He went back upstairs, worrying about the impending arrival of the police. What would they be like? PC Plod, consulting his notebook, or a graduate Deputy Inspector, sure of himself and fluent in statistical research. He didn’t have long to wait, for barely ten minutes later the buzzer went. On his step he found a young man with longish hair, neatly dressed in a jacket and tie, who introduced himself as Detective Crase, the resident art expert on the Fraud Squad.
The only stereotypical thing about him was his use of the phrase, ‘we have reason to believe’ as in ‘We have reason to believe you may know the whereabouts of a small oil painting belonging to Mrs Sally Kimmo.’
Billings had the man sit down across from him at the Cedar of Lebanon. ‘I know Mrs Kimmo, but I don’t know the picture.’
‘It was stolen from her house in Chester Square.’
‘I’ve been there once, for a dinner party attended by lots of other people. Am I supposed to have stolen it then?’
Detective Crase nodded. ‘Yes. You were seen by Carmen Valdez leaving the house with a painting tucked under your arm. We have reason to believe that was the Giacometti.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that. If you wouldn’t mind sir, I wonder if I could search the premises?’
‘Do you have a warrant?’
Crase shrugged. ‘That’s purely a matter of time. We can get one, and while we wait we’ll watch the premises – I’ve got a PC across the street right now – to make sure nothing leaves. It’s your choice.’
‘No, no, you go ahead,’ said Billings, hoping Tara would have made her getaway.
He unlocked the vault room, showed off the downstairs loo, opened the kitchen’s fridge door, and generally made himself helpful. Twenty minutes later Detective Crase announced enough was enough. ‘We’ll need to speak to you again, sir.’
‘You know where to find me,’ said Billings. ‘But tell me something: when did Mrs Kimmo announce this painting had been stolen?’
‘Only two days ago.’
‘I had dinner there six weeks ago. Doesn’t the delay strike you as a little odd?’
Detective Crase smiled. ‘You’ve been to Mrs Kimmo’s sir. It’s something of a museum. And museums are notorious for not noting absentees. Think of the V and A.’
‘So she discovers that a Giacometti’s gone six weeks after the fact – even Mrs Kimmo isn’t exactly awash in his works. And why me?’
‘It was Mrs Valdez, as I said.’
‘I don’t remember her from dinner.’
‘You wouldn’t, sir. She’s the maid.’
At home he found three reporters, including Fairweather, on his doorstep. He ignored them, locked the door behind him, pulled his curtains, and after checking that the Trachtenberg memo was still safely tucked into Andrew Wyeth, sat down to think with the aid of a large whisky. Unless the Professore had stolen the painting from Sally Kimmo (something he thought about then dismissed), she could not seriously think he had taken her Giacometti. No, he was being set up, and she was colluding. He felt certain Trachtenberg was behind this; Nicky’s indiscreet mention to Tara that his boss knew all about his delivery of the painting to the gallery (even insisting on a receipt) seemed to be the smoking gun.
But why was Trachtenberg after him? And why now? What danger did Billings pose that he hadn’t posed before? He had known about the links with Trevenix for months, and besides Trachtenberg didn’t know what he knew. Trachtenberg’s worry should be McBain. Unless... and as he began to think the unthinkable, the doorbell rang.
The reporters again? He decided to ignore the bell, but rapidly changed his mind when it kept ringing. He flung open the front door angrily to discover Marla standing in front of him, gripping Sam by his collar. The three reporters had got off his doorstep and were grouped with several fresh reinforcements on the pavement below.
‘It’s a bad time,’ he said curtly, then realized how glad he was to see his wife. She was wearing jeans and trainers, with his old striped Brooks Brothers shirt.
‘I have to talk with you,’ she said, almost tearfully. ‘I’ve had reporters all over the place.’
‘All right,’ he said quietly, forgetting to seem reluctant. She and Sam came in, and he gave the dog a bowl of water while Marla fixed them both a cup of tea.
