‘And you call yourself a red-blooded male.’
He muttered something in Italian, and she grinned. ‘Just navigate, all right?’
‘You’re enjoying this too much.’
Buitoni was soaked in sweat by the time Darcey screeched the Alfa to a halt outside Tassoni’s villa. She killed the engine, did another time check. 5.36 p.m. She sighed loudly.
‘What?’
‘Do you think I could have gone any faster?’
He stared at her. ‘Are you the one making jokes now?’
‘Maybe I was wasting my time on all those high-speed pursuit driving courses I took. Maybe the taxi driver that brought Ben Hope here from the airport was just completely, insanely, reckless. Or maybe Hope’s discovered the secret of teleportation. I don’t know. All I know is that he only had between 5.18 and 5.57 to get here in time to shoot Tassoni and it’s just taken me fifty-four minutes and twenty-two seconds to cover the same distance.’
‘Perhaps the taxi driver knew a short cut.’
‘You told me you knew this city.’
‘I do,’ Buitoni said. ‘Then it’s possible we have the wrong time of death. Tassoni’s clock could have been inaccurate.’
‘Those kinds of clock mechanisms don’t go wrong, Paolo. NASA wouldn’t use them otherwise.’
‘Then Hope must have been working with someone else.’
‘Not if we apparently have video of him walking out of here with the smoking gun.’
‘Which we haven’t seen,’ Buitoni admitted. ‘Which we haven’t seen,’ she repeated.
Buitoni was about to reply, then gave up and flopped in his seat. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Neither do I. But don’t tell anyone about this, Paolo. That’s an order.’
At that moment, Darcey’s mobile went off in her pocket. It was her personal phone again.
‘I need a cigarette,’ Buitoni said, and stepped out of the car as she answered the call.
The heavy breather had called back. ‘How did you get this number?’ she said angrily. Silence on the line. Just the quick, agitated rasp of his breathing.
‘Fine. Play your little games. But hear this. You ever call me again, I’ll find out who you are and come and kick you so hard your balls’ll pop out through your nose. That’s a promise. Get it?’
She was about to flip the phone shut when the man spoke. ‘Don’t . . . don’t hang up. Please. Listen to me.’
A young-sounding voice. Maybe late twenties at the oldest. Educated accent, maybe Cambridge. This was no habituated phone pervert. The slur in his speech told her he’d needed a couple of drinks too many to pluck up the courage to make the call, but it nonetheless couldn’t hide the nervousness. He was almost breathless with it.
‘There are things you need to know,’ he said. He paused. ‘Are you still there?’
Darcey could see Buitoni pacing the pavement a few metres from Tassoni’s gates, anxiously puffing on his cigarette. There were still a few police vehicles parked up in the background, outside the house.
‘I’m still here,’ she said to her mystery caller. ‘But I won’t be for long.’
‘My name’s Borg.’
‘Borg,’ she repeated dubiously.
She heard him swallow hard on the other end. ‘Look. Christ. I don’t know where to begin . . . Operation Jericho isn’t what you think it is.’
She frowned. Operation Jericho. If he knew about that, he definitely was not a prank caller.
Alarms were whooping and red warning lights popping like flashguns in her mind. She needed to back off. Right now. Report this to Applewood. Do the right thing, before she opened up a hornet’s nest and got herself stung to pieces for it.
But it was stronger than her. She wanted to know more.
‘I don’t like this anonymous bullshit. You need to tell me who you really are or I’m hanging up.’
A long, nervous pause. She could sense he was thinking about it. Weighing up the pros and cons. He knew he needed to gain her trust. But his hesitation smelled of fear. This was a lot more dangerous for him than it was for her.
Or maybe it wasn’t. But she still had to know.
‘All right. Let’s stay with Borg for now,’ she said, talking in a low, soft, reassuring voice. Her negotiator’s voice. ‘Tell me what you know.’
He took a long, quavering breath. ‘It’s best we meet.’
‘That would be fine,’ she said. ‘Where?’
‘You need to come alone.’
‘I’ll do that, Borg. Tell me the place and the time. I’ll be there. Just me. That’s a promise.’
