“I will,” carried on Pole.
“Now let’s move onto another subject if I may. What is your relationship to Mr and Mrs Albert?”
Allner-Smith pushed his chair back in a move to go.
“I am not sure I want to carry on with this conversation, Inspector. I came in good faith and you are now throwing some pretty unpleasant suggestions my way.”
“And we appreciate your cooperation greatly, Mr Allner-Smith, as well as your contribution in enlightening us to the true value of these antiquities.”
Pole sounded sarcastic but no matter. Brett Allner-Smith still wanted to get his side of the story across before, or at least at the same time, as Adeila did. Pole now simply wanted to listen, to hear the man speak about himself and the Alberts. But Allner-Smith had decided on another tack altogether.
“Well, Inspector, may I interest you in another relationship? One that was worthy of a Greek tragedy, Mr Crowne and Mr Albert,” said Allner-Smith resuming his emphatic tone.
“What about it?” said Pole.
“Ah, well, you must be aware that Mr Crowne and Mr Albert were rivals in many ways?” Allner-Smith paused for effect. “Everyone knows of their rivalry in the City. Although I cannot speak of this as it would only be hearsay on my part but I can certainly vouch for it in the auction rooms.”
“Please indulge us and do enlighten us further.”
“I have witnessed, as you can imagine, many a battle at both Christie’s and Sotheby’s but Crowne and Albert had a memorable confrontation a couple of years ago.”
Pole stayed silent. Allner-Smith was on a roll. “The desired piece was another oriental artefact, a small terracotta warrior that was almost certainly a miniature version of the larger and well-known terracotta warriors of Emperor Qin Shi Huang, first Emperor of China.” Allner-Smith cleared his throat and continued. “We presume that the small version had been used as a miniature copy of what the larger pieces would look like. A sort of proof, to be shown to the Emperor for approval before the production began.”
Pole nodded in acknowledgement but Allner-Smith did not notice.
“It is very rare that an auction is done by the bidders directly. Usually agents are involved to shield the identity of the purchasers. It is equally unusual to have the bidders in the same room. Exceptional pieces attract bids from all over the world.”
“Albert and Crowne were there in person?”
“The bid started relatively low for such an exceptional artefact, at £150,000. Crowne has always had a fascination for Asian pieces and even I have to admit his collection is rather good.”
“What about Albert?” asked Pole.
“Albert had not noticed it until the bid started. I can’t imagine where it would fit in his collection. Mrs Albert is not particularly fond of Asian pieces, unfortunately.”
“This battle was more a ‘mine is bigger than yours’, I presume.”
“That is a rather crude way of putting it, Inspector! But I suppose yes it was. In fact, that’s a rather fitting description of the mentality of the two protagonists.”
Allner-Smith had become very animated, the electric atmosphere of the auction still in his mind.
“Crowne immediately doubled the bid to £300,000, a clear indication that the bidder was not going to mess about. It does away with small opponents but Albert added another £150,000 right away, £450,000 – within three minutes the price had tripled.”
“£150,000 per minute, the auction house must have been ecstatic,” remarked Pole.
“An exceptional piece, Inspector. Still Crowne would not give in; he added £50,000. Half a million pounds, just like that. Adeila was furious. She had her eyes on another object and Anthony was ruining her prospects of getting it. I could see her arguing with him but he was not having any of it. He was on the phone to his private banker. How far could he go?”
“So, Albert increased the price?” guessed Pole.
“Indeed. Albert increases the bid by £30,000. We are talking £530,000. The entire room is on edge. We are all holding our breath, me included. But Crowne was magnificent. I have to admit it, on that occasion, I was impressed. Final bid £600,000. Adeila left the room. She had said only one word to Anthony and the hammer fell. The room did not move, unbelievable. The sale was sealed in less than five minutes.”
“Albert must have been gutted,” said Nurani.
Pole smiled at the expression. But Allner-Smith shook his head in complete agreement.
