Hidden in Plain Sight

23

Christina picked him up in Tramp, fed him, plied him with champagne, and then took him back to her flat in Eaton Square. She knew it ought to be the other way round, but she was no longer twenty-two or thirty-two, and it wouldn’t be long before she was forty-two. When she woke the following morning, she was surprised to find Justin was still there, looking just as appetizing as he had the night before. Bless him.

She slipped out from under the covers and made her way into the bathroom, where she tried to remove a few years with the help of a little make-up and a dab of perfume, before returning to bed to pretend she’d just woken. She began to stroke the inside of his leg, slowly arousing him, until he could no longer control himself. After they’d made love for the third time — or was it the fourth? — they enjoyed a long bath and an even longer breakfast, over which she discovered Justin didn’t have a job. But then why would one bother when you were that good-looking?

Christina began to wonder if she could hold on to him until she moved to Florida. As he was leaving he asked if she could lend him a fiver for a taxi. She gave him ten, and they agreed to meet for dinner that night. She checked her watch, aware she’d have to get moving if she was going to make it to Limpton Hall by eleven, when she would be overseeing the loading of the paintings by Christie’s.

As she left the flat, the chauffeur saluted and opened the back door of the Bentley so she could get in. Eddie climbed behind the wheel and they set off for Hampshire.

Once the pictures had been collected by Christie’s, Christina intended to ask Partridge’s in Bond Street to value the furniture, as she had no intention of taking anything to Florida that would remind her of Miles. For a moment she almost felt sorry for him. But only for a moment. Ten years was more than she’d expected, but no more than she’d prayed for.

An hour later, as they were passing through the village of Limpton, her mind drifted back to Justin, and where she would take him to dinner, when a police car overtook them. Annabel’s was the obvious choice. Not much chance of him picking up another woman there. They would either be accounted for or out of his financial league. And then she realized he hadn’t given her his phone number, and she didn’t know his surname.

Eddie turned left off the main road and down a lane that led to only one house, Limpton Hall. That was when she first saw the smoke. There was no one on duty as they drove past the gatehouse. She’d sacked the guard, the butler, the cook, and the gardener some time ago, retaining only a housekeeper and the chauffeur to look after her on the few occasions she needed to visit her country home.

Long before they’d reached the end of the drive Christina began screaming hysterically. Deep orange flames were leaping into the air and spitting their way through thick black clouds of smoke. It was clear that the three fire engines in attendance were fighting a hopeless battle.

Four hours later, despite the fire fighters’ galliant efforts, all that was left of Limpton Hall was a large pile of rubble and smouldering ash, while a vast black cloud obscured the morning sun. Christina hadn’t noticed that Eddie didn’t seem surprised.

‘Are you growing a beard, caveman?’ asked Beth after supper that evening. She leant across the kitchen table and stroked the stubble on his chin.

‘Depends how long my present assignment lasts.’

‘Not for too much longer, I hope,’ she said, getting up to stack the dishwasher, while he cleared the table. ‘What have we got planned for this evening? Assuming you aren’t called out at a moment’s notice to save the world?’

‘I was hoping a beautiful damsel would gently stroke my forehead while I watched Match of the Day.’

‘Think again, caveman. I’ve already chosen a film that I’m sure will suit your lowbrow tastes.’

‘Lots of sexy women?’

‘No, but the men are dishy,’ she said, as she closed the dishwasher and began to lay the table for breakfast.

‘Dare I ask?’

‘The Guns of Navarone, starring David Niven and Gregory Peck,’ said Beth, as they strolled through to the living room.

‘I would have preferred Kerry Dixon scoring the winning goal against Arsenal.’

‘Well then, you’re out of luck. But before David Niven strokes my forehead, there’s something a little more serious I have to discuss with you.’

‘That sounds ominous.’

‘There’s a major appointment coming up at the Fitzmolean.’

‘Will you be applying?’

‘No, I’m not qualified for the job. But you are,’ Beth said as she lowered herself gently onto the sofa and took his hand.

‘Enlighten me, as the Hawk would say.’

‘The Fitz is looking for a new head of security.’

‘Sounds exciting,’ said William, stifling a yawn.

‘What’s exciting about it is that the hours are nine to five, five days a week, with three weeks’ holiday a year. And the clincher is that the pay’s better than you’re getting as a detective sergeant with the Met.’

‘Sounds to me like a job for a retired officer who wants to supplement his pension.’

‘I knew you’d say that. But at least promise me you’ll think about it.’

‘I already have. Now can we watch the film?’

‘Not yet, because I have another piece of news that’s not quite so pleasing.’

‘You’d be my boss?’

‘I already am. Be serious for a moment,’ she said, not letting go of his hand. ‘Christina called just before you got back this evening. She sounded in a dreadful state. Said she needed to see me urgently. My first thought was she must have changed her mind about giving us the Vermeer.’

