False Impression (18 page)

Anna was
so
deep in thought as she considered every possibility that
she nearly missed her exit for Heathrow. Once she had turned off the M25, she
drove on past the signs for terminals one, two, three and four, and headed for
the cargo depots just off the Southern Perimeter Road.

She parked her car
in a visitor’s space directly outside the offices of Art Locations. She sat in
the car for some time, trying to compose herself. Why didn’t she just drive
off? She didn’t need to become involved, or even consider taking such a risk.
She then thought about Victoria, and the role she had unwittingly played in her
death. ‘Get on with it, woman,’ Anna said out loud. They either know, or they
don’t, and if they’ve already been tipped off, you’ll be back in the car in
less than two minutes.’ Anna looked in the mirror. Were there any giveaway
signs? ‘Get on with it,’ she admonished herself even more firmly, and finally
opened the car door. She took a deep breath as she strolled across the tarmac
towards the entrance of the building.

She pushed
through the swing doors and came face to face with a receptionist she’d never
seen before. Not a good start.

‘Is Ruth
around?’ Anna asked cheerily, as if she popped by the office every day.

‘No, she’s
having lunch at the Royal Academy to discuss the upcoming Rembrandt exhibition.’

Anna’s heart
sank.

‘But I’m
expecting her back at any moment.’

‘Then I’ll
wait,’ Anna said with a smile.

She took a seat
in reception. She picked up an out-of-date copy of Newsweek, with Al Gore on
the cover, and flicked through the pages. She found herself continually looking
up at the clock above the reception desk, watching the slow progress of the
minute hand:

3.10,
3.15, 3.20.

Ruth finally
walked through the door at 3.22 pm. ‘Any messages?’ she asked the receptionist.

‘No,’ replied
the girl, ‘but there is a lady waiting to see you.’

Anna held her
breath as Ruth swung around.

‘Anna,’ she
exclaimed. ‘It’s good to see you.’ First hurdle crossed. ‘I wondered if you’d
still be on this assignment after the tragedy in New York.’ Second hurdle crossed.
‘Especially when your boss told me that Mr Leapman would be coming across to
collect the picture personally.’ Third hurdle crossed. No one had told Ruth she
was missing, presumed dead.

‘You look a bit
pale,’ continued Ruth. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ said
Anna, stumbling over the fourth hurdle, but at least she was still on her feet,
even if there were another six hurdles to cross before the finishing line.

Where were you
on the eleventh?’ asked Ruth with concern.

“We feared the
worst. I would have asked Mr Fenston, but he never gives you a chance to ask
anything.’

‘Covering a sale
in Amsterdam,’ Anna replied, ‘but Karl Leapman called me last night and asked
me to fly over and double check everything was in place, so that when he
arrives all we have to do is load the picture onto the plane.’

We’re more than
ready for him,’ said Ruth testily, ‘but I’ll drive you across to the warehouse
and you can see for yourself. Just hang on for a minute. I need to see if I’ve
had any calls and let my secretary know where I’m going.’

Anna paced
anxiously up and down, wondering if Ruth would call New York to check her
story. But why should she? Ruth had never dealt with anyone else in the past.

Ruth was back
within a couple of minutes. ‘This just arrived on my desk,’ she said, handing
Anna an email. Anna’s heart sank.

‘Confirming
that Mr Leapman is scheduled to land around seven, seven thirty, this evening.
He expects us
to be waiting on the runway, ready to load the painting, as he’s hoping to turn
round in less than an hour.’

‘That sounds
like Leapman,’ said Anna.

‘Then we’d
better get moving,’ said Ruth, as she began walking towards the door.

Anna nodded her
agreement, followed her out of the building and jumped into the passenger seat
of Ruth’s Range Rover.

‘Terrible
business, Lady Victoria,’ said Ruth as she swung the car round and headed for
the south end of the cargo terminal.

The press are
making a real meal of the murder – mystery killer, throat cut with a kitchen
knife – but the police still haven’t arrested anyone.’