Another hesitant silence. Buitoni was still pacing up and down near the car, drawing on his cigarette like a dying man sucking oxygen.
‘OK, listen,’ Borg said. His voice lowered to a whisper, sounding muffled as if he was cupping his hand over his mouth. ‘I – oh, fuck. Someone’s co—’
There was a scuffling sound, and then the call cut off. Darcey was left staring at a dead phone.
Outside in the street, Buitoni flicked away his cigarette as his radio came to life. Darcey saw his eyes open wide at what he heard. He came running over to the car and she whirred down her window.
‘What’s happening, Paolo?’
‘Remember De Crescenzo, the gallery owner? His wife just phoned the police to say she had a gentleman caller this morning.’
‘Don’t tell me. Hope?’
Buitoni nodded. ‘Made her coffee, apparently.’
Darcey couldn’t believe the audacity of the man. ‘We need to go and talk to her right away. You drive.’ She shifted across to the passenger seat as Buitoni got in gratefully behind the wheel.
‘Who was that on the phone?’ he asked as he started the car.
‘Wrong number,’ Darcey told him.
It took another forty-five minutes to butcher their way back across the city to the De Crescenzo place. The contessa took her time answering the door, and when she did, Darcey could smell the booze on her breath. She rolled her eyes at Buitoni. He shrugged and gave a look that said ‘let me do the talking.’
Ornella De Crescenzo wobbled her way to an airy sitting room, where they all sat on soft armchairs and Buitoni had her run through the events of that morning.
‘He told me his name was Rupert,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t until later, when I saw the TV . . . ’ She bit her lip. ‘I was so shocked. To think I was alone here with a brutal killer. Here, in my own home. What if he had murdered me, too?’
‘You say he left here around ten, ten-thirty? Yet you didn’t call us until late afternoon.’
‘I was resting,’ she said defensively.
Darcey glanced at the half-empty bottle and single glass on the sideboard across the room. Resting.
‘What did he want?’ Buitoni asked Ornella. ‘To see my husband. But Pietro went off to Spain early this morning.’
‘Spain?’
‘Near Madrid. Visiting some art person.’
Buitoni and Darcey exchanged looks. ‘Do you think Hope might have gone there after him?’ Buitoni asked Ornella.
Darcey took out her phone and quickly dialled up an online distance calculator. Rome to Madrid was eight hundred and fifty-five miles. On maximum thrust, the Cessna could get there in under ninety minutes.
‘He certainly seemed terribly keen to talk to him,’ Ornella said, and her face crumpled into a look of terrified realisation as connections came together in her mind. ‘Mio dio, you don’t think he means to—’
‘It’s very important that we know exactly where your husband went,’ Buitoni told her seriously. ‘We are dealing with a highly dangerous criminal here.’
Ornella touched her fingertips to her mouth, working hard to recall. ‘He did tell me the man’s name. It starts with . . . it starts with S.’ Her eyes lit up momentarily. ‘Sangio— no, that’s not right. Seg— Seg something. Segovia.’
‘Segovia?’
‘Yes, I’m quite sure it was Segovia.’
‘The fa
mous Spanish guitarist,’ Darcey said. ‘Where was your husband planning on meeting him? The dead people’s concert hall?’
‘I’m trying,’ Ornella said irritably. ‘I don’t remember. Hell, I need a drink.’ She got up and stumbled over towards the bottle on the sideboard. Darcey was on her feet and snatched the bottle away before Ornella could get to it.
The countess snarled at her. ‘Who do you think you are? You can’t—’
Darcey ignored her and coolly turned to Buitoni. ‘Tell her that if she doesn’t remember, it’s withholding evidence and she could go to jail,’ she said in English.
‘I can’t tell her that,’ he protested.
‘Then I’m going to take her into custody and have her pumped full of coffee until she gives us that name. See if we can get hold of her husband. In the meantime, you and I are going to Madrid. Get on the radio and have them prepare the jet for take-off.’
Chapter Forty-Nine
Salamanca, western Spain
After the long journey west under the hot sun, the Maserati’s dashboard clock was reading 10.31 and dusk was turning to darkness as Ben finally closed in on his destination.