When they sat down he said, ‘Sorry about all this.’ He motioned towards the door.
‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘That’s sweet of you.’
‘I don’t mean it that way.’ She looked at Sam and tears welled in her eyes.
Not that again, thought Billings, but her distress was obviously real enough. ‘Marla, I’m sure we should talk about things. But now’s not the best time. I’m trying to figure out what to do next. Those people outside all think I’m involved in something scandalous. They think I stole a picture.’
‘I know,’ said Marla. ‘It’s in the Standard. I read all about it two hours ago. That’s why I’m here now.’
‘As I say, that’s very sweet of you. I appreciate the support. But I need to figure out what to do next.’
‘But you’re not listening to me. Those people outside are there because of me.’
‘What?’
And now Marla did begin to cry, not hysterically or dramatically, but deeply, and slowly. And between sobs her story came out: she still loved him, she couldn’t help it, she’d gone away for months now and it still hadn’t helped. She thought she’d got better and wouldn’t do anything crazy any more – you know, like tell him people were watching the house, or breaking into the gallery and moving the pictures.
‘Wait a minute,’ he interrupted. ‘That was you? All those weird happenings were down to you?’
She nodded, beginning to weep again. ‘I couldn’t help myself. I felt you were moving away from me, and I wanted to scare you – I wanted to show you that you were better off with life as it used to be. With me. I’m sorry, I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help myself. And that’s why I went away. To get better. Only I guess I haven’t.’
‘So what do you have to do with all this mess?’
‘I knew about your affair,’ she said, wiping her eyes, and his heart sank. ‘When I came back I hoped it was all over, and when I discovered it wasn’t I simply couldn’t take it anymore. So I went to see that horrible man.’
‘Which man?’ he asked, though he was sure he already knew the answer.
‘Trachtenberg. Yech,’ she said, almost spitting, and he laughed. ‘I told him I knew about your affair, and that if he didn’t do something to help me I’d go to the papers. That wouldn’t have looked good.’
Jesus wept, thought Billings, no wonder he was in trouble. Trachtenberg would have gone bananas when he’d heard Marla’s threat to expose Holly’s affair, and he would have swung into action. Everything seemed clear now, except a way out of trouble. He’d be forced to resign from London One Thousand; the fuss he’d been preparing to make about the relegation of the painting exhibition would only look like sour grapes. Sally Kimmo wasn’t going to help him – she was in on this, obviously, and had helped Trachtenberg set him up. He suddenly wanted desperately to talk to Holly.
‘So you told Trachtenberg you knew all about me?’
‘That’s right. He didn’t act very surprised. But when I mentioned the papers, he got very aggressive. He said that if I wanted you and that woman to stop seeing each other, I should leave it to him. But honestly James, I would never have gone to the press. I was just saying that – I was desperate about that Kimmo woman.’
‘Kimmo woman? What about her?’
‘About your affair with her.’
Billings suddenly felt the preciously-gained coherence of the last sixty seconds dissolve beneath him. It was not a pleasant world he had sighted, but it was clear – now the mirror lay in pieces all over again. ‘You think I’ve been having an affair with Sally Kimmo?’
Marla looked astounded. ‘Well haven’t you?’
‘Of cour
se not,’ he almost shouted. ‘What do you take me for? You probably think I stole this picture too.’
By the time they had both calmed down and Billings had reassured her that the storm around him had not been caused by her, it was too late to buy a Standard from Mr Ali. He packed Marla and Sam off home, and noted that the reporters were, temporarily at least, gone from his door. Then he sat down and tried to take in the events of the day. He knew he had to face the clear evidence that the only thing that could have precipitated Trachtenberg’s lethal manoeuvring was Billings’s knowledge of Labour’s relationship with Alastair Trevenix and his possession of documentary evidence about the meetings between Harry Lester and Margaret Thatcher. The only person who could have told Trachtenberg about either – because she was the only person Billings had told – was Holly Lester.