Anna remained
silent, the words ‘throat cut’ and ‘mystery killer’ reverberating in her mind.
Was that why Arabella had told her that she was a brave woman?

Ruth pulled up
outside an anonymous-looking concrete building, which Anna had visited several
times in the past. She checked her watch: 3.40 pm.

Ruth flashed a
security pass to the guard, who immediately unlocked the three-inch steel door.
He accompanied them both down a long, grey concrete corridor that always felt
like a bunker to Anna. He stopped at a second security door, this time with a
digital pad. Ruth waited for the guard to stand back before she entered a
six-digit number. She pulled open the heavy door, allowing them to enter a
square concrete room. A thermometer on the wall indicated a temperature of 20
degrees centigrade.

The room was
lined with wooden shelves, which were stacked with pictures waiting to be
transported to different parts of the world, all packed in Art Locations’ distinctive
red boxes. Ruth checked her inventory, before walking across die room and
looking up at a row of shelves. She tapped a crate showing the number 47
stencilled in all four corners.

Anna strolled
across to join her, playing for time. She also checked the inventory, number
forty-seven, Vincent Van Gogh, Self-portrait with Bandaged Ear, 24 by 18
inches.

‘Everything
seems to be in order,’ said Anna, as the guard reappeared at the door.

‘Sorry to
interrupt you, Ms Parish, but there are two security men from Sotheby’s
outside, say they’ve been instructed to pick up a Van Gogh for valuation/

‘Do you know
anything about this?’ asked Ruth, turning to face Anna.

‘Oh, yes,’ said
Anna, not missing a beat, ‘the chairman instructed me to have the Van Gogh
valued for insurance purposes before it’s shipped to New York. They’ll only
need the piece for about an hour, and then they will send it straight back.’

‘Mr Leapman
didn’t mention anything about this,’ said Ruth. ‘It wasn’t in his email.’

‘Frankly,’ said
Anna, ‘Leapman’s such a philistine, he wouldn’t know the difference between Van
Gogh and Van Morrison.’ Anna paused for a moment. Normally she never took
risks, but she couldn’t afford to let Ruth call Fenston and check. ‘If you’re
in any doubt, why don’t you call New York and have a word with Fenston?’ she
said. ‘That should clear the matter up.’

Anna waited
nervously as Ruth considered her suggestion.

‘And have my
head bitten off again,’ said Ruth eventually. ‘No, thank you, I think I’ll take
your word for it. That’s assuming you will take responsibility for signing the
release order?’

‘Of course,’
said Anna, adding, ‘That’s no more than my fiduciary duty as an officer of the
bank,’ hoping her reply sounded suitably pompous.

‘And you’ll also
explain the change of plan to Mr Leapman?’

‘That won’t be
necessary,’ said Anna, ‘the painting will be back long before his plane lands.’

Ruth looked
relieved, and turning to the guard said, ‘It’s number forty-seven.’

They both
accompanied the guard as he removed the red packing case from the shelf and
carried it out to the Sotheby’s security van.

‘Sign here,’
said the driver.

Anna stepped
forward and signed the release document.

When will you be
bringing the picture back?’ Ruth asked the driver.

‘I don’t know
anything about...’

‘I asked Mark
Poltimore to return the painting within a couple of hours,’ interjected Anna.

‘It had better
be back before Mr Leapman lands,’ said Ruth,

‘
because
I don’t need to get on the wrong side of that man.’

‘Would you be
happier if I accompanied the painting to Sotheby’s?’ asked Anna innocently.
‘Then perhaps I can speed up the whole process.’

‘Would you be
willing to do that?’ asked Ruth.

‘It might be
wise given the circumstances,’ said Anna, and she climbed up into the front of
the van and took the seat between the two men.

Ruth waved as
the van disappeared through the perimeter gate and joined the late-afternoon
traffic on its journey into London.

