It seemed too easy.
The phone had been ringing for several seconds, the high-pitch sound of the preset ringtone reverberating through the car. Gillian’s throat had gone dry, her stomach tied in knots.
She looked at Nat, who asked, “Would you like me to take it?”
Truly, she did, but it was her portraits at stake, she decided. She shook her head and answered, “Hello?”
“Ah, Madame McKevitt. I trust you made the journey safely?”
Gillian took her time before answering. Though the voice was clearly Jérôme’s, she noticed his phonetic pronunciation of English words was far more evident than in the previous call. “Quite safely, thank you. By the way, it’s just Ms McKevitt these days.”
“My sincere apologies. Where would you like to do this?”
Gillian bit her lip. Although the question didn’t come as a complete surprise, according to Nat it was nearly always the thieves who called the shots. For the first time she considered the strength of her own position. They knew the identity of two of the men and, so she believed, what had become of the lost jewels.
Worst-case scenario, they would lose the paintings but have a chance of finding the jewels.
Gillian responded, “There’s a church in the middle of the village. St Andrews.”
“I see it.”
Gillian froze. If they could see it, they were near. She was still to see another car pass by since Edmund’s Ford Focus, suggesting they had parked in another part of the village; most likely they were not even speaking from their car. She looked quickly through every window, ending with a glance in the rear-view mirror. There was no sign of life anywhere on the street behind them; the small gathering of lights that had shone through the windows of nearby houses had all been extinguished during the last hour. She looked again toward the church, its stone walls a dark silhouette against the black backdrop.
Again, there was no sign of human activity.
Nat gestured toward the church and whispered in her ear, “If we do this on the north side, we’re unlikely to be seen.”
She mulled it over for a second and offered the same suggestion to Jérôme.
Silence. Either she’d said the wrong thing, or they were thinking things over. Her heart pounded inside her chest. Every course of action was a gamble. She was entering the unknown, an experience she had heard about in magazines, documentaries, even from colleagues, but never experienced first hand. No matter what she did, she knew her life was in danger; a man of Jérôme’s character would never leave anything so important to chance. Finding the jewels without being witnessed was surely impossible. But, if they found them, what then? Let her go? The portraits in return for silence? The more she thought about it, the more she doubted it. If anything, finding the jewels was the unwanted part.
As soon as they found them, the trump card would be lost.
Finally a response. “Very well. On the northwest side of the churchyard there is a large tree. Meet us there in precisely three minutes. And…don’t forget about the jewels.”
“I won’t,” Gillian replied. “And don’t you forget about the portraits.”
They left the car one minute later and walked along the nearby pavement, following the curvature of the wall. Two wooden gates met in the centre, the left of which guarded access to a gravel path that led to the main doorway of the church.
Gillian raised the latch and walked through the gate, holding it open for Nat. The churchyard was darker than it had appeared from the car, the glow of distant street lamps receding as they continued along the path. In the darkness, sound travelled. Birds squawked, tree branches swayed, gravel crunched beneath their feet. Gillian recalled from her earlier planning that the direct route to the tree required heading left across the churchyard, an area densely populated with tombstones. She removed her mobile phone from her pocket and selected the flashlight widget. A small white light illuminated about a metre in front of her; enough to see her feet but not bright enough, thankfully, to attract unwanted attention.
Up ahead, the tree loomed large, dense foliage covering its thin branches. She thought she could hear talking, audible but not clear enough to make out words. As she reached the tree, she realised the sound was coming from inside the churchyard, east of where they were standing. She looked around, pointing the light in various directions. Still no sign of life. Perhaps they were early, she mused. It seemed an age since leaving the car, but in reality she guessed less than three minutes had passed.
She pointed the light at Nat, who appeared peculiarly pale, his facial expression hard.
“Turn the light off, Gill. We don’t want to put them off.”
Gillian extinguished the light and shuffled close to Nat, grabbing his left arm. As the seconds passed, her eyes began to adjust to her surroundings. She could make out outlines: the west and north walls towered above her, stained-glass windows and small niches intercepting the stone. Victorian headstones peppered the ground at regular intervals, standing erect like an army of small children watching their every move. The wind had died down, causing the nearby foliage to fall still and silent. The churchyard was completely quiet and suddenly felt warmer. Sweat began to run down her forehead and arms. Her clothes felt tight, particularly her blouse, and her throat became parched and tickly, causing her to cough instinctively. She tightened her grip on Nat’s arm. He whispered something, but it didn’t register. She saw he was looking toward the north wall, the smallest area of the church that jutted out like an annexe.
She focused on the wall. She thought she could see human forms, moving slowly, their shapes blending into the darkness. Was she seeing things? Her mind playing tricks?
She sought to speak, but the words stuck in her throat.
Someone else had beaten her to it.
Less than three hundred metres away, the occupants of the blue Ford Focus were seriously frustrated. Nat’s instruction had been to park out of sight, far enough away to avoid suspicion, but close enough to avoid total isolation. The instruction on the phone had been for Gillian and Nat to come alone; Cliff had heard the Frenchman himself. Being in the vicinity meant support was there if needed.