Chapter 21
He assumed he would be forced to resign, but he was determined to go on his own terms. He phoned Tara early in the morning and explained he would be staying away from the gallery for the day. When the phone call from Downing Street came it was almost eleven o’clock, and when his taxi left him off at the Whitehall gates it was twelve o’clock.
He ignored the shouts of reporters standing across from Number Ten and walked in, where he was met by the Marlborough man, who led him downstairs to a briefing room, recently evacuated by reporters after their daily dose of Hamish Ferguson. He sat there for a few minutes, wondering who was going to join him, and then Richard Bruce walked in, looking very grave. Bruce sat behind the briefing desk while Billings occupied a plastic chair in the front row, feeling like a pupil made to stay behind by an irate form master.
‘The Prime Minister asked me to see you,’ said Bruce slowly. ‘I gather Mrs Kimmo is asking the police to press charges. In the circumstances we think you have no option but to resign.’
‘I will be happy to resign – after seeing the London One Thousand site I was going to anyway. But I’d rather not leave under a cloud. What kind of statement are you proposing?’
Bruce got up and brought a single sheet of paper to him. It said:
The Prime Minister has today accepted the resignation of James Billings from his post as Arts Consultant and member of the London One Thousand Committee.
Billings was incredulous. ‘That’s all?’
‘Short and sweet,’ said Bruce. ‘It seemed best to keep it that way.’
‘Perhaps from your point of view. But not from mine.’ He took his pen and went to work, while Bruce resumed his seat and sat waiting nervously. ‘Here,’ Billings said after several minutes’ work. ‘This is the bare minimum that’s acceptable to me.’
In the light of allegations against him that have appeared in the press, James Billings has decided to resign from his post as Arts Consultant to Her Majesty’s Government. This resignation has been accepted with reluctance and deep regret by Harry Lester, the Prime Minister.
Mr Billings said: ‘The allegations against me are entirely false and I am confident they will soon be shown to be utterly without foundation. But I cannot serve the government effectively while the allegations continue to appear, and it is in order not to damage the work done by this government to further the cause of the Arts that I am resigning today. I wish to thank the Prime Minister for having given me the opportunity to serve.’
The Prime Minister said: ‘James Billings has made a significant contribution to this Government. His work on the London One Thousand committee, particularly in presenting the nation’s capital’s art history to its population, will always be appreciated. I am very sorry to see him go, and look forward to the time when Mr Billings can help us once again.’
‘We can’t accept this,’ said Bruce before he could have read a third of what Billings had proposed.
‘Read it first,’ said Billings sharply.
Bruce looked confused. ‘You read it for me,’ he said, attempting to hand the paper back to him.
‘No, you read it,’ said Billings.
Bruce looked flustered and tried again. He held the paper out like a fork and stabbed it in the air at Billings. ‘No,’ he said almost panicky, ‘you read it. Read it aloud,’ he said, struggling to sound reasonable, ‘That way I’ll know how it sounds to the press.’
A puzzled Billings read his words slowly and with care. By the time he had finished Bruce was shaking his head. ‘We can’t possibly agree to that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Have you read the papers? You’re in deep trouble. Why should we say anything at all other than what I’ve given you? There’s nothing to stop us issuing that in ten minutes’ time.’
‘I’d ask Trachtenberg first if I were you. I think you’ll find he insists you wait.’
‘Alan? Why? What’s he got to do with it?’
‘Quite a lot, I think. Show him this statement, and tell him that if something like it doesn’t appear, and if Nicky doesn’t come and get his package back, then his memo about Lady T will be in the Evening Standard tomorrow. Make sure you tell him that.’
Bruce looked nonplussed. ‘About Lady T? You mean Mrs Thatcher?’
‘That’s right. And Nicky – he has to take the package back. Trachtenberg will know what I mean.’
He went out of the room and found the Marlborough man waiting to escort him upstairs. ‘Forgive me, but I’ll need to have your swipe card back.’