Salamanca, northwest of Madrid, not far from the Portuguese border on Spain’s northern plateau. Ben felt just a little wistful about being here. He hadn’t set foot in the historic city before, but it was somewhere he and Brooke had once talked about coming to visit. Take some time exploring, see the sights, wander around its churches and museums, check out the little backstreet Castilian restaurants where the tourists didn’t venture. Ben remembered reading that Salamanca had been dubbed ‘Ciudad Dorada’, the Golden City, for its magnificent old sandstone buildings. Once besieged by the Carthaginian army under Hannibal, in later centuries it had gone on to become a major battlefield between the Moors and the forces of Christendom.
But Salamanca’s long, colourful history and cultural heritage were the last things on Ben’s mind right now, and he staunchly refused to let himself get all melancholy dwelling on thoughts of Brooke as he followed the Maserati’s onboard sat-nav into the old city towards the home of the fine art collector Juan Calixto Segura. The sun was setting in a blaze of reds and purples that shimmered gently on the waters of the Tormes River and glittered off the dome of the distant cathedral. Spires and minarets reached for the darkening sky, casting long shadows across the rooftops.
Ben left the Maserati in a deserted side-street a kilometre or so from Segura’s place. It had done its job in getting him here quickly, but to hang on too long to such a distinctive car in his position was just begging for trouble. Double-checking the address he’d copied down back in Rome, he stretched his legs after the long drive and set off towards Segura’s home on foot. Night was falling fast. It was hot and close. Rain was coming.
The art collector lived in a four-storey townhouse, a noble and imposing sandstone building with balconies, shutters and a red-tiled roof, high on a hill overlooking the city and surrounded by neatly-tended flower gardens. The street was quiet, the only people in sight a young couple out walking who smiled pleasantly and wished Ben good evening as they strolled by.
Ben glanced up and down the line of cars parked on the kerbside. Pietro De Crescenzo’s silver Volvo wasn’t one of them. He kept his eyes open for it appearing round the corner as he walked up to the house. It didn’t show. It didn’t surprise him too much that he’d managed to beat the count here by some margin.
As Ben had expected from a guy who kept a lot of expensive art in his home, Segura’s security was pretty good. It took Ben four whole minutes to get inside. He moved from room to room unseen and as silent as shadow.
The scent of aromatic pipe smoke lingered throughout the house. Nude art adorned much of the wall space, some of it risqué enough to make Ben think that either Signora Segura was an extremely permissive wife or else Juan Calixto was a single guy. A woman’s touch on a home left an un mistakable trace; the more Ben saw of the house, the more convinced he was that there was no Mrs Segura. That was fine by him. Fewer occupants to become alerted to his presence.
From somewhere above, he could hear the strains of a violin. He followed the music up the stairs, treading on the edge of each step to avoid creaks. At the top of the staircase was a dark landing. The music was clearer now – maybe Bach, or Haydn – and the smell of smoke stronger. Three doors led off the landing, one in the centre, one left and one right. The door on the right was ajar a couple of inches. The music was coming from the room beyond, as well as a shaft of light. Ben stepped softly over to it and peered through the crack.
The room was a study. Sitting on a deep green leather chair at an antique desk was a large, solidly-built man in his fifties with a mane of grey hair swept back from a high forehead. He was wearing an open-necked shirt with a silk necktie, and toying with the stem of a half-filled glass of red wine as he pored through what looked like a fine art auction catalogue. A curved pipe hung lazily from the corner of his mouth, its smoke drifting in the light of his desk lamp. Segura seemed preoccupied, glancing frequently at his chunky silver watch as if waiting for someone.
Ben very quietly turned the handle of the landing’s middle door and opened it a crack to reveal a bedroom. Unless Segura was the world’s tidiest bachelor, it had to be a guest room. Ben gently closed the door and returned to watching Segura in his study, hanging well back in the shadows.
The art collector’s desk clock was reading almost 11.15 when the door chimes sounded suddenly from below. Segura laid down his pipe, got up and bustled towards the study door. Ben slipped quickly into the guest bedroom as the Spaniard trotted heavily out onto the landing and hurried down the stairs.