‘It wouldn’t have been mine,’ said William. ‘But then you’ve always been a glass half-empty person.’

‘But it’s the official unveiling next week, just in case you’ve forgotten.’

‘I expect she’s just over-reacting to something her ex-husband has done,’ he said, as he switched on the TV. ‘But what exactly can he get up to while he’s in jail?’

‘I don’t know, but she did sound desperate,’ Beth said, as the opening titles began to roll. ‘And I wouldn’t know what to do if she—’

‘Shh,’ said William, as she settled in his arms. ‘This looks quite promising.’

Beth was beginning to enjoy the company of David Niven and Gregory Peck, even if William had fallen asleep, when, to her surprise, he suddenly sat bolt upright and said, ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’

‘Think of what?’ said Beth.

‘How to get into a building without being seen.’

They’d agreed to meet at the Fitzmolean at nine the following morning, which only made Beth more apprehensive. Nine o’clock was not an hour she normally associated with Christina. It didn’t help that Christina burst into tears the moment she saw a picture draped in a velvet cloth hanging in the entrance hall. She began to tell Beth in fits and starts why she needed to see her so urgently. Beth began to wonder if she’d seen The White Lace Collar for the last time.

‘He’s done what?’ she said, unable to believe what Christina was telling her.

‘Miles has burnt down the house and stolen my pictures.’

‘But he’s in jail.’

‘Surrounded by some of the country’s leading criminals, who would have been only too happy to oblige, as long as the price was right.’

‘Well, at least you have one consolation,’ said Beth. ‘The insurance will cover your loss.’

‘No, it won’t.’

‘How come?’

‘Because Miles deliberately let the insurance lapse.’

‘But didn’t the insurance company warn you that the policy was about to expire?’

‘Yes, they did. But because I already had an offer on the table of five million for Limpton Hall, and the buyer had put down a deposit of half a million, I assumed the sale would be completed quickly. But of course, the buyer has now withdrawn his offer, and wants his deposit back.’

‘Understandably,’ said Beth, while she tried to think about the consequences. ‘But why didn’t you at least reinsure the paintings?’

‘Because once they were in Christie’s possession, they’d be covered by their overall company policy. I’d already signed a contract with them, and the pictures were due to be collected on Monday, so I didn’t give it a thought. Although Miles clearly had.’

‘But if he did get someone to burn the house down, there’s certain to be a police investigation, bearing in mind who’s involved.’

‘Unlikely,’ said Christina. ‘No insurance company had to pay up, and the chief fire examiner’s report states that he found no reason to suspect arson. An old house with faulty wiring, and no one on the premises at the time.’

‘What a nightmare,’ said Beth.

‘All dreamt up by Miles. And it gets worse. I’ve put down a deposit on my dream home in Florida, and if I don’t complete in less than three weeks...’ Christina burst into tears. ‘And it doesn’t help that I know he’s stolen the pictures and got away with it.’

‘But you told me Miles had informed Christie’s that if they came up for auction, he would be bidding for them.’

‘Only because he was well aware that he’d never have to. Like the deposit on the house, it was all part of an elaborate ploy. And I fell for it.’

‘Then we’ve got to find the pictures and make sure he doesn’t get away with it.’

‘It’s far too late for that. They’ll be halfway around the world by now.’

‘Forgive me for asking,’ said Beth, ‘but does that mean the gallery will have to return the Vermeer?’

‘I don’t have any choice,’ said Christina. ‘Otherwise I’ll lose my deposit on the house in Florida and be completely wiped out.’ She paused. ‘Which is clearly what Miles had always planned.’

Beth didn’t speak for some time, until she eventually said, ‘Unless of course William was able to prove that Miles had removed the pictures before he burnt the house down.’

‘Do you by any chance have any contacts in the SAS, sir?’

‘Thinking of joining up, William?’ asked Hawksby, looking up from behind his desk.

‘Not at the moment, sir.’

‘Then why do you need to know?’

‘I think I may have come up with a way to get into Rashidi’s slaughter without having to take the stairs or the lift.’

‘When I did my national service,’ said the Hawk, ‘my commanding officer was a Major Jock Stewart, who’d played scrum half for the army and boxed for the regiment. But his exploits as a young lieutenant with the SAS during the Second World War are the stuff of fiction. A cross between Biggles and Richard Hannay.’

‘Sounds like the ideal man,’ said William. ‘How do I get in touch with him?’

‘You don’t get in touch with the SAS. They get in touch with you, and then only when they plan to kill you.’

‘Very droll, sir. And if I don’t want to be killed?’

‘Stewart ended up as a colonel in the Coldstream Guards, so their regimental adjutant will probably know how to contact him. But be warned. If he growls, start looking for some undergrowth.’