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‘Would you?’ Tom interrupted, unable to stop himself, despite Dorling’s earlier warning.
The man swivelled round to face him.
‘Kirk!’ He spat the name through clenched teeth, yellowing eyes bulging above the dark shadows that nestled in his long, sunken cheeks. His skin was like marble, cold and white and flecked with a delicate spider’s web of tiny veins that pulsed red just below the surface.
‘Sergeant Clarke!’ Tom exclaimed, his eyes twinkling mischievously. ‘What a nice surprise.’
Tom could no longer remember quite why Clarke had made it his personal mission to see him behind bars. It was a pursuit that had at times verged on the obsessive, Clarke’s anger mounting as Tom had managed again and again to slip from his grasp. Even now, he refused to believe that Tom had gone straight, convinced that his newly acquired respectability was all part of some elaborate con. Still, Tom didn’t mind. If anything he found Clarke mildly amusing, which seemed to make him even angrier.
‘It’s Detective Sergeant Clarke, as well you know,’ Clarke seethed, the sharp outline of his Adam’s apple bobbing uncontrollably. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I invited him,’ Dorling volunteered.
‘This is a criminal investigation,’ Clarke rounded on him. ‘Not a bloody cocktail party.’
‘If Tom’s here, it’s because I think he can help,’ Dorling replied tersely.
‘For all you know, he nicked it himself,’ Clarke sneered. ‘Ever think of that?’
The man standing next to Clarke turned to Tom with interest.
‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’ He was about fifty years old, tall, with wind-tanned cheeks, moss green eyes and a wild thatch of muddy brown hair that was thinning from the crown outwards.
‘Bruce Ritchie,’ Dorling introduced him to Tom. ‘The estate manager. Bruce, this is Tom Kirk.’
Tom shook Ritchie’s outstretched hand, noting the nicotine stains around the tips of his fingers and the empty shotgun cartridges in his waxed jacket that rattled as he moved his arm.
‘I take it you have some direct … experience of this type of crime?’ He hesitated fractionally over the right choice of words.
‘Too bloody right he does,’ Clarke muttered darkly.
‘Can I ask where from?’
‘He’s a thief,’ Clarke snapped before Tom could answer. ‘That’s all you need to know. The Yanks trained him. Industrial espionage. That is until he decided to go into business for himself.’ Clarke turned to Tom, a confident smirk curling across his face. ‘How am I doing so far?’
‘Agency?’ Ritchie guessed, his tone suggesting that, far from scaring him off, Clarke had only succeeded in further arousing his interest.
‘That’s right,’ Tom nodded, realising now that Ritchie’s stiff-shouldered demeanour and calculating gaze probably betrayed a military background. Possibly special forces. ‘You?’
‘Army intelligence,’ he said with a grin. ‘Back when we didn’t just do what the Yanks told us.’
Clarke looked on unsmilingly as the other three men laughed.
‘So you don’t agree that this was opportunistic?’ asked Ritchie.
Tom shook his head. ‘The people who did this knew exactly what they were here for.’
‘You don’t know that,’ Clarke objected.
‘Opportunistic is settling for the Rembrandt or the Holbein nearer the entrance, not deliberately targeting the da Vinci,’ Tom retorted, sensing Clarke flinch every time he moved too suddenly.
‘Do you think they’ll try and sell it?’ Ritchie pressed.
‘Not on the open market. It’s too hot. But then that was never the plan. Best case they’ll lie low for a few months before making contact and asking for a ransom. That way your insurers avoid paying out full value and you get your painting back. It’s what some people say the National Gallery in London had to do to get their two Turners returned, although they called it a finder’s fee.’
‘And worst case?’ Ritchie asked with a glum frown.
‘If you don’t hear from them in the next twelve months, then chances are it’s been taken as collateral for a drugs or arms deal. It’ll take seven years for it to work its way through the system to a point where someone will be willing to make contact again. The timings run like clockwork. But I don’t think that’s what’s happened here.’
‘You’re just making this up,’ Clarke snorted with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘You don’t know anything about this job or who pulled it.’
Tom shrugged.
‘Four man team, right?’
‘Maybe.’ Clarke gave an uncertain nod.