A moment later, Ben heard voices, indistinct at first and then growing louder as Segura led his visitor back up to the study. Ben bent down to peer through the keyhole and saw De Crescenzo climbing the stairs behind his host. The count’s suit was rumpled from the long drive. He looked pale and nervy, wringing his hands and showing his grey teeth. They were speaking English; Ben guessed that was the only language they had in common. Segura led the Italian into the study and pulled the door to behind him.
As Ben emerged cautiously from the guest bedroom he was relieved to see that the Spaniard had left the door open a few inches. The two men were visible through the gap. Ben moved closer, and listened.
‘To business,’ Segura was saying in his rich accent.
De Crescenzo looked so nervous he could hardly breathe. ‘The Goya,’ he whispered. ‘Show me.’
Segura nodded. He slid open a desk drawer, took out a remote control and pointed it at a large oil painting mounted on the study wall. The painting slid aside with a whirr of an electric motor, revealing a hidden safe door with a wall-mounted keypad to one side. Shielding the keypad with his left hand, Segura punched in a number with his right index finger. Twelve digits, twelve little beeps. The door swung open.
‘Naturally,’ he said, turning to De Crescenzo, ‘the vast majority of my collection is stored in my basement vault. I brought this up here earlier, knowing you would wish to see it.’
He reached into the safe with both hands, and came out holding a rectangular object wrapped in white cloth. Ben watched as Segura carried it over to the desk and laid it down as though it could crumble into powder at any moment. As the Spaniard drew the cloth away, De Crescenzo let out a gasp and whispered, ‘May I hold it?’
‘Carefully, please,’ Segura said with a smile. The count picked it up. He was standing with his back to the door, so Ben had a clear view of the picture in his hands. It looked identical to the charcoal sketch at the exhibition, a drawing of a man on his knees praying to God with a look of devout passion, as though his life depended on it.
The same picture that had been stolen.
Ben stared at it. What was going on here?
De Crescenzo was swaying on his feet with amazement as he stood gaping at the sketch in his hands.
‘Now you understand why I asked you to be here in person,’ Segura
said, reaching for his pipe. ‘This is not something I could merely describe by telephone. This, my friend, is the real “Penitent Sinner”. As certifiably authentic as it could possibly be.’ He relit the pipe with a lighter from his pocket and puffed clouds of smoke.
Ben was so stunned he had to bite back a choking cough. The stolen piece had been a forgery?
‘How – how do I know—’ De Crescenzo stammered. ‘That this is the genuine article?’ Segura smiled. ‘I have been cautious. More cautious than you, my friend.’ As Ben listened, the Spaniard launched into a whole technical spiel about white lead dating, X-ray diffraction, infrared analysis, dendrochronology and stable isotope testing and a whole lot of other things Ben didn’t understand a word of but which seemed pretty convincing to Pietro De Crescenzo.
‘You have had this for—’
‘Seventeen years,’ Segura finished for him, nodding. ‘Like the private collector from whom I bought it, I prefer to avoid publicity. For the same reason, I generally refuse to loan out items from my collection.’ He gave a dark smile. ‘As I think you know, it can be a risky business.’
The count laid the Goya down gingerly on the desk and slumped into a nearby chair. Segura was watching him closely, and Ben could read the look on the Spaniard’s face. Segura was no idiot. He was looking at all the angles. Studying De Crescenzo for any sign of play-acting that might have indicated he’d been up to some kind of scam here. Have a fake painting knocked up by a discreet forger, arrange for it to be stolen in such a way that you could never be suspected, claim on the insurance, then feign total innocence when someone comes up with the original.
But whatever suspicions Segura might have had were clearly dissipated by the Italian’s reaction. Nobody could have acted so well. De Crescenzo suddenly looked about two hundred years old. For a few moments Ben was as concerned as Segura obviously was that the Italian might be about to keel over.
‘Would you care for a drink?’ Segura asked, motioning towards a decanter on a sideboard.
De Crescenzo dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief, tried to smile and shook his head. ‘Thank you, no. I’ll be all right.’
The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET Page 190