hint of the east, no hint of any kind of faith.

“Tea? Coffee?” he checked the time. “Beer?”

Definitely not a practising Muslim.

I accepted a beer and Sam had the same. Along with the drink he gave me his business card. “See what I do,” he said. “Small world.”

The card was printed in Arabic and another language as well as English. The words that leaped out were private investigator.

“Not really surprised,” I said with a smile, and pointing to the third language on his card, “Is this Urdu?”

“That’s right. I was born in Britain, my parents are British citizens. I’m fluent in Urdu, less so in Arabic, and I specialise in what you could call Muslim cases. Are we both chasing the same people?”

“Could be. Though I think from different angles. Who’s your client?”

Sam wrinkled his nose. “Well, that’s a moot point. I was hired by a guy in Istanbul, called Serkan. He says he’s a dealer in antique carpets and rugs.”

“You don’t believe him?”

Sam spread his arms out, shrugged. “I think rugs and carpets is simply a cover. He’s interested in much richer trade. He’s essentially a fixer, a go-between. He has contacts across the Arab world, and beyond.”

“What’s your brief?”

“To keep tabs on a couple who are supposed to have reneged on a deal and owe him fifty thousand pounds. But I don’t think the couple have any interest in carpets.”

“Would the couple be Orlando Figges and Isla Leach?”

Sam shook his head, puzzled. “No… Unless…?” He paused. “Are they a glamorous, rich-looking couple in their thirties. He’s got blond, curly hair, she’s tall, sexy?”

I nodded. “And they each have several names. What do you know them as?”

“Tulip Lock and Oscar Fitzroy.”

“Why were you at Thalia Rice’s house?”

“I know they’ve had dealings with her and they were all at a birthday party recently.”

“Did you get inside?”

Sam shook his head. “Stayed in my car. The guy I spoke to at Rice’s house wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“I saw you speaking to the big guy who looks like a minder.”

“He said he works for Rice, though he’s an unlikely kind of home-help.”

I nodded. “He was there in the garden when I was talking to her. I thought she may have hired him to protect her, though it’s more likely he was keeping an eye on her for others.”

“You think he works for the glamorous couple?” Sam said.

I nodded. “I think she’s being pressured to do something.”

“To do what?”

“This will sound unlikely, but they want Thalia Rice to buy a collection of archive documents left by an art dealer called Simon Zimbalist.”

Sam smiled. “It sounds totally bizarre.” He paused a beat. “I’ve heard of Zimbalist. I went to Manchester University and he gave money to the city art gallery there. There’s a plaque with his name on. Why do the couple want the archive?”

“No idea. Thalia Rice doesn’t know either.” I paused a beat. “What about Gus Lamport? Why did you go to his place in Clerkenwell?”

“I’d tracked the blond guy –  Orlando, Piers, whatever – I tracked him there once, and also seen Thalia Rice with the old guy, Gus, several times. Including going to the party. So I thought there was a connection between the three of them. I checked out the Clerkenwell address and found he’d died.”

I nodded. “Murdered.”

He looked at me, a frown forming on his face. “It wasn’t one of them, was it, who did him in?”

I paused, looked down at the floor. It was an idea I had avoided thinking about. Up till now. The smart, sexy couple Orlando and Isla wouldn’t have pulled the trigger themselves, they’d have hired somebody else. Or would they? I wondered again about the palette knife the police found.

“They’re involved somehow. What’s frustrating is, the more I investigate, the less I seem to know. Or understand.”

Sam smiled once more. “You’re in a similar place to me. This Serkan is giving me the run around. The people pulling his strings must know Orlando and Isla have a reputation for fraud, and deal with artworks which is why they chose antique carpets as cover for the investigation. But what they really want…” he shrugged again. “I don’t know what they really want. I simply do what I’m asked to do.”

“Of course.”

He gave me a questioning look. “On the other hand, you seem to want to go further. Am I right?”

Our eyes met. “Yes.” I tried to sound unemotional about it. “I like to get to the truth. Who do you think is the paymaster of Serkan from Istanbul?”

“I assume there’s an Islamic or Arab connection, yet it could be almost anybody. Iran, Iraq, Pakistan, Egypt, Turkey, Yemenis, Somalis, Qatar, former Soviet republics like Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, or even out-and-out terrorists like Isis, Boko Haram, Hamas. Maybe a weird federation of some of them. There were people from China, Russia and India at that hotel meeting.”

“Yes. Big, powerful nations as well as small, poor, struggling ones.”

“I tried to chat to the Pakistanis and a few of the Arab speakers. Nobody was saying anything. Lips tightly sealed.”

“Did you get into the meeting?”

Sam shook his head. “Didn’t like the look of their attack dog.” He paused. “Who or what is Myorzli?”

“It’s a Russian word for frozen,” I said.

“Frozen landscape...” Sam said, mulling over the words for their meaning. “Is it something to do with climate change? A reverse of what everyone’s expecting. Before everything warms up, they predict a meteor strike which puts up clouds of dust, blot out the sun and turns the earth back to the state it was when the dinosaurs were wiped out. Another ice age.”

I smiled. “Given this couple are frauds in the art trade, they could be frauds in science or technology, too. Could be peddling anything, all backed up with some bogus pseudo-science.”

“Did Zimbalist invent something, or discover something, kept it secret from the world, but wrote about in his diaries?” Sam said.

“The meaning of life? How to have eternal youth? How to beat the bank at Monte Carlo casino?”

Sam laughed. “Whatever it is, it’s something that’s frozen.”

“What’s that freezing process that some of the very rich are investing in?”

“Cryonic suspension,” said Sam. “Keeps you preserved until science finds a way to cure whatever you died of.”

“Maybe it’s something as crazy as that. Why else are all these rich and influential people from diverse nations going to listen to them talk about it?”

We looked at each other with amused, sardonic expressions. Not believing what I’d said, yet not having any better ideas. Sam shrugged and grinned. “Plenty of ice in Siberia. Zimbalist would have had plenty of time to try things out.”

We laughed and tried to imagine other weird and strange projects for Orlando and Isla to be selling. After a while, our good spirits evaporated, both of us realising we had no evidence whatsoever for what they were planning.

Sam offered me another beer, but it was time to move on. It had been good to swap thoughts with him. We wished each other well in our interlocking enquiries, and Sam swore to take more care with his fake number plates in future.

When I got home there was a call from the person I least expected to hear from. Isla Leach.

Orlando must have told her everything that happened at the Heathrow hotel. Yet she didn’t say a word about it, even though she must have guessed I’d seen her there. Neither did she mention my visit to her house in Chiswick. I was expecting her to acknowledge that I knew she operated under different names, maybe say something jokey or apologetic or even give some spurious reason for it. Yet it was unmentioned. Had the housekeeper not told her of my visit?

Instead she put on a great act: bubbly, upbeat, talked fast, just as you’d expect from a salesperson. We exchanged chat about the Maskelyne Global reception. She apologised for bumping into me. I apologised for bumping into her. I listened attentively to her voice. Could I detect any hint of pretence? Did any British-English come through? Or any Dutch for that matter? How American was her accent? Or was it actually Canadian?

Then she came to the point of her call.

“I was wondering if you’d like to meet up for a drink one evening, John? I wanted to pick your brains a little.”

“Oh? What about?” I said, with pretended innocence and warmth.

“You must have come across several high-spending art-lovers as part of your work. I wondered if you could suggest anybody who’d be interested in an investment opportunity that’s a bit different.”

“A bit different? So not art?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“What sort of field are we talking about?”

“That would be telling,” she said with a teasing laugh. “I’m looking for real high-rollers. People with unlimited imagination. Like all the current tech barons were, when they were at college.”

“Wow. Not sure I’ve got any of those in my contacts book.”

“Not to worry, I’d still like to share some things with you.”

She was dangling bait, hoping I’d bite. She knew I was investigating her and Orlando and she wanted to find out what I knew. A meeting could be dangerous, especially if the huge Raoul was there as backup, wanting revenge on me. Nevertheless, it would be foolish to avoid a chance to question her. In spite of her slick and accomplished PR style, she might let something slip.

She told me she was ‘unexpectedly free’ that evening, and we fixed a rendezvous for 7.30 p.m. She named a smart central London hotel bar as the meeting place.

Her call was intriguing. She was as keen to interrogate me as I was to interrogate her. I assumed my appearance at the Myorzli Landscape session had rattled both her and Orlando.

I got the idea Isla and Orlando were cavalier about their art frauds and their chain of false identities, yet after meeting Sam Bejam I was certain they had another scheme, bigger and far more profitable than paintings. The rogue or failed states, the bad actors, totalitarian regimes and dictatorships which sent representatives to the hotel presentation did so because they wanted more power and wealth. If Orlando and Isla had found something to entice these dangerous players into parting with huge sums of money, then I was a threat to their plan, just as Gus had been.

I had to assume they wanted to kill me, too.

Chapter  11

The venue Isla had chosen was the bar at the Rosewood Hotel in High Holborn, a recent conversion of a grand Edwardian office building into a luxury hotel. It was a place for high expense account business travellers and the international rich. The kind of place she liked to be seen in and meet clients.

Before going in, I looked around the hotel vestibule for any sign of Raoul or similar heavies, then hovered by the bar entrance checking inside for large men sitting alone and finally familiarised myself with escape routes.

“Ms Lord is over here,” said the concierge when I went in. I’d been right to ask for her as Venetia. That was apparently Isla’s identity in smart London circles. I was taken to where I’d already spotted her, at what those in the know call a good table, where Venetia would be visible and attract attention. She stood up to shake my hand.

“Thank you, Antonio,” she said. “What can I get you, John? Wine? Beer? Spirits? I’m on Vodka Tonic.” There was a quick consultation with Antonio and I settled for a glass of French Chenin Blanc.

“Beautiful shirt,” said Venetia. “I thought detectives and investigators liked to dress so nobody notices them.”

“True, if you’re a cop,” I said. “My investigations often involve arty people, and I usually dress to fit in with them.”

“Good thinking,” she said. This evening she was wearing a turquoise outfit that was as attention-grabbing as the silver dress and the skirt suit she’d worn at the hotel presentation. Around her neck was the same string of pearls, shimmering and bright. I knew now they had to be fake, yet they would fool anybody.

She began, as she had warned me, by asking advice as to any eminent collectors she should approach. I gave her some names, some of which she knew, then I said, “The person you should really be asking is an old friend of mine. Gus Lamport. Art dealer, art restorer, auctioneer. Decades of experience. Huge knowledge of the art scene.”

The beginnings of a frown flickered across her brow, then she looked thoughtful. “Wasn’t he the man…? I heard something on the grapevine about a restorer being attacked.”

I nodded. “It was him.”

“I hope he’s alright.”

“Very much not alright. He died yesterday.” I paused and studied her face for a reaction. There was nothing except the natural regret on hearing of the death of a stranger.

“Have the police any leads on who was responsible?”

“Only poor quality CCTV. Nothing much to go on. What’s the word on the grapevine?”

My question surprised her.

“I mean if art dealers are talking about it, I’m sure they’ve got their own theories.”

“Oh well, yes of course.” She gave a brief laugh. “People always have theories.”

“Like…?” I said.

“Robbery gone wrong is what I heard. If Gus Lambert was working on…”

“It’s Lamport. Gus Lamport.”

“Sorry. If Gus Lamport was restoring something valuable, maybe the word got around and…”

“Yes, I understand.” I paused a moment. Isla had emphasised her mistaken last name for Gus, as if her error was pre-planned. And her ‘Sorry’ was an automatic response to being corrected, a correction she was anticipating. She knew more about Gus and his death than she was admitting.

“Robbery wasn’t the motive,” I said. “There was no attempt to steal anything. Though the police aren’t sure what the motive was.”

“Really,” she said, maintaining an interested, but not too interested, look on her face. “And what do you think?”

“Gus had upset someone. Refused to do what they wanted. Got in the way of some… gangster.” I hit the final word hard. Isla reacted a little.

“Gangster?” she said, “surely an art restorer wouldn’t mix with that type?”

“Gangsters come in many forms. They can wear smart clothes, have aristocratic-sounding names, speak proper English.” 

“Yes, I guess you’re right.” She nodded, looked serious, giving a solid credible performance.

“There’s an interesting coincidence – well, a sad coincidence – about Gus.”

“Is there?” A touch of insecurity in her response. She wasn’t sure where I was going.

“My newest client hired us because of a fraud with a Turner painting. And the person who examined the picture and judged our client was the victim of a scam was none other than Gus Lamport.”

Venetia nodded and her face shaped into a concerned look which managed to be both sad and wise. “A fraud? How terrible.”

“There is a chance you can help me with this one. Although I know your base is in California, I’m sure you travel to New York City, know the scene there, have an ear to the ground…”

“Sure.” She smiled again. Friendly. Helpful.

“The dealer, or rather fraudster, who stole several millions from my client is called Piers Scott-Harrod.” I checked her face for a reaction. None. “You see how gangsters can have aristocratic-sounding names. Probably tells his dupes he’s a descendant of the man who started the department store.” I grinned broadly. “I wonder if you know anything about him? He’s a distinctive man. Blond hair, handsome.”

I could have mentioned his Orlando name too, but Piers seemed to be his US alias, so I kept to that.

“Piers…” Venetia was in thinking mode again. “Don’t think I’ve heard that name. If one came across it, it would stick, wouldn’t it?” She laughed. “Like you said, a real English name. What’s he doing in New York City?”

“Went to make a killing, I guess.” I gave her another smile.

She shifted in her seat and leaned forward, keen to lead the conversation in a different direction. “Let me ask you something now,” she said. “Have you come across a woman called Thalia Rice? She’d be in her sixties. Her late husband was a dealer.”

She was testing me. Had I connected Gus to Thalia? I tried not to react and gave a version of her own gestures, to signify shuffling through my memory for a name.

“She runs a charity now,” she prompted. “The benevolent fund of the Society of Artists, Auctioneers, and Dealers in Art and Antiquarian Books.”

“That’s a mouthful,” I said.

She smiled. “Certainly doesn’t trip off the tongue.”

Yet she was word perfect, obviously familiar with the charity’s name. I gave her a waffling answer about knowing few dealers, and unlike Gus, not being an art expert, merely an investigator. But then something quite different drew my attention. I became aware of another interesting person in the room.

Behind Venetia, at a table in a corner, all by herself, was another woman in her thirties. She looked like many other business women in the bar. Similar, but also different. She was in functional office wear, a charcoal skirt suit, and the quality and style were chain store, not Bond Street exclusive.

She had paid her bill – I could see a receipt on the table in front of her –  though she still toyed with a glass of what looked like sparkling water. On the edge of her table nearest us was a phone, yet she also held another phone in her hand. What was the second phone for?

I tried not to look directly at her, yet when I glanced into the huge mirror behind Isla I found myself looking straight at the woman in charcoal. She averted her eyes at once.

She had been watching us via the mirror. A covert observation job. Which of us was she observing?

I curtailed my rambling answer and asked a question back. “Why are you interested in this Thalia Rice?”

Isla was slow to come up with an answer. Thinking of the eighteenth birthday party, I threw in a curved ball. “Not a long-lost relative of yours?”

This brought a frown and a quick response.

“No, no… ”

I cut in. “This Benevolent Society for Artists and Dealers… etc. I heard there was some trouble among the Board of Trustees recently?”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Disagreements over selling off their heritage.”

“Heritage can be over-valued. Just because something’s old doesn’t mean it’s valuable.”

“Of course. There are plenty of fake pictures around which were done hundreds of years ago. As I’m sure you know. Some people think there’s a rare and priceless item among the Society’s heritage. Among their archives.”

“Really, what is it?” She leaned forward and held my eyes, keen to know if I had discovered it.

“Well, it’ll be words, won’t it?”

“Words?”

“The archives are documents. So they’re full of words. Some of the words must be more valuable than others.” I paused. Eye contact between us continued unbroken. “Do you know what these precious words are?”

“Me?” She laughed loudly. “How could I possibly…” I never got to hear the rest of the sentence because, as she was speaking she shifted in her seat and half turned, catching a glimpse of the woman with two phones sitting near her. Venetia reacted, stopping talking in mid sentence and visibly tensed. The woman with two phones also reacted, looking down at the floor, and dabbing her face with a napkin, trying –  too late –  to conceal her identity.

“I’m sorry,” said Isla, reaching for her coat on the back of her seat, “it reminds me I should be somewhere else very soon. It’s been lovely talking to you, John.” She stood up, shrugging on her coat, grabbing her bag. I stood as well. “We must do this again soon. Keep in touch.” She put her arms around me, drew me nearer and air-kissed my cheek.

With that absurdly weak, obviously untrue excuse, she moved swiftly towards the door, handed some money to a waiter, and did not bother about change.

I watched her go, then turned back to see the woman on observation gathering her two phones, putting on her coat and heading for the exit.

I let her reach the street, then followed her, as she was following Isla.

The street was busy. Theatre-goers, party-goers, dinner-goers. Taxis swarmed, picking up and setting down. The charcoal-suited woman was fifty metres in front of me, with Isla another fifty metres in front of her. A little close, yet there were plenty of people to use as temporary cover.

Isla had recognised the woman in the corner and been spooked. Was she a previous client who’d been defrauded and wanted payback? It had played like a repeat of Piers’ quick exit from the reception when Michael Sissons spotted him.

Isla was looking for a taxi. She saw one and walked into the road, waving it down, forcing it to stop. She got in and the cab drove away.

The woman following her was already making a call. I was too far away to hear any words but she was plainly issuing instructions as she watched the taxi disappear. She was standing on the kerbside, still on the phone, as I came up behind her. She finished her call, put the phone away, turned around, and came face-to-face with me. She drew back, startled.

“Sorry to make you jump,” I said. “I couldn’t help noticing you were following that lady in the turquoise dress who just got into a taxi.”

Her brow creased and she looked at me, puzzled. “Sorry, I must have misheard you. Could you repeat what you said?”

“You were following a woman from the bar of the Rosewood Hotel.”

The woman began to smile. “Yes, I thought you said something like that. But I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I’ve not been following anybody.”

“You were in the hotel bar, sitting at a table by yourself and watching me and the woman I was with. She’s an art dealer who calls herself Venetia Lord.”

The woman continued to smile, as if humouring me. “I was in the bar, yes. Though I don’t remember seeing you or any woman in turquoise. You must be confusing me with someone.”

“My name’s John Kite, I’m a private investigator working for Maskelyne Global Insurance on a fraud case. Here’s my card. Are you a PI?” I held out my card.

She wouldn’t take it. Instead, she laughed. “This is getting fanciful. Ridiculous even. If you had a little too much to drink…”

“I’m not drunk. The woman’s real name is Isla Leach, though she uses both Venetia Lord and Tulip Lock as aliases.”

“An extraordinary story. I’ve never heard any of those names. If you’ll excuse me…” She started to move away from me.

“If you’re working under cover, or maybe a PI on short-term attachment to the intelligence services I understand you don’t want to reveal your identity but I could be of assistance…”

“What?” It was almost a screech. Then she laughed again, though it was more of a cackle. “This is getting too silly for words. You seem to be under the most extraordinary delusion…”

“I assure you I’m not. I’m an ex-police officer, now a private investigator. Take my card. Check me out.” I thrust my business card  towards her again.

She looked at me, eyes to the sky and sighed in exasperation. “If it will please you...” She took my card.

“You were following the woman. When she got into a taxi you made a phone call, presumably contacting your colleagues who were nearby in vehicles. You would have given them the taxi’s description and number plate.”

She shook her head as I was someone to be pitied. “I did make a phone call. It was to my boyfriend, and I can show you his number if you like. However, if you’re going through this performance for a bet, or some kind of challenge, or you’ve got friends hiding somewhere making a video for U-tube or TikTok, then it’s becoming a little tedious. Good evening.”

The woman turned, walked briskly away, and took the first side street to the left.

Chapter 12

Next morning, I considered checking out the mysterious woman on surveillance with Liam Bolt, but Thalia Rice was my first priority. I told Liam I was going to break into her house and today was the day. She’d mentioned her intensive bridge course was on Saturday afternoons and Tuesday mornings. Today was Tuesday.

If the big man in white trainers was keeping constant watch on her, and she was under effective house arrest, would she be allowed out for things like a bridge class? I thought she would. Otherwise friends and locals would become concerned by her absence.

Apart from the big guy, I was sure Thalia lived alone. I had seen little of the interior of the house but, in the place I’d hung my coat when I visited the first time, there were no shoes or coats in a different size from hers. There was only one bunch of keys on a hook near the door and a small pile of books on a table from the local library suggested the interests of a single individual. When I stood in the kitchen as she made me a coffee, the disposition of mugs, plates, foodstuffs suggested she was only catering for herself.

When, on the way out, I’d popped into her cloakroom to collect my jacket, I’d noticed an alarm control and noted the system’s brand and type. I passed this on to Clark who, once again, invented an insurance claim to contact the suppliers and grill them for its operational details.

Armed with Clark’s research on the alarm system and my usual lock-picking equipment, I set off again for Abinger Hammer. I parked off-road a half-mile from the house, put on the backpack holding all my gear and followed a footpath across fields which joined the lane close to Thalia’s house. The nearby hills make the area popular with hikers at all times of the year. A single man with a backpack hiking a footpath, even during working hours, would attract no attention. The path ran close to Thalia’s house and it gave me a chance to suss out alternative ways of getting in, and ways of escape if needed. If a house is not occupied, any back doors tend to be bolted as well as locked, while the front door – because it’s the usual entrance and exit  – will not be bolted and have two locks at most.

The path took me to the lane and I walked a couple of hundred metres to Thalia’s house. Her car which had been on the drive yesterday was not there. I went into the garden and up to the door. I knocked and pressed the bell to make sure she wasn’t inside. Then I set about opening the door. As you may remember, I’m a good amateur locksmith, taught by a retired burglar. Ten minutes for the mortise lock and only a few seconds with my electronic breaker for the cylinder.

Once inside I moved to the cloakroom and disabled the alarm system, following Clark’s instructions and checked the time. I allowed myself thirty minutes to search the house, and set the timer on my watch. Thalia had led me through several of the downstairs rooms the previous time, but there was a small wing to the left of the hall which I had not seen. I started there.

I was expecting a study or similar, though what I found was a suite of three rooms and a bathroom. A granny flat, rental suite, or teenagers’ quarters. Call it what you will. Male jeans, which could do with a wash, and a cheap-looking sweater were draped over a chair. A wheeled, carry-on suitcase lay on the floor. Inside it were some underclothes, socks and two T-shirts. A second pair of jeans hung in a wardrobe. The kitchen corner needed cleaning, the tiny refrigerator was working, though empty apart from a single container of milk and two  cans of strong lager.

Beside the bed was a dog-eared paperback with a cover which suggested lurid crimes in a dystopian future.

This had to be where the big man pretending to be a gardener was lodging. If Thalia had gone to play bridge, he must have accompanied her.

Liam Bolt was sceptical the mysteriously valuable Zimbalist family papers would be anywhere except in a secure vault, and I, too, thought it unlikely they’d be in a private house. Nevertheless, no harm in looking. There was nothing hidden in the guest suite. There was no safe or other hiding place there, the floors were solid, and nothing was secreted behind any of the pictures.

Back in the main house I checked all the art hanging on the ground floor. None of it concealed a wall safe.

I went upstairs and found Thalia’s bedroom. I searched the walls first for concealed hiding places, then checked the floor which was covered by a fitted carpet which looked undisturbed.

The most private room of the house should potentially hold most secrets. And it did.

On a table were a number of framed photos. Some were snapshots, some from phone cameras, some were more formal photographs. A younger Thalia was on display, arm-in-arm with a man who was obviously her late husband. Another shot showed Thalia on her own, wearing jeans and a light khaki jacket in a desert location. In another she was in formal, office clothes outside a building which, judging by the flag flying over its entrance, had to be a British Embassy in a middle-eastern country. Then another of Thalia standing outside a nineteenth-century building which I recognised. I hadn’t been there, but I’d seen photos of the place. It was in the city of Victoria on Vancouver Island in Canada, a place well-known for its distinctive nineteenth-century architecture.

A holiday? A trip while she was with the Department of Trade? More vitally, why had Tulip Lock’s Gallery emailed Thalia about Canada?

I searched a chest of drawers: it had the usual clothes. A built-in wardrobe contained the same, plus unremarkable shoes. There was a small desk with three drawers each side and one top centre. All were unlocked. I went through them quickly and found nothing except an assortment of everyday items, until I came to the seventh drawer, bottom left. Under out-of-date and forgotten forms including an old prescription for spectacles, and a driving licence renewal document, there was something which grabbed my attention.

Something from Canada.

Fastened with a rubber band, were eleven identical unused postcards, all of them showed a historic building in Vancouver called the Marine Building. The cards were not new, some of the colours had started to fade.

I had never visited Vancouver, but knew of the Marine Building office block because of its lavish art deco interior. The illustration on the cards showed the entrance hallway in all its multi-coloured marble extravagance.

Why so many cards with the same design, all of them unused?

Underneath the cards, at the bottom of the drawer was a book, an old Penguin edition of John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath. The book had been read, or at least it had been opened and the pages turned back, because the spine was creased in several places. What was a novel doing at the bottom of this drawer? I had seen two or three bookcases on the ground floor and glimpsed many other novels, and books on history, politics, travel. Why was this book isolated?

I opened it, trying to replicate one of the places where the spine had been sharply folded back, and stared at the pages. I saw nothing except print. I turned a page slowly, and another, and another. Then I picked out something. In the middle of page 183, under the word ‘coffee’, was a faint pencil dot. I turned more pages, more rapidly, now I had an idea what I was looking for. The book had over four hundred pages and I scanned maybe a hundred of them.

I found twenty-two tiny dots. Some in pencil, some in ball-point.

It was a codebook. A crude and simple way to form short coded messages between two people, or a small group. Each party had an identical copy of the book and the message was transcribed, letter by letter, as a sequence of numbers referencing page number, line, then letter. 149.12.29 for instance. Difficult to decode, as long as the source book was a closely guarded secret.

I reckoned the identical postcards were the method of sending the coded messages, either through the regular postal system with the cards enclosed in an envelope, or else dropped in a dead letter box.

An affair with a spy?

It looked like Thalia was part of a spy network herself.

Chapter 13

The Steinbeck edition had been published in the 1980s and the Vancouver Marine Building postcards looked of similar vintage. It was careless of Thalia to leave this evidence accessible, yet it looked like a relic of something that was long over. Something from pre-digital days.

Also from pre-digital days – just –  was a landline phone on her desk. It had push-button not rotary dialling, even so it was an early model. And it wasn’t a decorative piece of vintage tech. The handset was marked with use. I wondered if Thalia had been schooled in Leo Somerscales’ way of thinking that all mobile phones were liable to interception and that a landline was safer for important messages.

The telephone had a Last Number Redial facility. On a whim, and desperate for some leads, I lifted the handset and pressed the LNR button.

After a few moments, a male voice said, “Blenheim Security, how can I help you?”

“Hi,” I said, my mind racing, wondering who I’d contacted. Did they provide guard dogs for building sites, recruit ex-SAS tough guys for warlords, or was it a home for Zimbalist’s paperwork? “Not sure I’ve got the right number. Is that the firm that does security deposit boxes?”

“That’s correct, sir. How can I help?”

“A friend of mine mentioned your company. But I wonder… Do you have a size limit on items you hold? I mean can you deal with large items?”

“How large was the item you were thinking of depositing?”

“It’s a painting. And in a big frame.”

“What are the dimensions, sir?”

“Oh.. let me think. Um… About five feet by maybe two feet. Say two metres by half a metre.”

“We have no facilities here for such an item, though we could sub-contract – could outsource it.”

“I see. So you deal with what…? Jewellery? Gold? Gemstones?”

“Yes, indeed, sir. And of course documents. Contracts. Wills. Paperwork of all kinds.”

“Of course. That’s what I thought. Thanks for being so helpful.”

Occasionally, when you take a wild punt things can work out OK.

Though there could be many reasons for Thalia calling this firm. Perhaps she’d rewritten her will, perhaps she was depositing her late husband’s diamond cufflinks, perhaps she kept the original plans of her house there, complete with a signature by the famous architect Lutyens? Call me optimistic, yet it seemed a safe bet Blenheim Security was where Simon Zimbalist’s documents were kept.

As I returned everything to the drawers exactly as I had found them, I was startled by the bedroom door closing itself. At the same time I heard a similar noise from downstairs.

The front door closing.

Opening the front door had caused a draught, which caused the bedroom door to shut.

Thalia had returned. I checked the time. Only nine minutes had passed since I set my timer.

For whatever reason Thalia had not gone to her bridge class, and she would immediately notice two things: the mortise lock on the front door was not engaged, and the alarm had been interfered with.

On cue, I heard a beep from below as Thalia re-set the alarm.

I picked up my backpack and crossed quickly to a bay window, looking for an exit route. It was about fifteen feet to the ground. Not a serious jump, though the landing was on flagstones. I moved to a smaller side window. Below was the wooden roof of a small shed, a log store.

I opened the window wide, in readiness.

Then, from the landing or staircase, I heard Thalia’s voice, “I know you’re there. I don’t know what you want. But I suggest you come out and give yourself up.”

Highly unlikely, if the intruder was a regular burglar.

There was a pause, then, “I haven’t called the police yet, so you have a chance to come out of my bedroom and tell me what you want.”

Which suggested she knew the break-in was nothing to do with theft, and she wanted information on who had commissioned it.

She went on,“By the way, I have a gun here. I have been trained to use it. And I will, if necessary. Come out of the bedroom with your hands raised.”

A sudden re-evaluation of my situation. And of Thalia. Why did she have a gun? Was this a relic from her spy days?

I moved back, silently on the thick carpet, from the open window to behind the closed bedroom door. I wanted to catch Thalia in flagrante as it were, and get to the truth. I stood ready behind the door, hoping the first thing Thalia saw when she stood on the threshold was the wide open window. Would she get the inference? How attuned was she to decoys and traps? How rusty was the training she had gone through?

The door handle began to turn. The door moved only an inch. Just sufficient to release the catch from its keep. I guessed what was coming next. I was right.

She kicked the door hard.

