False Impression (47 page)

The dog sank to
the ground, whimpering in pain. Krantz leant forward, pulled up his silken ears
and with one final movement finished off the job.

Krantz dragged
both dogs into the copse and dumped them behind a fallen oak. She then washed
her hands in the stream, annoyed to find her brand-new tracksuit was covered in
blood. She finally wiped the knife on the grass, before replacing it in its
sheath. She checked her watch. She had allocated two hours for the entire
operation, so she reckoned she still had over an hour before those in the
house, occupied with either serving or being served, would notice the dogs had
not returned from their evening constitutional.

The distance
between the copse and the north end of the house Krantz estimated to be a
hundred, perhaps a hundred and twenty yards. With the moon throwing out such a
clear light, if only intermittently, she knew that there was only one form of
movement that would go unobserved.

She fell to her
knees before lying flat on the grass. She first placed one arm in front of her,
followed by one leg, the second arm, then the second leg, and finally she eased
her body forward.

Her record for a
hundred yards as a human crab was seven minutes and nineteen seconds.
Occasionally, she would stop and raise her head to study the layout of the house
so that she could consider her point of entry. The ground floor was ablaze with
light, while the first floor was almost in darkness. The second floor, where
the servants resided, had only one light on. Krantz wasn’t interested in the
second floor. The person she was looking for would be on the ground floor, and
later the first.

When Krantz was
within ten yards of the house, she slowed each movement down until she felt a
finger touch the outer wall.

She lay still,
cocked her head to one side and used the light of the moon to study the edifice
more carefully. Only great estates still boasted drainpipes of that size. When
you’ve performed a somersault on a four-inch-wide beam, a drainpipe that
prominent is a ladder.

Krantz next
checked the windows of the large room where the most noise was coming from.
Although the heavy curtains were drawn, she spotted one affording a slight
chink. She moved even more slowly towards the noise and laughter. When she
reached the window, she pushed herself up onto her knees until one eye was in
line with the tiny gap in the curtain.

The first thing
she saw was a man dressed in a dinner jacket.

He was on his
feet, a glass of champagne in one hand as if proposing a toast. She couldn’t hear
what he was saying, but then she wasn’t interested. Her eyes swept that part of
the room she could see. At one end of the table sat a lady in a long silk dress
with her back to the window, looking intently at the man delivering the
impromptu speech. Krantz’s eyes rested on her diamond necklace, but that wasn’t
her trade. Her speciality was two or three inches above the sparkling gems.

She turned her
attention to the other end of the table. She almost smiled when she saw who was
eating pheasant and sipping a glass of wine. When Petrescu retired to bed later
that night,

Krantz would be
waiting for her, hidden in a place she would least expect to find her.

Krantz glanced
towards the man in the black tailcoat who had opened the door to let the dogs
out. He was now standing behind the lady wearing the silk gown, refilling her
glass with
wine,
while other servants removed plates
and one did nothing more than scrape crumbs from the table into a silver tray.
Krantz remained absolutely still while her eyes continued to move around the
room, searching for the other throat Fenston had sent her to cut.

‘Lady Arabella,
I rise to thank you for your kindness and hospitality. I have much enjoyed
trout from the River Test, and pheasant shot on your estate, while in the company
of two remarkable women. But tonight will remain memorable for me for many
other reasons. Not least, that I will leave Wentworth Hall tomorrow with two
unique additions to my collection – one of the finest examples of Van Gogh’s
work, as well as one of the most talented young professionals in her field, who
has agreed to be the CEO of my foundation. Your great-grandfather,’ said
Nakamura, turning to face his hostess, ‘was wise enough in 1889, over a century
ago, to purchase from Dr Gachet the self-portrait of his close friend, Vincent
Van Gogh. Tomorrow, that masterpiece will begin a journey to the other side of
the world, but I must warn you, Arabella, that after only a few hours in your
home, I have my eye on another of your national treasures, and this time I
would be willing to pay well over the odds.’

Which one, may I
ask?’ said Arabella.

Krantz decided
that it was time to move on.

She crept slowly
towards the north end of the building, unaware that the massive corner stones
had been an architectural delight to Sir John Vanbrugh; to her they formed
perfectly proportioned footholds to the first floor.

She climbed up
onto the first-floor balcony in less than two minutes, and paused for a moment
to consider how many bedrooms she might have to enter. She knew that while
there were guests in the house there was no reason to think any of the rooms
would be alarmed, and because of the age of the building, entry wouldn’t have
caused much difficulty for a burglar on his first outing. With the aid of her
knife, Krantz slipped the bolt on the window of the first room. Once inside,
she didn’t fumble around for a light but switched on a slim-line pen torch,
which illuminated an area about the size of a small television screen. The
square of light moved across the wall, illuminating picture after picture, and
although Hals, Hobbema and Van Goyen would have delighted most connoisseurs’
eyes, Krantz passed quickly over them in search of another Dutch master. Once
she had given cursory consideration to every painting in the room, she switched
off the torch and headed back to the balcony. She entered the second guest
bedroom as Arabella rose to thank Mr Nakamura for his gracious speech.

Once again
Krantz studied each canvas, and once again none brought a smile to her lips.
She quickly returned to the parapet, as the butler offered Mr Nakamura a port
and opened the cigar box.

Mr Nakamura
allowed Andrews to pour him a Taylor’s 47. When the butler returned to his
mistress at the other end of the table,

Arabella
declined the port, but rolled several cigars between her thumb and forefinger
before she selected a Monte Cristo. As the butler struck a match for his
mistress, Arabella smiled. Everything was going to plan.

K
rantz had
covered five bedrooms by the time Arabella invited her guests to join her in
the drawing room for coffee. There were still another nine rooms left to
consider, and Krantz was aware that not only was she running out of time, but
she wouldn’t be given a second chance.