The question was, how would they know?
Edmund sat behind the wheel, his large, muscular frame more than filling the seat. He smoked like a chimney, and it was driving Cliff mad.
“Really, this is the third in twenty minutes.”
“I always smoke when I’m nervous. It helps me concentrate.”
That didn’t cut any ice. “I’m sure Her Majesty would have had something to say if this had been five years earlier.”
Edmund exhaled, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. Despite the minor snobbery, he had always liked Cliff. Of all the curators at the gallery, he had always been the easiest to wind up. To Edmund, he was a man of contrasts: a man who knew everything about art but couldn’t draw, who knew every aspect of a Dolby Surround system but didn’t like loud noise, and who could tell you everything there was to know about cars, but never got beyond the middle lane. According to Nat, he was the last man to be underestimated, particularly at times like this. If the former director’s assessment of him was correct, Cliff would come in very handy if the negotiations with the Frenchmen went pear-shaped.
Cliff fidgeted and Edmund’s smile widened. All the while, the interior of the car filled with smoke.
“Really.” Cliff coughed and waved his hand like an extractor fan. “You could at least open a window.”
Edmund removed the cigarette from his lips and exhaled smoke through his mouth and nostrils. “We’re supposed to be here on a stake-out. If I open the window, the smoke might attract attention.”
Cliff eyed him contemptuously. “The smoke can still escape through the air vents.” He looked around, eyeing the interior with disdain. “Still, I suppose I shouldn’t complain. You’re the one who has to drive this thing.”
Edmund laughed; at least the man had the balls to stand up to him. Anything to pass the
time. An hour’s wait and nothing had happened. The four white brick period cottages that lined both sides of the road had been cloaked in darkness ever since their arrival, relieved only by deathly yellow highlights where they reflected distant streetlights. There were cars parked nearby, the majority outside the houses, but till now neither of them had seen anything pass them by. It was eerily quiet. For Edmund it was like a setting from a horror film, the dramatic pause before the protagonist’s world comes under attack from a horde of demons or a demented mob with pitchforks. For Cliff, on the other hand, it was more like a scene from a social history book; the lives of the common man were never considered important enough to be read in anything else. The buildings told a story, one that had changed little throughout the ages: the toil of the workingman for the profit of his social superiors. Cliff knew you could learn a lot about a rural village from its buildings. In every age and place they acted as a doorway into the lives of its people: the family size, the way of life, the births, the marriages, the deaths. The setting was unmistakeable in any country.
This one was a long way from the city.
At just before eleven they saw headlights approaching. A car was moving toward them, a green 4x4 with a foreign number plate. They watched closely as the car pulled up about fifty metres away, its lights extinguishing soon after. Edmund sucked on his cigarette as he anticipated movement, the opening of a door, the appearance of a foreigner, two valuable paintings concealed somewhere about their person. For several seconds the two men watched, waiting for something to happen.
Cliff was confused. “What’s happening?”
Edmund exhaled smoke for the final time and stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray.
“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
35
Gillian heard them before she saw them. The voice, though she had only heard it over the phone, was instantly recognisable. Even on the word ‘hello’ there was a clear French intonation that sounded like a cross between Poirot and Inspector Clouseau.
The voice came from a few metres away, somewhere between the church and the tree. She could see one figure definitely. Within a second another appeared, labouring slightly behind. The second man was taller, but the first of heavier build. The taller man seemed to have lighter coloured hair, thicker and more rugged. Gillian knew she had seen him before.
Many times.
“Miss McKevitt?” the voice asked. “And I assume this is Monsieur Johnstone?”
“Yes, it’s me, Jérôme,” Nat replied. “What say we chance a little light? I make it my first rule of negotiations to look one in the eye.”
Though there was no response, the sudden onset of light confirmed his request had been accepted. Gillian recognised Jérôme from his gallery website. His appearance was more or less what she had expected. The wizened beard was smartly trimmed and seemingly a natural extension of his hair, while the steely gaze Nat had prepared her for seemed particularly penetrating in the torchlight. Red scars and age lines featured prominently on his forehead and the skin below his eyes, emphasised by the intense light. As her eyes adjusted, she noticed other things: the man was smartly dressed and wearing a woollen jacket to fend off the cold night air. He was holding a silver LED flashlight with a larger than normal reflector, its brightness suggesting to Gillian it was capable of being seen from a distance.
To Jérôme’s left, she could now plainly make out the face of his accomplice. Cooper was standing with his hands in his pockets, his attention alternating between Gillian and the ground. The first thing she noticed was the state of his jeans: mud marks around the knees being the most noticeable feature. His hair rarely looked any different, whatever the time of day, but his beard was becoming dishevelled.
Unlike the Frenchman’s.
“Hello, Andrew,” she said, her attention returning immediately to Jérôme. “You know, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
Jérôme smiled wryly. “Let us dispense with the niceties. Madame, I trust you have good reason for bringing us here.”
