Keep Your Eyes on Me

by Sam Blake

  But Lily’s problems were just as overwhelming as Vittoria’s, and now they needed her full attention. From the moment they’d parted, her mind had been whirring, exploring ideas and possibilities.

  Pulling her keyboard towards her across the desk, Vittoria pursed her lips and opened a search window. She was going to find out everything she could about Edward Croxley. There had to be something that would give her leverage to get the shop back – she just needed to find out what it was and come up with a plan.

  On Sunday night, as she’d curled up in bed, Marcus’s fury still hanging in the air, she’d started thinking about Croxley and the Arabella Smyth story, about the poor girl’s death.

  About how easy it was for something like that to happen and how dangerous swimming pools could be. Croxley might not have been arrested, but the articles she’d read had all hinted at the shared responsibility of the other partygoers to look after their friends. Drugs and drink were a lethal cocktail, even when there wasn’t a risk of drowning. This Edward Croxley was a very intriguing individual.

  But it was still puzzling her why he wanted the shop in the first place.

  Why had he targeted Jack, when presumably there had been other people in that same card game who had assets? More easily disposable assets.

  Lily had said that he’d invited Jack to the game. She’d told Vittoria that Croxley had wandered into the shop a couple of times, that he and Jack had got talking, discovering they knew people in common; and then, the very first time they’d played cards, he’d got Jack drunk and the shop had ended up on the table.

  It sounded to Vittoria like he’d deliberately gone after Jack with one thing in mind. But why? Vittoria knew that if she could get to the bottom of that, she’d find some answers. She really needed to meet Croxley face to face, to read his body language, to get the measure of him. All the photos of him at art galleries only told her so much.

  But his interest in art had to be her way in.

  Vittoria picked up a pen from her desk and twirled it through her fingers, thinking. Marcus had quite an art collection, even with the pieces lost during the burglary. Most of the paintings had belonged to his father, but others he’d bought himself for investment over the years. It was a mixed ensemble of styles and periods, an extensive and much admired collection.

  Vittoria did a search for the Beaufort Fine Art website and picked up the phone. It was answered quickly.

  ‘I wonder if you can help me. My husband has some paintings he wants to sell, and someone said that Edward Croxley might be able to help but I’ve managed to lose his contact details. I know he’s worked with you – would you have them?’

  Vittoria’s face twitched as the lady who had answered made helpful noises and then said, ‘What sort of paintings are they?’

  ‘European, mainly, a mixture, some Renaissance, some more modern. I’m really not sure. We live in Dublin and his family has been collecting for years – it’s the Devine Collection. A lot of them are very dark and religious and, quite honestly, they aren’t to my taste at all and I really need to redecorate.’

  As if the receptionist could completely understand the problem, she said, ‘I’m sure we can help – we do a lot of work with Edward. Will I introduce you by email?’

  ‘That would be great, thanks so much. I can send him some images and see what he thinks.’

  ‘If you don’t hear from him, do come back to me – sometimes people’s spam filters are a nightmare.’

  Vittoria gave the lady her email address. A moment later an email from Beaufort Fine Arts pinged into her inbox. Perfect.

  Vittoria quickly typed an email.

  Dear Edward,

  Lovely to e-meet you. My husband has some paintings to sell from a family collection.

  I’ll be in London in a few days and wondered if we could meet to discuss.

  Kind regards,

  Vittoria Devine

  She hit Send. If Croxley was a party animal, he might not be checking his email too early, which gave her more time to investigate his background. As she flashed through the search results, she saw another Irish Times article about Arabella Smyth that she’d missed.

  Vittoria found the page link and clicked through. The article was a few years old now, grim in its reading. As she sat thinking, an email pinged into her inbox.

  Dear Vittoria,

  Lovely to hear from you, I’d love to hear more about your paintings. Could you send pictures of them so that I can see who might be interested? My terms are 30 per cent in a private sale. If you prefer to auction, I can work with Beaufort, although often the best prices are paid by private collectors. I look forward to hearing from you.

  Best,

  Edward Croxley

  Bingo.

  Chapter 14

  SITTING IN HER OFFICE, Vittoria checked her watch. She still had thirty minutes until her next client. She knew she should eat, but she had more pressing things to do right now.

  As soon as Lily had mentioned that Edward Croxley dealt in art, an idea had started to form in Vittoria’s head. An idea that was a natural step from something she had already laid the groundwork for.

  With everything going on recently, finding a way out of their prenuptial agreement had become her top priority. Finding a lawyer to advise her in Ireland where everyone knew everyone else was the first problem, so she’d ended up with one in London. Ridiculously, the reason for a divorce wasn’t a factor. And it had quickly become clear that discovering some undisclosed assets seemed to be the only chance she had – if Marcus had hidden anything from his initial signed declaration then the document would be null and void. It had taken her a long time to work out how on earth she could suddenly discover something big enough to be effective, but then one evening she’d come home early and switched on the TV to a programme about proving the provenance of lost old masters. And that had reminded her of a conversation she’d had at the art auctioneers Rahilly’s.