‘I’d guess two on the inside and two on the outside – a lookout and a driver. The getaway car was probably stolen last night. Something small and fast. Most likely white or red so it wouldn’t stand out.’
‘A white VW,’ Ritchie confirmed, his obvious surprise giving way to an irritated frown as he turned to Clarke. ‘I thought we’d agreed not to release any details yet?’
‘We haven’t,’ Clarke spluttered.
‘I know because it’s his usual MO,’ Tom reassured him.
‘Whose?’
‘His name is Ludovic Royal,’ Tom explained. He’s known in the business as Milo. French, although he would argue he’s Corsican. Turned to art theft after five years in the Foreign Legion and another ten fighting in West Africa for whoever could afford him. He’s ruthless and he’s one of the best.’
‘Why’s he called Milo?’
‘Back when he first got started a client, some Syrian dealer, stiffed him on a deal. Milo hacked both the guy’s arms off, one at the elbow, the other at the shoulder, and left him to bleed to death. When the photos leaked to the local press in Damascus they dubbed it the Venus de Milo killing. The name stuck.’
‘And that’s who you think did this?’ Ritchie sounded sceptical.
‘It’s too early to say,’ Clarke intervened.
‘Have you found the gambling chip yet?’ Tom asked. ‘It’s a small mother-of-pearl disc about this big, with the letter M inlaid in ebony.’
Clarke glared furiously at Dorling. ‘What else have you told him?’
‘Nothing,’ Dorling insisted.
‘I don’t care who’s told who what,’ Ritchie said firmly. ‘I just want to know what it means.’
‘Milo likes to autograph his scores,’ Tom explained. ‘It lets the rest of us know how good he is.’
‘The gambling chip is his symbol,’ Dorling confirmed. ‘They’re pretty common in the art underworld,’ he paused, deliberately avoiding Tom’s gaze. ‘Tom’s was a black cat, you know, like the cartoon character. That’s why they used to call him Felix.’
Ritchie nodded slowly, as if this last piece of information had somehow confirmed a decision that had been forming in his mind.
‘What do you know about the painting?’ he asked.
‘I know it’s small, about nineteen inches long and fifteen wide, so it won’t be hard to smuggle out of the country,’ Tom began. ‘I know it was painted between 1500 and 1510 and that a total of eleven copies were produced by da Vinci’s workshop. Yours was the original.’
‘What about its subject matter?’ Ritchie pressed.
‘Who cares?’ Clarke huffed impatiently.
‘It shows the Madonna pulling the infant Jesus away from a yarnwinder, a wooden tool used for winding wool,’ Tom replied, ignoring him. ‘It’s meant to symbolise the cross and the fact that even her love cannot save him from the Passion.’
‘Some of the copies even have a small cross bar on the yarnwinder to make the reference to the crucifixion more explicit,’ Ritchie confirmed with a nod. Then he paused, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to continue.
‘Is there something else?’ Tom ventured.
‘You tell me,’ Ritchie said with a shrug, pointing to his right.
The forensic team had shifted to one side and Tom could now see the panelled wall where the painting had hung between two other works. But instead of an empty space, something seemed to have been fixed there. Something small and black.
‘They found the gambling chip you described in its mouth,’ Ritchie explained, earning himself a reproachful glare from Clarke.
‘In what’s mouth?’ Tom breathed.
He stepped closer, his heart beating apprehensively as the shape slowly came into focus.
He could see a head, legs and a long black tail. He could see a small pink tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth. He could see trails of dried blood where it had been nailed to the wall and a pool of sticky dark liquid on the top of the display case beneath it rendered a translucent pink by the light shining through the glass.
It was a cat. A crucified cat.
He glanced sharply at Dorling who gave him a telling nod.
‘I told you he’d left you something, Felix.’
FOUR (#ulink_01cd302f-9f48-5a30-8ca9-b4888d092506)
Claremont Riding Academy, New York
18th April – 7.55 a.m.
As a precaution against being seen in Hudson’s company, Cole had allowed five minutes to elapse before following the older man down the ramp and out of the stables, leaving Jennifer and Green standing in an awkward silence.