Gillian folded her arms and studied his reaction. She could have been bluffing, of course; lure him into a false sense of security and hit him with her backup plan. If she pulled it off, he would be caught red-handed, hopefully with the paintings in his possession.
She guessed he would do the same as her. Keep his ace up his sleeve as long as possible.
“This village was Elizabeth Cromwell’s home before she died. Her descendants stayed here for a while longer.”
“I hope, Madame, for your sake, you have not brought me here on the strength of a guess.”
“Absolutely not. The message was actually quite clear. You just have to look very closely.”
Nat was genuinely perplexed. He could tell from the Frenchman’s expression that Jérôme would remain sceptical until he saw firm proof. Whatever the exact location, Gillian was still to reveal it, even to him.
Jérôme forced a smile, gentler than before. “Well, Madame?”
“First I want proof my paintings are okay. I shall be very cross if I’ve come all this way without good reason.”
Jérôme held Gillian’s eye contact before glancing to his left, his attention lingering on Cooper. Finally he looked over his shoulder and gestured with his fingers. There was movement near the north wall. Gillian saw a silhouette, then a second. Two men were walking toward them, negotiating a passage between the headstones with surprising ease. As they approached, Gillian saw their faces. Both had similar features, rugged but clean-shaven faces and wavy dark hair that to an Englishwoman looked somehow unmistakeably French. Both men carried a green cloth bag that seemed specifically designed to carry a canvas.
Gillian had no doubt what they concealed.
“Open them. I want to see them with my own eyes.”
“Perhaps now is not the time,” Jérôme said. “Indoors, when the light is better.”
Gillian bit her lip and decided to agree. The opportunity would come soon enough.
“Okay. Have it your way.”
Jérôme smiled. He brought his hands together and leaned his head forward expectantly. “Well, Madame. Where now?”
Gillian glanced at the walls of the adjacent building. “Right in there.”
Cliff couldn’t stand the smell any longer. As Edmund lit his fourth cigarette in half an hour, he flicked the switch that turned off the interior light and pushed the passenger door ajar.
Fresh air. A relief. Over three hours with the gallery’s head of security had felt more like three hours in a London smog.
With the door open he heard sounds: water trickled gently from somewhere, a stream, a brook, a pond…in the darkness he couldn’t tell whether it was a natural feature or something manmade in a resident’s garden. The wind was intermittent, strong one moment and almost non-existent the next, causing the branches of nearby trees to sway erratically. There had been no movement from the green 4x4. While logic told him the driver could be anyone, a tourist checking a map, someone having a sleep, a resident who had lost his keys or was on the phone, the absence of movement and the presence of foreign plates were sufficient indication the car had connection to the thieves. Edmund’s eyes had remained fixed on the doors. The tinted windows restricted observation of the interior of the vehicle. Whoever was inside, he guessed they were probably doing the same as them.
Waiting for a call.
“Close the door,” Edmund said, “we don’t want them to hear us.”
“Only if you promise to stop smoking.”
“I promise this one’ll be the last.”
“Till when?”
They heard something, a loud snapping sound – possibly metal on wood. Cliff looked at Edmund, frozen with fear. Whatever had made the sound had been brief but loud. Something was echoing, apparently from all directions. Cliff held the door open, his ear pressed to the gap. Finally he closed it, looking at Edmund.
“You think they’re in trouble?”
Edmund shook hi
s head. “No. I think they’re inside.”
36
The main entrance into the church was at the end of the gravel pathway that Gillian and Nat had already followed on entry to the churchyard. Unlike the great cathedrals, there were no imposing double doors cut into the west wall; instead, a strong wooden door stood at the beginning of a southern extension of the nave.
The west wall was the oldest surviving part of the church. Officially it dated from the 12th century, but there were claims that it actually went back to Saxon times. An iconic bellcote crowned the highest section of the wall, the only original part of the church that equalled the height of the great south transept that dwarfed every other feature.
If Gillian had her bearings, it was there they would need to go.
Gillian had led the way, stopping at the main entrance. The Frenchmen with the portraits had taken the lead. Alain stood with his back to the door while François removed a crowbar from a black rucksack.
Unsurprisingly the door was closed and secured with bars, bolts and a substantial lock.
Snap. Wood splintered from the door as the crowbar thrashed against the lock. The sound echoed for several seconds before becoming lost on the wind. Alain pushed the door open, revealing a dark passage lined with stone.
“Ladies first,” Jérôme offered, and Gillian entered. She activated the flashlight on her phone and shone it everywhere. There were notices on the wall of the porch, ranging from a church cleaning rota to a pinned-up version of a recent bulletin.
Ironically there was also a list of key wardens.
The doorway led into the west end of the nave. With so little light, making out features was almost impossible. Gillian heard the door creak shut behind her, and within seconds the church suddenly became brighter. The brothers were armed with strong LED flashlights and portable halogen lights that illuminated the stonework like a series of candles and lanterns.
The Cromwell Deception Page 16