It opened, though not as far as she wanted. The carpet was thick, well-fitted to keep out draughts, and there was no gap between it and the door. Friction from the carpet took the energy out of Thalia’s robust kick. The door opened two-thirds. I was still shielded behind it, while most of the room was exposed to Thalia’s view.

I imagined her, gun raised, ready for an attack.

Thalia saw the open window and took the bait, moving quickly towards it, taking no account of the blind spot behind the door.

Her grip on the gun was good, though. Classic, two-handed, shoulder-level.

Before she reached the window I was right behind her.

“Thalia…” I said.

She gasped and spun around, shocked to recognise me. I made a grab for the wrist of her hand holding the gun. I squeezed hard and the weapon fell to the floor.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“Get away, get away…” was all she said, looking shaken.

“What sort of trouble are you in?”

She opened her mouth to speak, then her head moved as someone came into the room behind me. I turned and saw the heavy-set man, the rookie gardener in T-shirt and jeans with a big, brass belt buckle. The lodger from the bedroom below. Seeing the man close to for the first time I was reminded of Raoul, Orlando’s bodyguard. They could even be brothers.

He raised a gun and aimed at me.

“No,” screamed Thalia, holding her arms out towards the guy. “Don’t.”

The heavyweight was distracted for a moment, as he pushed her out of the way.

I grabbed one of the framed photographs from the table and hurled it at him as he levelled his gun again. As he fired he had to fend off the photo. The framed photo hit him in the neck, and the shot went into the desk, splintering wood.

“Call me,” I yelled to Thalia as I climbed out of the small window, sat on the sill and dropped down on to the log store roof. Another bullet passed through the open window and zinged over my head.

From the log-store I jumped to the ground. It was only a short distance to the corner of the house and even from a standing start it took me barely three seconds. As I rounded the edge of the brickwork, there was another shot. But now I was invisible to the gunman in the bedroom.

I took off at high speed, reached the fence surrounding Thalia’s garden, vaulted over it into the neighbour’s vegetable patch, where I kept low and hopefully out of sight. I slithered along on my stomach, squashing his seedlings and causing chaos to his carrots. Through the neighbour’s garden I reached the lane, avoiding the footpath I used earlier since I would be in plain sight from Thalia’s bedroom. I sprinted down the lane to my car, taking a quick glance over my shoulder to check if the big guy was pursuing me. I guessed it was unlikely he’d want to disturb the peace of a quiet middle-class, rural village by firing a gun as he chased me down the street.

I reached the car and drove away fast.

Thalia had surprised me. And that’s an understatement.

Gus had not believed the story about Thalia having a relationship with a spy. It now sounded totally credible. And not only that, with the pack of postcards, the codebook, her weapons training, and her ability to lie in the coolest of ways meant she wasn’t a regular Whitehall civil servant at all. The Department of Trade was bureaucratic cover. She had to be a member of the Secret Intelligence Services.

She was also being held under duress. Coerced, suborned, blackmailed to do what the criminals wanted. The beefy guy lodging in the guest suite could be the guy who killed Gus.

I had to assume Thalia was innocent of any crime, but why hadn’t she called the police when her home was invaded? Why hadn’t she told Gus the truth?

The only possible answer was blackmail. What information did the blackmailers have that Thalia wanted to keep secret? The story of the affair with a spy? Several people seemed to know about that already. There had to be more. The spy had to be a foreign agent, from an enemy country. Had a Russian agent seduced secrets out of Thalia?

Whatever Thalia Rice had or had not done in the past, she was in trouble now, and needed help.

As I drove to the Maskelyne Global offices, I called Liam Bolt.

One of his sergeants answered his office phone and told me Liam was in a meeting with one of the Deputy Commissioners.

“Can I take a message?” the sergeant said.

“Tell him I’ve a suspect for the murder of Gus Lamport.”

It only took Liam two minutes to call me back.

“Is this true?” he said. Then without waiting for a reply, “Actually I don’t care if it’s not. It got me out of a tedious meeting.”

“My chief suspect tried to shoot me about twenty minutes ago.”

“I don’t hear an ambulance siren or hospital ambience so I guess he missed. Got a name for me?”

“No time for introductions, I had to dive out of a window.”

Bolt made a tutting sound. “You ought to be more careful, Kite. Did you annoy the gentleman in some way?”

“Ha, Ha,” I said deadpan. “You can find him at a house in Surrey. Abinger Hammer. It’s the home of Mrs Thalia Rice the Chair of the Trustees of the Benevolent Fund of the Society of Artists, Art and Antique Dealers. Mrs Rice is…”

“An accomplice? Another suspect for killing Gus Lamport?”

I sighed. “You’re in a very unserious mood this afternoon, Liam.”

“Sorry, Kite. Forty minutes with the Deputy Commissioner makes me that way. This Mrs Rice… She the one being held against her will?”

“Exactly. The bruiser, whose name I didn’t get, is staying there. Rice is being coerced to sell the papers of the guy who started up the Benevolent Fund. The man behind the blackmail is the guy with three names.”

“What about the woman with three names? She involved?”

“Yes.” I told Liam what had happened when I called at Isla’s house and when I had followed her and Orlando to the hotel meeting.

“You’re calling her Isla. You’ve managed to work out which is her real name?”

“Until I get more evidence, yes.”

“That’s progress. What’s the villains’ angle? How are they squeezing her?”

“Could be something to do with her career in MI6.”

“Give secrets to the Russians, did she? Or the Chinese maybe?”

“Possibly. I don’t know.” While I’d been speaking I heard Liam tapping away on his keyboard.

“Nothing at all on the Police National Computer… Says she was with the Department of Trade…”

“Cover for MI6, I think,” I said.

“Rice is her married name,” put in Liam, still referring to his database. “They divorced many years back. He was an art dealer. Huh, another one. Was he bent? Another con man?”

“No information. He died some years back.”

“Is there a sex angle? She had an affair with a foreign spy? Too much pillow talk?”

“There’s a rumour of a love affair.”

“Goodness. Who’d have thought it?” said Liam with heavy sarcasm. “What about this woman at the house in Chiswick? You think she’s Russian?”

“It’s likely, because the biker is, and they’re working together.”

“Working to do what?”

I paused a moment, then had to admit, “I don’t know yet.”

Liam Bolt groaned melodramatically. “Oh dear, Kite. I was getting all excited. Thought you’d got everything sussed, and you’ve let me down.”

“I wanted to leave a bit for you to work out.”

“How thoughtful and kind you are.” Liam paused. “This heavy, the guy minding Mrs Rice. Did he kill Gus Lamport?”

“It’s likely either he did, or a man, first name Raoul who’s working for Orlando and Isla. They were trying to force him to agree to the sale of these old papers.”

“Why are they so keen to get their hands on them? What are they…? Nineteenth century documents? Don’t tell me Mr Zimbalist’s sales contracts were illustrated by Monet.”

“It’s nothing to do with art.” I was emphatic. “The people I saw at the hotel presentation have graphs, maps and charts on their office walls not pictures. Beyond that…”

I paused just long enough for Liam to jump in. “You’ve no idea. OK. Apart from the villains, these art dealer shysters, does anyone know what’s in the archive that makes them valuable?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Either they are brilliant researchers and have uncovered some hidden secret, or it could it all be another con. Maybe there is nothing valuable in the archives?”

“If it was nothing more than a big scam, they wouldn’t go to such trouble; killing Gus and, I think, the trustee who was the victim of a hit-and-run, and all the business with Thalia Rice. They’re also offering half a million to buy the papers. And that’s not Monopoly money.”

All Liam Bolt said was a lackadaisical, “Well…”

I jumped in. “Are you going to send a team to Mrs Rice’s house? There’s surely enough to take the fat guy in for questioning. There’s potential blackmail, my attempted murder, possession of a firearm, not to mention the unlawful imprisonment of Thalia Rice.”

“Hang on, Kite. Having got me out of a meeting where the Deputy Commissioner was criticising my arrest numbers, you’ve started to sound like him.”

“Sorry, Liam.” I had got too pumped up.

We talked on for a few minutes and Liam, who always enjoys being devil’s advocate, finally agreed I was correct about the archives containing something of value. He also agreed to send a team to Abinger Hammer as soon as possible.

After the call ended, I realised my immediate priority was to discover what was special, valuable, or unique about the Zimbalist archive. I had to get hold of the papers myself. Somehow.

Thalia Rice had recently called the company which stored the documents. Had the call been at Orlando’s request, or was Thalia getting the documents for herself to see what all the fuss was about?.

I called the storage company again. A different person answered.

I said, “Hi, my boss called you recently asking to withdraw some documents from a safe deposit box. Her name is Mrs Thalia Rice of The Benevolent Fund of the Society of Artists, Art and Antique Dealers. Could you tell me when the papers will be available?”

“When did Mrs Rice call?”

“I think it was earlier today. Or yesterday. I wasn’t in the office yesterday.”

I was asked to hold. And I did. I held for two minutes, three minutes, five, eight… After eight minutes forty-nine seconds the assistant was back on the line.

“Sorry to keep you, sir. It actually wasn’t Mrs Rice who called. It was her assistant Mr Scott-Harrod, a charming gentleman if I may say so. A good ambassador for your company. And Mr Harrod was checking the procedure for withdrawing the documents.”

“I see. Thank you. And what is the procedure?”

“We need a document signed by the owner of the item giving their permission for us to release the items, and the document must be signed and witnessed by two independent parties. Depending on how easy it is to access the item, we can usually release it within forty eight hours of receiving the signed permission letter.”

“And how easy would it be to access these documents?”

“They’re at our Greenford repository. That’s very straightforward.”

I thanked the man for  his help.

Getting the documents from the storage company was a pain. A palaver. There had to be an easier way to research the archive. Did Simon Zimbalist have descendants who might know about the papers? I went online and searched the usual channels. Zimbalist’s father and mother had left Russia with their young son in the mid-nineteenth century. They had no other children and, though Zimbalist had had several affairs with, and I quote from impeccable sources, ‘rich and beautiful women’, he had never married and fathered no children. His relations who had stayed in Russia prospered until the Russian Revolution when they fled from St Petersburg to a rural village. Worse followed under Stalin, with widespread famine and his insane policies which killed millions. It was believed any remnants of Zimbalist’s family died during World War II, either at the hands of the Communists or the Nazis, whose attitudes towards Jewish people were eerily similar.

He's a forgotten figure now, but in his time, Simon Zimbalist was a big name in the world of British art. I wondered if a biographer, research student or specialist art historian had seen his papers. I searched the book sites and found nothing. No writer, no publisher, no self-publisher had regarded him as worthy of attention. What about a PhD thesis? Another search. This time there was a result.

In 1993 a doctoral student at Oxford called Henry Sabine had completed a thesis titled: The Career of Art Dealer Simon Zimbalist: Walking Encyclopaedia or Conman? Obviously he was out to debunk Zimbalist’s famous, and later notorious, ‘discoveries’ of unknown works by Titian, Raphael, Veronese, Bellini and others. It was the sale of pictures with what we’d now consider dubious provenances which made his fortune.

An hour later, after much searching online and several phone calls, I tracked down Mr Sabine. He was teaching art history at the University of Kent at Canterbury.

He was surprisingly pleased to hear from me.

“Wow,” he said, laughing, “I think you’re the first person to mention Zimbalist to me since I got my doctorate. I thought a publisher would be interested, or a newspaper. I even had dreams of a TV series on the art trade, with me presenting.” He laughed again. “But I didn’t know the right people, or wasn’t related to the right people. But… so it goes. Any rate, I’m glad I’m not the only person alive who’s heard of him. How can I help?”

I gave him little detail about the case and simply asked if he had consulted the Zimbalist archive.

“I couldn’t get to the originals, they’re locked away with no access for researchers, however the Nettlefold Institute has a complete copy.”

My heart leaped. “A copy of everything?”

“Yes, hundreds of trees must have died.”

“You went through it all, I guess?”

“God, no. I only read the later stuff. From when Zimbalist was brought to the UK in 1879. There’s a heap of stuff going back to the late eighteenth century. I ignored that. Not relevant to what I was doing.”

“This may sound a crazy question, Mr Sabine, but can you remember anything in that archive which would be worth money?”

“Worth money?” Sabine chuckled. “You mean like revealing the secret location of a previously unknown work by Leonardo da Vinci?”

“That would fit the bill.”

“Nothing like that. It’s accounts, records of purchases and sales, business meetings, visits abroad, lists and more lists, notes, annotations. It would only interest a specialist like me. Zimbalist never threw anything away. He was something of a split personality. On one hand, a superb salesman, outgoing, quite theatrical apparently, on the other hand he was obsessive, secretive almost autistic about details. So he could persuade his clients a picture was by a great master when, at the same time, he knew exactly why it wasn’t.”

“A perfect con man,” I said.

“That’s why I found his papers fascinating.”

I tried to press him further about hidden gems and he tried to convince me I was chasing rainbows, or diving down a rabbit hole.

In spite of Sabine’s pessimism, I called the Nettlefold Institute. It is part of London University, specialises in research in the visual arts and contains a famously comprehensive library.

I got through to one of their archivists, a man called Rupert Woodruff, who sounded as old as Gus and spoke with a slight sibilance. Not a speech defect, I thought, more probably a defect of wobbly teeth.

“Zimbalist…” he said, and continued without pausing to check a database or look in a card index,  “Yes, I know the name. I remember the twelve boxes of papers.”

The Institute’s library contained two hundred thousand items and I was amazed at his memory. “Are they consulted often?” I said.

“About once every thirty years.” He chuckled. “Long ago there was a bright young student from Oxford, then this year another young man looked them up. However, I remember Zimbalist because of his name. It reminds me of the late actor Ephraim Zimbalist Junior. Big TV star. Though you’ll be far too young to remember 77 Sunset Strip. In the 1960s. Catchy theme tune. Used to enjoy that on a Saturday night.”

I confirmed I had never heard of the TV show and asked, “Who consulted these papers recently?”

“I wasn’t here when he came in. I’m retired now, and just volunteer two days a week to help out for old times’ sake. Miss Castleton’s in charge and she mentioned that a good-looking man with curly, blond hair came in. I think Miss Castleton was rather taken by the young chap. Said how charming he was.”

“Could I look at the Zimbalist papers?”

“Of course that’s why they’re here. Free access to all bona fide students and researchers.”

“How about this afternoon? This evening?”

“We need forty-eight hours notice, I’m afraid,” Woodruff said. “Archive documents aren’t on the open shelves. They’re stored in a different building. It’s only a short distance away, but we need a truck to move them, plus a couple of men who are stronger than me or Miss Castleton. The Zimbalist papers run to twelve boxes, and each box weighs thirty-five pounds.”

I put in a request to view the material as soon as it could be arranged.

The Zimbalist Papers had assumed an importance in my life I hardly thought possible. The harder it was to track them down, the more I wanted to read them. What was in the twelve boxes which Orlando imagined was worth half a million and why had no one noticed it before? Was the information in code? Was there a puzzle to solve? A riddle? I was getting into the realm of fairy stories or classical mythology. But for me, these old documents had become my personal Holy Grail.

I needed to change direction, forget these old papers for a while. There were many unanswered questions around Thalia Rice and the person to speak to was my contact Leo Somerscales, a few years older than Thalia Rice. Leo is one of Whitehall’s best kept secrets, a real eminence grise. He is nominally attached to the Foreign Office, though his brief is wide-ranging, covering intelligence matters as well as international affairs and some defence topics. Fiona MacIver always referred to him as my ‘spy friend’ although I have never been able to confirm whether he’s actually been a spy.

Leo advised senior members of the government, and sat on vital defence and intelligence committees, but he had no public profile. The media didn’t know of his existence and his identity was never revealed.

His particular phobia was communication by smartphones, and he would only talk to me on a secure line, or an old-fashioned, copper-wire-cabled landline.

“Interesting you should call today, Kite,” he said. “Significant, possibly. I had an inkling of a premonition of a notion you could be involved. Then I dismissed it as purely fanciful. Now you’re calling makes me think I was correct after all.”

“Leo, what are you talking about?”

“There was a Code Yellow encounter signal this afternoon from a retired operative about an intruder. Identity unknown.” Leo paused dramatically. “You weren’t in Surrey today were you? Region of Abinger Hammer?”

Astonishing, these spooks. And ex-spooks. Their communication networks never lapse.

“Is she MI6?”

“She?” said Leo. “You’ll need to give me a name before I can answer you. Though, depending on the name, I may not be able to give you an answer. If you see what I mean.”

“Why did you think this close encounter signal was anything to do with me?”

“Give me the name of the ‘she’ and I might be able to answer you.”

“She’s called Thalia Rice.”

Leo sighed. The name seemed to trouble him. Then he said, “Yes,” and nothing else.

After a short silence I said, “Yes what?”

“I’m answering your question. Yes, she was a member of MI6.”

Leo was in a stubborn, do-everything-by-the-book mood today. But he went on: “The reason I thought of you was the art connection. She is chairperson of the Trustees of a charity which supports artists who are ill or penurious. Why did you break into her house?”

“She’s being coerced to sell some documents relating to the founder of the charity.”

“How coerced?”

“There’s a thug staying with her, working for the guy who wants to buy the papers. She’s being bullied, and probably blackmailed. I called you because I wondered if there was anything iffy in her past.”

“How did you get involved in this? Anything been stolen?”

“There’s a couple who claim to be art dealers, though I’d call them con-artists. I’ve got two clients, one in the US, one in the UK, who have both lost money to them.”

“Hmm,” mused Leo. There was another pause. “Do you know anything about Lagransky?”

“I heard Rice had an affair with a spy. I didn’t know the spy was Russian, and I’m guessing this was the man.”

“Oh, dear,” said Leo, and sighed deeply again. “You’ve uncovered more than I hoped. I think we should reconvene. In person, not on the phone. Then I can brief you properly.”

“When are you free?” I said.

“I’ll be in touch.” Leo ended the call.

He’d been more enigmatic than usual, and I had never seen him short of an answer before. I was childishly pleased I had temporarily surprised the powerful bureaucrat.

I was privileged to be trusted by him and delighted he was happy to pass information to me if it would benefit national security, or help bring wrong-doers to justice. Whatever I did was always unofficial and wholly deniable.

I once asked Leo if he used other private investigators in the same way he used me.

“Of course, dear boy,” he said. “The civil service can be frightfully narrow-minded at times. And the bureaucracy is getting worse. Sometimes the best way to get things done is to go freelance and unofficial. As long as everybody knows the rules.”

Leo’s confirmation that Thalia Rice was a former member of MI6 made me keen to know a whole lot more. Having an affair with the Russian – Lagransky – sounded a dangerous move. Or was he a double agent? Had Thalia turned him? Did this have something to do with the blackmail attempt against her?

I checked the time, expecting Leo to phone back any minute with an update and more information. Perhaps with startling news. It could happen that Leo had taken control of everything himself, had passed my information to relevant people within the police, the intelligence services, or in departments I didn’t know existed, and Orlando Figges and Isla Leach would disappear into custody or abroad. Personae non grata. Expelled. Their visas cancelled, their British passports, if they had them, revoked. Scary, but possible.

I was anxious and fidgety, willing the phone to ring. My office is too small to pace around, yet I couldn’t stay still. From perching on the corner of my desk, I went to resting my elbows  on the window ledge, then leaning against a wall. I stared at the ceiling, stared at the tarmac-coloured carpet, stared at the view of blank concrete from my window.

The phone was silent. Leo didn’t call back that evening. What was happening?

Chapter 14

Next morning, still nothing from Leo Somerscales. But Liam Bolt called. In a bad mood.

“Did you tell Thalia Rice we were knocking on her door?” he said.

“Don’t be daft. Of course not. What happened?”

“The guys were at her front door at seven o’clock. Armed officers, shields, body armour, rams, sledge hammers, the lot. And a warrant. No one there, except a gardener. A real one. Not your Schwarzenegger stand-in. He had a backdoor key. Great. They all charge in and search the place. No hard man lodger, no Mrs Rice, no weapons, no phones, no laptops, no passports. Hard drives removed from computers, paperwork burned.”

“Where did she go?”

“Don’t know. They took Mrs Rice’s car, CCTC is being checked and ANPR. No results yet.”

I told Liam about Orlando’s request to retrieve the Zimbalist papers from the document storage depot.

“Greenford? OK we’ll call them.”

“I also had confirmation from a reliable source that Thalia Rice was a member of MI6. If she’s been abducted against her will…”

“Which seems likely…”

“…She ought to have had training to deal with such a situation. She may surprise Mr Muscleman. Did you go to Chiswick for the woman? Isla Leach.”

“We’ve got surveillance in place.”

“She asked to see me yesterday evening, and there was a woman tailing her. On observation at  the place where we met.”

“Interesting. But not one of our team.”

“When Isla caught sight she was spooked. Got up and left in a hurry.”

“Did you get a name?”

“She wouldn’t speak to me. Denied she was following anybody. Thought I’d escaped from an asylum.”

Liam chuckled. “That thought may have crossed my mind when I first met you.” He paused. “You said Thalia Rice had some connection to Canada.”

“In her house I saw a picture of her outside a building in Canada, with a Union Jack flying in the background. Too small to be the High Commission in Ottawa, but it could be a Consulate.”

“Big place, Canada. Did Gus mention anything in his notes?”

“Yes. He said Orlando – who he knew as Piers of course…”

“Don’t complicate things, Kite.”

“He said Orlando came from Canada and Thalia had mentioned being in Canada herself. He surmised they may have met there. Maybe it’s worth having another search at Gus’s house.”

“We’ve finished there. If you want to go back, it’s all yours.”

I called Gus’s cousin Nathan, who was on his way to the property. He was surprised, and rather proud of his cousin, when I revealed something of Gus’s secret research.

“He researched all the time,” I said, “trying to prove an artwork was, or wasn’t, by the name on the frame. Establishing provenance is all about tracking down past sales and exhibitions, finding entries in auction ledgers, tracing wills.”

“I suppose,” he said. “Anyway, please come over and look around again. What are you looking for?”

“In his letter he said he had more information in note form. So probably some scrappy, handwritten notes.”

“Oh,” said Nathan sounding apologetic, his voice with a dying fall.

“What’s the matter?”

“When the police said they’d finished their work I started to tidy up. I had no idea he’d been investigating or sent you a letter.”

“Have you thrown out much?”

“I emptied waste baskets, rubbish bins, threw away old newspapers, magazines, and sorted out his desk.”

“You emptied the drawers?”

“I didn’t chuck out anything which looked important. There were shopping lists, things-to-do lists, reminders to call people – I found your name on a sticky note, actually.”

“What did you do with the paper stuff?”

“Bagged it up for recycling.”

“And took it to the dump?”

“No. It’s in the yard, waiting to be collected.”

“I’ll be there in fifty minutes. Guard it with your life.”

At Gus’s place, Nathan led me through the house, which was looking noticeably tidier and cleaner, and into the tarmacked yard at the rear. When Gus drove, this was where he parked his car. Beyond the wrought-iron gate and railings was a busy street.

By the gate was a small wooden shed, with a bin for non-recyclable garbage next to it. Nathan opened the shed door and we went inside, where there was nothing except five hessian sacks, four full of paper and cardboard and one half-full.

I remembered Gus complaining that, because he lived in what was classed as a commercial property, the council did not provide recycling collections for paper, plastic and metal. Gus had to fund his own recycling. The sacks were maybe half a year’s worth of scrap paper, cardboard, junk mail, packaging.

Hopefully, not all trash.

“Have you filled all these,” I said.

“No. Three were already full. The end two are my work.”

I lifted one of the sacks Nathan had filled and tipped its contents on to the floor of the shed.

Nathan raised his eyebrows, crestfallen. “I’ll put it all back,” I said.

“Yes. If you would.” Nathan said, then turned away pointedly and left the shed.

On my hands and knees, I sifted through the contents and realised I couldn’t blame Nathan for throwing it all out. It was rubbish, and judging by dates on magazines and postmarks on envelopes, some of it was years old.

I found nothing relevant to my investigation and nothing with even a hint of Canada.

I stowed all the paper back where it came from, then up-ended the second sack, feeling certain I would find something.

I didn’t. The contents were much the same as in the first sack.

Thoroughly disappointed, I leaned back against the cobwebby wooden walls of the shed and surveyed the heap on the floor. Had I missed something? Was it worth going through everything again?

Then I wondered if Gus was aware of the potential danger he was in. He’d been open about his opposition to the sale of Zimbalist’s archive, yet Thalia suggested he keep a low profile. Maybe he thought he should be more circumspect about the information he was gathering. Had he hidden his notes somewhere?

My eyes drifted over to the three remaining sacks of recycling.

You could argue that the best place to hide some confidential paperwork would be in a sack of paper to be recycled. Had Gus thought the same way?

Only one way to test the theory.

I repacked the last sack I had searched, picked up another and emptied it on to the floor.

I didn’t search the contents item by item. I wasn’t looking for a random piece of paper now, but something Gus had hidden on purpose. There was nothing. I grabbed the next sack and tipped everything out of that one. I was up to me knees now in paper and cardboard, and there was still nothing hidden among it all. Beginning to feel I was wasting my time, I got hold of the final sack with some desperation. Its contents joined the rest in the growing heap.

One item stood out at once. A buff-coloured folder secured with one of those thick, red rubber bands that postal workers use. I bent down, picked it up, and opened it. Inside were just two sheets of paper with a few scrawled notes by Gus.

I leaned back against the wooden walls of the shed again and read Gus’s appalling handwriting.

(This shd’ve been in previous notes. Sorry, John)

2 or 3 months ago - caller at door. (V. unusual). Man in motorbike gear: ‘are you famous art expert Mr Lamport’ (!!) ‘Do you know art dealer Tulip Lock?’

Never heard of her. Then, as if to help me remember, says ‘Sells Russian ikons. Sixteenth century.’ His accent cd have been Russian. Was he buying? Selling? Why come to me!? I don’t do Russian ikons. Had long sideburns and in his leather bike gear was q. attractive. Oddly, had all the gear, but no motorbike. Got into car waiting for him in street. Didn’t see accomplice. Weird. If a scam, I don’t understand it.

Asked Thalia how she met Piers Scott-Harrod. Said it was in Canada last year. Skiing! She likes it, apparently. Scott-H was there selling stuff to rich tourists from pop-up gallery in a hotel. Said he’d just been to Alaska. She had no idea why. I assume it was a lie, to puff up his image, impress Thalia et. al.

I assumed the Russian caller at Gus’s door was the man who attacked me. Asking for Tulip Lock suggested he didn’t know her as Venetia or Isla. And it was certainly strange that he ended up at Gus’s front door. How had he found Gus? Maybe in the same way I found Thalia: by searching through the Benevolent Fund records.

Who was driving the Russian biker around? Gus made the point this happened some time ago, before the Russian had located the house in Chiswick, and presumably before the housekeeper got the job there. It was likely, then, for the housekeeper to be the driver, and it all suggested their purpose in searching for Tulip Lock had nothing to do with buying or selling anything. The sixteenth-century ikons sounded like a cover story.

Thalia didn’t give a location for her skiing, but one of Canada’s most prestigious ski resorts is Whistler in British Columbia. If Orlando had really been to Alaska, it would be feasible for Whistler, in the far west of Canada, to be ‘on the way back’. Whistler was also the sort of place where Orlando and Isla would gravitate to, with plenty of rich and beautiful people to impress with their charm and sales talk.

Searching through the sacks of old paper and card had turned my hands grey. I washed the printing ink and filth from my hands under cold water at Gus’s sink, using a bar of the old fashioned soap he was strangely fond of. I said goodbye to Nathan, who was still trying to organise a funeral without knowing when the body would be released.

I left Gus’s and walked towards where my own car was. As I walked, I checked the street. No suspicious Russians. No Sam Bejam waiting in a car with his camera. The passers-by were all passing by. No one was loitering. Traffic was flowing normally.

Except for one car.

A black A class Mercedes – the smallest they do  – was waiting on double-yellow lines with its flashers on.

The driver had their back towards me and was looking at some paperwork.

As I approached it, the passenger window wound down and somebody in the car called out, “Mr Kite!”

I stopped, bent down to look at the driver.

It was the woman who had been following Isla.

“Following me now?” I said with a smile.

“Would you get in,” she said. Her face was serious, official.

I paused and considered. “My car’s only a quarter of a mile away. I can manage the walk, thanks.” I took a few steps away.

“Mr Kite. Please.”

I stopped and turned. “Ah… Please. That’s better. Though why don’t you say who you are, what you want. I’ve a phobia about getting into cars with strangers.”

The woman gritted her teeth, took a deep breath.

I went on. “After all, you could be armed and dangerous. Last time we met you were pursuing the charming and delightful Isla Leach, though I’ve no idea why.”

She softened her voice and put on an exaggerated pleading tone. “Mr Kite, could I ask you possibly…”

“Oh, look,” I said, pointing along the street. “A traffic warden. Expect she’ll want you to move.”

I walked away from the car in the same direction as the traffic. The woman in the Mercedes, started her car, drove on a short way ahead of me and pulled in again, flashers still flashing.

As I came level with her again, she leaned towards me holding out her police warrant card. “Is this what you want to see?”

I smiled again. “That’ll do nicely, thank you.”

I opened the door and got in. She drove off at once.

“Holly Guard,” she said, looking forwards. “Detective Inspector.”

“Same rank as me, when I left.”

“I know. I’ve checked you out. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

Her face was still looking forwards. She hadn’t even glanced at me since I got in. Today she was in jeans, a pink shirt and a leather jacket. Neat, shortish hair, scant make-up. Her profile was attractive, with sharp cheekbones, a retroussé nose, and she held her head high which gave her a permanently alert look.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere we can talk.”

“Talk about what?”

“I think you know.”

“About Gus Lamport’s murder?”

Her head turned to me for the first time. Eyebrows akimbo, surprise in her large blue eyes.

“Who?” she said.

“Ah… Maybe you’ve got the wrong man.”

“I haven’t. It’s about the woman you call Isla.”

“She answers to other names as well.” I smiled at her.

“I get the picture,” she said, unsmiling.

“OK. Before we go to some ugly, overheated office at New Scotland Yard, why don’t you tell me what angle you’re working on?”

She sighed. Tensed. “You signed the Official Secrets Act?”

“Of course.”

“I’m SO15.”

This was a shock and I turned to her.

“Counter Terrorism Command. You think Isla Leach is involved in terrorism?”

