The Samurai Inheritance

EPILOGUE

‘And this is where you’ll be staying until the end of the school holidays,’ Jamie explained to Lizzie when they emerged from the lift at the Kensington High Street flat. ‘The park is just along the road and there’s a pond with ducks.’

‘And shops?’ the little girl cried.

‘Oh, enough shops to keep even your mummy happy.’ He grinned at Fiona. She returned it with a look of appraisal. They still had a few things to work out. She wasn’t too happy he hadn’t warned her how foolish she’d been to be seduced by Keith Devlin’s grand scheme, or how he’d risked his neck while she and Lizzie had flown off to Port Moresby and safety. In addition, when he’d mentioned Magda Ross she’d read something in his voice that shouldn’t have been there and he’d found himself saying less than he intended. An unanswered question of trust acted as a barrier to a complete renewal of their previous relationship. The damage Devlin had done went more than skin deep.

Jamie had no idea how he’d feel having Lizzie living in the flat with them, but he was willing to give it a try. Michael’s bosses in Canberra had advised safety in numbers for their potential witnesses while they were making certain they had the lid on Devlin and his cronies. Jamie also had a feeling Madam Nishimura might cast a shadow long enough to reach London. Overall it had seemed too good an opportunity to pass up.

He laid down their suitcases and was about to put the key in the lock when a creak alerted him to the door opening on the far side of the hall.

‘Mrs Laurence.’ Jamie turned to greet his elderly neighbour. A wizened face was just visible in the gap, suspicious eyes taking in the newcomers. He decided a preemptive strike was in order. ‘This is my partner Fiona and her daughter, Lizzie.’ He smiled. ‘They’re going to be staying for a while.’

The eyes narrowed and he winced at the prospect of the lecture on morals and how things had never been like that in her day, but she surprised him. ‘I hope you don’t mind that I let them in with the spare key, Mr Saintclair. They brought it on Tuesday and I didn’t want it lying about the flat. I watched them every second they were in the house,’ she assured him. ‘And they left this with me.’ She handed him a white envelope that proved to have something solid inside.

‘Brought what, Mrs Laurence?’ He frowned.

‘Your package.’

‘I wasn’t expecting a package.’ Jamie went very still.

‘It was about this size.’ She indicated an object about three feet high and two feet wide and Jamie relaxed. In his experience lethal surprises tended to be on a smaller scale. ‘I didn’t have room for it. I’m not a storehouse, you know.’

‘I appreciate you dealing with it for me, Iris.’ He thanked her and she sniffed and disappeared back indoors.

Jamie turned to Fiona. ‘Maybe you’d better stay out here while I check it out?’

‘No way, Jamie Saintclair.’ She shook her head. ‘I thought I’d made it clear on the plane home. Either we’re all in this together or we’re not in it at all.’

‘Okay, have it your way, but keep Lizzie with you.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s probably just something I ordered and forgot about.’ The big oak door opened smoothly to release the familiar welcoming scent of Victoriana that always greeted him after an extended absence; a sort of museum smell of age and dust and slow, glacial decay, caused by the years taking their toll on wood and brick and plaster. The ‘package’ lay against the side of his green leather Chesterfield, a sturdy cardboard box of slightly larger dimensions than Mrs Laurence had indicated and about ten inches deep. He approached it warily. A label with his name and address on it, but — he turned it over — no return address or sender’s name. No suggestion of who the carriers were.

‘Why don’t you show Lizzie her bedroom?’ Fiona opened her mouth to protest, but he put a finger to her lips. ‘I don’t think it’s anything dangerous, but I’d like to be sure. No point all three of us being here. In any case, I’m more intrigued than concerned. Anyone sending me a painting — if that’s what this is — would normally send it to the office.’

‘All right,’ she said warily, ‘you’re the boss.’

He grinned. ‘I’m not so sure about that.’

When he was alone he used the blade of a paper knife to pry open the staples that held the cardboard closed. It took him about five minutes to slide the contents free, and if anything he was left even more puzzled. An aluminium container almost like a small suitcase. It was padlocked. He opened the envelope to find a silver key.

He took a deep breath and snapped back the lid to reveal a bubble-wrapped package. The bubble wrap was fixed with sticky tape and it took another search for a pair of scissors before he could begin to unwind it.

‘Christ,’ he swore in exasperation.

It was now clear what object he was dealing with, but the true identity still lay hidden beneath a layer of brown paper. Slowly, he peeled it back.

For a moment he would swear his heart stopped. If people did die on the operating table and came back this must be what it was like, this floating above the scene looking down at yourself and the explosion of gold that had burst from the wrapping to temporarily end your life.

‘It can’t be.’

But as he floated back down to rejoin the earthly remains of Jamie Saintclair it became clear that it could. A simple painting. Still life, in the post-Impressionist style. Three blooms, in a stubby, green-glazed vase against an aquamarine background. A Post-it note was fixed to the bottom left hand corner of the frame: It’s all yours, AB.

I want you to track down the person who took my friend’s painting and negotiate its recovery.

‘You look as if you need this.’ Jamie looked up as Fiona emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray with teapot and cups, followed by her daughter. ‘What was it anyway?’ She looked over his shoulder and her eyes widened. ‘Not a bomb then?’

Jamie Saintclair, art dealer and temporary owner of one of the most valuable paintings on the planet, regarded his partner with a dazed smile as Lizzie came to join them in the glow of Vincent Van Gogh’s golden sunflowers.

‘Not the kind you can defuse.’