‘Of course,’ said Billings and handed it over. ‘But listen, can I ask you something? Does Richard Bruce have dyslexia or something? I just asked him to read something back to me and he kept refusing. He actually made me read it aloud.’
The Marlborough man smirked. ‘I’m not altogether surprised.’
‘So he has got a reading problem?’
‘That’s something of an understatement if you ask me.’
Billings stopped on the stairs and looked at the man. ‘Are you telling me the Deputy Prime Minister can’t read?’
The Marlborough man looked around them; there was no one in sight. ‘I am entirely certain of it. Not that I would wish to be quoted about the matter.’
‘Isn’t that a mild drawback in how he does his job?’
The man shrugged. ‘That’s one way of looking at it. I suppose this government would see it as a triumph over adversity – you know, if you consider his disadvantages, he’s come a long way.’
‘I’m starting to think that’s true of the government as well.’ They were back now on the ground floor and Billings looked around at the portraits lining the stairs that went to the upper floors. ‘Good luck with the work upstairs,’ he said, gesturing towards the living quarters above them.
‘I think the builders will be with us for some time to come. There’s not much danger of anyone living there for at least a few years.’
‘I did that job well, then. My legacy is prolonged building work.’
‘Believe me,’ said the Marlborough man, ‘that will be far from the worst legacy this government leaves behind.’
The ball, felt Billings, was clearly in the opposition’s court. He stayed away from the gallery and went home, deciding not to buy the newspapers since they were certain to depress him. He listened to Radio Three and looked for the first time in months at his Nash article. The little he’d written wasn’t too bad, he decided, and he was able to muster some enthusiasm at the prospect of having the time to work on it again.
He wanted to ring Holly but wished he didn’t. Still, when the phone rang shortly before two that afternoon he hoped for a split second it was Holly on the line. Or Marla.
Instead he heard the harsh tones of Hamish Ferguson. He should have guessed; the press was the worry now, from a government point of view, so Hamish was the natural candidate to handle things.
‘I gather you had a problem with our statement,’ said Ferguson. ‘We’ve seen yours and I’m afraid the feeling’s mutual.’
‘Snap.’
‘That’s not very helpful.’
‘It’s not meant to be. What does Trachtenberg think?’
‘Actually, that’s why I’m ringing. He proposes a meeting. You can return the package Nicky delivered, and he’ll modify our statement. Not perhaps strictly along the lines you’ve proposed but not far off. What do you say?’
‘He wants to meet with me?’
‘That’s right. In the flat – he said you’d know what he meant.’
‘I won’t meet with Trachtenberg. I could return the package,’ he said, choosing the noun carefully since he assumed the call was being recorded, ‘but then he might “lose” it. Which would mean I was in the same trouble I’m in now.’
‘You don’t trust him?’ It was not a question worthy of a reply. When Billings stayed silent, Ferguson continued, ‘Who would you meet with? Who would you trust?’
‘Mrs Lester,’ Billings said quietly. ‘I could trust her. I’ll meet her there at half seven. Tell her I still have my key.’
As a mild fan of the early Le Carré, Billings appreciated his own feeling that he was operating in enemy territory even in his home city. He had arranged to meet Tara in a wine bar on Marylebone High Street, and when he left his flat at six o’clock, he took three different taxis to arrive at his destination.
Tara didn’t hang about. She handed him the wrapped painting, wished him luck, and left. He walked slowly across to Wigmore Street, wondering if he were walking into a trap. It would be easy enough to have him arrested right there on the pavement, carrying the painting he said he’d never seen before. He hoped his knowledge of Alastair Trevenix’s connection to Trachtenberg would prove adequate insurance against three years in Pentonville, though he could catch up on his reading there, he thought ruefully.
There was no sign of anyone lurking on Wigmore Street. The porter recognized him in the hallway and simply nodded. He took the lift up and opened the door to the flat, then stood there for a moment, listening carefully. Nothing.
Holly Lester Page 23