“That he was.”
“Did he stop because of his wife?”
“I am not quite sure, Inspector. I did not think it wise or discreet to discuss it with Mrs Albert.”
“Could you say a little more maybe? The relationship with Mrs Albert and her husband seemed tense.”
Allner-Smith relaxed. He had set the scene the way he wanted. He described the first meeting with the Alberts and an evolving relationship that developed through various organised auctions and grand receptions. Pole knew that Allner-Smith had rehearsed his story. He was a good storyteller though. He used his talent to make the events credible and enjoyable, without too much flourish, peppered with plausible anecdotes, deliberately vague or forgetful when asked for details by Pole or Nurani. To an untrained ear it would have sounded honest and justifiably imprecise, suitably depicting Adeila Albert as a highly charged, difficult woman whose marriage was at an end, a deluded woman when it came to other men. In short, he thought her to be a modern Madame Bovary, as he put it himself. Pole and Nurani listened, nodding encouragingly, letting their interlocutor unfold his story without interruption. Pole saw the art of the conman in Allner-Smith. He modulated his voice, his speech, his body language effortlessly. It was clear that he had managed to convince Nurani of his story. Her first reaction of distrust was now replaced by a neutral or perhaps favourable opinion. She was not enthusiastic but she was finding him plausible. Pole had to rein in his own judgement, consciously standing back.
“Adeila was desperate to buy a new painting, a portrait by a small Dutch master from the seventeenth century. Anthony was not at all convinced. A great shame as the painting was well executed. Of course, events overtook us.” Allner-Smith had finished his story. Albert’s death did not seem to either bother or concern him.
“Many thanks for this very thorough account,” said Pole. “It will help us greatly in forming a picture of the situation.”
Pole emphasised the word situation in a conciliatory voice giving Allner-Smith the reassurance he was looking for. He rose, pressing a button on his mobile and signalling that the interview was over. Nurani stood up and managed a small smile at Allner-Smith. He responded with a courteous smile, extended his hand towards her, making contact.
“Let me show you out, Mr Allner-Smith.”
Pole’s voice sounded almost friendly. Brett looked content, hiding his feeling of success.
Both men walked down the corridor, exchanging banalities about taxi availability outside Scotland Yard. Allner-Smith was keen to get back to work even at this late hour; an impending auction needed his full attention. They were turning the corner and descending a flight of stairs, when a small woman dressed in a black and white designer suit and a podgy man passed them, on their way up. Brett Allner-Smith and Adeila Albert came face to face. Adeila could not contain a short shriek, her eyes wide. She might have run towards her lover had her lawyer not prevented it with a solid grip of her arm. She pulled herself together, calling upon her sense of decorum. Allner-Smith was unfazed. He nodded and moved away to let the pair through, hardly stopping his conversation with Pole. The encounter was masquerade, and Brett let the moment pass.
Pole was reluctantly impressed.
Pole went back to his office to take stock on the events of the day. He was deep in thought when a familiar voice startled him.
“A penny for them?”
“My God, Nurani, I have not heard that expression for a while.”
“I am old school you know.”
“So am I,” sighed Pole, “anyway, I think this guy is a cool customer. Our little charade between him and Adeila yielded very little emotion. I think Henry Crowne has just found a serious competitor on our list of suspects.”
* * *
Nancy returned to her lounge to discover Henry fast asleep on her sofa. She wasn’t surprised. She moved silently closer to observe him at his most vulnerable. His face had relaxed and sleep revealed deep emotions. Henry moved slightly as if Nancy’s observation disturbed him. She stood back a little and continued looking at his face. The unhappy arch of his mouth was telling the story of pain, loneliness, certainly feelings that were never expressed. The furrows that ran along his face and gave it its attractive sculpture had deepened, carved by a heavy chisel.
Nancy looked around at the spacious room in all its delicate femininity and contemporary aesthetic. She enjoyed the contrast. Memories of her darker past floated unexpectedly in front of her eyes.