Chapter 15

DI Holly Guard didn’t answer. Instead she turned into a multi-storey car park beyond Liverpool Street Station, not far from Old Street, where I was stationed when I was in SCO19, the specialist armed division of the Met police.

She wound her way up the ramps to the top floor, as usual the least busy area of any multi-storey, where she parked and switched off the engine. Though she kept her seatbelt fastened. She took out her phone, pressed the recording function, carefully lodged the phone between us and turned to me, “OK. Tell me what you’ve got.”

I looked out of the window at  the car park.

“Thought we might at least go to a pub or café for a chat,” I said.

“This is better than my ugly, overheated office. You can even get some comparatively fresh air if you roll down the window.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything and everything.”

“You don’t know about Gus’s murder?”

Guard shook her head.

“The Benevolent Fund of the Society of Artists, Art and Antique Dealers?”

Guard shook her head.

I brought her up to speed on that and talked about the puzzling and vicious attempts by Orlando Figges to buy the Zimbalist papers.

“Orlando who?”

“Figges. Also Piers Scott-Harrod and Oscar Fitzroy.”

Holly turned to me. “Three aliases?”

“Have you got more?”

“Yes. I’ve got his real name. Which is none of those,” said Holly Guard.

“Can you tell me?”

“No. You’ll have to find it yourself.” She paused and slowly repeated the elaborate, aristocratic-sounding name. “Piers… Scott… Harrod.” She raised her eyebrows, scornful. “What an asshole. That won’t impress the Russians.”

“It impresses the Americans, and many other nationalities.” I paused and looked at her. “Why did you mention Russians?”

I thought she’d given something away, yet she was unconcerned. “Come across Aleksei  Semyonovitch Makarov?”

“No. Who is he?”

“You can find out. I’ve given you his name for free. What’s Scott-Harrod or Figges doing to the Americans?”

“Defrauding them. He’s got a gallery in London. Our client lost seven-point-five million.”

“Impressive. And where does the woman fit in?”

“She has a gallery in Beverly Hills, and another in London under the name Tulip Lock.”

“God. Have they both got three names?”

“At least. You may know her as Venetia Lord.”

“Once again,  I know her by her real name.”

There was a relaxed ease in the way DI Guard said this which gave me the impression their names were not difficult to find. It reminded me of my suspicion they could be related.

“Are Venetia and Piers related?” I said.

Guard said nothing.

“They’re not a couple, not lovers. Are they brother and sister?”

Guard again said nothing, yet her studied non-reaction, her expressionless poker face suggested I was right.

“Thank you,” I said, with the hint of a smile.

Holly gave me a caustic look, and after a beat, went on, “I assume the confusion of names and galleries in different countries all helps their frauds. Makes them harder to trace.”

“Sure. With at least four galleries between them I think they cross-trade with each other. A customer is never sure whether he’s buying from the UK or the US, or from which of their fake names. And the tax authorities won’t be sure either. Are they being investigated by HMRC?”

“Tax is nothing to do with us, thank goodness.”

“What’s your angle? Sanction busting? This Makarov must be an oligarch, mate of Putin’s who’s been sanctioned?”

“That’s true.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve nothing to say about the Russian angle.” Holly pointedly turned her head to look out of the window, where a male pigeon was pursuing a female pigeon.

“They’re selling paintings to the Russians? Or buying art from the Russians?” I remembered the caller at Gus’s enquiring about ikons, the housekeeper at the Chiswick house. And the motorbike man, too.

“If the Russians don’t interest you, it must be terrorists elsewhere. The Middle East? I met a private investigator working for a guy in Istanbul, a middleman for others unknown who could well be terrorists. They seemed to be checking this couple out for some business deal.”

“That’ll be Sam Bejam,” Guard said casually, still watching the pigeons. “Bejam, like the old frozen food store.”

“Who’s the end-user of the information he’s gathering?”

“No comment.”

“Presumably a group who’s a threat to world peace.” DI Guard opened her mouth, but I didn’t want to hear ‘no comment’ again and went on, “Isla has reportedly sold ancient archaeological treasures, presumably sourced through terrorist connections from the Middle East, so directly funding terrorism.”

The female pigeon flew away from the male’s attentions. The male pigeon strutted about, aggrieved for a moment, then flew away in the opposite direction. Holly turned back to me.

“No comment,” she said.

“Come off it.”

Holly said nothing.

“Are you watching the house in Chiswick?”

“We don’t have the resources to watch every location of interest. Though we are aware of this property.”

“What do you know about the Myorzli Landscape Company?” I said.

A slight reaction from Guard. She was interested. “What do you know about them?”

“There was a meeting…” I looked at Guard, our eyes met.

“Go on,” she said, looking into my eyes, “did you get access?”

“I was outside. Watching the invited guests.”

Guard relaxed, and turned away. Disappointed.

“Couldn’t you get eyes or ears there, either?”

“No comment.”

“Is it really about land? Or landscapes? Are they getting into real estate?”

DI Holly Guard paused, weighing up whether to tell me more or not. Finally she said, “That’s the big question.”

“If it’s not land, what is it?”

“No comment.”

“Tell me more. We can work together.”

“No. You aren’t even a serving officer.”

“So? MI5 uses freelance agents on occasions.”

“We’re not MI5.”  She paused and looked into my eyes. “What else can you tell me about this couple, this family?” She paused a beat. “I don’t have to tell you withholding evidence is a serious offence.”

“Oh, please…” I raised my eyebrows, sighed, and blew out in frustration.

“I rather hoped for more cooperation, Mr Kite. Particularly in light of your excellent police record. And the success you’ve had as a freelance investigator.”

I gave a laugh. “Flattery’s no good. I work on a quid pro quo basis. An exchange of information, benefitting both sides. Otherwise I’m merely an informer. And informers usually get well paid.”

She started the car and set off.

“Where are we going?”

“I’ll take you back to your vehicle. My advice is to leave the murder of Gus Lamport to the police. I don’t know Chief Inspector Bolt personally but I’m sure he’s more than competent. As for the fraud, that sounds like it’s something for the New York Police Department or possibly the FBI. Under no circumstances should you attempt to get involved in anything else we’ve discussed.”

Chapter 16

Back in the little office I use at Maskelyne Global I called Liam Bolt and filled him in on my meeting with DI Holly Guard.

“Never met her,” Liam said. “Though I heard she doesn’t take prisoners. Well, obviously she does on occasions, like any police officer, but you know what I mean. Bit of a tight-ass. I wouldn’t worry about her.”

“Except isn’t there a danger that her terrorism enquiry could derail our murder enquiry – I mean your murder enquiry. And vice versa.”

“Possibly,” said Bolt, “though if you’re about to suggest we should all join forces, don’t forget Counter-Terrorism don’t like joining clubs. They’re like the SAS and you know the motto of the SAS: ‘Who Dares Wins’.”

“Daring but no sharing.”

“Exactly. Now…oh…” Liam stopped talking and I heard an urgent conversation at his end with some shouting of orders in the background, many expletives, running feet, the sound of fast exits. Then:

“Got to go. Tell you later.” He cut the connection.

Then my internal office phone rang. It was Roisin from the front desk, sounding unusually stressed.

“Mr Kite, two gentlemen are here, wanting to see you. They don’t have appointments, but they say you’ve spoken to them and are clients of ours. Mr Vitucci and Mr Sissons.”

“Together?”

“Yes, they arrived together. Seem to know each other, and they’re a bit…” she dropped her voice to a discreet whisper, “well, rather excited. Boisterous.”

I ran down the stairs to the ground floor. Even from the floor above I could hear their rowdy enthusiasm and high spirits as they made plans to find and confront the man I knew as Orlando. They were egging each other on, trying to outdo each other.

Nash Vitucci was a tall man, at least six-three, lean, high cheek-bones, well-groomed, well-barbered. He was pacing agitatedly in tight circles in front of Sissons, waving his arms as he explained some plan. He was wearing military-style trousers with large pockets on the thighs, a black round-neck sweater with a vintage, fur-trimmed, black leather jacket on top. On his feet were Doc Martens.

Sissons was talking at the same time as Vitucci, also gesticulating and shuffling about in his enthusiasm to “Get the fraudster,” as I heard him exclaim which brought an answering, “Yeah. Right on!” from Nash. If Vitucci’s attire referenced the ‘mean streets’ detectives of the 1930s and 1940s, Sissons perhaps was trying for a Sherlockian style, though he’d only managed a country house, pheasant-shooting look. He was in a three-piece tweed suit, with a tweed cap, with highly polished brown leather ankle boots.

They saw me approaching, turned in synch, and hurried towards me. They both tried to shake my hand at the same time, and spoke in synch as well.

“John! Here we are, all primed and ready for the hunt…” said Vitucci.

“Mr Kite, volunteering for service, standing by for orders,” said Sissons.

And on they went, together:

“Should we go to Kings Road first, or the house in Chiswick?”

“Where’s the best place to find this crook?”

“Are the police ready and waiting?”

“How many years in jail, do you think he’ll get?”

“Should we use taxis, or Ubers or a rental car?”

“We’ll need an SUV for the tracking equipment. We have got tracking equipment, haven’t we?”

I held up my hands to quieten them, tried to intervene, failed to do so and began to retreat under their onslaught. I found we were standing in front of Roisin’s desk where she was valiantly carrying on with her work and answering phones.

“Quiet, please,” I said. “This isn’t the way to do things. You’re behaving like a lynch mob, a wild west posse. Besides, you’re disturbing this lady behind me here who’s trying to work. She needs a bit of peace and quiet because, apart from anything else…”

“I’m expecting a baby,” Roisin interrupted me right on cue.

There was silence from both Vitucci and Sissons. For nearly two seconds.

Then they erupted into cheers and congratulations, shaking her hand, patting her on the back. Roisin raised her eyebrows to me, as she received their best wishes and mouthed “Sorry.”

Eventually, I got the two over-excited, would-be sleuths into my office on the eleventh floor and gave them a reality check. We were not The A-Team, Mission Impossible, or The Avengers. Though they were clients of Maskelyne Global, they had no right to interfere in the way the company conducted business. If they wanted restitution of money they had lost they had to trust me to do the best for them. Though I was an ex-police officer, I was now a civilian with no special powers. Neither legal, physical nor magical.

They accepted all this and apologised for their earlier behaviour.

How had they met?

Nash Vitucci was economical with the truth, yet he must have heard Sissons was at the Maskelyne Global reception where Isla and Orlando appeared. He didn’t admit it, but I assume he had contacted the voluble and eager-to-please party organiser Becka Thwaite, and sweet-talked and wheedled her to divulge Sissons’ contact details.

Soon, things were calmer. MacIver’s PA, Amber, brought tea and biscuits, the atmosphere was congenial and I was updating them in a general way on the latest developments when my phone rang. Liam Bolt.

“Excuse me. I must take this,” I said. “Scotland Yard.”

Intakes of breath from Sissons and Vitucci as they swapped looks. Tea was forgotten about. Their ears strained to hear what Bolt was telling me.

Bolt was in a fast-moving police car, siren blaring, radio traffic in the background. “Some kind of outrage at the Chiswick place,” he said. “No details yet. But it’s a major incident. One dead.” He gasped as the car cornered at speed and I heard the squeal of tyres. “If you want the latest, get down there fast. Before we close all the roads.”

I told the greenhorn gumshoes something suitably vague, left them in the hands of Amber, MacIver’s capable PA, and told them I’d be in touch later.

It took me fifty minutes to drive to the house in Chiswick. Or as near as I was allowed to go. Many streets were cordoned off, as Liam had warned, and I left my car nearly a mile from the house.

I jogged the distance in six minutes and, beyond a jumble of police and other vehicles haphazardly parked, came up against police tape sealing off the whole of the little square. Armed officers guarded the taped area, and inside it a scene-of-crime team were in full Hazmat protection. Enormous bulbous masks covered the officers’ heads and their ballooning bodysuits made normal activity difficult. They were testing the area outside Isla’s house for contamination. Also inside the restricted area was a dark blue trailer emblazoned with the Metropolitan Police logo and the words major incident control room. Riggers were still coupling electricity and water supplies to the trailer and a uniformed constable stood guard by the three metal steps that led up to the entrance door. There were two ambulances, rear doors open, their paramedics standing by for action.

Most alarming of all, parked among the police vehicles was a truck with a Porton Down logo. Porton Down being the secret government centre in Wiltshire for research into chemical and biological weaponry.

A siren announced the arrival of another police vehicle – one I recognised. One I had sat inside. The driver had trouble finding a space to park in the narrow confines of the square, then squeezed it in tightly in front of the gates of a private house. How the occupier was supposed to get in or out didn’t bother the driver, who was DI Holly Guard.

She got out, walked urgently to the mobile control room, showed her warrant card to the uniform and was waved up.

If this was a terrorist incident, who was the fatality Liam mentioned? Had Isla killed somebody? Or had somebody killed her?

Another vehicle pushed its way into the crowded square. It was a black, anonymous-looking government car with a uniformed chauffeur at the wheel. A rear door opened and another face I knew climbed out. Leo Somerscales. He dismissed his transport and marched towards the control room, while intently scanning the watching crowd. His eyes met mine. His pace didn’t falter but he gave me the subtlest of nods, then made a rapid gesture, putting a finger to his lips and whipping it away again instantly. His averted his eyes and presented his ID to the constable. To my surprise, the constable saluted him, then went up the three little stairs ahead of Leo, opened the trailer door and ushered him inside.

Another vehicle squeezed through parked vehicles and stopped at the entrance to the square. A taxi this time. Once again I recognised the occupants getting out and this time my heart sank. It was Nash Vitucci and Michael Sissons. How had they found me here?

They saw me. And waved. Like we were at a gig or football match. I saw them pushing through the crowd to reach me.

“Hey, John,” I heard behind me. And “Mr Kite! Mr Kite!”

They were clever and wily enough to have deduced the location from news reports or something I’d said, or something Roisin had said, or had overheard something Bolt had said, but they were not clever enough to keep a low profile once they arrived. They were clever, and stupid too. And annoying.

They inched their way through the rubberneckers until they were either side of me.

“What’s the latest?”

“Can you get through the tape?”

“How many dead? It said only one on MSN but there must be more.”

“Is this where one of the fraudsters lives?”

And on they went. I let them gabble and said as little as possible.

Then I noticed a uniform making his way through the crowd in my direction. His determined progress and the set of his face showed it wasn’t a social call. Bystanders parted quickly to let him through.

He reached the three of us and looked directly at me. “Mr John Kite?”

I was surprised he knew my name. “That’s me, officer. Is there a problem?”

“Please would you come with me, sir?”

A bigger surprise. I nodded, and said nothing for a moment, appreciating his tone was neutral, not officious.

“This way, please sir.”

I took a step towards him, he turned and I followed. Behind me, Vitucci and Sissons began to move as well.

The officer saw what was happening, turned and abruptly stopped. “You two gentlemen remain where you are, please. It’s just Mr Kite I need.” His tone was harder this time. A police officer’s order. When the constable saw the other two had got the message he turned and walked on again, with me following.

We reached the police tape. He held it up for me, I went through and he took me to the officer guarding access to the control room. I was apparently expected. He briefly checked my driving licence to confirm my name and indicated I should go up the stairs.

At that moment the door to the control opened and Liam Bolt came out.

“What the hell?” I said with a grin.

“Friends in high places,” he said. “Not talking about myself, it’s the man from the ministry. No idea which ministry he’s from but he seems to know everybody. Even you. It was his idea to get your input.”

“Give me a heads up.”

“Could be novichok. Could be sarin or another nerve agent. Whatever it is, it’s not polonium, which did for Litvinenko. No radioactivity present.”

I nodded. The Russian dissident Litvinenko died of radiation poisoning in London twenty years previously after being given tea laced with polonium.

“Isla’s dead?”

“No,” said Liam Bolt. “She’s disappeared. It’s her housekeeper who’s dead. She was found by a friend. A young Russian guy, in fact. We’re checking what he was doing in the UK. And also the housekeeper. They could both be illegals.”

My mind was racing. Liam’s ‘young Russian guy’ sounded like my biker adversary.

“Oh, that SO15 officer you came across… DI Holly Guard. She’s in there, too.” Liam pointed back to the mobile incident control room. “Bit of a sourpuss. Anyway, come inside.”

Inside the control room, a tiny kitchen space was to the left, and a toilet, then came a comms area, where two officers were busy in front of screens. Liam led me through another door into the main space inside the trailer where a dozen men and women were squashed around a too small conference table. There were six senior police officers, someone from the fire service, a couple in suits who I guessed were MI5, another two who had the look of scientists or medics, experts in poisons and biological weapons presumably, and others I could not place. A Commander from Counter-Terrorism was chairing the meeting.

“Mr Kite, welcome,” his tone was cordial. “We understand you have information which may assist us. Please tell us what you know about the occupants of this house and any associates.”

I stood at the end of the table and related the salient points of what had happened over the last few days. My audience were attentive, all faces were turned towards me, except Holly Guard’s. She studiously avoided eye contact and stared at the table top in front of her.

I spoke for less than five minutes.

“Thank you,” said the Commander when I finished. “Succinct and informative. The man on the motorbike… You think he knew the housekeeper? The woman who has died.”

“Yes. He arrived as if he had something to deliver. And she looked as if she was expecting him.”

“Did they speak to each other?”

“Only after I had moved away from the house. I was too far away to hear any words but he seemed to be giving her instructions.”

The Commander tapped a keyboard in front of him and a monitor on the wall came to life. “Is this the biker?” he said.

On screen was a shot of the man who attacked me seen walking along a central London street.

“I only saw his face once properly, otherwise it was covered by his helmet. But his buzz-cut hair and sideburns are distinctive. And I recognise the leather jacket.” While everyone was looking at the screen I added, “Looks like he’s walking towards the Russian Embassy.”

“Yes, he is,” said the Commander.

“He didn’t kill the housekeeper, surely?”

“No. In fact we think he was the one who phoned the police to report the death. We’re not sure yet how the woman died. Video examination of the scene suggests some kind of accident, or possibly an assault. Either the woman who died tripped or fell while she was holding the nerve agent, the container was breeched and she ingested a fatal dose. ” The Commander paused. “What conclusions do you draw, Mr Kite?”

All faces turned towards me, this time including Holly Guard’s.

“It suggests the biker is a Russian agent, and presumably the housekeeper was too. If the biker was delivering something when I was there, was it the poison? If it was, then that means a Russian plot to kill somebody in the house. Their target was presumably the woman called Isla Leach, known also as Venetia Lord and Tulip Lock, and possibly also her brother known as Orlando Figges and other aliases. I don’t have the real names of these two art dealers, though I believe these are known to the intelligence services and SO15.”

DI Guard’s head shot up.

“I also understand the woman known as Isla Leach had dealings with a Russian called Aleksei Semyonovitch Makarov, who is sanctioned by the UK and US governments and others. She was therefore breaking the law. I also know she was being hunted by certain Russians some weeks ago…”

“How do you know that?” It was DI Holly Guard, speaking for the first time.

I mentioned the reference in Gus’s notes to the enquiry about sixteenth-century ikons.

“Sixteenth-century ikons?” said Guard, highly sceptical. “I thought she dealt in contemporary art.”

“She does. I think ‘Sixteenth-century ikons’ was a phrase the biker used because he is Russian and reckoned it was a suitable way of getting the information he wanted without attracting attention.”

“What information?” said a suited man who I guessed was an MI5 officer.

“Where to find Isla Leach. The biker was searching for her.”

“For what purpose? To kill her?” said Liam Bolt.

“I think so.”

“Was she trading something with Makarov? And then things went wrong?” said DI Guard.

“Maybe she tried to rip him off,” Bolt said. “Given she’s known to be a fraudulent dealer. Perhaps she hoped someone as wealthy as Makarov wouldn’t notice. But he obviously did.”

The Commander turned to me. “You think the housekeeper and the biker were agents sent by Makarov, with the connivance of the Russian government to dispose of Isla Leach as a punishment for swindling him?”

I hesitated briefly before replying, “That’s one interpretation.” I paused. “However…”

I was cut off by one of the suited guys, keen to be involved. “The housekeeper is called Anna Surkova, and we know she only started working at the house three weeks ago.” The speaker was from the Home Office, perhaps.

“Makes sense,” I said. “And it would make even more sense if one of you knew that Surkova and the biker were both undercover operators from their embassy in London.” I looked round the faces. Those without access to that kind of knowledge looked around too, searching for someone who might have the answer.

The Commander looked pointedly at Leo Somerscales. Leo’s face was a study in deadpan. Then Leo said quietly, “This information is for your ears only and not for dissemination outside this room, however I can confirm Mr Kite’s supposition is correct.”

I saw smiles and heard gentle exhalations of relief around the table as Leo’s revelation fitted another piece into the jigsaw and brought an easing of tension. I took advantage of the brief pause and went on, “If the manner of Surkova’s death is not clear yet, it’s possible one of the art dealers discovered she was a Russian agent, came across her with the toxic substance and realised what her intention was. If they were responsible for Gus Lamport’s death they could have attacked her.”

The Commander nodded. “Nothing has been ruled out yet as regards the manner of the woman’s death. Now, Mr Kite, before Damian gave us background on the housekeeper you said ‘however…’ and were about to add something. Do you have a different reason for why Surkova and the biker were looking for Isla Leach?”

“As I’ve investigated the two art dealers, I’ve become aware they have a bigger plan. Which is not about art. It involves two apparently disconnected items. First the historic archives of the family of Simon Zimbalist, the art dealer of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Second, a company called Myorzli Landscape, which I believe you’ll be aware of, sir.”

“Report submitted by me last week, sir” said DI Guard.

“Yes, thank you. Good report,” said the Commander. Then to me, “Explain how these different things could be connected.”

“It’s complex, and I’ll be as brief as I can,” I said and raced through a summary of events from Orlando Figges making a bid for the Zimbalist archive, via the murder of Gus, Thalia Rice being held against her will, up to the Myorzli meeting at the Heathrow hotel.

“Did you penetrate the meeting?” asked the Commander, with some keenness.

“Unfortunately not. Though I did observe the delegates from close range. They were from diverse countries all of which I couldn’t identify precisely, though I got the impression they were mostly from non-democratic states who were trying to increase their power and influence.”

“And terrorist groups?” asked one of the suits who had not spoken so far.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” I said, to murmurs around the table.

Guard broke into the murmuring to ask, “What could be in the archives of this long-dead art dealer which makes all these disparate states, these criminals, terrorists even… what makes them all think the archives are such a valuable prize?”

A moment’s silence and all faces turned to me. “That’s the key question,” I said. “And I don’t know, because I haven’t read them. But I intend to when I can get access.”

“Are you sure this former MI6 officer, Thalia Rice, is being blackmailed?” said another,  “And under house arrest?”

“Yes, I am. I was shot at when I entered her house yesterday. By a man who I believe is her jailer.”

This caused a stir in the tiny room.

“How did you get into Ms Rice’s house,” said one of the senior Scotland Yard officers. “You didn’t break in?”

I avoided Liam Bolt’s eyes and he looked everywhere except in my direction. “If you mean, did I smash a door in, no. I didn’t.”

“The door was open?”

“At the moment I entered the property the door was open. Yes.” I saw a smile flash over Liam Bolt’s face.

“And who opened it?”

“I can’t comment on that.”

“What alerted Ms Rice to your presence?”

“I think it was the malfunctioning alarm system.”

“Did you cause it to malfunction?”

“I can’t comment on that, sir.”

“How did you…?

“Mr Kite’s working methods are not relevant,” said the Commander sharply. “We’re getting sidetracked.”

Liam Bolt looked at the Commander and nodded vigorously.

“What is Ms Rice being blackmailed about?” said the Commander. “State secrets?”

“I have unsubstantiated reports she had a long relationship with someone described as a spy. That person may be a Russian named Lagransky.” I looked at Leo.

“Lagransky was, perhaps still is, an officer in Russia’s FSB. A spy, therefore. He’s about the same age as Rice,” said Leo turning to a man in a suit on his left, who had said nothing so far. “Tony? Can you contribute?”

All heads turned towards Tony. He was wearing a striped tie, too garish for a university, school or club, and unusually showy for a spymaster. Perhaps it was a form of disguise, or a mini act of rebellious unconformity.

Tony looked uncomfortable to be put on the spot. “Information on this topic remains top secret on national security grounds. I can say no more.”

“We’ll draw our own conclusions, Tony. Thank you,” said the Commander.

I smiled. The Commander’s eyes caught my own, saw my reaction and he smiled too.

“Mr Kite, we won’t detain you any longer. Thank you for what you’ve told us. It’s been useful, and…” he gave a quick look to Somerscales, who gave the tiniest nod back. “Either Leo or I will be in touch a.s.a.p.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said and turned to go. I noticed Holly Guard was looking at me directly for the first time since I had come into the Control Room. To my surprise she wasn’t scowling, but regarding me with some approval.

I stepped out of the mobile control unit and heard:

“John. John! Over here.” Nash Vitucci was at the nearest point to the police trailer the public were allowed, and waving his arm like he was leading his platoon forwards in a war movie.

My heart sank again.

I ducked under the tape and went to him.

“I thought you were never coming out of there. We’ve got to move fast.” He was already clutching my arm, dragging me away towards the jumble of parked cars.

“What’s up?” I said, pulling my arm away.

“It’s Mike. He saw the blond guy. Piers.”

It took me a second to compute that Mike was Sissons. The two clients had developed into buddies. “Are you sure?” Arsonists may return to the scene of their crime to enjoy the conflagration, yet it was unlikely a smooth operator like Orlando would want to be close to a big police operation. “Have you got a positive ID?”

“Mike was sure. He’s following him. In a taxi. I’ve got an open line to him.” He held up his phone. “If you and I go in your car, we can catch him. Then we can force him to give Mike back his money.” He paused. “Or kill him if he refuses.”

Chapter 17

Feeling uneasy about Sissons’ identification and his taking such unconsidered action, I jogged back to my car. At only half the pace I would have gone if I’d felt more positive. Nash was in good condition and kept pace with me, as I pointed out that murder, or any physical violence, was not generally a good way to proceed. My sarcastic tone made little impression.

“Sure, sure. Though a little pressure often helps. Are you carrying?”

“Guns are illegal.”

He grunted, and lifted his phone. “Mike says they’re at Saint… Saint Pancreas? Is that a hospital?”

“St Pancras. St Pancras International Railway station. It’ll take us at least forty-five minutes to get there. How far ahead are they?”

“Mike took off seven minutes, thirty-two seconds before you came out of that control room.”

I looked at him. “Exactly?”

“Sure. I was timing it all. Thought it could be useful.”

Perhaps I’d under-estimated Vitucci and Sissons. We got into my car and set off. The traffic was slow. Nash became anxious.

“Don’t you have a siren or lights, or something?”

I gave him a look and didn’t bother to reply.

Mike Sissons was on the line again. “He’s catching a train.”

“That’s why people go to railway stations,” I said. “Where’s he going to?”

“The train’s for Sheffield. Should I get a ticket and follow him?”

“Do you want to go to Sheffield?”

“Not especially. What else can we do?”

“Are you sure it’s him? Did you see his ear stud?”

“His what?”

“He wears a diamond ear stud. Very obvious.”

Sissons couldn’t be certain. “But he’s got blond hair.”

“Is it curly? How long? Our suspect’s hair is tightly curled and short.”

Sissons thought it was short, “But he’s wearing a hat.”

“What sort of hat?”

“It’s tweed, with a high crown, small brim, feather in the band.”

“Doesn’t sound like his style.” I looked across at Nash who gave a doubtful sort of shrug.

“How tall is the guy you followed? Our man is at least six-three.”

“Oh… I’m bad at judging height. I’m six foot exactly. The guy I saw was at least as tall as me.”

I looked again at Nash who gave a little sigh and relaxed back in his seat, less keen to go to St Pancras than he was five minutes before.

“I’m sorry Mr Sissons, I’m ending the pursuit. Get on the train with this man, if you want. I’m not convinced it’s your fraudster at all.” I looked across at Nash. He wasn’t objecting.

“Yeah. OK. Well, I suppose I could’ve been mistaken. It was all so exciting down there, I may have…”

“I’m heading to my office in the City. I’ll drop Mr Vitucci… at his hotel.” I looked across at Nash, who nodded.

“See you later, Mike,” said Vitucci. “Shame you missed out on Sheffield. I’m sure it’s a lovely city.”

I turned around and headed for his hotel. I dropped him at the entrance, stopping on purpose at a space marked taxis only, so I would have every excuse to leave fast once he was out of my car.

“Thanks John,” he said as we arrived. “You’re sure know these London streets. If ever I want to get to exactly the right place in a hurry, I’ll forget the Ubers and give you a call.”

I smiled weakly, hoping he would do no such thing.

“See you soon. If I hear anything I’ll feed it straight through to you. And you do the same to me and Mike Sissons.”

I gave another vague smile, as noncommittal as I could manage. Then my phone rang.

“Excuse me, Nash,” I said, pointing to the phone.

“Hey, better not park here, John. You’ll get a ticket.” He pointed to a taxi coming to a halt right behind me.

“Sure.”

He finally closed the door. I drove off and answered the phone on handsfree.

“Mr Kite, you are in luck.”  It was Rupert Woodruff, the retired archivist, now a volunteer at the Nettlefold Institute Library. “The Zimbalist papers have not yet been returned to our store. Twelve heavy boxes you see, too much for me, too much even for my young colleague, Miss Castleton. A job for the heavy brigade. But Paul and Clive have other duties  and have not got round to it yet. The boxes were lodged temporarily in a corridor leading to an exit. Somewhat against regulations, really. I should speak to Miss Castleton about it. Anyway, the long and short of it is, the papers are here ready when you are.”

I changed course. From heading to Maskelyne Global to heading to the Nettlefold Institute Library in Vernon Square, Kings Cross. Barely a quarter-mile away. I hoped the library would be a better experience than the aborted trip to St Pancras.

The twelve heavy boxes were not the usual carboard, but large metal crates with a hinged lid, the kind that lawyers used many years ago. They took up a lot of space in the library and I sensed the staff wanted them back in the store as soon as possible. There were two problems for me. Firstly, the library was closing in thirty-five minutes and, secondly, the Zimbalist papers could not be removed from the library.