B
ryce Fenston’s
Gulfstream V executive jet touched down at Heathrow at 7.22 pm, and Ruth was
standing on the tarmac waiting to greet the bank’s representative. She had
already alerted customs with all the relevant details so that the paperwork
could be completed just as soon as Anna returned.

For the past hour,
Ruth had spent more and more time looking towards the main gate, willing die
security van to reappear. She had already rung Sotheby’s, and was assured by
the girl in their Impressionist department that the painting had arrived. But
that was more than two hours ago. Perhaps she should have called the States to
double-check, but why question one of your most reliable customers. Ruth turned
her attention back to the jet and decided to say nothing. After all, Anna was
certain to turn up in the next few minutes.

The fuselage
door opened and the steps unfolded onto the ground. The stewardess stood to one
side to allow her only passenger to leave the plane. Karl Leapman stepped onto
the tarmac and shook hands with Ruth, before joining her in the back of an airport
limousine for the short journey to the private lounge.

He didn’t bother
to introduce himself, just assumed she would know who he was.

‘Any problems?’
asked Leapman.

‘None that I can
think of,’ replied Ruth confidently, as the driver pulled up outside the
executive building. We’ve carried out your instructions to the letter, despite
the tragic death of Lady Victoria.’

‘Yeah,’ said
Leapman as he stepped out of the car. ‘The company will be sending a wreath to
her funeral,’ and without pausing, added, ‘is everything ready for a quick
turnaround?’

‘Yes,’ said
Ruth. We’ll begin loading the moment the captain has finished refuelling –
shouldn’t be more than an hour. Then you can be on your way.’

‘I’m glad to
hear it,’ said Leapman, pushing through the swing doors. We have a slot booked
for eight thirty and I don’t want to miss it.’

‘Then perhaps it
might be more sensible if I left you, to oversee the transfer,’ said Ruth, ‘but
I’ll report back the moment the painting is safely on board.’

Leapman nodded
and sank back in a leather chair. Ruth turned to leave.

‘Can I get you a
drink, sir?’ asked the barman.

‘Scotch on the
rocks,’ said Leapman, scanning the short dinner menu.

As Ruth reached
the door, she turned and said, When Anna comes back, would you tell her I’ll be
over at customs, waiting to complete the paperwork?’

‘Anna?’
exclaimed Leapman, jumping out of his chair.

‘Yes, she’s been
around for most of the afternoon.’

‘Doing what?’
Leapman demanded as he advanced towards Ruth.

‘Just checking
over the manifest,’ Ruth said, trying to sound relaxed, ‘and making sure that
Mr Fenston’s orders were carried out.’

What orders?’
barked Leapman.

‘To send the Van
Gogh to Sotheby’s for an insurance valuation.’

‘The chairman
gave no such order,’ said Leapman.

‘But Sotheby’s
sent their van, and Dr Petrescu confirmed the instruction.’

‘Petrescu was
fired three days ago. Get me Sotheby’s on the line, now.’

Ruth ran across
to the phone and dialled the main number.

Who does she
deal with at Sotheby’s?’

‘Mark
Poltimore,’ Ruth said, handing the phone across to Leapman.

Toltimore,’ he
barked, the moment he heard the word Sotheby’s, then realized he was addressing
an answering machine.

Leapman slammed
down the phone. ‘Do you have his home number?’

‘No,’ said Ruth,
‘but I have a mobile.’

‘Then call it.’

Ruth quickly
looked up the number on her palm pilot and began dialling again.

‘Mark?’ she
said.

Leapman snatched
the phone from her.
Toltimore?’

‘Speaking.’

‘My name is
Leapman. I’m the...’

‘I know who you
are, Mr Leapman,’ said Mark.

‘Good, because I
understand you are in possession of our Van Gogh.’

‘Was, would be
more accurate,’ replied Mark, ‘until Dr Petrescu, your art director, informed
us, even before we’d had a chance to examine the painting, that you’d had a
change of heart and wanted the canvas taken straight back to Heathrow for
immediate transport to New York.’