She saw a much younger Nancy walking the streets of Paris and entering the premises of one of France’s most controversial lawyers, Jacques Vergès. She had just finished her dual law degree between La Sorbonne and King’s College and was looking for an internship. No one had dared approach him but she knew her own cultural background would be key, a Chinese father and an English mother. He had warned her. The Law, in particular the Bar, was not a place where kind souls thrived. Egos flourished there just as they did in the City. He relished it, but would she?
She inhaled deeply and was grateful that the desire for power had left her many years ago. And yet here she was, reconnecting with that past she had so desired to give up. The idea merited some thought.
Henry moved again. She cast a last look at her unexpected guest. He would be asleep for a little while longer. Nancy disappeared into her kitchen, closing the door behind her softly. Time to indulge in another of her favourite activities, cooking.
* * *
The cab had dropped him a few yards right in front of his apartment. Brett Allner-Smith entered his building rapidly, not wanting to be noticed, a habit he had developed after the sale of his Belgravia family home. His flat was spacious and comfortable but it was a flat! Brett got in, threw his mac onto a Louis XV armchair and walked straight into his office. He opened the door of a small cabinet and poured himself a large whisky. The tumbler was elegant, part of an antique service he had managed to salvage. It was late enough and the work he was about to undertake required concentration. A small tonic was much required.
Brett placed the glass on a low table and pulled the Hereke rug that lay in front of it. He pressed a small wooden square etched into the floorboards and a medium size opening appeared. He pulled a couple of files from the vault, a small laptop and a USB key. Brett shut the safe, replacing the rug. He walked to the sofa, placing the items he had just picked up on the table next to his glass.
The phone rang, but he took no notice. The voice with a foreign accent recorded a message. His Chinese contact was getting impatient. Too bad he would have to wait. The auction for the newly discovered Ming pottery was in a week’s time. He would call after he had finished.
The laptop was now connected. Brett opened the first file entitled Henry Crowne. He chose a couple of pictures and some neatly typed notes. The first picture showed Henry and a friend having a drink in a small inconspicuous pub in Dublin. The second showed Henry and Anthony Albert celebrating the closing of a large transaction, again in Dublin. The man in the first picture was there too. He spread the pictures on the table and took a large mouthful of whisky. He savoured the quality of his drink. He could still afford the best. He closed his eyes and let the delicious malt flavour linger on his tongue. Adeila’s image flashed in front of his eyes. He pushed it away. Brett would deal with the woman and this afternoon’s events later.
Brett leaned towards the table again and opened the second file. He scrawled through some documents that had come up on his screen. A list of all major sales closed with the Alberts appeared. Brett smiled at the thought of two of his best clients tearing each other apart in business. Competition sent commissions rocketing up, splendid – but Brett Allner-Smith wanted something more substantial. He longed to move his collections into a large house again. He longed for the standing he had lost. His plan had been executed with elegance and the call from Scotland Yard had not surprised him.
The phone rang again. The same foreign accent. Brett sighed. In the meantime, he would answer the phone.
Chapter Fifteen
The homely smell of cooking enticed Henry. He opened an eye and woke up with a jolt. Where was he? It took a couple of seconds to realise that he was in Nancy’s flat. She could not refrain from bursting into laughter.
“You were out for the count. I did not want to wake you up.”
She was still smiling an amused but kind smile. Her face was so different when she laughed, much younger and much more Asian. The high-set cheekbones that delicately shaped her face became accentuated and her almond eyes gently closed. She was a very attractive woman, maturity seemed to have softened her.
“Was I?” said Henry, his mind still wandering.
“Oh, yes. You were.”
“What are you cooking? It smells very good.”
“Sichuan chicken curry, my family’s special recipe – or so they claim. Most people enjoy it.”
“You should not have gone to so much trouble.”
Henry felt embarrassed, assuming she was cooking for him and she indeed put him right.