“It’s the same with all our reserve stock,” said Woodruff, a thin, spindly man in his early seventies wearing a thick cable-knit cardigan over a houndstooth check shirt with a woollen tie. He looked under-nourished and in need of sunshine. I imagined he had spent most of his adult life in libraries.

Photocopying was allowed. But what to copy in the short time available?

Each of the twelve boxes was labelled, with a word or two giving a rough guide to its contents. There was: Family I, Family II, Dealership Sales, Gifts/Benefactions/Endowments, and so on.

Then I came across a box which surprised me. It was labelled Russia/Alaska. The topic of Russia had been buzzing around a lot in the last few days and Orlando Figges had told Thalia, when they met in Canada, that he’d come from Alaska. Perhaps this box might explain what he was doing there.

I turned to Woodruff. “I know his family were originally Russian. Did they live in Alaska too?”

Woodruff was apologetic he didn’t know. “I haven’t read any of the Zimbalist papers. To read all the contents of the library, would take many lifetimes.” He chuckled. “However, you know Alaska was once part of Russia.”

I had no idea. “Really?”

“After their defeat in the Crimean War, Russia regarded Alaska as a security risk. Vast area with a tiny population, too hard to defend. Canada was British and French and it was Britain and France who had defeated Russia in the Crimea. So they sold it to the USA. For four million dollars, a figure like that. Many Americans thought it was a bad deal. Then, you had the Klondike gold rush and the Americans realised they’d got the bargain of all time.”

I opened the Russia/Alaska crate. Inside were several smaller boxes with one simply marked Alaska looking the smallest of the lot. I grabbed that one and handed it to Rupert. “I’ll start here, if I may.”

Rupert handed the Alaska box to a petite woman, young enough to be his granddaughter. Miss Castleton, I assumed. She wore an orange T-shirt with a mystic slogan I didn’t really understand, had spiky hair in a colour to match, and bold tattoos on both her forearms. She was already donning white cotton gloves for handling the delicate archive material.

While the copier whirred and buzzed, I looked into the other boxes to get an idea of what was available for the future. Then, on the stroke of closing time, I paid nearly a hundred pounds for the copying and Miss Castleton handed me several hundred sheets, neatly packaged in four huge manilla envelopes, filled to bursting.

“Good luck with reading this,” she said with a charming smile. “I hope you can.”

“Sorry?”

“Among her many qualifications,” put in Rupert Woodruff, “Miss Castleton has a Masters in Historical Linguistics.”

“Everything’s in Russian, of course,” she said, “trouble is, it’s mostly written or printed before the language reforms of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. There are lots of archaic letters that were later abolished.”

“We’re here if you need us,” said Woodruff with a smile.

Chapter 18

I have done a basic course in Russian. A very basic one. The language has its complexities: nouns have three genders and decline, like German or Latin, although there are some plusses. There is no word for ‘the’, for instance. Therefore, no le, la, or der, die, das. Strange to English speakers, but simple.

I settled down in my corner office which has no view to distract me, just the dull, dirty cream-coloured concrete of the adjacent building, and emptied all the contents from the straining envelopes Miss Castleton had given me.

Without trying to translate or read anything I began to sort the documents into age and subject on visual appearance alone.

There were some handwritten documents, which included, as I’d been warned, Russian alphabet letters I’d never seen before. I saw a date of 1796 on one and these were clearly the oldest of the bunch. I separated them out, hoping I’d not have to find an expert to translate them. Then there were later manuscript documents in a more modern-looking orthography, printed documents, and typewritten documents.

Finally, I came across a map, a large map which was nearly three feet by two feet. Miss Castleton had been forced to copy it on to four A3 sheets.

The map wasn’t engraved, it was hand-drawn, almost a sketch, with a few corrections, as if it had been copied from an even larger printed map. My obvious first thought: was it somewhere in Alaska? Yes, it was. I was pleased to find the Russian word for Alaska was almost exactly the same as the English. Аляска. Or Alyaska. There was also a scale marked on the map, which confusingly was not in miles or kilometres, but an old Russian measurement called a ‘verst’. After some research, I discovered a verst was about 0.66 of a mile or 1.06 kilometres. After puzzling over a calculator, I worked out the map’s scale was roughly 1:50,000, or approximately 2cm to 1 km, or 1 inch to 1.25 miles.

The area covered by the map was therefore about 45 miles by 30 miles. The most extraordinary feature of the map was it had almost nothing marked on it. No towns, no villages, no habitation. There was a portion of coastline, or possibly what was the edge of a lake, and an unnamed river, flowing into the lake or ocean, with some unnamed tributaries. There were some vague contour lines, though no named peaks or specific heights. What could be a road, or more likely a track, meandered from the edge of the water into the hinterland, then stopped for no apparent reason.

Marked on the map were three rectangular areas outlined in red. The biggest of them by far had a reference number and the name Цимбалист. Or Zimbalist. The map was also dated 19th June 1849 and bore official stamps of what I assumed was the equivalent of our British Land Registry.

Why was an ancestor of the art dealer Simon Zimbalist buying land in Alaska, even if it then was, as Rupert Woodruff informed me, part of Russia?

I went online, checking the art dealer’s biography more carefully. He was a great entrepreneur and it seemed he inherited that characteristic from his father and grandfather, both of whom were businessmen. They dealt in a commodity very different from art – the then thriving fur and seal trade, which was the main occupation of Russians living in Alaska in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

Interesting history, but surely irrelevant, since this parcel of land was no longer part of Russian territory.

There was a knock on the office door and Fiona MacIver came in.

“I need an update from you a.s.a.p.” she said. “But before that, have you seen the news from Russia?”

“What about?”

“About your two fraudsters, Miss Venice Beach and the blond bombshell... Whatever they’re called.”

In MacIver’s office, a TV rolling news channel was showing an interview broadcast by Russian State Television. The man being interviewed was the biker, the man with the distinctive sideburns who had attacked me and, weeks earlier, had knocked on Gus’s door asking for information.

The biker was captioned on screen as Alexei Bazarov, tourist, which almost certainly wasn’t his name or occupation. He was talking about the death of the Chiswick housekeeper, a woman whose name the UK authorities gave as Anna Surkova. The interview had an English translation dubbed over the original Russian.

“I visited London to see my girlfriend who was working there. She has degree in art and got a job with art dealer in good house by River Thames. On second day of my visit I go to house and find my girlfriend, who is called Eva Malenkova, lying on floor. I call ambulance, but she dies. I do not know how. She must have been killed by the art dealer, I do not know why. However, in England, the TV says they think I killed Eva, which is not true.”

“This is a tragic story, Alexei,” the interviewer said. “Was this your first visit to England?”

“Oh yes.”

“And what work do you do?”

“I am a mechanic for Gazprom.”

“You know the TV in England also is saying you work for Russian Embassy in London.”

“That is lie. I have never been to England before two days ago. And I do not want to go again. This murder has ruined my life.”

The interviewer went on, “TV in England also says you have worked for Aleksei Semyonovitch Makarov.”

“No. Not true. I have never met such a man.”

“Have you heard of him?”

“No. Never.”

The Russian interview ended and the broadcast cut back to the UK studio where the presenter and an expert on Russian affairs had been watching it.

“What do you make of that?” the interviewer said with a chuckle.

“Pure fiction,” the expert said. “Typical Russian policy of trying to get their lies out before the truth emerges.”

“The UK Government is still not saying what they know about the dead woman, who they name as Anna Surkova, or the man calling himself Alexei.”

“Yes, the silence is deafening,” the interviewee said. “There’s strong suspicion that both were FSB operatives.”

“Any idea what they were trying to do? Why there was a lethal substance in this house in Chiswick.”

“I wouldn’t like to speculate,” said the expert.

MacIver turned off the TV and turned to me. “I’m sure you’d like to speculate, Kite.”

“OK, I will. I think Miss Venice Beach and the blond bombshell, to use your terms, had established a relationship with a Russian called Aleksei Semyonovitch Makarov…”

MacIver nodded and said at once, “Aye. The oligarch close to the Russian President, sanctioned by the UK and US.” She carried on with hardly a pause for breath. “Presumably they thought they could take advantage of him being sanctioned, with no means of redress, so they sold him fakes and frauds. He found out and sent a hit squad – Surkova and the biker – to get his money back. The Russians doing exactly what our own Mr Vitucci and Mr Simmons would like to do the dealers who defrauded them. The two dealers were ready for that, somehow turned the tables, and killed the woman instead.”

MacIver looked pleased with her summary and turned to me, expecting agreement.

“I agree with the last bit,” I said. Her brow furrowed.

“Only the last bit?” She sounded peeved.

“I don’t think Makarov was interested in art, nor were the Russians agents. It’s something more serious.”

MacIver gave me a doubtful look. “I’ve heard you say that before. Always something hidden deeper, you think.”

“Yes. The main crime hasn’t yet taken place.”

MacIver looked frustrated. “What is the main crime? They want to buy the papers of an old art dealer, who was a philanthropist, and also, you tell me, a bit of a fraud himself.”

“They’re not just old papers. There’s something to do with Alaska.”

I paused. MacIver wanted more, quickly. “Yes? And…?”

I sighed. “I don’t know yet. There’s stacks of paperwork to go through, but I’m sure…”

“Kite.” She stopped me, then went on in a kinder tone. “John, this sounds like another of your ‘something bad’s going to happen, but I don’t know what’ scenarios.”

I had to be honest. “Yes.”

“Well… Truthful, at least.” She paused, turned her large, tawny eyes on me with a raptor’s intensity. Then the stare softened. They twinkled. She relaxed, sat back in her chair. “Go on, Kite. Explain your new theory.”

I outlined the puzzle of Myorzli Landscape, the Zimbalist documents and the mysterious map. “The brother and sister couple are trying to sell something. I don’t know what, but they think it’s very valuable . Trying to sell it to a range of rich…” I struggled to describe them. “Rich… dubious… potentates…”

“Potentates!” MacIver grinned. “Sounds like we’re in a different century.”

“They could be dictators, military rulers, presidents, cabals of business people, crooks, terrorists.”

“And what the two dealers are selling is something contained in these archives.” She paused, smiled, cynical. “Don’t tell me there’s a treasure map.”

I looked at her. “Well…, There is a map…”

“There’s gold in them thar hills.” MacIver put on a bad American accent, then reverted to her normal highland Scots. “Aye, laddie, we’ll stand by for a second Klondike gold rush.”

“That was in Canada. The Yukon. Not the US.”

“Yes, of course…” MacIver acknowledged her geography mistake and turned serious again. “You said the forbears of Zimbalist were Russians working in Alaska. Which is now part of the United States. How can Miss Venice Beach and the blond bombshell sell something that’s in the US to anybody, let alone Russians, Arabs, or foreign terrorists?”

“Could be something moveable?”

MacIver’s brow furrowed again. “We’re back to buried treasure again. Alaska is not exactly a pirates’ tropical island.”

“OK. Going back to the murder of the Russian agent in Chiswick… I think some art deal was how they got to meet Makarov. They realised he was rich and powerful and so they revealed they had a much bigger deal on offer. Makarov became interested, Orlando and Isla perhaps revealed too much, like the whereabouts of the Zimbalist papers. Makarov decided to get rid of the go-betweens and take the prize for himself. He sent the two agents to dispose of the couple then get hold of the Zimbalist papers.”

“But the two dealers were more clever than Makarov thought, and it was the Russian agent who died.”

I nodded. “The woman probably wangled a job at the house, after the previous cleaner mysteriously went missing.”

“Paid by the Russians to disappear?”

“I guess it was something like that. They imported some nerve agent, or maybe they have a stock ready in the Russian Embassy. Who knows? I’m sure the biker was making a delivery to Surkova when I was there. That’s why he was keen to get rid of me.”

“How did the art dealers avoid being poisoned?”

I shrugged. “Luck? Quick thinking? A fight? Somehow they got the better of her. Killed her, or at least made her unconscious, then made it look as if she’d poisoned herself by mistake.”

“Where have the dealers gone?”

“I don’t know. Someone from the middle east is after them as well.” I gave MacIver a quick heads-up on what I’d learned from Sam Bejam.

“Haven’t the police put out an All-Ports Warning for the couple?”

I nodded. “But that’s not infallible. They have money and rich friends. They’re used to operating on both sides of the Atlantic.”

MacIver sat back in her chair. “Then I fear there’s not much we can do for Mr Sissons and Mr Vitucci.”

“Why?”

“They’ve not had anything stolen, they’ve been defrauded.”

“Yes. They want their money back.”

“That’s a job for the courts or the police. You recover artworks, not money. The minute you get confirmation the two dealers have fled the country, we apologise to Sissons and Vitucci and tell them we can do no more. OK?”

“Sure. They’re both a pain in the neck.”

MacIver raised an eyebrow. “Roisin mentioned they’d made a show of themselves in reception, though it’s unlike you to criticise our clients.”

“They’re trying to be private dicks. Unfortunately they only succeed in just being dicks.”

MacIver smiled. “Then the sooner their cases fade away the better. And whatever does or doesn’t turn out to be happening in Alaska, it’s not in our jurisdiction.”

I smiled. “Chief Inspector Bolt said something similar.”

Back in my office I peered at the map of the empty Alaskan wilderness. I wanted to know exactly which part of the huge state the map covered. I brought up a map of Alaska on my screen, enlarged it until the scale was roughly the same as the paper map and tried to find a comparison. The only details I had were the semi-circular piece of coast, which could be part of a lake rather than the ocean, and a river. I started scrolling at the Canadian border and moved up slowly.

Quite soon I realised it was a hopeless task. Alaska has the longest coastline of any US state. Including inlets, estuaries and bays the shoreline is over 46,000 miles. It would be a life’s work to compare the tiny features on my almost blank map with detailed modern mapping.

I went down one floor to see Clark Munday.

Where I found an unusual scenario. Clark wasn’t staring at his multiple screens. Instead, he was staring at a fat paperback. A book on pregnancy and baby care.

“It’s a page-turner,” he said. “So fascinating. I’ve read three chapters already and only got it an hour ago.”

“Not much on today?”

“On the contrary, I’ve got loads. But I’m skiving. This book is addictive.” This was totally aberrant behaviour for Clark.

“I was hoping…”

“If you’ve brought me more work, I’ll put it on the list. What have you got?”

I handed him the Alaskan map and explained what I needed.

“Give me forty-eight hours,” he said. Then he tossed the map onto his desk, sat down and opened his child care book.

My ringing phone prevented me from saying anything. The caller’s ID was Luna, which meant nothing to me. I left Clark to his reading and picked up.

“Hi Mr Kite, it’s Luna from the Nettlefold Library.” Miss Castleton in a new guise, sounding bouncy and efficient.

“Hi Luna.” Perhaps her celestial name explained her mystical T-shirt.

“Sorry to bother you, it’s just I found a document which had been misfiled. I’m sure it ought to have been with the Alaska material I copied for you, but it was in the Sales: H – R box. Rupert and I were rearranging the boxes because Clive and Paul had left them in an awkward place in a corridor… Anyway, Rupert dropped his end. He’s a bit arthritic in his fingers. The lid opened and everything spewed everywhere. I was putting it all back when I came across this…”

My phone beeped with another incoming call. The caller was a surprise Thalia Rice.

“Just a moment, Luna, got another call… Don’t go away.”

“Sure.”

I went to Thalia’s call, heard only a clunk, then a rasping sound, and the call was ended.

I went back to Luna. “Sorry, they disappeared.”

“I thought you ought to have this because it’s all about Alaska.”

“Sounds interesting. Thank you for finding it. And for calling me.”

“And a bonus for you – this one’s all in English.” She gave a little laugh.

Thalia was ringing my number again.

“I can scan it and email it to you. That OK?” said Luna.

I said, “Brilliant,” I gave her my email, ended the call, and picked up Thalia.

“Thank God you answered…” Thalia’s voice was a hoarse whisper. She was tense and breathing hard. I was reminded of the call from Gus, seconds before he was attacked and died.

“You’re in trouble. What’s up?”

“Ssh. They’re coming back,” she said. There was a pause, then, in a more normal voice, “No. False alarm. They’ve moved away. Sorting out the other vehicle maybe.”

“Where are you? What’s going on?”

“I’m shut in the back of my car. In the boot. At my house. They’re going to the storage unit. They’re going to get the papers.”

“Steal them?”

“No. They made me fix it for them. I had to. No alternative.”

“But surely…? What about the police?”

“That would’ve been no good. You don’t understand the implications… Look, never mind that now. I need rescuing, and so do the papers. We’re going to Greenford…”

“I know where the storage depot is.”

“Good research, Mr Kite. Then they’ll move on with the papers. As for me… no idea.”

“Try to tell me where you are, as you go.”

“Even though I can’t see a bloody thing… I’ll do my best.”

“Can you keep the line open?”

“Better save the battery, I think.”

Then I had to ask about something which had been bothering me. “Why have they let you keep your phone?”

“Ah,” she chuckled. “They didn’t. Old bit of tradecraft. I always kept a burner hidden in the back of my car. Last resort kind of thing. A habit I never broke. And I’d memorised your phone number.”

“Last resort kind of thing?”

“Not at all. You’ll sort it out Mr Kite. I have every confidence.”

There was a two seconds’ pause while I recovered from that, then said “Give me your car details.”

She told me the make and marque, then stopped.

“Number plate?”

“They put fake ones on. I saw that before they bundled me in. I couldn’t see all the plate though… There was a P and a W. That’s all I got. Sorry.”

A moment’s silence, both realising that tracking her through Automatic Number Plate Recognition cameras was impossible.

Then, in the hoarse whisper again, “They’re coming back. Ending transmission.”

I stood still for a few seconds, shocked how things had escalated, then grabbed my things. As I ran down the eleven flights of stairs to the ground, I reflected that Isla and Orlando had killed Anna Surkova, the housekeeper, so Thalia Rice was in grave danger. Once they had the Zimbalist papers from storage they had no reason to keep her alive. Why had Thalia revealed the place where the papers were stored? What leverage did they have over her? Whatever it was, she considered allowing them to get the papers was less dangerous than revealing other secrets she held.

As I ran to where my car was parked, I called Liam Bolt at Scotland Yard. While I waited for him to pick up, I rehearsed in my head what he’d say to me when I explained the situation. ‘She gave them the archive papers? Whatever for? Some old spy thing? We can’t get involved in that, and it means no crime’s been committed… Kidnapped in her own car? OK, what’s the reg number?...You don’t know? Well, how can we trace it? Blimey, Kite you ask for the impossible some times.’  

Liam’s phone continued ringing. After a full minute, it was picked up by an officer who told me Lima was in another meeting and couldn’t be disturbed.

I was almost glad. I felt relieved I didn’t have to explain what was happening. I knew what had to be done. Crime or no crime, a woman’s life was at risk.

Greenford, West London, is a few miles north east of Heathrow Airport. I was near St Paul’s, in the City. Barely ten miles away, nevertheless a slow, tortuous journey right across London. On a bad day it might take ninety minutes.

From Thalia’s home, Isla and Orlando would probably go west to pick up the A3, then north to join the M25. Both roads were notoriously slow at times and a single breakdown could cause a severe bottleneck. Both journeys were simple in theory, or in the middle of the night, but difficult in practice. Everything depended on traffic flow and, unlike a police car, I had no flashing lights or siren to clear my way. Either of us could get to Greenford first.

Traffic has been drastically reduced in the heart of London since the Congestion Zone was introduced to reduce air pollution and my journey began well. Then, after a few miles, things slowed down. After twenty minutes’ driving, I was inching my way down the A40, one of the main routes west, always busy, and with countless sets of traffic lights. On the other hand, it had the advantage of being almost a straight line to my destination.

I began to worry. Why hadn’t I insisted on interrupting Liam’s meeting? Why had I taken such a burden on myself? Was it pride? Arrogance? Vanity?

Beyond White City, things got better. I stopped questioning what I was doing, accelerated hard, and immediately saw the flash of a speed camera as I shot under a bridge. Too bad. If things worked out, I would charge the Benevolent Fund.

I turned north off the A40 to Greenford, a suburban area with light industrial premises, mostly two-lane roads and low speed restrictions. The storage unit was less than two miles away. Then Thalia called.

“They’ve got it,” she said. “I can hear them loading the truck.”

Thalia was still locked in the back of the car. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” she said. A brief guttural sound. Tense and tight. She obviously wasn’t.

“Be there soon.”

No response. She’d cut the line. Whoever was driving must have returned.

Half a mile from the unit there were road repairs, with single file working and temporary traffic lights. There was a fifty metre queue in front of me waiting for the red light to change. After a few seconds, green showed, but the car at the front of the line didn’t move. It had stalled or the driver wasn’t paying attention. The vehicles behind it honked aggressively and the driver restarted the engine, or woke up, and moved on. As I got near the traffic light, it changed back to red. The car in front of me slowed, intending to stop. I blasted my horn and the car jerked forwards again. I accelerated behind it.

Past the roadworks, I took the first left at high speed and saw the façade of the storage facility a few hundred metres away. I put my foot down and raced towards it. I reached the entrance and started to turn in when a long-wheelbase Ford Transit appeared, coming out at high speed. I rammed on the brakes to avoid a collision and the Transit driver did the same. We stopped inches apart and, as happens in those situations, the occupants of each vehicle stare at each other as if condemning their careless driving.

In the cab of the van, Orlando was driving with Isla next to him and they recognised me at once. Orlando hit the gas, turned the wheel sharply, scraping the van along my front bumper and accelerated down the road. I followed, right behind them. No space to overtake. Cars parked on both side of the road. No way to stop them.

Soon we were at a T-junction where traffic on our side of the road we were joining was congested, crawling along at ten miles per hour. Orlando didn’t slow. He stormed out right in front of an oncoming 44-ton artic truck. The truck driver gave a long blast on his horn and stood on the brakes. The Transit zipped across in front of the truck, and turned right to join the empty traffic lane, speeding off in the opposite direction.

The huge truck came to a halt straight in front of me. Stationary, like the whole line of traffic. I was going nowhere.

My phone rang. It was Liam Bolt calling back, even though I’d left no message. I gave him a rapid update.

“She gave them the archive stuff…?” he began.

I interrupted. “Under duress… I’ll explain later.” I passed on the Transit van’s details and direction of travel. “Occupants probably armed,” I added.

“What about Thalia Rice?”

“Unknown location. No ID for her vehicle.”

“Huh… Awkward. Sounds like a job for you, Kite.” I knew Liam was joking, and surprised him by taking him at his word.

“Yeah. I’m tracking her. I’ve got an audio link,” I said.

“Blimey. Call if you want back-up.”

“Sure. May well do that. Thanks, Liam.”

During the call, I’d reversed back a short way from the stationary traffic, done a quick U-turn and driven back to the storage unit. There was no sign of Thalia’s car.

The call with Liam ended and I wondered if she was in the back of the Transit van. No. Wherever Orlando and Isla were going, they didn’t want Thalia with them. Now they had the Zimbalist papers, she had no part left to play.

Saving her was now my priority.

Chapter 19

Which way should I go? Where should I search for her?

If they wanted to dispose of her they would seek out a deserted or rural spot. That suggested travelling west, away from London.

Then, sooner than I thought, Thalia called again.

“Stopped,” she whispered. “I can spell petrol. Must be a service station. But the tank was full when we left.”

I had a sudden fear the driver was filling a container to burn the car. And possibly Thalia, too. “Where are you? Any idea?”

“Nearer Heathrow. The planes are louder.”

“Not gone far.”

“They were all debating something before we left Greenford. Talking about money. Orlando and Isla told the fat guy, the one who shot at you, who’s driving… They told him he needed money.”

“He’s stopped at a service station for its ATM.”

“Yes and …”

There was a sound which had to be the driver’s door closing, Thalia broke off in mid-sentence, and the call ended.

I continued westwards, aiming for Heathrow now. The traffic had thinned and I drove as fast as possible. I took the main A4 which runs close to the north side of the airport, then turned off to the south.

I felt sweat on my back now, and under my arms, but not from the weather, which remained cool. There are plenty of industrial sites close to Heathrow, waste land, stretches of open water, farmland too. Ideal places for a murder. Whatever the big guy intended to do with Thalia, I guessed the noise of the planes would be good cover.

As well as keeping a lookout for Thalia’s car, I was also searching for a potential execution site.

She called again.

“Stopped,” she said. “Off-road. Came down a lane then a track. Very bumpy. Got thrown about, cracked my head.”

“Hold on, Thalia, I’m not far away.”

“I think the destination’s not far either. He’s got out, left the engine running. Before the farm track, we passed a sailing club. I heard the rigging, the halliards, clanging on the masts.”

I enlarged the map on my screen. There were three sailing clubs near me, each on a different reservoir.

“Planes?”

“Very loud. Very low. They’re landing.”

I looked up at the sky. Today, the approach was from the west. I was on the right side of the airport.

“And in between aircraft, a lot of dogs barking.” A pause. “He’s back. On the phone.”

I searched on my phone for a nearby dogs’ home or boarding kennels. And I found one a mile-and-a-half away. I put my foot down. First right, second left and I came to a sign for the Kennels. I hesitated. Although the metalled road continued round a right-hand bend to the kennels, there was a smaller track going straight ahead. Was this the bumpy surface Thalia’s car had gone down?

Which way? Straight ahead or to the right? I felt my heart thumping. Sweat on my palms. No time to think.

I went forwards. On to the track.

It was excessively bumpy. Tractor tyres had gouged canyons into the mud. I drove on, bumping and bouncing, slithering over the wet clay surface. Above my head, an Emirates Boeing 777 screamed into land, its wheels looking almost within touching distance. I involuntarily ducked.

Half a mile down the farm track was a closed gate. I skidded to a halt in front of it, jumped out and ran to it. The gate was unlocked. I heaved it open and, as my shoes squelched in the mud, I saw freshly minted tyre tracks. Not a tractor’s, not a truck’s, they were from an ordinary hatchback. Thalia’s.

Back in the car, I drove through the gate, scanning all around for any sign of the car.

She called again.

“Stopped. Noisy machinery… Earth-moving…. Road-building.”

“I’m very near. Hold on.”

I drove on. The track rose upwards and wound away from the farmland. I reached the crest of the incline and looked to my right. A deep quarry. With noisy earth-moving machines.

But where was Thalia’s car? Seconds were vital now.

Along the edge of the excavation there was no road, no track, not even a path. Just rough grass. I drove on, beside the very lip of the quarry.

A British Airways jumbo roared overhead and the stunted trees and bushes above the quarry swayed. Down in the centre of the quarry, some heavyweight operation caused a thundering, explosive crash and the ground shook under me.

I pressed forwards fast, spinning the wheel to dodge between a straggly hedge on my left and the lip of the quarry to my right, with its unguarded drop of a hundred feet at least. I passed a row of small trees which marked the end of the quarry, on to an expanse of lush grass which curved gently downwards – and then disappeared…

I rammed on the brakes and spun the wheel. Thin air ahead. A void. A vertical edge, unmarked, and, by a quirk of landscape, invisible until you were on it. The car turned and skidded sideways. The grass was drier than the mud lower down. The tyres held. The car stopped.

I took a breath, and a look sideways. My car was inches from the sheer edge of a flooded gravel pit. Deep water sparkled in the sunlight, many feet below. I didn’t fancy opening the door and stepping on to nothing.

I leaned over to the opposite side of the car, undid the passenger door, crawled across and got out on terra that was firmer and safer.

Further along the edge of the flooded pit I finally saw Thalia’s car. The muscleman I’d fought at her house was standing by the front of it and was checking the distance to the edge and, perhaps, the firmness of the ground. He got back into the car, I ducked down and raced towards him, keeping low.

As I ran towards him, the heavy guy released the brake and let the car roll slowly down the slight incline where he had parked. A few feet from the edge he pulled the brake on again and got out of the car once more. I stopped my advance, threw myself to the ground. The driver opened a rear door, reached inside and removed two house bricks from behind the driver’s seat. He turned away from me and moved gingerly towards the edge.

I began a fast crawl towards the car, watching the driver kneel down on the grass and place one brick in front of the driver’s side tyre. He got up, and moved around the back of the car to the other side.

Shielded by the car, I ran at top speed, while the big man was lying prone on the ground carefully placing the second brick under the other front tyre.

He got up. Once more I ducked down, now crawling towards the car as fast as I could.

He walked around the back of the car again, leaned inside the driver’s door and released the brake. He went to the edge, checked the two bricks and was satisfied the car was held steady. At least for the moment.

I was crawling fast. I reached the car while his back was turned to me and I sprang up and yanked open the boot lid.

Thalia shrieked in surprise but her cry was swamped by a descending  Japanese Air Lines flight. I pulled her out of the car and waved her away as the big man saw me.

“Where have they taken the papers to?” I said, standing next to the open hatchback.

The big man said nothing, just advanced towards me, his fists clenched. I’d seen his fighting style earlier. He was strong and powerful, but had no refinement and little intelligence. I needed to avoid his killer blows and construct an opportunity to get the better of him through subtlety.

I glanced into the car and saw Thalia’s burner phone lying there. I snatched it up, stuffed it into a pocket, and stepped back as the guy aimed a huge right at my head. I bobbed down and easily avoided it. He followed with a left and I danced out of its path. I aimed a kick at his shins. I made contact, or thought I did, though he seemed oblivious to the blow from my heavy leather shoe.

He swung again, and I zipped sideways. My timing was off and, although his punch missed its target, I was caught hard on the shoulder. I stumbled.

Seeing an advantage, he moved closer, but his next swing was wild, as was the follow-up kick. The power of his own kick, which met only fresh air, unbalanced him and I attacked fast. I got two hits on his face, before he recovered and lunged back with ferocity. I took another punch to the chest which winded me, I parried another with my arm and as he lined up what he hoped would finish me for good, I pulled the old burner phone from my pocket, angled it in my fist like a weapon, and flung myself at him stabbing down with the phone on to his nose, with all the strength I had.

The man cried out. Blood poured from his nose. I attacked again with the phone, aiming at his stomach this time. My weapon was blunt, though the plastic was hard. And it hurt. The man yelped, bent double and staggered backwards, ramming forcefully into the wide open driver’s door.

Maybe the bricks had not been properly placed or had sunk into the soft soil, or the sheer pressure of my opponent’s 350 pound bulk was too much for them. Whatever, the car lurched forward over the two brick chocks and, because all the big man’s weight was leaning on the car door, he fell backwards too.