  Quickly opening an incognito window on her computer, Vittoria accessed a Yahoo email account. She rarely used it, but there were times when she didn’t want people knowing her business. Or, more importantly knowing they were dealing with her. This was definitely one of them. To be really sure, she’d set up a virtual private network so her IP address was hidden. She found the email contact address she wanted.

  Dear Eileen,

  So sorry this is short notice. The quality of the previous delivery was superb – all three paintings arrived safely. Would you be able to deliver the last one this Thursday? I know that’s a little sooner than discussed. My wife is redecorating and the interior designer is only available to meet on Friday.

  Kind regards,

  Marcus Devine

  Vittoria smiled. Her original plan for these pictures would dovetail nicely with what she needed to do now for Lily. The timing couldn’t be better. She’d told Marcus she was ordering some rugs from Scotland when he’d queried the charge on the household account. Eileen thought she was dealing with him directly, and being based in Scotland, if anything was mentioned in the Irish press about their matrimonial difficulties, she’d be very unlikely to see it. Vittoria had thought about every detail.

  It was the TV programme that had made everything connect. She smiled. Marcus had dragged her into town that Saturday morning; she hadn’t even wanted to go to look at more paintings. It had been a glorious spring day, the morning sunshine bathing the pavement, and she’d wanted to go shopping in Grafton Street rather than spend hours in the museum-like auction house viewing lots stored deep inside. While Marcus had gone ahead with one of the directors, Vittoria had hung back, enjoying the sunshine coming in through the glass door, and started chatting to the young man looking after the reception desk.

  He had a slight stutter; Vittoria hated to see people struggle and had made a point of listening. He’d explained that he was in his final year of a master’s, his thesis all about the Nazis rumoured to have holed up in Ireland after the Second World War, about the incre
dible works of art that had been looted by the Third Reich and, apparently, lost. She’d been delighted to hear his hesitation go as he warmed to his subject, reaching for an iPad to show her some of the paintings he had been researching. His words came back to her now.

  ‘Currency was hard to move – its value is constantly fluctuating – but art retains its value.’ He’d shaken his head. ‘So much disappeared, apparently without trace. Every now and again something comes to light, like that huge collection that was found in 2012 in Munich.’ Vittoria had become really interested then. And as he’d explained about a dealer called Cornelius Gurlitt, his eyes had lit up. He made it sound like the plot of a James Bond movie.

  ‘It was like Gurlitt was invisible: he didn’t have a job, wasn’t registered for tax, he wasn’t even in the phone book, but he was living in an apartment worth over a million euro. It was rumoured in the art community that he was living off the proceeds of looted art, but you’d wonder how nobody said anything before then – his father had been one of the Hitler’s key art dealers. Eventually a judge ordered a warrant for his apartment to be searched and they found this incredible haul, pieces by Picasso, Matisse, Renoir and Chagall, more even than that. The collection was thought to be worth more than a billion dollars.’

  It was really quite incredible.

  And what was more incredible was that many refugees from the Third Reich had ended up in Ireland. What she hadn’t realised was that these ‘refugees’ had brought art with them. It was perfectly logical really, she just hadn’t thought about it before. Vittoria could just imagine the plundered antiquities and gems that had wound up in Ireland after the Second World War.

  Where there were secrets, there was always profit.

  And she badly needed a high-value secret to suddenly appear in Marcus’s life. A high-value secret that meant the prenup was worthless so she could divorce him and keep half his assets and, with a bit of luck, the house, and he could go and shack up with Stephanie Carson, poorer and – this was the twist she really loved – terrified if it got out, that he’d be savaged by the tabloids for his family’s Nazi sympathies. A painting had been so obvious; she couldn’t understand why she hadn’t thought of it before. And a painting that had been hidden because it had a murky past was perfect.

  Vittoria’s desktop pinged to tell her that her email to Eileen had been answered. The last painting would be delivered on time. Perfect.

  Vittoria searched for a high-resolution image of the picture she’d ordered and, closing the incognito window, opened her own email to reply to Edward Croxley.

  Dear Edward,

  Thank you for coming back to me so quickly. I’m attaching an image of one of the paintings we are hoping to sell. It’s imperative that the sale is discreet. I will explain more when we meet. I’ll be in London on Friday – I’m staying at The Hogarth Hotel on Great Russell Street. Perhaps we could meet in The Lighthouse Bar at 5 p.m.?

  Kind regards,

  Vittoria Devine

  It had also been the receptionist in Rahilly’s who had told her that many collectors these days had their most valuable paintings copied so they could enjoy them at home, knowing that the originals were safely in a bank vault. And he’d mentioned Eileen, a copyist – a legal forger – who he’d heard was excellent. She could reproduce anything to look precisely like the original, right down to the artist’s brushstrokes. Vittoria had loved his phrase ‘legal forger’. It had stuck in her head.

  He’d been a positive mine of information.