‘Any questions?’ Green asked as Cole’s footsteps faded away, only to be replaced by the muffled thump of hooves from the floor below.
‘What about the case I’m on now? We’ve got a warehouse under surveillance over in New Jersey. I’m due on the next shift.’
‘It’s all taken care of,’ Green said firmly. ‘I explained the situation to Dawkins. He understands this takes priority.’
Although Jennifer felt bad about walking away from her team halfway through, she couldn’t deny that part of her was relieved. After the month she’d just had, the prospect of another two weeks of sleepless nights and weak coffee was not one she had been particularly looking forward to.
‘Anything else?’ Green asked.
‘Just one thing…’ Jennifer hesitated, not entirely sure how she should phrase this. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, sir, what’s this got to do with you?’
Green nodded, having clearly been expecting this. After all, it usually took a bit more than a suspect painting to get the Director of the FBI personally involved in a case, let alone wading through horse shit at 7 a.m. to a briefing.
‘Let’s head back down,’ he suggested. ‘I need to get out to LaGuardia for nine.’
She followed him out of the stall and back down the main aisle. A hosepipe had been left running, the end twitching nervously as water spilled across the floor, a ridge of straw and dirt forming at the edges of its wash. She stepped over it carefully, not wanting to ruin her shoes any more than they already had been.
‘Hudson and I read law together at Yale,’ Green explained as they picked their way down the ramp to the ground floor, his men jogging ahead to ensure the route was secure. ‘Or rather I read law and he played polo. We’ve stayed in touch ever since.’
‘I see.’ She fought off the dismayed look that had momentarily threatened to engulf her face. Great. Screw up and she’d carry the can. Get a result and Green would step in to look good in front of his old college buddy. Either way, she couldn’t win. In fact the best she could hope for was to get this over with as quickly as possible. ‘Did he call you?’
‘As soon as he found out about the second Gauguin,’ Green confirmed, pausing under the building’s arched entrance. ‘He’s convinced that his client’s version is genuine, of course. But then Cole’s client is the one with the certificate of authenticity.’
‘Can’t they just cancel the sale and sort it out between them?’
‘You want the short answer or the long one?’
‘Either will do.’
‘If they pull the lots, people will start to ask questions. Questions they can’t answer until they can identify the fake.’
‘They could control the story if they wanted to.’
‘Perhaps. But they’ve got enough on their hands fighting off all these Holocaust claims without adding to their problems. And after the anti-trust case, neither of them can risk another big scandal. That was the long answer by the way.’
Jennifer nodded. Both firms stood accused by descendants of Holocaust victims of auctioning off art works stolen from their families by the Nazis. Nothing had been proved, but news of them both selling the same painting would hardly help restore their already battered reputations.
‘So I’m guessing you want this kept low key.’
‘Until we know what we’re dealing with.’ Green wagged his finger in agreement. ‘Ask around. See what you can find out without making too many waves. Both Cole and Hudson agree that this isn’t an isolated incident. If there’s an art forgery ring here in New York, we’d all like to know about it. I don’t want to scare anyone off until we’ve got something solid.’
‘One more question, sir,’ Jennifer said as Green made to step out on to the street where one of his flunkies was hovering with an umbrella, ready to escort him to the limousine’s open door. ‘Why me?’
The question had been gnawing away at her all morning. After all, it had been nearly a year since she had last spoken to Green, and even then it had been the briefest of conversations. She knew she should feel flattered that he had selected her for this, but she had been in the Bureau long enough to suspect an ulterior motive.
‘Because you’re good. Because you deserve it.’
‘The Bureau’s full of good agents.’
Green turned to face her, his eyes meeting hers and steadily holding her gaze. She had the sudden feeling that he was doing this deliberately, as if to try and convince her of his sincerity.
‘The press office got called up by some bullshit journalist a few days ago,’ Green began. ‘Leigh Lewis. Writes for one of the check-out rags – American Voice. You know it?’
‘No,’ said Jennifer, unsure where this was leading.
‘That figures,’ he sniffed. ‘Sometimes I wonder if anyone actually reads that shit. Anyway, he must have some good sources, because he was asking about the Double Eagle case.’