Car and man disappeared together over the edge.

In the flooded gravel pit below were two big splashes.

Chapter 20

“I suppose you want me to explain the background,” said Thalia Rice, looking down into the water of the gravel pit at her erstwhile captor swimming clumsily to a patch of land where he could haul himself out of the water.

I looked at her tired, bruised face, her stained jeans and torn sweater, legacies of her imprisonment in the back of her car. I said nothing.

She stretched her neck, circled her head around, flexed her back. “If you drive me home I’ll do my best,” she said.

“Of course.” We walked towards my car. “Any idea where they’re going with the papers?”

“They never mentioned specific plans.”

“What about Canada?” Her head turned sharply towards me. “I heard about an email sent to you. From their gallery in New York. And you have a background there. I saw the postcards of the Marine Building. And the photo in your bedroom.”

“I think  it’s likely,” she said, sounding exhausted.

I drove slowly back along the perilous path by the edge of the quarry and down to the bumpy track. A man was standing by the open gate. He was in a high-viz jacket and heavy industrial boots.

“All OK?” he said as I stopped by the gate.

“So far,” I said.

“Good. That’s another two thousand then.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Two thousand to get in, two thousand on successful completion.”

“You need to speak to the big guy,” I said, indicating behind me. The man looked up the track.

“Coming behind, is he?”

“When he’s out of the water. And for future reference, your prices are too cheap.”

“Too cheap? What do you mean?”

“Too cheap for you to be an accessory to murder. Expect a visit from the police.”

I put my foot down, stormed through the gate and drove away.

As soon as we reached a tarmacked road, Thalia fell asleep. It took nearly an hour to reach her house and it was dark when we arrived. Only when I parked by her front door did she wake.

“That’s better,” she said, instantly alert and ready for action. “Perfect power nap.”

The front door was open. With her ex-agent’s mindset Thalia had managed to leave it open on purpose, hoping a neighbour would notice and investigate. Nobody had. The lane past her house led nowhere and Abinger Hammer was a village where privacy was valued; residents didn’t visit their neighbours on a whim.

Thalia went first to the kitchen, got two wine glasses, opened the fridge and took out an opened bottle of white wine. She poured one glass, then looked at me.

“Would you rather have gin? Or whisky, or beer?”

“Wine would be great.”

She poured my glass, handed it to me, then opened the fridge again and took out an uncooked pie.

“I made this yesterday. Needs about forty-five minutes in the oven. You do eat meat?”

“Pretty much anything.”

“Good. There are some vegetables in there, home-grown potatoes, carrots, the last of the parsnips. If you can prepare those, and put everything on to cook, I’m going for a bath. Dinner in one hour?”

I nodded.

One hour and ten minutes later we were indeed sitting down to eat. The pie was venison and tasty, the home-grown vegetables more flavoursome than anything supermarkets sell. There was red wine, too.

Thalia was washed and in clean clothes. Her hair was still damp and she’d not bothered to reapply any make-up.

“As to the background to all this,” she said as we ate, “you’ll be disappointed to know I can’t tell you very much. Some facts are still secret, and others are too dangerous to reveal. People are living who would be adversely affected if the truth came out.”

“Do Orlando and Isla want the Zimbalist papers because of something you did when you were in MI6?”

“You must understand I can’t talk about what I did, or didn’t do, when I worked for the government. I was attached to the Department of Trade. OK?” She looked at me with a half smile.

“OK,” I said, returning the smile.

“It doesn’t matter what Leo Somerscales may have told you. He works to different parameters, has different priorities, different bosses. Now, back to your question. I have no idea why they want the papers. No idea at all. I haven’t read all the documents but I have glanced through them. There seems nothing of any value at all.”

“Did you look at the Russian material?”

“Yes. I learned Russian as part of my work. There’s stuff  about Alaska and a map of a plot of land with almost nothing on it. And, in any case, Russia sold the whole of Alaska to the US in the 1860s. Even if that plot of land was in the centre of the city of Anchorage, say, it would be US property, wouldn’t belong to any heirs of Zimbalist. I thought half a million pounds was a good deal for the papers. That’s why I was relaxed about the potential sale. In fact, my judgement was they were over-reaching themselves, gambling on a potential future value which was unrealistic or illusionary. Like those people who buy and sell plots of land on the moon. Crazy.”

“Gus Lamport thought differently.”

“Yes, he was suspicious. About me and my motives as well as about Orlando and Isla.”

“He had long experience of frauds, fakes and lies in the art business.”

“My late husband had the same experience and I had plenty, too, in my work. Lying, bluffing, double bluffing, innuendos, half-truths. It was second nature. Even so, Gus found no concrete reason not to sell.”

“Why didn’t they go through with the sale? Why did they keep you under house arrest with that thug, then steal the papers and try to kill you?”

Thalia looked thoughtful. “I was foolish. Or perhaps brave. Or both. Foolhardy. Gus’s death changed my mind. I’m glad you phoned to tell me about it or I may not have found out for weeks. I would have sold the papers and got the money. His death made me suspicious about everything. Made me think he was on to something after all. So I said no to Orlando and Isla. Never. Then they got tough.”

“They were blackmailing you.”

Our eyes met. “Yes. They were threatening to reveal something about my past. About… about a person who must be protected.”

“What about yourself? Didn’t you need protecting?”

She shrugged. “Not as important.”

“There’s a story about an affair with a spy. Was that the basis of the blackmail?”

Thalia smiled. “There was no affair. Never.”

I still didn’t know when she was telling the truth or lying. “If Orlando and Isla are both Canadian, and brother and sister, I wondered if they could be related to you.”

Thalia burst out laughing. “I see how your mind’s working. I had an affair with a Canadian man, betrayed him or did him wrong in some way, he had children who learned of the bad way I’d treated him and wanted revenge. So they force me to hand over some documents. It would be convenient, but isn’t true. And I had no affair.”

“Then what was the substance of the blackmail?”

“Can’t tell you.”

“Won’t Isla and Orlando reveal it?”

“I’m gambling they won’t. They’ve got what they wanted – the papers – for free. They’ve nothing to gain from releasing old news. And given their history of lies and fraud, who’d believe them?”

“How did they come to learn about the Zimbalist papers?”

Thalia shrugged. “I’ve really no idea.”

“You knew them socially.”

“No. They were friends of friends, well, of … acquaintances of mine. I got myself invited to the eighteenth birthday party because I’d heard Orlando and Isla were going and I wanted Gus to meet them. To check them out. You could say I infiltrated the party. I knew almost nobody there.”

Conversation lapsed as we continue with our meal. Was Thalia being truthful? Was there really no connection between her and the two fraudsters? How else could a pair of Canadian art dealers unearth something they thought valuable in an obscure archive.

I had another attempt to nudge Thalia into giving me more.

“What about Lagransky… was he involved?”

Thalia’s face was impassive. “Can’t talk about him.”

We finished eating and I realised I hadn’t checked my phone for several hours. I’d almost forgotten the earlier call from Luna at the Nettlefold Institute Library. As promised, she’d emailed the document she’d found.

What she’d sent was a scan of an old photograph of a document in English and French. It was the Treaty made between the USA and Russia for the sale of Alaska for $7.2 million. The agreement was between ‘His Majesty, the Emperor of all the Russias’ and the US President. It was signed on their behalf by the US Secretary of State William Seward and the Russian ‘Envoy Extraordinary’ William de Stoeckl.

“Have a look at this,” I said to Thalia, handing my phone across to her. “The librarian at the Nettlefold Institute said it had been misfiled, in a box marked Sales, not the Alaska one. It may have been that way ever since the papers were deposited there.”

Thalia scrolled up and down on the document. “I only ever looked through material about Zimbalist’s bequests and endowments, with relevance to what he had given to the Benevolent Fund. I looked at the Alaska stuff simply because I’m inquisitive, when I found it was mostly in Russian I put the lid back on. Has this any relevance to anything?” She handed the phone back to me. “Zimbalist’s father or grandfather may have bought a chunk of land nearly two hundred years ago, but whatever was his is now American.”

“Seven-point-two million sounds cheap for something as big as Alaska,” I said, still reading bits of the Treaty.

Thalia was using her phone. “Worth about one hundred and thirty million now, or equivalent to two cents an acre.” She smiled. “Cheap enough, I think.”

“Though not prime agricultural land perhaps.” My eyes had been darting about the treaty, picking up clauses here and there, fascinated by the old-fashioned language when I came across a phrase which made sit up sharply, “Hey, listen to this… It’s talking about the transfer of land and property from Russia to the US and the Treaty says, ‘… the right of property in all public lots and squares, vacant lands, and all public buildings, fortifications, barracks, and other edifices which are not private individual property.’” I repeated some of the last sentence. “Lots…vacant lands… which are not private individual property.” And repeated again. “Not private property.” I looked at Thalia. “Is that why they were obsessed with this? They think Zimbalist’s heirs still own a chunk of Alaska?”

Thalia looked at me and was at once very still. “He had no heirs. He passed  all his wealth to the Benevolent Fund.”

“What about this piece of land?”

“I don’t know,” Thalia said. “I never knew it existed till today.”

“They’ll claim the Benevolent Fund was given everything Zimbalist owned when he died, and they’ve acquired the land from the Fund. They’ll say they own a chink of Alaska.”

We looked at each other, saying nothing for a full minute, thinking of the ramifications.

Then Thalia waved an arm in the air and stood up abruptly. “That’s ridiculous. It can’t still be true. The law must have changed since 1867.”

I began to search online when Thalia said, “We need some advice from the US.”

I closed the search and called Hudson Cassoni.

“Hi John,” he said, “your sister’s cute.”

“Half sister,” I said.

“Doesn’t make her any less cute.”

“You in New York?”

“Not any longer. I breezed in and out, stopped by to take your charming half-sister for dinner. Friend of the family and all that. She’s got a sharp mind, too.”

“Yes, I know. This is something different. Out of the blue. Alaska.”

“In three words? Big, cold, caribou.”

“What about private property?”

“Yeah, I’d’ve mentioned that if I was allowed more than three words. It’s quite an anomaly. Of all the states in the US, Alaska has the least amount of privately owned land. Less than one percent I think. Most land is owned by the state itself.”

“What about land owned privately before the state was sold to the US by Russia?”

“John, I’m a PI, not a constitutional lawyer. Why are you asking this?”

I explained, bringing Hudson up to date on what had happened since we last spoke.

“Oh, wow, I see the problem. Is this guy Orlando a US citizen?”

“Don’t know. It’s possible. He also has a Canadian background. But we’re not even a hundred percent sure of his real name.”

“If he wants to exploit Alaska I understand why. If you’d given me three more words on Alaska, I’d have said oil, oil, oil. Three more: gold, zinc, rare earth minerals. OK, that’s more than three.”

“And there’s a big rush to drill for more oil at the moment.”

“Sure, and the thing about exploitation is it’s difficult. Not just the climate and the access, it’s that great tracks of land are protected by the State or as National Parks. And Alaskan parks are not like Yellowstone or the Everglades or your Lake District. In Alaska the parks are totally conserved. Limited access. They’re segregated. Which is great for the environmentalists, yet some Alaskans say, hey, we want work, we want to build homes, we want development and wealth. They think the state is over-protected. Because most of the state is owned by the state, it’s harder for private business to get… well, a foothold. Literally.”

“We think Orlando and Isla are planning to claim the land once owned by Zimbalist’s forebears. That’s why they think it’s worth  a fortune.”

“If the title deeds have been lying in a metal box since Zimbalist was a child, the land won’t be registered,” said Hudson.”

“Does that mean they can’t sell the land?”

“No. There are ways of selling unregistered land. If they can establish title.”

“They’ve made a lot of money from forgery so they may have got some tame lawyers to process fake documentation.”

“Yeah. And there are always loopholes, and lawyers keen to exploit them.”

“And greedy buyers who see the chance to make a fortune…”

“As long as they believe they’ve hired the smartest lawyer. You know sometimes I regret majoring in history of art. If I’d done law, I could be retiring any day now.”

On that, the call ended, with Hudson promising to do more research and get back to me.

I’d put the call on speaker, and Thalia had listened in. Now she raised her eyebrows. “Reminds me of a sitcom on TV years ago… The Beverly Hillbillies. Long before your time. It was about a hillbilly family who struck oil on their land, and moved to Beverly Hills. That was a wacky comedy, this all sounds like a mess.”

“A dangerous mess,” I said.

“I blame myself. If I had been more truthful with Gus I’m sure we could have worked things out.”

“Neither of you knew about the Alaskan land,” I said and Thalia nodded. “Maybe if Gus had involved me earlier, and not kept everything to himself.”

“He probably didn’t want to bother you. Until he had hard evidence.”

I shook my head. “He should’ve bothered me.”

I helped Thalia clear up, checked she was feeling alright, then headed home.

Liam called me to say they had found the Transit van, burnt out on waste ground. An identical procedure as with the car used by Gus’s attacker.

“And this time, we found something different in the ashes. In the cab, a tiny metal badge, with a pin,” said Liam. “Like for a club. Or the kind of thing the American Secret Service guys have. It’s got the letters MOC and what looks like an electricity pylon, or maybe some kind of ladder. It was a hired van, of course, it could have dropped off a previous renter.”

I remembered the tiny lapel button Orlando was wearing at the eighteenth birthday party, and at the hotel presentation and how he pinned a similar one on to Isla’s jacket. I thought back to the moment when I had nearly crashed into the Transit van as it was leaving the storage unit. Was either of them wearing a similar button then? I didn’t know.

“You said the letters on the pin were MOC,” I said. “Could it be MLC?”

“The middle letter is clear. It’s an ‘O’. Why do you ask?”

I explained about Myorzli Landscapes and the indefinable connection to Alaska.

“You’ve been busy,” said Liam, then paused a moment. “Is this why Gus got killed? Why Mrs Rice was being held and blackmailed? For a chunk of ice and tundra in Alaska?”

“Could be valuable tundra.”

Liam laughed. “Yeah. Like the Sahara Desert’s valuable for its sand.”

What was ringing in my ears now was Hudson Cassoni saying “Oil, oil, oil.” Could it be as simple as that? Liam had said the badge looked like a pylon or a ladder. The students, Edie and Sienna, thought the badge looked like the Eifel Tower. It had reminded me of a transmitter. Different interpretations of the same thing.

“Liam, the design on the badge… Could it be an oil rig?”

“I’ve got a lens here somewhere…Hold on.” I heard drawers opening and closing and Liam shuffling about. “It’s stylised, but yeah, could be an oil rig.”

“In that case, Liam,  I bet MOC is the Myorzli Oil Company, or Corporation.”

“The bit of land in Alaska is in an oil field?”

“Who knows? They’re the kind of people who start companies, change names, change countries as a way of confusing people and promoting themselves.”

“Could be another fraud, then?”

“Undoubtedly. Where are they now? Have they left the country?”

“We’re going over all the CCTV from Heathrow and are ninety percent sure we’ve found them. We’re trying to bump up the resolution of the footage at the moment.”

“They weren’t stopped from leaving the country?” I said.

“Because neither used any of the names they’ve used before.”

“DI Guard said she knew their real names.”

“She didn’t know the names they used today. Nor did anyone,” said Liam.

“Blimey… That makes five names each. Three you and I knew, one SO15 knew and the latest one. Is the new one real?”

“You tell me, Kite. They must have a desk-full of passports for all occasions.”

When the call with Liam ended I wondered again why there was no mention online of either Myorzli Landscape or Myorzli Oil. If they wanted investors or buyers, surely they needed a website. Then I realised my mistake. There was a vital part of the Internet I hadn’t searched –  the so-called Dark Web.

It’s not a place I’d visited for a while and I rechecked the current, best way to get in. Once inside, I quickly came across both Myorzli companies. As expected, there were no physical contact details given, but from various clues in the pages I reckoned their base was somewhere in Vancouver. Both websites mentioned only two names, Orlando Figges and Isla Leach.

I called G.

“Glad you got on well with Hudson,” I said.

“Yeah. He’s sweet,” she said.

“Well, I suppose he could be. In the right light.” I paused a beat. “Now, if you’re getting serious about…”

G burst in fast. “Hey, no. I’m not serious about him.” I could sense her embarrassment down the line.

“Ah… Methinks she doth protest too much. I wasn’t talking about Hudson. I was going to say, serious about investigations.”

“Yes, of course. Sorry.” I imagined G was blushing. Or kicking herself for not keeping her mouth shut. “What did you want me to do?”

“I need some contact details. There are two companies based in Vancouver, one called Myorzli Oil and another called Myorzli Landscape. Associated with both companies are people called Oliver Figges and Isla Leach…”

“Are the companies registered? Are these two both directors?” G said, all businesslike again.

“I suspect either case is unlikely. But they must have a bank account of some kind.”

“Which could be a personal or business account. And you want me to find a physical address associated with the account?”

“Absolutely. Is that possible?”

“Should be. Spell the names out for me, please, Kite.” I did so, she read them back, then said, “How’s Nash getting on?”

“He’s made a British friend and they are dashing about together, having a great time and getting in people’s way.”

“Sounds about right. I’ll be in touch soon, Kite. If I can find the time between assignations with Hudson.” She giggled.

I chuckled. “Take care.”

The last call of the evening was from Clark, struggling with Alaskan geography.

“It won’t work, Kite, sorry. The original map is not precise enough. My software has come up with 263 possible corelations so far and it’s still got a few thousand miles of coast to check. There’s not enough data on the map and its scale is too small, therefore the software throws up suggestions, false positives if you like. To check each one physically would take for ever.”

“Thanks Clark. Don’t worry. Turn it off and get back to your baby book.”

Next morning two emails were waiting for me. The first was from G, giving me an address related to the Myorzli Oil Company. It was in a place called Kitsilano, a suburb of Vancouver, just out of the city centre, with a beach on to a stretch of ocean called English Bay.

The second was from a police officer I didn’t know and was addressed to Liam Bolt and other officers, including DI Holly Guard. The email was bcc’d to me. For which I had to thank Liam. The message confirmed what we already surmised, that facial recognition software had found a match for Orlando and Isla and proved they had left the country the previous day and flown to Vancouver, Canada.

The names which got them out of the country meant nothing to the police, yet they rang a bell with me. The name they used was Woodruff, and they travelled on Canadian passports. The Canadian nationality wasn’t a surprise, but Woodruff… The name of the retired, long-service archivist at the Nettlefold Institute Library. A coincidence? Woodruff isn’t a rare last name, yet neither is it a common one.

I called Luna at the library. Did she know anything about Rupert Woodruff having children?

“Oh, yeah, he talks about them a lot. Course I’ve never met them,” she said, in her chirpy, frisky voice which was such a contrast to her mystical-goth appearance. “In fact, when we dropped the box the other day and found the Alaska document was misfiled, he said it may have been his children’s fault. The misfiling I mean, not dropping it.”

“How could that be?”

“When they were young, after Rupert got divorced, he had trouble getting child-care. So in school holidays he would bring the children into work, and they used to help him with sorting out new accessions, re-boxing old documents, and amusing themselves. Course, this was years ago and Rupert was the boss, did things in his own way. If I tried it, not that I’ve got any kids, I’m sure I’d be fired on the spot.”

“Do you know what his children’s names are?”

“Oh… Let me think…” There was a long pause. “Yes. She’s called Isla. He’s got one of those Shakespearean names. Not Hamlet. Something else… Sorry. Can’t remember.”

“Don’t worry. Is Rupert in?”

“Not today. He only does two days a week. Tuesdays and Wednesdays.”

I thanked Luna and got Rupert’s number from her.

“Mr Kite, good to hear from you. How’s your Alaskan research going?” Rupert said.

“It’s… interesting,” I said. “I was calling about something different. Your children. Could I ask you about them?”

He was taken aback. “Yes, of course. They’re not in trouble, I hope, quite safe and sound?”

Instead of answering, I asked another question. “It’s Isla and…?”

“Isla and Orlando. We named him after the Shakespeare character in As You Like It, by the way, not that weird book by Virginia Woolf.”

“I believe they’re art dealers?”

“Yes, correct. Following the artistic path, like their parents. Though more profitably I understand.”

“Your wife was a dealer?”

“No, a painter. Lavinia, she was called. Professionally, she always used her maiden name, Figges.”

“You said Figges?”

“Yes. F, I, double-G, E, S. Lavinia Figges. When we divorced she went to live in Canada with another artist.”

“I understand your children used to help at the library.”

“It saved on child care and down in the archive vaults they were quite safe. I think they really enjoyed helping me, and it’s one of the reasons they both became art dealers. We’ve an extensive collection of documents as you know, quite a lot on dealers like Zimbalist, and there’s also a special collection on fakes and frauds. They were fascinated by that. I said to them, if they wanted to be dealers it would be good to study the history of fakes and frauds, so they could avoid falling for any scams when they were buying for themselves.”

“Yes,” I said, in as neutral a tone as I could manage, “good thinking.”

“It’s down to parents to give their children a good start off, so if they’re doing well, as I understand they are, in such a precarious business, then I take a little pride in helping them on their way.”

“Absolutely,” I said, unable to tell Woodruff the truth.

Chapter 21

I left home and drove to Maskelyne Global, thinking that if I could stop Orlando and Isla – the Woodruffs, as I now wanted to call them – if I could stop them as soon as they reached Canada, all might be well. But how to do it?

Then another problem confronted me. As I stepped into reception at Maskelyne Global, I saw Michael Sissons and Nash Vitucci sitting in visitors’ chairs, talking excitedly. Seeing me, they both leaped to their feet and came to meet me.

“Vancouver. What do you make of that?” said Nash.

“We’re checking flights right now,” said Sissons. “Have you booked?”

For a moment I was gobsmacked.

“What are you talking about?” I said carefully.

“Hey, don’t play innocent,” said Nash, jabbing me gently with a fist. “If you were asking for an address in Vancouver, that must mean they’ve both run off.”

“Kitsilano,” said Sissons. “I’ve heard it’s got some nice beachfront properties.”

I looked at Nash. “Do you have access to G’s emails?”

“Yeah, sure. We share a lot of stuff.” He spoke as if it was standard procedure. Perhaps in some offices it was, though I didn’t think G knew this was the case.

I looked at the two amateur gumshoes. Their bubbly innocence reminded me of the old Bugsy Malone movie which I’d seen on TV one Christmas when I was a kid. Splurge guns. If only.

“Excuse me a moment, gentlemen,” I said. “I must go and see my boss.” I walked past Roisin at the front desk who smiled at me and, with a glance at Sissons and Nash, raised her eyebrows. I smiled back and gave her a despairing kind of shrug.

On the eleventh floor, I went into MacIver’s outer office where Amber, her PA sat.

“Is she in?” I said, moving to her office door.

“No. There’s a directors’ away-day meeting, brainstorming for the next decade. She won’t be in till tomorrow. I can pass a message at lunchtime, otherwise not till this evening.”

I had an instant change of mind. “No, don’t worry, Amber. It can wait until tomorrow. See you.”

I left her office and went to my own, feeling bad about deceiving MacIver, yet hoping it would be for the best in the end. MacIver would give perfectly reasonable arguments why it was wrong for me to go to Canada, and why Alaskan oil, gold, or rare earth minerals were nothing to do with my job. I would argue that some of those oil, gold or mineral producers in Alaska would be insured or re-insured through Maskelyne Global and if I could save a disaster it would benefit everybody.

Was there going to be a disaster? I hoped not, yet Isla and Orlando’s track record suggested an even chance. At least.

I went online and booked a ticket to Vancouver. Nine hours the flight took. Who knew what could happen in nine hours?

Then I called Roisin in reception. I said I was leaving shortly and would be out for the rest of the day. “I won’t tell you where I’m going because then you’ll honestly be able to tell people you don’t know.”

“Stress isn’t good during pregnancy, so that’s fine by me, Mr Kite,” she said.

“I’m glad you see it that way, Roisin. And if the two clowns – sorry, I mean clients – who are down below now, if they mention Canada, you know nothing. OK?”

“That’s fine, Mr Kite.”

Next, I phoned a contact I’d not spoken to for a long time. He’d once done me a very good turn, a kind and even noble gesture. He was an honest man too, whom I trusted, and one of the top executives in Border Force, the outfit which guards our frontiers.

I hoped he was still in post.

The call was picked up by his senior assistant, and I recognised the soft, well-educated, and rather sexy voice, as she said, “William Nandy’s office.”

“Hi Rachel, how are you?” I said.

She hesitated only a second before recognising my voice. “Mr Kite,” Rachel said. “We haven’t spoken for a while. I was thinking you may have transferred to less arduous duties.”

“No such luck,” I said, with a chuckle in my voice.

“Glad you’re still in harness, fighting the good fight.” I’d only met Rachel twice, though I imagined her as someone who might be fond of horses.

“How’s your boyfriend? Rufus, isn’t it?” A year or more ago, Rachel had persuaded Rufus, who also worked for Border Force, to assist me. I imagined they were a solid couple.

She paused, thrown by my question. “That’s all finished, Mr Kite.” There was a toughness in her voice I hadn’t heard before.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Water under the bridge. Spilt milk. No regrets. Etc., etc.” She paused, then resumed in her usual warm glow of a voice. “How can we help you today?”

“I’m pursuing two suspects abroad. To Canada. Vancouver. There are also two interested parties who are keen to follow me, and it would be better for everybody if these two men remain in the UK. I would greatly appreciate it if they could be delayed at Heathrow.”

“Sounds intriguing. How long a delay would be required?”

“Enough to dissuade them from travelling today. They’re both innocent and blameless so no force or interrogation, please.”

“And we can’t show Border Force in a bad light. We may need to compensate the men for whatever fictional problem arises to inconvenience them. Do you have a budget for such compensation?”

“We could manage a few thousand pounds.”

“Good. I’ll put it to Mr Nandy and let you know the result. Are your contact details still the same?”

I said they were and gave Rachel details of Sissons and Nash Vitucci. The call ended and I wondered what had caused her marriage plans to fall apart. She was an attractive, intelligent woman, efficient and always helpful. A genuinely nice person, with a sense of humour. It wasn’t just her seductive voice that had once made me harbour thoughts of dating her.

I left Maskelyne Global by the back entrance to avoid bumping into Sissons and Nash, then drove home, packed a bag and took a taxi to Heathrow.

As I was waiting at the gate, an email arrived from Rachel at Border Force.

I devised a plan for the two men which Mr Nandy approved. It will, I hope, make them feel they are doing us a service rather than being delayed. Mr Nandy sends his best wishes.

Rachel.

PS If you’re ever down this way, look in and say hello. I could show you round, see how we work, or something.

X

An intriguing message. Clever of Rachel to think up a plan that made them feel they were helping the UK government. Given the enthusiasm of those two for sleuthing, Border Force might find it hard to get rid of them.

Even more intriguing was Rachel’s PS. It felt tentative, even nervous. The ‘or something’ meant she didn’t know how to end the message without suggesting more than she felt she should. The single ‘X’ looked weak, but for the well-mannered, self-controlled Rachel it was a bold declaration. I felt surprisingly excited.

I arrived in Vancouver at what was 2 a.m. UK time, but 6 p.m. local. I picked up a rental car, checked into my hotel in the city centre and then, in order to keep myself from falling asleep, I walked, took a ferry across False Creek to near the Maritime Museum, then walked another mile to Orlando and Isla’s house near Kitsilano beach.

The weather was colder than London and the boat ride and walk freshened me up.

The house was very different in style and age from the Chiswick property, though equally large. Lights were on inside. I took out my binoculars and scanned the interior. I saw bravura wallpapers, walls painted in bold, hard-to-define colours, extravagant light fittings, spectacular pieces of modern furniture, dramatic statuary, breath-taking art. Whether the pictures were fake or real, it looked impressive.

Then I saw Isla. She had outdoor clothes on. She disappeared from view, some lights were turned off, then she and Orlando appeared at the front porch. They closed the door and got into a Jaguar F-type two-seater sports, parked in front of their underground garage.

As I watched them leave the property I noticed another person on the far side of the road. Not the Russian biker, it was a woman. Though in the misty dusk it was too gloomy to get any kind of ID. She was wearing a large waterproof jacket with the hood up, which neatly obscured her hair and shadowed her face. Her behaviour and actions were casual, touristy, with a just-passing-by, looking-at-the-scenery air about them. I reckoned that was because she was a professional who was well practised in blending into the background. I watched the elegant sports car go down the street and when I turned around, saw the watcher was in her own vehicle and following the Jaguar.

She was an undercover operator of some kind. But who? Sam Bejam’s client? A colleague of the murdered spy and housekeeper Anna Surkova? Someone doing what Hudson, G and I were doing, but for a different state and with different interests?

Next morning, a common occurrence when flying long-haul to the west. I woke about 5 a.m., feeling wide awake because it was lunchtime at home. At 5.30 I gave up trying to sleep any more.

I opened my phone and found a joint email from Nash Vitucci and Michael Sissons, apologising for not joining me in Vancouver, because “something very exciting turned up at Heathrow Airport.” They were told by Border Force officers that police thought Vitucci and Sissons may have vital evidence about a man believed to be a foreign agent in London. They had witnessed a traffic accident not far from Maskelyne Global, and astonishingly were shown CCTV of themselves rubber-necking at the spot. They were then asked a long list of questions about what they’d seen.

“Unfortunately, we didn’t witness the accident itself,” they wrote, “but they seemed interested in all kinds of small details, and by the time we finished helping the authorities we had missed our flight. They very kindly booked us first class seats for the first available flight tomorrow.”

How had Rachel at Border Force achieved such a coup? I texted her to ask, remembering to add an ‘X’ after my name at the end. She replied:

Spoke to your receptionist, Roisin, for ideas and background. Told me about car crash nearby. Found CCTV. Rest was a simple edit. Glad you liked it. Rachel. XX.

I was impressed. Perhaps it was time for me to give up, and hand everything over to Roisin and Rachel. And I noticed there were two X’s from her this time.

I drove the rental car to Isla and Orlando Woodruff’s house, found a place to park which was unobtrusive and gave me a good view, and waited. Another cold, dull day, with an unpleasant mist over the sea and coast. It didn’t limit my view of the house too much and the dullness meant lights were on inside, indicating my targets were at home. The mist was thick enough to compel ships to sound their foghorns, and the result was a hooting cacophony, a post-modern, atonal symphony.