“My dear fellow, it wasn’t just because of you. I cook for myself. I simply added a bit more.”
She was standing in front of him with a closed fist resting on her hip. She was still wearing her oven gloves. Henry burst into laughter and felt better for it. The scene was so unreal.
“Can I help?”
“Yep, you can set the table, crockery in this cupboard and cutlery this one.” She was pointing in various directions as she returned to the kitchen. “And you can select the beer you prefer too. I have some in the fridge.”
“Beer? I thought wine?”
“Well, you thought wrong I am afraid. Wine with curry is an aberration. A good beer. Nothing else will do!”
Henry nodded, a good beer would always please an Irishman. Moving towards the kitchen he found that he had not done simple things such as setting the table for quite some time. Most dinner parties he held in restaurants. The friends he kept were always keen to try the latest and the best. If he had dinner parties at home he organised these through a caterer. All he had to do was choose the menu, since staff would be in attendance to wait on them. Yet Henry remembered a time when he had enjoyed cooking. The joy of discovering new types of food in London was still vivid in his mind. He’d never thought food could be so enjoyable, a whole new world of excitement and possibilities opened up to him.
They sat at the small dining table in the kitchen and Henry tried not to wolf down what was in front of him. He had survived on very little since Scotland Yard. He did not quibble at the offer of a second helping. Nancy was also clearly enjoying her meal. As predicted, it was excellent and they both savoured it in the half silence that befits appreciated food.
“Tell me more about yourself, Henry,” said Nancy after bringing a plate of fruit, cut and prepared, to the table.
Relaxing, Henry wondered whether Nancy had waited for the opportune moment to plant her question. He looked at her and smiled. He did not mind. In a couple of hours, he would meet with her contact and would include her in his legal team. He cast a glance at Nancy’s iPhone and remembered his own BlackBerry had been abandoned on the floor of the lounge but resisted the urge to return and look at his emails. Nancy was right. He had to get himself out of this unforeseen mess before he could reclaim any of his territory.
“Where shall I start?” he said.
“The beginning is usually a good place,” said Nancy pushing her chair back and turning it sideways to extend her legs. She was elegantly slim.
; “OK,” said Henry gathering his thoughts.
“Where did you grow up?” asked Nancy to get the conversation going.
A shadow moved over his eyes.
“I grew up in Belfast.”
Nancy could not hide her surprise.
“I know,” he added very quickly. “I don’t sound Irish at all any more. You won’t believe how effective elocution lessons are when you really want to learn. The City eighteen years ago was not exactly welcoming.”
“I’ve had plenty of racist jokes in my time.”
“I was five on Bloody Sunday.” Again, Henry hesitated but now he could hardly backtrack. Why stop? After all, it was only a piece of history.
Nancy folded her hands in a meditative fashion, her left hand cupping her right in a most peaceful gesture. She was giving him her utmost attention.
Henry had not cast his mind back to his childhood for a long time. He remembered it as a dark place full of fear, anger, and yet he could not say that he had been unloved. He spoke about his mother, a young woman who had come to Belfast to teach English, escaping her family in England. She had wanted to take risks, to establish her own independence, thinking she could always go back if matters did not work out for her. Life had decided otherwise when she met Henry’s father, Irish Catholic and strongly militant.
“Forty years ago,” added Henry with little emotion in his voice, “Ireland was a nation on the verge of destruction.” He sounded remote, an observer of a city long cast away.
“An Irish boy marrying an English girl that must have been …” Nancy stopped searching for the right word.
“Disastrous,” ventured Henry, with a small sad smile.
“I was going to say dramatic but, I suppose, very difficult at least.”
“Yep. I remember two things from my very early years. My father swinging me on his shoulders, grabbing Mum and dancing to some crazy tune, we were all laughing and then …”
Henry grabbed his fork and toyed with a piece of fruit. He no longer wanted to conjure the memories back.
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