She moved
swiftly to the next room, where someone who believed in fresh air had left a
window wide open. She switched on her torch, to be greeted by a steely glare
from the Iron Duke. She moved on to the next picture, just as Mr Nakamura
placed his coffee cup back on the side table and rose from his place. ‘I think
it is time for me to retire to bed, Lady Arabella,’ he said, ‘in case those
dull men of Corns Steel feel I have lost my edge.’ He turned to Anna. ‘I look
forward to seeing you in the morning, when we might discuss over breakfast any
ideas you have for developing my collection, and perhaps even your
remuneration.’

‘But you have
already made it clear what you think I am worth,’ said Anna.

‘I don’t recall
that,’ said Nakamura, looking puzzled.

‘Oh yes,’ said
Anna, with a smile. ‘I well remember your suggestion that Fenston had convinced
you that I was worth five hundred dollars a day.’

‘You have taken
advantage of an old man,’ said Nakamura with a smile, ‘but I shall not go back
on my word.’

Krantz thought
she heard a door close, and without giving Wellington a second look returned
quickly to the balcony. She needed the use of her knife to secure entry into
the next room.

She moved
stealthily across the floor, coming to a halt at the end of another four-poster
bed. She switched on the torch, expecting to be greeted by a blank wall.
But not this time.

The insane eyes
of a genius stared at her. The insane eyes of an assassin stared back.

Krantz smiled
for the second time that day. She climbed up onto the bed and crawled slowly
towards her next victim. She was within inches of the canvas when she
unsheathed her knife, raised it above her head and was about to plunge the
blade into the neck of Van Gogh, when she remembered what Fenston had insisted
on, if she hoped to collect four million rather than three. She switched off
her torch, climbed down from the bed onto the thick carpet and crawled under
the four-poster. She lay flat on her back and waited.

As Arabella and
her guests strolled out of the drawing room and into the hallway, she asked Andrews
if Brunswick and Picton had returned.

‘No, m’lady,’
the butler replied, ‘but there are a lot of rabbits about tonight.’

‘Then I shall go
and fetch the rascals myself,’ muttered Arabella and, turning to her guests,
added, ‘Sleep well. I’ll see you both at breakfast.’

Nakamura bowed
before accompanying Anna up the staircase, again stopping occasionally to
admire Arabella’s ancestors, who gazed back at him.

‘You will
forgive me, Anna,’ he said, ‘for taking my time, but I may not be given the opportunity
of meeting these gentlemen again.’

Anna smiled as
she left him to admire the Romney of Mrs Siddons.

She continued on
down the corridor, coming to a halt outside the Van Gogh room. She opened the
bedroom door and switched on the light, stopping for a moment to admire the
portrait of Van Gogh.

She took off her
dress and hung it in the wardrobe, placing the rest of her clothes on the sofa
at the end of the four-poster. She then turned on the light by the side of the
bed and checked her watch.

It was just
after eleven. She disappeared into the bathroom.

When Krantz
heard the sound of a shower, she slid out from under the canopy and knelt
beside the bed. She cocked an ear, like an attentive animal sniffing the wind.
The shower was still running. She stood up, walked across to the door and
switched off the bedroom light, while leaving on the reading light by the side
of the bed. She pulled back the covers on the other side of the bed and climbed
carefully in. She took one last look at the Van Gogh, before neatly replacing
the blanket and cover over her head and finally disappearing under the sheet.
Krantz lay flat and didn’t move a muscle. She was so slight that she barely
made an impression in the half light. Although she remained secreted under the
sheets, she heard the shower being turned off. This was followed by silence.
Anna must have been drying herself, and then she heard a switch being flicked
off – the bathroom light, followed by the sound of a door closing.

Krantz extracted
the knife from its tailor-made sheath and gripped the handle firmly as Anna
walked back into the bedroom.

Anna slipped
under the covers on her side of the bed and immediately turned on one side,
stretching out an arm to switch off the bedside light. She lowered her head on
to the soft goose feather pillow. As she drifted into those first moments of
slumber, her last thought was that the evening could hardly have gone better.
Mr Nakamura had not only closed the deal, but offered her a job. What more
could she ask for?

Anna was drifting
off to sleep when Krantz leant across and touched her back with the tip of her
forefinger. She ran the finger tip down her spine and onto her buttocks, coming
to a halt at the top of her thigh. Anna sighed. Krantz paused for a moment,
before placing her hand between Anna’s legs.

Was she
dreaming, or was someone touching her, Anna wondered, as she lay in that
semi-conscious state before falling asleep.

She didn’t move
a muscle. It wasn’t possible that someone else could be in the bed. She must be
dreaming. That was when she felt the cold steel of a blade as it slipped in
between her thighs.

Suddenly Anna
was wide awake, a thousand thoughts rushing through her mind. She was about to
throw the blanket back and dive onto the floor, when a voice said quietly but
firmly, ‘Don’t even think about moving, not even a muscle; you have a six-inch
knife between your legs, and the blade is facing upwards.’ Anna didn’t move.
‘If you as much as murmur, I’ll slit you up from your crotch to your throat,
and you’ll live just long enough to wish you were dead.’

Anna felt the
steel of the blade wedged between her thighs and tried hard not to move,
although she couldn’t stop trembling.

If you follow my
instructions to the letter,’ said Krantz, ‘you might just live, but don’t count
on it.’

Anna didn’t, and
knew that if she was to have the slightest chance of survival, she would have
to play for time. What do you want?’ she asked.

‘I told you not
to murmur,’ repeated Krantz, moving the knife up between Anna’s thighs until
the blade was a centimetre from the clitoris. Anna didn’t argue.