An hour passed. No movement from inside the house. No appearance of the other watcher I had seen the previous evening.

Another forty minutes passed. Then the automatic garage door opened.

The Woodruff brother and sister, as I now thought of them, came out in winter coats, with what looked like business suits beneath, and drove off. I followed at a respectful distance and checked around for other tails, but there were none.

Vancouver is a city of modern architecture and around the long thin inlet called False Creek, which provides such an attractive centrepiece, architects have competed with each other to build look-at-me structures. Not all succeed. Some look a bit weird. Some look as if they’re tilted over. Which may or may not have been the architect’s intention.

The Woodruffs drove to one such tall office building which had several eye-catching features, one of which was elevators which rode up the outside of the building and gave the occupants great views of both the harbour and the ocean.

They parked. I parked. I hung back on the sidewalk while they went into the building and, through the huge windows thoughtfully provided around the reception area, I watched them get into one of the elevators. I stayed on the sidewalk, moved back away from the building and watched the elevator ascend.

A woman, who was wearing a riskily short skirt for such a method of transport, got out on the third floor, a suited man left on the sixth, another on the seventh, and Isla and Orlando continued up to the tenth. I went back to the building entrance and checked which company leased the tenth floor. I was expecting a firm which had some connection to the oil industry. Perhaps exploration, geology, drilling equipment, or even one of the giant, international oil producers themselves. It was none of those. It was a post production company for film and TV called, Snawq. An unusual name, which I learned later was a place-name in a native peoples’ language called Squamish. It was a business of reasonable size, and occupied three floors of the tower.

Before I left the UK I had made a last minute call to Thalia, to pick her brains on Canadian bureaucracy. One question I’d asked was about determining the owners or renters of a property. I had followed her advice at 5.45 that morning to find which of Orlando and Isla’s many names were attached to the house they used in Vancouver.

It was listed with the local authority as occupied by Orlando Woodruff and Isla Woodruff.

I went to reception.

“Hi, my name’s John Kite, I have a meeting at Snawq Post Production. I’m with the Woodruff party.”

The man behind the desk checked his screen.

“Don’t have you down here, sir.”

“That’s probably because they weren’t sure I was going to make it. I only flew over yesterday. Landed last night.”

“Uh-uh. Where do you live?”

An odd question. “Just outside London. Place called Uxbridge.”

The guy gave me strange look. “I used to live in Ontario, too, close to London. Isn’t Uxbridge nearer to Toronto?”

I shook my head. An Alice in Wonderland moment. Perhaps the Canadians should use more native place names. “I’m from London, England. The UK.”

“Ah, yeah… I thought your accent was strange.” He looked at his screen again. “The presentation was supposed to start at 9.45.”

“Well, as I said, I only arrived last night. Bit of a rush.”

“Sure. Yeah. Long way to come. Mr Woodruff himself only arrived a few minute ago. Here…” he handed me a Visitor badge. “Tenth floor.”

I rode the elevator up.

On the tenth floor I walked past editing suites, a dubbing theatre and then I came to a door marked Viewing Room C, and below it, 10/06A. There was a small red light on the door, which meant the room was in use. Was this where the presentation was taking place? I tried to listen at the door, but could hear nothing. I assumed the door was sound-proofed.

I walked along the corridor, came to another corridor branching off to the right and turned down it. The wall on my right had to be the rear wall of the Viewing Room. I came to another door with no designation, just some numbers, 10/06B, and a similar red light as before.

This was surely the projection booth or control room.

I opened the door gently and heard, through a speaker, the buzz of conversation from within the theatre. A technician turned to me, surprised.

“Hi,” I said in something approaching a whisper, and held up my Visitor badge. “I’m with Orlando and Isla Woodruff. Got here late. Didn’t want to disturb them. OK if I watch from here.”

The technician shrugged. “Sure.” And pointed to a chair behind a small viewing window. I sat down and, through the glass, saw Orlando and Isla standing in front of a fifteen foot screen while over a dozen men and one woman sat before them in cinema-style seats. Alongside them, was an imposing man in an expensive suit and silk tie, who oozed self-confidence. Undoubtedly, a smart lawyer. The three of them were answering questions from their audience.

Their questioners were a mix of nationalities. There were three men of Chinese appearance, three Middle-Eastern types, not smartly-dressed enough to be Saudis, and a couple from central Africa. There was an East Asian man and a woman whose severely drab militaristic clothes suggested North Korea and, most frighteningly, four men with a central Asian look. Were they Isis? Taliban? It was an extraordinary collection of rivals, enemies, and those from pariah states who would never be admitted to most international conferences or congresses. Fostering world peace did not figure on any of their to-do lists.

I was certain two of those watching were among the executives I had seen meeting the Woodruffs in London.

The Q and A finished. At a signal from Orlando, the technician next to me dimmed the house lights, and started a promotional video.

There were shots of unspoiled Alaskan territory, a printed nineteenth century Russian map of the whole of Alaska, the hand-drawn map from the Zimbalist papers, the original agreement for the sale of Alaska to the US, and a detailed map of present-day Alaska.

The narration ran: “Purchased in 1832 by the far-sighted Abram Zimbalist, a Russian merchant in the lucrative fur and seal blubber trade, this area of over a quarter of a million acres or approximately 400 square miles is perfectly placed to form a bridgehead for the extraction of oil and many precious minerals. Only five miles from the coast at Prudhoe Bay this parcel of land would provide a safe, flat and easy access to exploitation sites and a cost-effective route from them to shipping and pipeline terminals. It is close to Native lands but does not impose on or infringe those territories, nor does it violate boundaries of National Park Land, nor encroach on State-owned land. This perfect parcel of land has been virgin territory for nearly two hundred years, part of only the one percent of Alaskan land in private hands, which territory is specifically excluded from the transfer to US state ownership by the 1867 agreement between the US and the Russian Empire. We invite bids for this territory at the invitation-only auction for which you have details. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to purchase land of immeasurable value. The auction estimate for this piece of land is set at one billion US dollars.”

Rousing music swelled in the background. As it rose to a triumphant finale, I saw the man I identified as a lawyer smiling at the Woodruffs, and shaking their hands in a congratulatory way. He had to be one of those Teflon lawyers who ensure nothing will ever stick, who have answers for everything, and can persuade a jury that even the guiltiest is a victim of a miscarriage of justice. He would have manipulated the Woodruffs’ paperwork, and guided their land claim through various legal and bureaucratic hoops to make it acceptable to potential buyers.

However much cash the Woodruffs might raise for the land in Alaska, the lawyer would be on a percentage.

Behind me, the door I had entered through opened, and man came in who looked like a twin of the heavy who had fallen into the flooded gravel pit when I rescued Thalia Rice.

“Who are you?” he said, giving me an intense stare.

“Friend of Orlando and Isla,” I said with a smile. “Met them at a great party in London actually. Great video, too, by the way.” I stood up. Now the video had ended, the technician was moving a fader to bring up the house lights in the theatre, and I glanced through the window where the Woodruffs were about to make a final sales pitch.

Next to the fader for the house lights was a toggle switch marked T/back. And it gave me an idea. A pre-emptive attack. Foolish in one way, yet satisfying in another. And it might disrupt the Woodruffs’ plans a little.

I leaned down, flicked the talkback switch and spoke into the microphone.

“It’s not their land. They stole the documents. It’s not for sale. They are criminals.”

Orlando and Isla stared open-mouthed towards the projection booth.

The big man standing behind me made a growling sound, and thrust out a hand to grab me by the throat. But I’d kept my eye on him as I was speaking. I swerved to one side, punched him hard in the stomach with my right and swung my left arm viciously at his throat.

Then I leaped towards the door and was out into the corridor.

And running.

There’s a theory in some circles that, if you’re being chased, it’s better not to run. Because you attract attention to yourself. Though not running must mean your pursuers will inevitably catch you quickly. I believe the optimum tactic is either to find a safe hiding place for as long as necessary, or move fast and unobtrusively from one place of concealment to another.

Whatever else I do, my first rule is never take elevators.

From the control room door I turned right along the corridor which appeared to stretch across the width of the building, then took the first to the left. I didn’t run. I walked. Although fast and purposefully, as if late for an appointment.

I was heading to the rear of the building, where I guessed there would be a set of stairs and elevators to match those at the front. And there was, marked as they almost always are, Emergency Stairs. As if you’re not supposed to use them for normal purposes.

I went down two floors, to the lowest of the floors occupied by the post production company, and found a small cafeteria where a handful of people were drinking coffee or tucking into late breakfasts. I picked up a plastic tray, stood at the end of the service counter and studied the menu. I had only read as far as waffles when there was a crash of doors being flung back hard and a security officer marched in at speed from the direction I had come. Heads turned, mine didn’t. I continued reading the menu, my back to the guard.

I reckoned nobody in the viewing theatre could have seen my face or what I was wearing because the light in the control room was too dim. Isla and Orlando may have recognised my voice, but the only two who saw me close were the technician and the guy I punched.

The security guard went through the cafeteria glancing left and right and disappeared. I replaced my tray and followed behind him. At a slower pace. Beyond the cafeteria were more edit suites, grander ones than I’d seen on the tenth floor. I walked on until I heard running feet in a corridor nearby. I was passing an edit suite where the door was open. I knocked and pushed the door wider. Two women and two men were discussing something technical.

“Excuse me,” I said, “I’m looking for a director called Alex Broughton…”

Three of those in the room, clients obviously,  said nothing and turned to the woman behind the control desk. Her brow furrowed. “Is he features, documentaries, commercials?”

“Commercials,” I said, as two running men passed behind me and I heard one say, “Did you check the bathrooms?”

“He’ll be on floor ten,” said the editor.

I turned to the door and looked at the number fixed there: 08/07. “Sorry,” I said. “Must have got out of the elevator too soon.”

I retraced my route back through the cafeteria to the stairs at the rear of the building. I listened hard. No sound of running feet or raised voices. I looked out of a big window which gave a view of the parking lot and the bottom of the staircase. A security guard was standing there looking around. Looking for me I assumed, but he was distracted by beeping from a delivery truck reversing in behind him. He left off gazing at the staircase to direct the truck back.

I ran down three flights of stairs, keeping away from the windows, then stopped to check on the guard. He was now talking to the delivery driver. I carried on down to the ground, where I saw the exit door from the stairs was alarmed. No point attracting unnecessary attention.

I pushed through some doors marked service areas only, walked past heating and ventilation plant, and came to where big double doors were open, letting in the cold, misty air. Two guys were waiting for the delivery truck driver to unload.

“Hi,” I said. “Got lost. Can I get to the parking lot through here?”

“Sure,” one of the guys said, pointing to a small door. “Over that way.”

I thanked them and left the building.

As I was driving back to the hotel, Hudson called.

“Which hotel you in?” he said.

I told him.

“We’ll book there. We’re arriving in a couple of hours, driving up from Portland, Oregon. Got some hot info for you, and a surprise.”

“You said ‘we’. Is that the surprise?”

“Wait and see.”

Chapter 22

The surprise, as I’d half-guessed, was G, radiant and better-looking all round than when I’d last seen her a year ago. Her hair was no longer bright red, but its natural chestnut, long and luxuriant. We hugged.

“Nash said it was a cool idea for me to come up here because he was delayed. Helping police with their enquiries, he said.” G gave me a smiley, though suspicious, look. “Anything to do with you, Kite?”

I was a picture of innocence. “Nothing to do with me.”

“What do you think, Hud?” G said turning to Hudson.

“Kite’s got a contact in Border Force, and if your boss was as annoying in England as you say he is in New York City…”

“You two an item, now?” I said, changing the subject.

“Not an item, no,” said G, defensively self-righteous. “That implies terminal boredom, abandon hope all ye who enter here, etc.”

“You called him Hud. Not many are allowed to do that,” I said with a smile. “Anyway, pleased you’re both happy, in your independent ways. Now, what’s the hot info?”

“Press release from the Governor of Alaska,” said Hudson. “Announcing a hoped-for solution to certain problems in the new oil-drilling areas of the North Slope. They’ve been trying to arrange a concession from Native peoples to encroach slightly on their reserved territory, in return for financial compensation, and there’s also a potential difficulty with the proximity of  National Park land. According to the press release, the solution would save millions and be of great benefit to the environment.”

“This solution would involve the land which the Woodruffs claim to own,” I said.

“Almost certainly. He’s having a meeting with what was called a key private landowner tomorrow. As you know, there are very few private landowners in Alaska.”

“We should be there,” I said. “To explain the truth to the Governor. Stop him being conned by Isla and Orlando.”

“Got a plan how to do that?” said Hudson.

“Not yet.”

“In any case, count us in,” said G with enthusiasm.

Hudson looked at her, eyebrows akimbo, then at me.

“That OK, with you, Hud?” I said with a grin. “Or do you need time to consult?”

“Sure. Sure.” Was he embarrassed? Hudson was never embarrassed.

For several hours we worked out how we could stop Isla and Orlando extorting one billion dollars from the State of Alaska for some property they didn’t own.

First, through some FBI contacts, Hudson established where the meeting with the Governor was to take place. Surprisingly it was to be at the Woodruffs’ own house in Kitsilano, not the Governor’s Mansion in Anchorage, Alaska. Vancouver was convenient for the Governor because he was attending a meeting in Seattle, which is only a short drive south from Vancouver. Another big advantage in meeting in Canada, rather than the US, was to emphasise the meeting was ‘unofficial’ and ‘informal’. The Governor was not keen to admit Canadian nationals into the seat of state government to discuss what could be a major new state commitment.

To keep the event as low-key as possible, the location was not being released to media, there would be minimal police and FBI presence, the Governor would not use his official limousine, and was travelling with a reduced number of bodyguards.

“Isn’t he asking for trouble?” said G.

“Oil exploration is a hot potato,” said Hudson. “They want it, but don’t want to be seen to want it. They want to placate the green lobby, but don’t want to be seen to give in to them. The less razzamatazz about maybe buying a chunk of land the better.”

“How do we get into the meeting?” I said.

“Low key or not, they’ll still guard it ferociously,” said Hudson.

“Hey, what about we break in to the Woodruffs’ house earlier, hide somewhere, then burst out and interrupt the meeting and explain….” G was fizzing and exuberant. Hudson interrupted, calm and cool.

“Only if you want us all shot dead.”

I nodded. “Yeah. It’s not a Parish Council meeting, open to all, to discuss the summer fete.”

There was a pause. G pursed her lips, nodded, looked at the floor.

I started a new train of thought. “This sounds a bit last century – or nineteenth century – but could we present evidence to the Governor before the meeting?”

“Like a petition?” said G, frowning.

“Sounds first century, not nineteenth. The Romans,” said Hudson.

“It’s a big thing in China,” said G. “Millions of people petition local government with complaints and, if they’re rejected, they can gradually move up the chain to national government.” She paused. Her tone changed. “Trouble is, lots of them are imprisoned without trial as troublemakers before they get anywhere. As you might expect in China.”

“It must be more than a petition. More like a report. I can get statements from Scotland Yard, from Nash and Michael Sissons about the frauds committed on them. There might be CCTV of their raid on the storage unit, there’s the killing of Gus, I can get a statement from Thalia Rice…”

Hudson held up a hand and shook his head. “No. That’s called bureaucracy. What civil servants do after the event, explaining what went wrong, why people died, why no one is to blame. We could spend all night doing a report, with a ton of evidence. Will anyone ever read it? The Governor won’t. Maybe an assistant will, and they’ll do a half-page summary for the Governor which will go across his desk and then be filed.”

Silence for a moment.

I nodded. “You’re right, Hudson. Let’s do what G suggested. Break in.”

“What?”

“Long before the Governor gets there, long before the cops or secret service get in position.”

“You mean when the Woodruffs are out?”

“Yes. The Governor’s due at 6 p.m. tomorrow. So we’ve got thirty hours. They’ve got to be out sometime. They’re sales people, dealers. They’ll be pressing the flesh with alternative buyers in case the Governor says no. Like at the viewing theatre this morning.”

“Suppose they do their marketing online? On Teams or Zoom,” said Hudson.

“Suppose they’ve got security and we can’t get in. Or staff. A live-in housekeeper, like you said they had in London,” said G, more judicious now her original idea was being discussed seriously.

“What do we do when we get inside?” said Hudson.

“Wait for the bad guys to get back. Then secure them. Call the cops.”

Hudson’s face brightened up. “No report writing? No speech-making?”

“No. We call the cops, get them to tell the Governor to go home to Anchorage.”

“As long as the cops believe us when we say we didn’t break in, but were kindly invited inside by two criminals who wanted company… then it sounds like a plan.” There was sarcasm in Hudson’s voice, but also the hint of a smile on his lips and an excited brightness in his eyes.

“A good plan?” I said, looking straight at him.

He spoke slowly at first, choosing words carefully. “A possibly workable plan. Borderline feasible.” Then he lightened up. “On the plus side, there are no politicians involved, no secret service. It’ll be us on our own, us catching villains. That’s what we do. I’m sure the Canadian government will be delighted.” Hudson grinned happily then, in a split-second, his face straightened to a frowning  glumness. The transformation was lightning fast, almost theatrical. Had he been practising in front of mirror? He said, “As long as they believe us. As long as we don’t screw up.”

This worried. She gave him a serious look and put her arm through his. “Are you sure about this, Hud?”  She’d moved from fiery revolutionary to ultra-conservative in a few minutes.

“Yes.” He smiled, bright eyes, cheerful face again, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “It’s not perfect, it’s a little illegal, but it should stop these two malefactors doing anything worse. For us it’s the least worst option.”

I nodded and grinned at Hudson. “Thanks.” We bumped fists. This would make two illegal entries for me in the same week. There’d be time to feel guilty about it later – if it didn’t work out.

“Malefactors,” said G with a grin. “I like that.” Her face straightened, practical again. “But what about alarms and surveillance cameras?”

Hudson and I looked at each other, temporarily without an answer.

“The name on the alarm box is McHendry,” I said.

“We’ll work it out,” said Hudson.

“How do we know when they’re out and we can get in?” persisted G.

“We watch,” I said, turning to Hudson. “Six hour shifts?”

“OK by me.”

I turned to G. “Want to partner Hudson?”

“No. I’ll take my turn. I want to earn my corn.”

Hudson gave her a look. “Explain what that means later.” G grinned and put her arm around him.

We settled on a rota for observation. I would take the first slot, starting immediately, since Hudson had volunteered to solve the alarm problem. He knew people who knew people, he said.

While Hudson and G checked into their hotel room, and Hudson worked his phone and the internet, I gathered warm clothes, gloves, a scarf and hat. Then I bought some cans of drink, and some snacks that wouldn’t make the car smell too much. I drove off and parked where I had stopped earlier that day. Lights were on in the house due to the dull weather, and the large windows made it easy to see the occupants were at home. It was now 1.32 p.m. The Governor was due at 6 p.m. tomorrow. We had a little over twenty-eight hours to sort this out.

Nothing of interest happened for several hours. I ate my snack, had a drink, had a quick pee behind some shrubs edging the road. At about 5 p.m., as it was getting properly dark, I saw something which I recognised. A motorbike. Not any motorbike. The one which the Russian had driven at me in Chiswick. It couldn’t be the same one, of course, this was a Canadian bike. Yet it was the same model. Who was riding it? In the gloom it looked very much like the Russian himself, with his distinctive sideburns.

MacIver and I had watched the biker on Russian State TV, yet the interview could have been recorded in the Russian Embassy in London. The CCTV of the man I saw in the Emergency Control Room in Chiswick showed him walking near their London Embassy in  Kensington Palace Gardens. The grand buildings were unmistakeable. The Russian biker could have been sent to Vancouver immediately after recording the interview and rented the same bike as he used in London.

The man drove up and down three times slowly, his eyes on the house and its surroundings. He didn’t look in my direction even once. Having gleaned whatever information he was after, he disappeared.

Apart from us, I wondered, how many other parties were keeping surveillance on the house? The person in the hooded waterproof, the Russian, and probably others. However unobtrusive the security arrangements we had to take into consideration the local police, the RCMP, FBI and the Governor’s minders. Some or all of them would presumably be making recces of the house before the Governor’s arrival. And that was something we had yet to take into consideration.

At 8 p.m. G arrived in her own rental car to take over.

“Sure you’ll be OK?”

She waved away my concern. “They’ll be going to bed soon, won’t they?”

“I’d prefer them to go out before that. So we can get in. Is Hudson making progress with the security system?”

She said it was sorted out, I warned her to look out for the Russian and his bike, mentioned the woman in the hooded coat, and left her to it.

At 10.35 p.m., to the surprise of all of us, G reported Orlando and Isla were leaving the house. Hudson and I, having a beer, looked doubtful. Not believing they would stay away overnight. We told G we would do nothing yet and she should keep observing.

We were proved right because, twenty-eight minutes later, the Woodruff siblings returned, drove the car into the garage, with its automatic door, and were next seen moving around the house. Presumably there was an internal door from garage to house.

At 11.57 p.m., G reported all internal lights were extinguished.

“We’ll get in after breakfast,” said Hudson.

I went to bed, and was woken by Hudson at 1.22 a.m., on his way to relieve G.

“Report from my contact at the security system provider. There’s a malfunction at the house, all systems inoperative,” he said.

“Something to do with the Governor’s visit?” I suggested. “Are they installing high tech stuff to protect him and disconnected the existing system.”

“Did you see any engineers? G’s not reported any.”

“Could they have put something in yesterday?”

Hudson shrugged. “Don’t know. It’s puzzling.”

I woke at 6.30 a.m., had some tea and toast, and drove down to relieve Hudson for handover at 8 a.m. There had been no incidents during the night, Hudson hadn’t seen the Russian, or his bike, or the hooded person I’d seen on my first evening. Those in the house had risen early. Hudson had detected movement from 6.20. and the security system was still reported to be inactive.

At precisely 8 a.m. the garage doors opened and Isla and Orlando drove out, smartly dressed.

“Dressed for a wedding, or a funeral?” said Hudson. “Where are they going?”

“No idea. But it’s now or never, I think.”

“Sure.” He called G. “Shift your ass. If you’re not here in ten minutes we’ll go in without you.”

The previous day, Hudson and I had assembled a collection of tools which were stowed in two backpacks. We put the backpacks on and waited for G. She arrived in eight minutes, looking excited.

We planned to go in via a double-glazed window on the ground floor at the back. We’d identified it as a sealed unit which can, with tools, be easily removed from its frame without any visible damage.

Nervous that reports about the alarm system were incorrect, we asked Hudson’s contact to check again and, in any case, to de-activate the system from head office. This he did, but made the point that deactivating a dead system has little effect.

As long as it really was dead.

The alarm system queries brought a small delay, and the double-glazed sealed unit was less cooperative than we wanted. It was approaching 9 a.m. before we entered the house.

Hudson immediately checked the alarm controls, confirmed the system was dead, and reckoned it had been turned off from within the house. Which was odd.

Then we moved upstairs, searching for a suitable place of concealment until the Governor should arrive. We considered the attic, and rejected it because it was used as an office, then I found a closet, six foot by four, which was empty, apart from a set of yacht sails heaped on one side, which still gave off the salty tang of the sea.

“They got a boat, too?” said Hudson.

“They had one in London. Or they used to. Maybe it’s been sailed over here.”

“This room OK?”

“Sure.”

Hudson and I sat on the floor and settled down to wait. G had pulled up a section of a sail and was examining it. “The sails were made in the UK,” she said, “so probably…’ She stopped, then gave a stifled scream. “Oh, my God!”

With sudden violence she ripped the sail back.

Underneath the sail, on the floor, were two bodies.

Chapter  23

The two men were dressed identically in dark suits and both had holsters under their jackets. Their weapons were missing.

“Secret Service,” said Hudson, examining the bodies.

“Here to check out the house before the Governor’s visit,” said G.

“No blood. No bullet wounds. How did they die?”

“Bodies still warm. No sign of rigor,” G said. Hudson and I gave her a look. For a bank employee her knowledge was alarmingly wide-ranging. She saw our looks. “What? It’s common sense. General knowledge. Basic human biology.”

Hudson’s eyes met mine. We both smiled and shrugged. G was a useful member of the team.

I pointed to one of the victim’s neck. “Faint marks of a ligature here. The bruising is still developing. And this cuff is loose…” I pulled up a shirt and jacket sleeve. There was a dot of blood. A tiny puncture wound. “Restrained or made comatose with a ligature, then injected with a fast-acting poison.”

“Is this the work of your Russian guy with the special motorbike?” said Hudson.

“Could be. Killed recently, hardly more than hour ago, and the method chosen was silent. He could have taken one without the other being aware.” I was still searching the bodies. “Shouldn’t these guys have radios?”

“The Russian took them, Along with their weapons,” said Hudson. “When did he get into the house? And what about the secret service guys? When did they arrive? We were watching all night.”

The three of us were silent for a moment, then G said, “If the Governor wanted everything to be as low-key as possible …”

I interrupted by clicking my fingers. “When Orlando and Isla went out at 10.35 last night they went to collect the agents at a pre-arranged meet. They drove back, the agents perhaps ducking down in the car so as not to be seen, went into the garage, and when the doors were closed, they got out and went into the house.”

“Them arriving would have surprised the Russian guy, and he took action,” said Hudson.

“But when did the Russian arrive? He wants to kill the Woodruffs. If he’d been here last night, he’d have killed them then.”

“So he came in as soon as they left this morning. Less than sixty minutes before us. He was the one who switched off the alarm, too,” said G and paused.

“Where is he now?” said Hudson.

There was a silence. We looked at each other, knowing the answer.

“Still in the house,” I said. “Waiting for Orlando and Isla to get back. The Russians don’t want any more oil exploration in Alaska. They’d like it all to close down. It was only in the twentieth century when they realised how dumb the tsar was selling off such a profitable slice of Russia.

“Maybe he wants to  kill the Governor, too,” said Hudson.

“Don’t think there’s any beef with him. But there’s previous with Orlando and Isla. They killed the woman Anna Surkova. A fellow agent. He wants retribution for that.”

A chill ran through me. Hudson and G look tense and troubled.

“Can we hunt the Russian down before anyone else arrives?” I said.

“We must,” Hudson said. “But… What about weapons?”

“Suppose we find where the Russian is, box him in somehow, then warn the others. Leave it to the cops or secret service to flush him out.”

Hudson nodded slowly. “OK. If we go carefully. The Russian’s not expecting anyone else in the house at the moment.”

“Unless he saw us come in,” said G with unanswerable logic.

Hudson and I exchanged looks.

I turned to G. “You stay here.”

“No. I’ll go with Hudson,” she said, and Hudson nodded.

“You take this floor,” I said. “I’ll go up to the next.”

As we stepped quietly out of the closet with the two dead secret service men, we heard a sound which made all our plans redundant.

It was the unmistakeable sound of a helicopter.

It was approaching. And getting lower.

We found a window which gave a view of the rear of the property. There was open grassland, leading to sand dunes and the beach. A helicopter with Royal Canadian Mounted Police markings was hovering, preparing to land behind the house.

“What the hell?” said Hudson. “Do they know their guys have been killed? Know the Russian’s in the house?”

“If they were coming for him, it would be more surreptitious. More covert. This looks like pomp and pageantry,” I said.

“You Brits are the experts on that.”

Then at the front of the house, easily audible above the noise of the helicopter, was the screech of tyres. Hudson rushed to a front window and within seconds reported back by phone.

“FBI and local police,” he said. “Only three cars. Two agents, four cops. They’re moving round to the back.”

As G and I watched the rear, the officers began to appear from the sides of the house, converging on the still-hovering helicopter. When they were all assembled, in a rough circle with their backs to the helicopter’s landing place, the chopper began to descend.

It landed and the rotors slowed. After some minutes a door opened in the craft and Orlando got out, followed by Isla.

“Contacts in high places,” said G.

Then came a tall, slim, athletic-looking man, who was saluted by the officer greeting him. An unusually youthful man for a senior US politician, which is what he was.

“The Governor,” said Hudson who had rejoined us. “Why so early?”

We all checked the time: 10.15 a.m. Eight hours ahead of schedule.

“They wanted the meeting kept low-key. By bringing it forward they outfox the media,” said G.

The police and FBI closed ranks ahead of, and around, Isla, Orlando and the Governor, and led them towards the house.

We were now in the worst possible predicament. We had illegally entered a private house, inside which were two dead secret service agents. We were surrounded by law enforcement officers, who would come in and discover us any minute. We would have no chance to make our case to the Governor nor confront the Woodruffs.

We would be the ones arrested, not them.

The three of us looked at each other with grim faces, and Hudson voiced what we all felt.

“It’s not just the media who’s been outfoxed,” he said.

Chapter 24

There were only a matter of seconds in which to devise a plan. Our voices were tense, low, hurried, our words overlapping:

“When they come in we must be casual, cool…”

“No shouting...”

“Keep our hands up to show we’re not armed…”

“Ssh.” I held up my hand. “Listen!” 

Down below, by the rear entrance to the house, there were voices.

Officer: “Sure you don’t want more of us inside, sir?”

Male voice: “I want as few as possible in attendance. This is top secret stuff. Just one of your team will be fine.”

Hudson whispered, “The Governor.”

Isla: “We have two agents inside. They seem very capable.”

Officer: “They reported everything was AOK earlier but, as we came in to land, their last transmission kept breaking up.”

Hudson and I exchanged worried looks. The Russian had commandeered the radios.

Governor: “Interference from the chopper, maybe. Was there a conflict of frequencies? US, Canadian?”

Officer: (unsure)  “Not to my knowledge, sir.”

Orlando: “If the Governor’s happy…?”

Governor: “Sure I am. Sooner we get started, sooner I can get back to Anchorage.”

Officer: “As you wish, sir. We’re standing by if you need us.”

Hudson held up four fingers and whispered. “Orlando, Isla, the Governor, one secret service agent.”

“How many armed?” I hissed.

Hudson shrugged, raised two fingers, then changed it to three.

We moved swiftly downstairs to where, in lieu of alternatives, we judged was the best place to meet the group. It was an area where stairs from the rear garden entrance came up to meet the wide hallway leading to the front door. In the hall, four doors gave access to rooms we had yet to explore.

I stood by one of the internal doors, Hudson stood in front of the stairs, with G next to him.

As the group of four came up the stairs towards us, we all raised our hands as Hudson said, “Good morning Governor, sorry to intrude on your meeting, however we have some vital information for you.”

The Governor gave a welcoming smile and extended a hand, “You guys are the secret service detail? Three of you?”

Isla and Orlando were, not surprisingly, shocked to see us.

“No, Governor,” said Orlando, pointing to me, “this man was attacking us in the UK, and now he’s pursued us here. He’s making false claims against us, trying to stop our project.”

“Governor, I’m a Private Investigator, former detective at Scotland Yard, my colleague here is also a PI and a former special agent of the FBI. This couple are guilty of kidnap, attempted murder and stealing the documents relating to land in Alaska, which they are now trying to sell.”

“We have transferred half a million pounds sterling to buy this land from a charitable society who had no use for it. We have the original document of land ownership from the early nineteenth century and we know the agreement with Russia of 1867 specifically excludes the US taking over privately owned land, therefore we are confidant that…”

The Governor interrupted with a laugh. “You’ve wasted your money guys. Trying to take possession of land granted before the Russian sale… Wow, you’ll be tied up in court for the rest of your life. The state of Alaska will fight you and there’ll be federal action too.”

“We have rights to a piece of land of immense value.”

“You can believe that if you want. I’m telling you now, go home. Whatever bit of paper you got, it’s fool’s gold.”

Isla and Orlando Woodruff were unmoved.

“If neither the State of Alaska nor the United States will honour our ownership of this piece of land, then we know people who will. People who the US will not want as neighbours, people who are happy to pay us a billion dollars for a foothold in Alaska.”

“You’re crazy…” the Governor began. He got no further, because…

Whoosh… A  rush of air made me whip around. It was made by the door behind me being pulled wide open at lighting speed. An arm was extended out beyond the door frame holding an automatic pistol. On instinct, I whipped my left arm up and under the shooter’s arm.

My arm hit the shooter as the first shot was fired. Two more shots came in rapid succession.

The Governor, Isla and Orlando had not seen the door open, and reacted in shock, variously ducking down, turning around, moving away. The secret service agent had seen the door move and was already drawing his weapon as I attacked the gunman. The Russian’s bullets went into the ceiling, the agent fired back twice, hitting the Russian with his second shot, though not before the Russian had fired another volley. Four of the shots missed, the fifth hit the secret service man. As he fell, he fired again at the Russian, and then twice more as he lay on the ground.

The Russian collapsed to the floor, dropping his weapon. I kicked the gun away, and bent down to confirm he was no longer a threat. The secret service agent was on his radio, “Shots fired, agent down, agent down…”

I looked around. Hudson was shielding the Governor behind the staircase, Isla and Orlando Woodruff were not to be seen, secure behind cover, too, I assumed.

G was also missing. Where had she found safety?

Then a distant and forlorn cry. “Kite!” It was G’s voice. Where was she?

I looked around. She was nowhere.

Officers from outside were pouring in through the front and rear doors, checking the Governor, calling for medics, immobilising the mortally wounded Russian. The Governor and secret service agent confirming Hudson and I were not a threat.

But where was G? I went to a front window and saw the Woodruffs’ car exiting their garage at speed. As it flashed past on the street I had a glimpse of a figure in the rear seat, handcuffed to one of the headrests. It was G.

Chapter 25

The Governor was as mentally sharp as he was physically able. In ninety seconds he had explained to his entourage what had happened and assimilated my speedy resume of Orlando and Isla’s life of fraud and the story of the stolen documents they were now trying to sell for a billion dollars.

“Come to the chopper,” he said to Hudson and me. “You guys saved my life, and also saved me the embarrassment of being fooled by shysters. Let’s go hunt for your missing colleague.” Hudson and I grabbed our backpacks of equipment, then the Governor led the way to the helicopter at a good sprint, leaving secret service and police struggling to keep up. We climbed into the helicopter and the Governor ordered an immediate take-off.

Two RCMP officers scrambled in moments before the door was closed, and it was fortunate they did. They had direct contact with those monitoring CCTV on highways. Hudson and I gave them the details of the Woodruffs’ Jaguar and a BOLO search order was instigated.

The helicopter pilot took us along some of the main roads in and around the city and we too kept watch for the Woodruffs’ distinctive Jaguar.

Meanwhile we briefed the Governor in more detail about the purchase of Alaskan land in the 1830s by Zimbalist’s forebears, how his parents moved to the UK, his successful career, the bequest to the Society of Artists and Dealers, and the setting up of the Benevolent Fund. I mentioned that the title deeds to the Alaskan land still existed in the Society’s archive – until they had been stolen by the Woodruffs.

“How did they know about this piece of land,” said the Governor.

“It’s a complex story,” I said. “Some strange coincidences.”

“Are they descendants of Zimbalist?” said the Governor.

“Zimbalist left no heirs, no close family. If they were related at all, it would only be very indirectly.”

The Governor said, “Isn’t British history full of people claiming the throne because of an indirect relationship to the previous monarch? A link they think is more valid than the  reigning king or queen.”

“They didn’t usually succeed very well,” I said, “and it’s nearly a hundred years since Zimbalist died. No one has raised any suggestion of entitlement before. I’m sure Isla and Orlando Woodruff are fraudsters. Completely bogus.”

With no hint of the Woodruffs’ car and no reports of sightings from cops on the ground, we rethought our strategy.

“They won’t go back to Kitsilano,” Hudson said. “They must have somewhere else. A safe house.” He asked the local police to search property records to find if they owned or rented any other buildings in Vancouver.

“Don’t forget the sails,” I said. “If they own a yacht, it needn’t be bang in the middle of Vancouver harbour. It could be hidden away somewhere small and lonely. One of the islands, maybe.”

One of the officers suggested Vancouver Island, the biggest of the group.

“Too big surely,” I said. “It’s the seat of government for British Columbia. Victoria’s a tourist city. What about less well-known places like Gambier Island, or Bowen Island, Texada or Lasqueti?”

“Hey, were you born here, Mr Kite, then moved away?” said the Governor. “You don’t speak like a local.”

“Never been here before.”

“Kite studies maps like a preacher studies the Bible.” said Hudson. “Ask him what that little street is called,” he pointed down at a suburban residential area, “and he’ll tell you.”

“You’re kidding,” the Governor said. Then after a pause, “Aren’t you?”

“He’s exaggerating,” I said, then grinned at Hudson. “Just a little.”

The helicopter patrolled the main highways of Vancouver and Hudson and I peered constantly out of the windows. The sea mist had cleared but we saw nothing of the Jaguar, neither were there any CCTV sightings.

There was a shout from one of the RCMP guys. Isla and Orlando were not listed as renting or owning any other property in Vancouver, but there was an ocean-going yacht registered in their name.

“Has a mooring at Bowen Island,” the officer said.

“You see?” said Hudson to the Governor, “Kite has a world atlas for bedtime reading.” Then he turned to the officer. “Is the yacht big enough to have an AIS transponder?”

“Just checking now, sir.” We all turned to the officer who was bringing up a marine chart on his screen. He zoomed in and the trapezoid shape of Bowen Island, only a few miles from Vancouver city centre, was clear on his screen. Identification tags from vessels in the area popped up on the screen at their locations.

“Yes. She’s on her mooring,” the officer reported and pointed to the mark representing the Woodruff’s vessel.

“How far is that?” the Governor said.

“A few minutes flying,” was the answer from the pilot.

“Well, gentlemen,” the Governor said, checking the time, “I have a conflict of interests. While I’d love to continue the hunt for these enterprising fraudsters and of course for your sister, Mr Kite, I also have an urgent appointment at the airport. I’d scheduled only twenty minutes with Mr and Ms Woodruff and we’ve spent way more than that on this panoramic tour of the fine city of Vancouver. And the weather report is not good.” He turned to the pilot.

“No sir, sea mist building up again. Not good for flying at low altitudes.”

The Governor turned back to us, “I thank you for your very useful intelligence, and I’m sure the FBI and the RCMP will follow up your leads soonest. I must catch my flight home, however if I can land you somewhere…” The Governor leaned over again to the pilot. “Where could we drop these gentlemen?”

“Could you land on Bowen Island?” I said.

The pilot thought we could and banked and turned the helicopter in that direction.

As we flew over the island, I picked up my binoculars and scanned the craft moored around the coast of the little island.

“There!” I pointed down to the Woodruffs’ yacht, a forty-foot Bermuda-rigged sloop. The craft was moored in a small bay not far from the island’s ferry port.

“Paid for out of fraudulent deals,” said Hudson. “Anyone on board?”

“Nobody on deck, no sign of sails being got ready, the doors to the saloon are closed. I suppose they could have dived down below decks when they heard the helicopter...”

“No,” said Hudson who had his own binoculars. “There’s no tender on the mooring. Without a tender they couldn’t get to the boat. Unless they swam out, or got a lift from a neighbour.” He turned to me. “You think G’s still with them?”

“We have to hope they’re using her as a shield.”

“For how long?”

I shrugged. “Depends on their plan. If they’re on the run it could be a while.”

Our eyes met. We kept further thoughts to ourselves.

The helicopter circled Bowen Island several times, as the pilot searched for a landing place. Obviously a perfectionist, he found no landing place he was happy with.

“If I hover, can you jump?” he said to us.

We nodded, shook hands with the Governor, wished him well. The RCMP man assured us that colleagues would be on the island as soon as possible to arrest the Woodruffs and rescue G. We thanked him for his help and stood by the open door of the helicopter, waiting for the pilot’s instructions.

We descended towards a sloping, grassy field. At about ten feet above the ground the helicopter settled into a hover. The crewman sat us on the helicopter deck, our legs dangling over the edge. The pilot gave the instruction to jump over the radio and crewman slapped us each on the back, shouting “Go! Go!”

The pilot had not taken any chances and the ground was further away than it looked from inside the craft. I landed hard and collapsed into a heap. Hudson managed a stylish forward roll as he touched down. We both leaped to our feet, gave thumbs-ups to the crewman and the helicopter zoomed away.

I led Hudson across the field to a track, then along it until we joined what was the main road across the island. We turned left towards the harbour, passing a few bars and restaurants, a general store and a yacht chandler.

Bowen Island is a laid-back place, busy with tourists in season, though I guess residents must be mainly boating enthusiasts and those in search of alternative lifestyles. In this cold, misty April it was quiet. Not good yachting weather. The Woodruffs’ yacht was not tied up at one of the pontoons stretching out from the main harbour, they had opted for a mooring in a different bay, and further from land. It was a more private location, in deeper water, with more exposure to bad weather, and as Hudson pointed out, needed another boat or tender to reach it .

From the shore, through binoculars, the yacht looked as it had from the air. Closed up, battened down, no loose ropes on deck. Unoccupied.

Where were the Woodruffs?

A large motor cruiser was approaching the harbour, it was huge for a private craft, maybe eighty feet long. Millions of dollars’ worth of vessel. Smartly-dressed crew were hanging fenders on its starboard side and then standing ready to throw lines ashore as it approached a mooring space on one of the pontoons.

“Local celebrity?” said Hudson.

“Let’s go and see,” I said.

We settled at a table outside one of the bars near the harbour, fastened up our coats against the cold, ordered beers and watched developments. The cruiser was tied up, and a gangway lowered. Three Chinese, dressed entirely inappropriately for boating, wearing business suits, left the ship and looked around, as if expecting to be met. Right on time, a Land Cruiser came down the street towards the harbour and stopped by the entrance to the pontoons. The driver got out and waved to the Chinese, who acknowledged him and walked briskly towards his vehicle. The Chinese – two men and a woman – were people I’d seen in the viewing theatre.

“If they’ve come back for the auction,” said Hudson, “they’re obviously interested in the Woodruffs’ offer.”

I nodded. “And have access to a billion dollars. Shall we follow them?”

“Hold on, there’s time to finish our beer first. Look.” Hudson pointed out to sea where another rich person’s plaything was heading for the harbour. Another expensive craft, but very different from the super yacht. Approaching the harbour at high speed, its bow out of the water, was a power boat designed for offshore racing. It throttled back suddenly, and the engine was slammed into reverse, as if the skipper was surprised to find land in front of it, then motored sedately to a vacant place on a pontoon.

It was an Arab or Middle-Eastern group who climbed out of the craft, and not one I’d seen in the viewing theatre. They were in fashionable western clothes, not traditional dress.

“Where do you think they’re from?” I asked Hudson.

“Not Saudis, presumably. They have enough oil, don’t they.”

“I don’t believe they’d ever think that.”

Hudson laughed, then said, “They could be Saudis here as disrupters, to make sure no one else gets hold of a big new oil field. They don’t want anything to harm their position in world production.”

“Yeah. Or they could be from a rival state, fewer resources, more obscure, trying to steal a march.”

As another Land Cruiser arrived to meet this group, we finished the beers and stood up to go to a place which advertised rental cars. We didn’t move far because our attention was drawn by a helicopter. Not a police machine, a private chopper service.

More millionaires arriving?

We watched the helicopter descend, fly over a ridge then descend some more until we lost sight of it. The sound we heard indicated it had landed not far beyond the ridge.

“There’s a road that goes over the ridge,” I said, pointing. “It’s the one the two Land Cruisers came down.

“That’s where the Woodruffs have their meet. Or auction. Or fire sale,” said Hudson.

My phone rang.

It was Leo Somerscales. “Is there a landline anywhere near you?” was how he began. I looked around. “There’s a small hotel. Give me a few minutes.”

Hudson knew of Leo’s principles on mobile phone calls and gave me a sympathetic smile. Then his phone rang. He looked at the screen.

“CIA,” he said, astonished.

Something big was happening.

I ran to the hotel, lied about my phone’s battery having died, and gave my credit card to the desk man in exchange for the use of a phone in an unused guest bedroom. I was assured the line was separate from the hotel’s switchboard and nobody could listen in. For my part, I promised not to lie on the bed, use the bathroom, or otherwise do anything which needed cleaners to re-service the pristine bedroom.

“I’m up to speed with what you’ve done,” Leo said, “Thalia Rice called and I’ve seen communications from the Vancouver police, RCMP and FBI.” He cleared his throat and took a breath, “However…” It sounded like bad news, and it was.

Intelligence reports confirmed the Woodruffs were holding an auction for the Zimbalist piece of Alaskan land. Those taking part were delegates from an eclectic mixture of the world’s nations, with a broad range of political associations and a wide divergence of systems of government. Represented were absolute monarchies, dictatorships, states under military rule, and some who pretended to be democracies. Some were rich and powerful, some poor and struggling, some were fighting civil wars, some were on the brink of becoming failed states. Astonishingly, there was even a strange and frightening amalgam of terrorist groups.

Strangest of all was to find those who were sworn enemies on the same island together. At the auction, of course, they would even be in the same room.

Leo Somerscales went on, “The Woodruffs obviously have no right to this land, because they stole the relevant documents, but that won’t worry this bunch of bad actors. The US government foresees a horrendous situation where, let’s say, the Taliban or Russia claims to own a chunk of US sovereign territory, and even if they know they have no case in law, they’ll demand rights. Russia walked into Ukraine, it would be World War III if they walked into Alaska. Constitutional lawyers are working non-stop looking into the legalities, but it’s something that’s never been tested. A constitutional black hole.”

“It’ll take forever for the lawyers to work it out.”

“Exactly. Which means Putin and his successors can enjoy themselves for years by creating mayhem.”

“What’s being done to stop them?” I said.

“A plan has been agreed.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said.

Leo paused, then said, “You may change your mind when you hear what it is.”

Chapter 26

“Us?” I was astonished by what Leo had told me.

“It would be invidious for the US to get involved militarily because the so-called auction is happening on Canadian territory. The Canadian government is reluctant to be involved directly, and will turn a blind eye to any black ops. You and Hudson Cassoni are on the scene. You can act quickly. The Commander of Scotland Yard’s SO15 was impressed by your performance after the Chiswick poisoning. I believe Mr Cassoni is also well-regarded by both the FBI and CIA.”

“How do you want us to stop the auction proceeding?”

“In whichever way you think fit. One priority is to destroy the deeds, or whatever paperwork pertains to ownership of land.”

“There’s a map…”

“The map must be destroyed too.”

“What about the Woodruff brother and sister?”

“No comment.”

“Does that mean kill them, Leo?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny what you have said.” Leo left a significant pause for me to digest his meaning. “This is the blackest kind of black op. Everything is deniable at every level. The operation has the highest possible level of security clearance and is only known to the Prime Minister, the Chief of MI6 and two or three others in the UK, and in the US to the President, Director of CIA, the Secretary of State and one or two others.”

Feeling as if I was dreaming or had been transported to a parallel universe, I settled the phone bill with the hotel and went out to find Hudson.

He had ordered two more beers, one each, and had a zombie-like expression on his face.

“Black Op? You got the same from Somerscales?” he said.

I nodded and reached for my beer. “How do you feel?”

“Is this a suitable occasion to use the word gobsmacked?” he said.

“Absolutely.”

“Then my gob is well and truly smacked.”

We drank our beers. And finished them too quickly. We sat looking at the empty glasses, saying nothing, thinking through the situation.

“I see one big problem,” I said.

Hudson laughed. “Only one? I can see a hundred. Two of us taking the place of a platoon of SAS plus a detachment of Navy SEALS. I mean we’re both fit, strong, intelligent, capable… it’s just there are limits to what two unarmed guys can do.”

“That’s what I meant. We have no weapons.”

“I pointed that out. They said we had to be resourceful, and improvise where appropriate.”

“What have we got to be resourceful with?” I began to search my pockets. “A ball-point pen.”

“Deadly through the eye sockets. If you get close enough to use it. I’ve got…” Hudson pulled a hand out of a jacket pocket. “Chewing gum…”

“I’ve got keys for the rental car in Vancouver.”

“Yeah, I got keys, too. Once again, only useful for a close combat situation.” Then pulled out something else I couldn’t identify.

“What the hell’s that?” I said.

“For nose-hair.”

I laughed. “You travel with a trimmer for nose-hair?”

Hudson was not embarrassed. “I like to look presentable.”

My only concession to vanity was a cheap comb.

“Could do some damage if slashed across the right areas,” said Hudson, examining it sniffily. “Pity it’s not metal.”

There was one last thing in my pockets apart from wallet and passport. “A cigarette lighter.”

“You don’t smoke.”

“I picked it up from the track, after we bailed from the helicopter. I was going to recycle it somewhere.”

“Very environmental of you.” Hudson took the lighter from my hand, flicked it and, to our surprise, it lit. “Here’s the answer. Find the map and the land title deeds then set fire to them.” Hudson grinned.

The lighter had given me an idea. “We’ll find something better in there.” I pointed along the street. To the boat chandlery.

Forty minutes later, with several hundred dollars charged to our credit cards, we left the chandler’s with a quantity of parachute rocket flares, floating smoke distress signals, hand held flares, two telescopic aluminium boathooks, a hand axe, a lethal-looking fishing knife and two safety helmets intended for white-water canoeists. We also purchased bigger backpacks than those we already had to carry it all in.

We felt a little better prepared, though still highly sceptical we could achieve what we had been tasked with, and even that we could survive the day. Our lack of confidence made us morose, verging on depressed. What changed things was a sudden joint recognition that while obsessed with our own problems we had forgotten someone we were both fond of… G.

What made us worry about her instead of ourselves was a text which arrived simultaneously on both our phones.

We observed you landing from the helicopter – not the most discreet method of arrival – and should you want to interrupt our business again we must warn you that the life of Mr Kite’s sister hangs by a thread. We will have no compunction in killing her if you make any move against us. Isla Woodruff, Orlando Woodruff.

That concentrated our thoughts. Finding and saving G was now our first priority. The international threats would have to wait.

“Where is she?” said Hudson. “If all these VIPs are going to some kind of auction, the Woodruffs don’t want a prisoner there. An ordinary house or hotel doesn’t have facilities, they’d need a guard, it’s altogether too messy. Too much could go wrong.”

This made sense. “I don’t believe they have a second property on the island. That’s too convenient.”

Hudson agreed. “I was about to suggest they might have left her in Vancouver, yet the same objection applies. Not another property. If she’s not in Vancouver, the obvious place is the yacht.”

I nodded. “Even though it looks deserted. A boat would make a good jail. A miniature Alcatraz or Devil’s Island.”

“Don’t get carried away, Kite. Let’s go take a look.”

The chandlery helped us find a local who would rent us a boat, and in twenty minutes we were heading out from the harbour across the bay to the yacht.

We approached warily. Approaching a bigger craft from a dinghy puts you at a disadvantage. The dinghy is virtually at water level, while the deck of a yacht looms above your head. To see into the cabin of such a craft you have to stand up. Standing up in a small boat at sea is never a good move.

We reached the stern of the yacht, looked over the rail and saw the door from the cockpit to the saloon was fastened with a padlock and chain. The metalwork showed no weathering or corrosion. Brand new, fresh from the chandlery. Ominous.

Both of us cursed we didn’t have any bolt cutters, then we saw something which suggested cutting the chain could be a bad idea. An electrical cable had been fed up from below deck and in through a ventilator to the cabin.

“That’s nothing to do with sailing,” I said.

Hudson agreed. “It’ll be connected to the boat’s battery.”

Standing side-by-side in the dinghy, holding the yacht’s gunwale, we pulled ourselves along the hull to peer in through the cabin windows. This was an ocean-going craft and yacht windows are potential weak points at sea, therefore kept small. The windows were salt-streaked on the outside and hard to see through. I wiped the surface of the narrow window as best I could, but still could see nothing. I realised there was something on the inside preventing me seeing in.

“It’s condensation, Hudson. There’s someone in there.”

We hammered our fists and knuckles on the window.

After a moment we saw movement inside the cabin and a hand wiped across the inside of the window.

It was G. Her immediate reaction was delight at seeing us, but it transformed at once into fear.

“Don’t try to get in,” she shouted. “Explosives. Wired up to the cabin door.”

We reassured her we wouldn’t, and had already seen the electric cable, which was presumably wired to a detonator.

“I think it’s fixed to a sensor. A PIR,” she said.

Hudson and I looked at each other and both immediately sat down in the dinghy. Shaken rigid. By peering over the stern of the yacht we must have been within inches of our movements being picked up by the PIR, thus setting off the explosives and killing all three of us.

“How do we get her out?” said Hudson, his voice at a lower level than usual.

“The hull’s glass fibre. We’ve got the flares. We could use one of them like a blowtorch to melt it.”

“What about fumes from burning fibre glass? Aren’t they toxic?”

“If G can open a window, and we make sure the boat is facing away from the wind, she should be OK.”

We explained all this to G. She was nervous to open a window, fearing it might sound a warning, send a signal, or detonate something. We tried to reassure her this was unlikely and such equipment was too high-tech for her improvised cell.

“None of the windows or ventilators are big enough to climb through,” I said. “They wouldn’t have thought it necessary to booby-trap them.”

Reassured, G opened a small window in the galley area near the stern. We used the dinghy like a tug to push the yacht’s bow around so the open window was facing the wind. Hudson kept the dinghy’s engine running to hold the yacht in position as I took out a flare.

“Keep away from the bow,” I shouted to G and pulled the toggle to ignite the flare. It burned with a hot, bright orange flame, like an outsized, handheld firework. I held on to the yacht’s rail with one hand and applied the flare to the bow, pleased to see the smoke was blowing away from me, away from the yacht.

Nothing happened at first, then the fibre glass began to melt, and then burn rapidly, giving off a plume of fumes. I began to worry the whole yacht would incinerate and sink before G could be rescued.

“Use the bailer,” I said to Hudson, pointing to a dustpan-shaped plastic object at the bottom of the dinghy. “Chuck some water on it.”

Hudson leaned over the side, swept up some sea water and threw it at the blaze. The flames disappeared, the fibre glass crackled and steamed. I continued with the flare, trying to cut a rectangular hole in the hull through which G could escape.

The fibre glass melted and burned, Hudson threw on more water, my flare was used up, I lit another and continued. In ten minutes, there was an ugly, oblong shape burned in the side of the hull. I took out the axe and attacked the now brittle plastic material. The axe was good, chunks fell off into the water, though I was attacking probably the toughest part of the boat, the bow, which gets the worst punishment from the ocean and where the hull has to be strongest. I had destroyed the first skin of fibre glass, exposing the ribs of the hull but there was another layer to get through.

I lit another flare and continued. The hull melted and burned, Hudson extinguished the flames, I hacked away at the plastic.

At last, my axe burst through the inner skin. Inside the boat, I saw a handsome cabin, twin beds, one each side of the bow. I continued with the axe until the gap in the hull was wide enough, then Hudson shouted for G.

She walked into the cabin and stopped abruptly as she saw me looking in from outside. Then she burst into relieved laughter.

“I never thought you could do it,” she said. “Amazing. Awesome work.”

“Don’t waste time giving us a review,” shouted Hudson. “Get out.”

She crawled through the melted gap. “Ow, it’s still hot,” she said.

“Keep moving then,” said Hudson, holding an arm out for her as I kept hold of the yacht’s rail to keep the dinghy close.

G tumbled into our dinghy, bubbly and elated. “Thanks guys,” she said, as Hudson steered the dinghy away. “You can put out the firework now, Kite. But good show.”

I tossed the blazing flare into the water. They are intended to float and continue burning while still in the sea and I saw our dinghy’s wash sweep the flare back towards the yacht’s hull. Hudson saw my concern and called out, “Leave it.” And I left it.

We reached the harbour in a few minutes and tied up. Only then did we notice people pointing out to sea in the direction from which we’d come. We followed their gaze and saw a blaze on the yacht. The flare I threw into the sea must have been swept into the forward cabin and ignited everything inside. Flames were sweeping through the whole craft, thick palls of smoke blew out to sea.

Hudson elbowed me in the ribs. “Polluter,” he said with a sarcastic grin.

As he spoke, the yacht exploded with a huge fireball. Flames, smoke and debris shot high into the sky. When the smoke, dust and fragments settled there was no trace of the yacht, nothing except the unruffled ocean, aloof and indifferent as always.

“Lucky we avoided that PIR,” said Hudson, dead serious for once.

G shivered and abruptly turned her back on the ocean view. She was keen to move on. “They’ve got the map, the title deeds, all the papers about the Alaskan land in a metal case, like a small suitcase. He goes around with it chained to his wrist.”

We turned away too, and the three of us walked away from the harbour, explaining to G about the delegate arrivals we’d seen and our instructions from London and DC.

She was as shocked as Hudson and I. “With extreme prejudice?” said G.

“That’s what I was told,” Hudson said. “I don’t think it’s a phrase they use in the UK.”

G said nothing, just putting a hand over her mouth, stunned.

Leo hadn’t been as specific as Hudson’s CIA caller, nevertheless the instruction was clear. I had never in my career set out to kill anybody, though I had used lethal fire-power at those trying to kill me or kill others. I knew exactly how many lives I had helped to end. It was a small number, and each occasion was unforgettable for me. There are numerous action thriller novels which feature professional killers working for the state or some secretive global organisation, but the British police rarely shoot anybody, and the Double-0 section of the Secret Intelligent Service remains a myth.

All three of us had fallen silent. Each of us alone with our thoughts. Something of a luxury because there was no time for reflection and self-examination.

I looked at Hudson. “You OK?”

He nodded. “You?”

I nodded. “Needs must.”

“Sure.

We tried to persuade G to stay in the village, have some food and drink and rest. She refused and insisted she could help.

“Both of you are only here because of what I told you, Kite, weeks ago, about Nash being cheated over a picture. It’s my fault. I started it all, I should help finish it.”

“It’s not your fault…” I began.

“Of course not,” said Hudson.

Then we dried up and looked at each other. It seemed pointless to argue since we had come so far together and G was still eager to contribute.

“They mentioned going to a hotel,” she said.

That made sense. We debated whether to get a vehicle, then decided against. We might be able to arrive less noticeably on foot. We began the hike up the hillside road which the Land Cruisers had travelled down. A mile up the narrow, two-lane road, we came to a hotel, set on a plateau with a superb view of the ocean and distant Vancouver. Beyond the car parking, the helicopter we had seen earlier stood waiting, the pilot sitting on the ground, his back to one of the struts supporting the skids. The hotel was an old building, in a nineteenth-century style, presumably influenced by its proximity to the city of Victoria on Vancouver Island. In spite of its fussy, decorative architecture, it was a small, quiet retreat, probably no bigger than a dozen bedrooms. The Woodruffs would have booked the whole place.

We hung back on the road, behind trees, to observe and check out the level of security. There were the Land Cruisers and several other cars in the lot, but no people to be seen.

“Can you see any heavies? Any strong-arm guys?” Hudson said.

I couldn’t, nor could G.

“Perhaps they saw the explosion,” she said. “Reckoned we were all killed, so they’ll be relaxed.”

“It’s a hotel, a public place. Why don’t we just walk into reception and ask about rooms, or get a drink. Then we’ll have an idea of what’s going on.”

“Unless they got rid of the management and installed their own people at the front desk,” said Hudson.

“I don’t think they have many people,” said G. “When they took me, there was only one other guy who came out to the boat with them.”

Hudson was still dubious about going in.

“They ran the art galleries on a shoestring, with no support except casual help from students. I think G could be right,” I said.

“Are we going in?” said G, looking between Hudson and me.

Hudson was suddenly decisive. “Bought all this kit,” he said. “Might as well use it.” He paused briefly, looked around. “But let’s take the side entrance.”

Keeping our distance from the hotel, we circled round and reached a side entrance, where the door was wide open. We paused, looked at each other, exchanged nods and went in cautiously.

I felt the usual tightening in my stomach and a prickle of perspiration under my arms.

From the side entrance we were quickly into reception, where a guy in an open-necked check shirt was at the desk.

“Hi there,” said Hudson, sounding relaxed. “Have you a bar? We’ve been hiking and have a strong thirst.”

“Certainly, sir,” said the guy at the desk and pointed the way. “No meals today though. The dining room is booked for a private meeting.”

We found the bar, which was empty of customers, and also of any bar staff. A pair of double doors, which were closed, presumably gave access to the dining room. I put my ear to the doors and heard Orlando’s voice answering questions from his potential customers.

At that moment the front desk man came into the bar, and I hastily pulled myself away from the double doors.

“Yes, that’s where the meeting is,” he said with a smile. “Sorry to keep you. We weren’t expecting any walk-ins today. Not this time of year.”

We ordered some beers, he poured them, we sat down with them, and told him he could return to the front; we’d come to find him if we needed anything.

“Very kind,” he said. “Thanks for your understanding.”

We sipped our beers then, as soon as he was out of sight, put the glasses down.

“The best approach,” I said, thinking about what I’d seen of the building’s architecture from outside, “is a position that’s close to the restaurant and also out of sight. There’ll be staff in the kitchen, so that’s no good. I saw a conservatory, though, which may join to the restaurant. For summer dining ”

“And closed this time of year. Yeah, I like that,” said Hudson. “Let’s take a look.”

We left the bar, walked along a corridor which led to bedrooms and found an exit. We walked to the back of the hotel and there was the conservatory. An attractive dining spot in good weather and locked now. The conservatory was modern, though built to a traditional pattern with glazing panels forming a sloping roof, which rose to a ridge. And it was not entirely closed up. On one side of the roof, below the ridge, was a small hinged window, which was open just a crack. A way in.

“And there’s a key for the door,” G whispered with an excited grin, pointing to a single key hanging on a wall hook at the restaurant end. “You’re the climber, Kite.” G look excited.

“You’ve been volunteered,” said Hudson with a grin. “I’ll give you a lift up.”

I took off my back pack and looked at the glass roof. It was made from a type of safety glass which incorporates wire mesh. Stronger than ordinary window glass, yet not intended to support a man’s weight.

Hudson made a stirrup with his hands, I put a foot into it and sprang up. Avoiding the glasswork, I grabbed hold of one of the white-painted, wooden rafters of the roof, settled my backside on to it and stretched my legs to the adjoining piece of timber. I moved, crab-wise up the timberwork towards the open fanlight. The roof creaked, but held firm. My movement dislodged moss, dead leaves, cracked paint. I reached the open window, pulled it open to its greatest extent, swivelled my body round, slipped my legs through the opening, took a firm grip of the timber at the side of the window, and lowered myself into the conservatory, dropping the last six feet to the ground.

I grabbed the key and it worked easily in the lock. G and Hudson joined me inside and we moved to the door which led to the rest of the building. Into the restaurant, we hoped.

We listened. There were voices, but muffled and distant.

Hudson pointed to the door handle, asked my opinion by raising his eyebrows. I nodded. He turned the knob and gently pushed open the door.

Beyond the door was a small vestibule, a modern addition, presumably to keep cold air from the uninsulated conservatory away from the rest of the building. Ahead of us was a single door. We moved to it. The voices were louder now, though still not close. What was on the other side?

This door would open towards us. I mimed this to Hudson and with more quirking of eyebrows and exaggerated facial gestures, he agreed we should open it a fraction to see what lay beyond. I turned the knob, pulled the door gently towards me.

Immediately I got that faint, pleasant whiff that all restaurants have. A mixture of sweet, savoury, warmth, wine, people. I put an eye to the gap I had opened up.

Once when the building was a private house this had been a grand reception room. Now it served as the hotel’s restaurant. I saw a passageway in front of us, which seemed to serve as a foyer to the restaurant, which was to my left. I opened the door two inches further to get a better look. The architect had tried hard with this part of the building to create a convincing piece of fake Gothic. The passage was formed like a cathedral choir screen. To my left was decorative, carved wood panelling up to waist height, with pillars extending up to the ceiling and an arch in the middle, through which you reached the dining area itself.

The decorative panels would give us ample cover to get close to the action.

I opened the door wider, got down on my knees, motioned the others to follow me and crawled in. Keeping below and behind the screen, I crawled as far as the wide arch of carved wood, which was the restaurant entrance.

We peered over the screen.

At the far end of the restaurant, tables had been arranged in a large circle, with chairs behind. There were about twenty-five men and women, of different nationalities and ethnic groups, like a perverse or demonic version of the United Nations Security Council. The Woodruffs were at the head of the table and Orlando was speaking.

“If there are no more questions…” He paused and looked at Isla, who nodded. “Then it is time to get to business. As you know, only one item is in the auction, the contents of this box.” He slapped his hand on a metal box, about two feet long, one foot wide, and the same in height. “The use of the contents is entirely up to the purchaser, we give no guarantee as to the success of whatever exploitation you choose to pursue. You have all had a chance to examine the contents and we trust if you were not satisfied as to their authenticity and provenance you would no longer be participating in this event.”

There was a murmur of assent from those present.

“We are looking for a price approaching one billion US dollars, methods of payment as per our previous discussions. Shall we start the bidding at one hundred million? Who will be first…? Thank you, sir. Do I hear two hundred million..?”

Hudson touched me on the shoulder, I nodded, opened my back pack and began to remove the largest of the smoke flares. Hudson took out a packet of the handheld flares I had used to melt the yacht’s hull.

“…five hundred million. Thank you, madam. And fifty?... Thank you, sir. Who will offer six hundred million…? It’s worth far more, ladies and gentlemen. Think of those mineral deposits, think of the oil. Even if you never excavated anything, think how much the US government might offer to get it back from you. Six hundred. Thank you, madam. And fifty...?”

The smoke flare was a drum-shaped object, designed to float. I tore the protective seal from the top then, holding the flare with its curved side on the ground, I yanked the ignition cord and a thick cloud of red smoke burst out. I bowled the flare along the ground towards the tables, it rolled straight along the carpeted floor, hit a chair leg and conveniently tipped over on to its base. Smoke was now streaming out upwards.

There was instant panic. Screams, shouts for fire extinguishers, cries of “Where’s the exit?” Chairs were overturned, delegates tripped and fell. The quantity of smoke was impressive. A man who I recognised as their smartly dressed lawyer tried to stamp the flare out, and instantly regretted doing so as the intense heat set one of his expensive shoes on fire.

“Don’t panic,” shouted Isla, holding a silky scarf to her face. “It’s only a smoke bomb. Sabotage. Who’s responsible?” she screamed at the auction bidders accusingly. “Tell me. Who did this?” But they weren’t listening. They were more interested in getting out. The room was filling rapidly with smoke and the delegates and the circle of tables had disappeared into a red mist.

The hotel’s smoke detectors came into action. The fire alarm siren wailed. Water sprayed from the sprinkler system in the ceiling. There were anguished cries from the delegates as they were showered in cold water, stumbling around disoriented in a red fog, trying to find the exits.

“Let’s get the box,” said Hudson. Together we ran through the blinding smoke and drenching torrent of water towards where it had sat on a table. We groped our way to where we reckoned the Woodruffs had been. “Is it this table?” Hudson said.

“I think so.”

“Are you sure?”

I wasn’t sure. It was hard to know what or where anything was. I felt my way towards the next table. Hudson grabbed my arm, to prevent us get split up in the smoke, now made worse by a mist from the sprinkler system pouring on to the water-resistant flare.

“This is the table,” I said. “There’s the scarf Isla was wearing.” It lay discarded where she had left it.

“They’ve taken the box,” said Hudson. “Get out the way we came in.”

We splashed and stumbled back to the decorative arch, grabbed our backpacks, and saw G standing by the door to the conservatory, holding it open. We ran towards her, through the conservatory and out into the rear yard.

From there, with squelching shoes, streaming eyes and dripping with water, we jogged round the side of the hotel and took cover behind one of the Land Cruisers in the parking lot. Red smoke still billowed out of the open main door of the hotel as the last of the auction guests staggered out, coughing, rubbing their eyes, taking off and shaking soaked jackets. Some drifted about, shocked and confused. Others were angry, shouting for the Woodruffs, complaining about lack of security, demanding a re-run of the auction at a different location.

From behind the Land Cruiser, the three of us searched the crowd, searched the parking lot, searched the adjacent woodland, searched everywhere for the Woodruffs and the metal box of documents. Where were they?

Then, out of the blue, a burst of automatic gunfire.

To our left, bullets ricocheted off tarmac, car windows were shattered, tyres burst. There were screams and shouts from the auction participants as all ran for cover. Disoriented by the smoke and sprinklers, few knew where the gunfire was coming from. Some went left, some went right.

“What the hell?” said Hudson.

“Are they with the Woodruffs, or against them?” said G. “Who are they aiming at?”

On the far side of the hotel the land rose up a few hundred feet. There were pine trees and plenty of undergrowth to provide cover. My binoculars were round my neck from searching for the Woodruffs, now I trained them on the hillside. There was another burst of shooting and this time I saw the detonations. They came from foliage under the tall pines.

More vehicles were destroyed by the gunfire. This time they were on the other side of the hotel from our position.

“Whatever their target is, it’s moved,” I said.

“Let’s check out these beauties,” said Hudson as he pulled one of the parachute rocket flares out of his backpack, and immediately prepared it for firing.

More gunfire. This time it came from the hotel, return fire aimed towards the attackers under the trees. It wasn’t the Woodruffs fighting back. One of the Arab party had a pistol, as did the Chinese woman. Where had they got weapons from? Had their embassies supplied them?

There was a loud woosh as Hudson launched a rocket flare at the attackers. These marine flares, to signify a vessel in distress, are intended to be launched vertically. When the propulsion fuel is used up, the flare starts to descend and a miniature parachute opens to slow its fall. This keeps the emergency flare visible for as long as possible.

Hudson, using the flare to attack, had aimed it straight at the shooters. It missed and hit the hillside, where the flare ignited some of the dry undergrowth.

“Range good,” I said.

“But not direction.” Hudson was angry and as he prepared another flare he muttered mostly to himself, “To aim these things properly, and account for the parachute thing, you need to be a math expert. Or from NASA. It’s all about parabolas, or sections of them, or is it sine waves?”

There was a pause in the shooting, then the noise of an engine made me look towards the helicopter. Its rotor blades had started to turn, the pilot was in his seat. Not surprisingly, some of the auction bidders thought it was time to leave.

More shots from the hillside. Now they were aiming even further from the hotel, to our extreme right. They were shooting towards the helicopter, which was a ninety degree change of angle from their first volley. Their targets had moved fast.

Then I saw the Woodruffs running out of cover towards the helicopter, with Orlando carrying the precious metal box. Behind them, was their lawyer, hobbling a little because of his burned foot.

Another burst of gunfire. The shots went wide of the helicopter and the Woodruffs. The gunmen had taken up their original position straight in front of the hotel, now their targets were not where they had expected them. The gunmen were caught out, hampered by intervening foliage and trees.

“Are they trying to kill the Woodruffs?” said G.

“Who are they?” said Hudson ready to fire another rocket flare.

I thought about Sam Bejam and the go-between, Serkan, in Istanbul. Now I reckoned Sam’s real clients had revealed themselves.

“I met a guy who was tailing the Woodruffs on behalf of unknown clients. He thought it was because they’d been cheated over a deal. It wasn’t that. They’d heard about the Alaskan plan and were desperate to stop it.”

Hudson lowered his rocket flare and looked at me. “Big oil producers?” he said.

I nodded. “Perhaps Saudis, Brazilians, Kuwaitis, or even some joint enterprise from OPEC.”

Hudson gave a sardonic grin. “Yeah, no reason for them to bid for a suspect bit of remote and frozen land. What they want is to stop anyone else getting it. Anyone who might gain an advantage over them and damage their profits.”

“So, they’re on our side?” said G.

In a twisted, perverted way their purpose was the same as ours. “Kind of,” I said.

Orlando and Isla were now inside the helicopter and bullets from the hillside were still aimed at them, though not finding their target. Bullets zinged off the helicopter’s fuselage behind the cabin, the gunmen still unable to find a clear line of fire. For the moment, the Woodruffs seemed relatively safe. Their lawyer limped up, climbed on board and the cabin door was shut.

“How did they persuade the chopper pilot?” said Hudson. “A slice of Zimbalist land? Some nice fakes, signed ‘Renoir’?”

“They must be armed,” I said.

“No question,” he said.

The rotor blades were nearly at take-off speed, the pilot made final checks.

The bidders who had arrived in the helicopter, realised, too late, their transport had been hijacked and made a charge towards it. Shouting and waving, they ran unthinkingly straight into the misdirected fire from the gunmen on the hill.

Two of the delegates were hit and fell to the ground. Which brought an instant reaction from those auction-goers who had not already escaped the chaos. Two other men produced weapons and joined the Chinese woman and the Arab in shooting towards their attackers. Distracted by this, and the growing bush fire moving towards them, those on the hillside returned fire. The auction-goers were an easier target for them. Two more fell wounded.

The helicopter rose into the air.

Hudson had another rocket flare ready and this time aimed towards the helicopter. He pulled the launch toggle and the flare streaked towards the chopper, missing its tail rotor by inches.

“Close, but no cigar,” I said, already aiming a rocket flare myself.

Hudson said nothing, intent on arming another flare. I launched mine. It missed by twenty feet. Hudson fired again. The flare smashed into the helicopter’s windshield and bounced off with no discernible damage. The helicopter gained height and turned to pick up its course back to the mainland. Which brought it closer to the gunmen on the hill and the blazing bushes.

The gunmen among the trees intensified their fire as the helicopter got closer. There were sparks, bright against the darkening sky, as bullets hit close to the rotors.

I lined up another flare and fired, as did Hudson. Both flares rose high past the helicopter, missing it by some distance. At the top of their ascent, having described according to Hudson a half-parabola, the miniature parachutes opened and both flares began to float down, side by side.

Wistfully we watched these slowly falling fireballs being blown away from us by the breeze, dispirited as we thought our last chance to stop the Woodruffs had gone. But we had taken our eyes of the helicopter, which came into our line of sight again as it continued to gain height and fly away from us. The helicopter rose up to meet the descending flares with uncanny and pinpoint accuracy.

There was a burst of flame from around the engine. Had the earlier bullet strikes fractured a fuel line? The flames grew in intensity, creeping around the engine into the bodywork of the helicopter, engulfing the rotors. The engine coughed, then spluttered, and began a fast descent. Too fast. Uncontrolled. Two seconds before it hit the hillside there was an explosion, then another as it smashed into the ground. Flames leaped high, lighting up the area, igniting small trees and brushwood.

I turned away from the scene of death and destruction, feeling at the same time both satisfied and a little sick.

G came out from her temporary cover behind a vehicle and saw the inferno. She went to Hudson and put an arm around his waist, and he reciprocated.

Up on the hillside, two gunmen emerged from their cover, standing up in plain sight, watching the conflagration. Through binoculars I saw them grinning. Then they saw me, Hudson and G looking at them. One raised his clenched fist in a victory sign, the other clasped his hands together in front of him.

“Looks like five stars from them,” said Hudson, sounding exhausted. His face was deadpan, grim even.

I put a hand on his shoulder, and on G’s. “Let’s hope other people are satisfied, too.”

The ferry back to Vancouver became a temporary ambulance ship, transporting the wounded and other auction-goers to the mainland. There was no space on board for us and, in any case, we had no wish to mingle with them and repaired to the hotel by the harbour whose phone I used earlier.

There I made contact with Leo Somerscales, while Hudson did the same with the CIA, and we reported what had happened. To our surprise, both seemed to know the main events already. We were thanked for our efforts and reassured that the Canadian government was also abreast of what had happened. Reparations would be paid for Canadian property damaged and for Canadian losses incurred.

Two hours later, the ferry had returned, cars and passengers were disembarking and we waited our turn to go on board. An anonymous-looking car leaving the ferry halted just beyond where I stood with Hudson and G. The doors opened, two women got out and walked towards us. One of them I recognised, one I didn’t.

“Mr Kite,” said the woman I recognised, “well done. And to you Mr Cassoni, and to you ma’am. Sorry I don’t know…”

“This is my half-sister, G,” I said, then turning to her and Hudson, “This is DI Holly Guard, Counter Terrorism Command.” The three of us shook hands in a tentative, unsure  way, like meeting a bank manager or head teacher.

“And this is my counterpart here in Canada,” said Guard, turning to the other woman.

“Well done, guys,” the un-named woman said. Hands were shaken again. “I think you spotted me the other night,” she said to me.

“Dark waterproof, hood up, outside the house in Kitsilano?”

She nodded, gave a timid grin.

“Didn’t see the drone, though, did you?” said Guard, suddenly animated and jolly.

The three of us looked at each other.

“Too busy for star gazing, ma’am,” said Hudson.

“Of course,” said Guard. “It worked well. We saw most of the action. And we better make tracks up to the hotel to sort things out. See you, guys.”

The two women turned, went back to the car and drove away.

The three of us watched them go in silence.

Then G said, “Were they tracking us somehow? I mean, all the time?”

Hudson and I turned to each other and shrugged.

“Not sure that I care,” I said.

“Likewise,” said Hudson.

G turned away. Something had attracted her attention.

“Hey, we’ve missed the ferry.”

We turned to see the boat making its way back to Vancouver.

“There’s another one in two hours. Let’s get a drink,” I said.

At the hotel, they were pleased I had come to use the bar instead of the telephone. The three of us drank, relaxed and said little of importance. Until G pointed something out.

“All the original documents, the map and old deeds which caused the trouble have been destroyed, but didn’t you say you had copies of everything?”

I nodded. “I can destroy those back in London. You can watch and verify, if you like. And I’ll delete the emails and the attachments.”

G wasn’t totally satisfied. “What about the people who sent you copies? The library or the archive. They must have a master copy. What about that? Some other criminal might have the same idea again.”

I gave her a look. Impressed with her intelligent analysis, with no answer for her question.

Chapter 27

I don’t believe in the biblical ‘eye for an eye’ philosophy. Even for an unsophisticated society of two or three thousand years ago, it’s too crude and simplistic to be the basis of any legal system. You could argue there was a certain rough justice in the death of the Woodruff brother and sister for, even if they had not pulled a trigger themselves, they had ordered the death of Gus and planned to kill Thalia Rice. You could say I had resolved, or maybe avenged, Gus’s death.

In my hotel in Vancouver I phoned Fiona MacIver to apologise for my sudden absence from the UK and brought her up to date. When I told her what Hudson and I had been instructed to do by Leo Somerscales and the CIA, she was shocked and unable to speak for a moment. When she found her voice, it was quiet, grave. “I feel for you, laddie,” she said, then lapsed into Scots, “It must have been awesome sair, real scunnersome.” Not words I knew, although the emotion in her voice was a clue to how shocking she found the situation Hudson and I were put in.

MacIver was a tough boss, but was supportive of and compassionate towards those who worked for her.

Instead of flying directly to London, I joined G and Hudson in going to New York, mainly because Nash Vitucci had finally left London and I could explain things to him in person.

I told him there was no chance to recover the money of which he had been defrauded, the Woodfords seeming to have few assets, and a long list of creditors. Nash, being the type of man he was, shrugged away his financial loss, but was animated about their attempt to sell off part of Alaska. That got him heated and he was fulsome in his praise for me, Hudson and also G.

As for G and Hudson, their relationship was only a few days old, but already they were behaving like a long established couple. Apart from having the hots for each other, they shared a sense of humour and genuinely appeared to like each other’s company.

Not wishing to play gooseberry, be a party pooper, or a third wheel, I left New York quickly.

On the flight home, a solution occurred to me for the problem with the copy of the Zimbalist Papers held by Nettlefold Institute’s Library.

At home in Uxbridge, I checked it was not one of the days that Rupert Woodruff volunteered, and called the Nettlefold.

“Hi Luna,” I said, “I need to ask you something very serious about the library and the archive. Before I do, I need to tell you what’s happened in the last few days. Have you some time now?” She had. The library had closed, there was nobody there but her.

I ran her through the events of the past week, the importance of the nineteenth-century Alaska land purchase, and fear from the US government that the document could be used again to foment trouble. She listened carefully, and said nothing except for numerous interjections of “Oh, my God.”

I then explained the role of Rupert Woodruff’s children in the whole plot and their previous career as fraudulent art dealers.

“I don’t know what to say,” she said when I finished. “Does Rupert know they’ve been killed?”

“I’m sure he’s been contacted by now, and I sent a message via a trusted source to the British Embassy in Ottawa not to tell him of the plot. And I know neither the US government, nor the UK, or Canada wants any of it to become public knowledge. There’s a total news blackout. Rupert will only be told his children died in a helicopter accident. The rest is…”

“The rest is silence, as Hamlet said.”

“If you like. Though what I was about to say was, the rest is top secret.”

“Oh, my God.”

“I’m going to ask you to do something which is against the rules of your library. Are you up for that?”

“I could be. If it’s doing good.”

“It would be doing a lot of good.”

Two hours later I met Luna on Primrose Hill, which she said was the nearest open, green space to where she lived. It’s an attractive and popular spot in north London, for walking and all sorts of recreation. As hills go, it’s not that high, but since London is mostly dead flat, Primrose Hill has extensive views of the city.

“Are you OK about this?” I said.

She nodded.

“You know I have no official capacity. I’m no longer a police officer. I have worked indirectly for the secret intelligence service, but only indirectly. This is just me. Not the government.”

Luna smiled. “You’ve explained it all very well. The situation is a pile of shite and this seems… well, I suppose a tolerable kind of solution.”

“You have the documents?”

She nodded and brought out from her bag a large envelope. “What about the email I sent you. And the attachments?”

“I’ve deleted those emails and destroyed the printouts I made.”

She nodded again, solemnly, and handed me the envelope. I took out the copies of the documents. Everything was there, the map, the land sale agreement. I screwed the pieces of paper up and arranged them in a pile on the ground, then rummaged in my pocket and brought out the cigarette lighter.

“You smoke?” she said.

“No. I found it. Very near where everything happened in Canada. I only picked it up to recycle it. Somehow, it seems appropriate to use it…” 

I flicked the lighter and held it to the papers. They caught light and burned.

“Isn’t there a bye-law about fires not being allowed here?” she said, with an ironic grin.

“Almost certainly.” I smiled back.

I moved pieces around so the flames reached every page. The bonfire of papers blazed away, flames dancing high in the evening twilight. Charred fragments broke off, rose into the air and were whisked away by the breeze. When the flames were out and only black vestiges of paper remained, I stood on them and ground the ashes into the soil.

“Dust to dust,” Luna said. “Poor Mr Zimbalist.”

“Poor Mr Woodruff.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody. Especially him.” She looked up from staring at the ground and gazed out to the tower blocks of Docklands. “The library has been his life. Another child, almost. If he ever got to know how his children repaid all his care, it would kill him.” I nodded, held out my hand and we shook.

“Thank you for your help. And your understanding,” I said.

There were tears in her eyes.

Names, names, names. I had the truth about those who first introduced themselves as Venetia Lord and Oscar Fitzroy, yet there was one other name remaining, about which I knew nothing.

Lagransky.

Leo Somerscales had promised to investigate and tell me more, but I heard nothing.

I tried to call him now, and only reached a junior in his department. Leo was unavailable “for the rest of the day” though the junior said Leo had asked for an email to be sent to me. It was being checked and cleared but should reach me soon. He declined to comment on what the email was about and the call ended.

I looked in my inbox. Nothing as yet. I refreshed Send/Receive. Still nothing. I drummed my fingers. My mouse hovered over Solitaire. My phone rang.

Thalia Rice.

“Have you got it?” she said.

“What?”

“The email from Leo. He said he was sending it to you as well. Though maybe it got to me quicker because of my clearance…”

“Just got it.” I said as Leo’s email arrived.

“OK. Read it, call me back, and I’ll explain.” She ended the call.

The message was a copy of an article in the Russian newspaper Pravda. Thoughtfully, a translation was provided.

The article was a tribute to an ‘important secret agent who worked tirelessly for the Soviet Union and the Russian Federation throughout her life.’ It said she had fooled and deceived western powers on many occasions and helped build Russia’s importance in the modern world. The agent was called Valentina Ulitskaya and had died a few days ago, apparently from natural causes at the age of eighty-two.

It meant nothing to me. I phoned Thalia.

“She was Lagransky,” Thalia said. “It was our codename for her, and I didn’t have an affair with her or anybody else. Gossip about an affair was useful smoke, which we let blow around to confuse matters. Now she’s died, she’s finally safe from the Russian authorities.”

“She was a double-agent,” I said. “Your double-agent. Was it you who turned her?”

“It was.” She paused. “I think you know everything now.”

Two weeks later, I heard from G that Hudson was still living with her in her New York City apartment. I wished her well, and was privately impressed with what had to be a record commitment for Hudson. In London, the pile of books on babies and child care in Clark’s office grew and grew. Thalia Rice resigned from the Trustees Board of the Benevolent Fund on her seventieth birthday, feeling she was too old for any more excitement, then to my surprise I heard via another contact she was ‘seeing’ Leo Somerscales. Opera, theatre, art galleries, restaurants apparently, but nothing more physical than an occasional light kiss.

The email from Rachel at the Border Force HQ was still flagged in my inbox. Time to do something about it. I emailed back, making up a perhaps over-elaborate reason for needing to be in the area of Folkestone, where she was based, and asking if we could meet as she had suggested.

She replied:

You don’t need a reason to come and see me! Look forward to seeing you again. If you can stay, there’s plenty of room in my house. Love Rachel. XXX

THE END

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John Kite Books

John Kite is a British Private Investigator specialising in crimes involving the world of art

The Art of Danger

Why are three killed to get an old painting? Not for money and nothing to do with art, reasons PI John Kite. Ex-cop Kite pursues a renegade foreign spy, believing the agent can reveal the hidden agenda. But Kite's employer is unconvinced, and tough, sparky Kite goes it alone. Then he's intrigued to find he’s being chased, too. By a sassy, female ex-cop. As their two quests collide, she exposes a tragedy from Kite’s past involving his criminal father, and Kite uncovers the horrifying ulterior motive for the art heist. For them both, getting the artwork back, then stopping the looming disaster becomes a matter of life and death. A fast-moving mix of snappy dialogue, crime, quirky characters, chases, perky humour, thrills and a bit of romance.

Paint It Blackmail

PI John Kite is flattered when the government asks him to investigate a forgery. But his time as blue-eyed boy is short-lived. The alleged forger is murdered, there’s the biggest art heist since World War II, the government is blackmailed and ministers panic. Ex-cop Kite tracks down a foreign gangster chasing vast wealth, and a killer from his own troubled past, but suspects the prime villain is closer to home. He speaks out against those in power, but only succeeds in becoming a wanted man. His only ally is the cool and sexy Tanya, a senior government official. Together they put their lives on the line as they realise the heist must be the result of a politician's lie. A “feelgood thriller”.

Pictures To Die For

In Florida, a multi-million dollar painting is vaporised by a rocket-propelled grenade. Why is someone destroying priceless artworks? That’s what PI John Kite has to discover. At the same time, Kite’s hired by an ex-lover to trace her missing husband. The sparky Kite, an ex-cop, works both cases simultaneously, criss-crossing the Atlantic and chasing round Europe. There’s unresolved tension  between him and his kooky ex-lover, but she’s an ex-cop too, and together they follow leads which take them to Delaware. Where it’s an explosive crisis time as they become embroiled in a vicious, private war between billionaires. A “feelgood thriller”.

Killing Art

“They're killing art,” a woman tells PI John Kite. “You must stop them.” Then she’s gunned down on a smart city street. Kite is haunted by the woman’s words. But what did she mean? Is there a connection to the scam robberies Kite is investigating, or to the dead auctioneer floating in the ocean? Or even to the strange Chinese man obsessed with cigarettes? Kite’s quest takes him on a 1500 mile helter-skelter chase to where a volcano is about to erupt and he discovers not only a chilling international conspiracy but also an amorous female detective. Kite must stop the covert intrigue before it causes western economies to go into melt-down. A “feelgood thriller”.

Scam Artists

PI John Kite has 9 days only to stop a major crime. Trying to help a colleague, ex-cop Kite receives partial info on a major heist – then his informant disappears. Kite knows when the crime is happening, but not where. Fearing the mysterious heist is connected to his father’s life of crime, Kite returns to his old house in Florida, but finds himself tailed by a sassy female FBI agent. Charmed by Kite, intrigued by his mission, the agent joins him on his quest to find the crime’s location. The pair take on a wild railroad ride, chase a missing plane, and discover ancient gold, as the clock ticks down relentlessly to zero day. A “feelgood thriller”.

Art Trap

PI John Kite's car explodes under him. An alluring woman rescues him. Or does she? Is she a divine saviour, or a deadly stalker? Chasing stolen paintings, ex-cop Kite discovers an oligarch is targeting a cache of almost perpetual wealth, hidden deep inside one of the world's poorest countries. Kite rescues a lost soul in a foreign market, and is attacked by the adventurous woman who supposedly rescued him. To stop the Russian’s empire-building, he battles not just the oligarch's private army, but also the west's own secret services as he tries to save a desperate nation from being pillaged. A “feelgood thriller”.

Shooting Gallery

PI John Kite is injured while recovering a stolen picture, then  shocked to find his efforts were in vain, because he was deceived by a long-running fraud. Now, he wants to get even. And nail the guilty. But Kite’s search for the truth uncovers a secret so dangerous, so well guarded, that those who learn it are killed. There’s murder in Massachusetts, and a lethal blast in London. Kite becomes a wanted man himself. He gets covert help from a courageous woman close to the perpetrators and together they fight in the air and on the ground to persuade those in power they’re right, before they can be taken out themselves. A “feelgood thriller”.

Brushes With Death

PI John Kite is lured into helping a criminal, in return for a promise to reveal startling secrets about ex-cop Kite's own family - who were criminals themselves. Colleagues beg John Kite to keep clear, but the temptation to understand more of the past is too great. But is what the criminal says actually true? And why is he so deeply involved with a highly dangerous new technology? It’s not just stolen pictures which Kite is chasing, but also a mysterious redheaded woman, who seems to be enticing him to his death. Is she part of the international conspiracy which Kite uncovers? A conspiracy which is bent on industrial  destruction. As Kite fights to stop their desperate strategy, he finally learns shocking truths which change his life.

Captured

Stylish thieves waltz away with $200 millions’ worth of art from a prince’s mansion. But the prince tells no one, not even the police. Months later, John Kite is hired to get the artworks back – with  a deadline of just a few days. What game is the prince playing? Why was the entire heist captured elegantly on video? And is he actually a prince at all? Worse, Kite is attacked by a gang with a mission to stop him recovering the stolen goods. Then a series of murders leads Kite to a criminal who enjoys hiding his booty in plain sight, while government intercepts give clues to the prince’s ulterior motive - a product of his vaulting ambition which will bring havoc to the world. Unless Kite can stop him.

Afterword

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