  Chapter 15

  EDWARD CROXLEY almost dropped his phone when he opened the image Vittoria Devine had emailed him. He pushed his fringe out of his face with the palm of his hand, his fingers black from what felt like about a hundred years of dust and dirt accumulated in Power’s Fine Prints. He’d taken a break to check his email and there had been Vittoria Devine’s reply. Waiting for him.

  Perhaps his luck was turning.

  After the day he’d had, it was about bloody time.

  He was sitting on the bare floorboards of the top floor of Power’s Fine Prints. This was the third time he’d been back in as many days and he still couldn’t find what he was looking for. Logically, he knew that the bloody box had to be somewhere fairly obvious, but unfortunately Jack Power didn’t seem to have read the same memo on logic that he was working off. And when your life depended on finding something, the search needed be fairly thorough.

  He’d been through the shop area the first time he’d come in; it had taken another visit to do the second floor; and now here he was, covered in crap up on the third floor, where, in all honesty, he didn’t think anyone had been since about 1840.

  He looked again at the image this Vittoria Devine had sent. It looked very familiar, although he couldn’t remember the name of the artist or the picture – but he did remember it was one that he’d come across before. It had been in an article in Vanity Fair – he was sure of it. Which meant that it definitely wasn’t a load of old tat. Far from it. He saved it and did an image search.

  Christ what would he do without Google?

  A moment later the image appeared.

  Edward was unable to resist a grin. He knew it had looked familiar – it had been painted by Camille Pissarro, was part of a series. And this one, The Boulevard Montmartre at Twilight, was part of a collection looted during the Second World War and sold through a Swiss art dealer in 1941. According to the expert quoted in the article, its current location was a mystery.

  The smile curled across Edward’s face. No mystery. It was in a private collection in Ireland. But how the fuck had it got there?

  It only took Edward another few minutes and another search to connect Vittoria Devine to Marcus Devine and the Devine Collection.

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  And what was even more interesting was that they wanted a very discreet private sale. And this was exactly the type of painting that a very discreet private collector would be very happy to pay a lot of money for.

  Edward could already think of a few people who would be interested, collectors living in France and New York who weren’t too interested in exactly how a painting had ended up on the market but would be very keen for it to end up in their personal collection.

  Edward glanced back at the image Vittoria had sent. Pissarro had painted the same sweeping street scene of Montmartre many times – in the winter, in the rain, at night. Edward smiled to himself. Most of the others were in museum collections. The commission on this would be very sweet. Very sweet indeed.

  But then he returned to his current problem with a bump. If he didn’t find these fucking amulets he wouldn’t be around to enjoy the commission. Christ, why was this happening? If it had been anything else, something normal, something that wasn’t thousands of years old, he could have found another one – although finding four would be a challenge, even if that was an option, but … He shook his head and, putting the phone down on the dusty boards beside him, rubbed his face with his hands.

  After all his efforts to get into the shop it was looking like the box wasn’t here after all. So where the fuck was it? This morning, before he started on this last storeroom, Edward had meticulously searched Jack Power’s attic apartment at the very top of the building. No sign of it. Why would he have carried it all the way upstairs anyway?

  On the second floor he’d found a box with a battered copy of Rebecca in it, had felt his heart pumping. At this stage, one cardboard box looked like another one, but he was pretty sure there had been a copy of Rebecca in the one he was looking for. Someone had torn the lot docket off the outside, so Edward couldn’t be totally sure, but it was as close as he’d come so far. The only problem was that the copy of Du Maurier’s classic, foxed and water-stained, was the only thing in the box.

  Edward let out a breath, sweat breaking out down his back. Sergei was getting impatient. More to the point, Igor Kaprizov was too, and he wasn’t someone Croxley wanted to upset. The amulets were for his four nieces, one
of whom was getting married – perhaps they were the ‘something old’. Six and a half thousand years was fucking old alright. And their age added to their rarity, that and the fact that the ones Croxley was currently looking for were one of the few examples outside of the British Museum.

  What the fuck was he going to do? He’d thought of every possible option. Jack Power was hardly going to be pleased to see him, never mind willing to talk to him, if he turned up asking questions about a cardboard box. And if Power realised what was in it, what he was looking for, he’d be well and truly fucked.

  Croxley knew, assuming Power had them, that he could swap the shop back for the amulets – that was a no-brainer. But Jack Power wasn’t stupid. Not only would he understand the value of the amulets when he saw them, he’d have a good idea of where they came from as well. And he’d make Edward pay. Pay big time. Although parting with a couple of million in cash was looking like an increasingly attractive option compared to being offed by the Russian mafia. He’d been looking over his shoulder since the auction and the moment he’d realised the crucial items he was supposed to be collecting were missing. He’d hardly slept since then.

  Edward could feel a headache starting behind his eyes. Maybe this painting was the answer? Maybe he could do some sort of deal and use it as a sweetener to buy him more time with Kaprizov? His niece was getting married in Paris after all. Serendipity, perhaps?

  Croxley shook his head. What on earth had Power done with the box? He didn’t drive so it wasn’t in the boot of his car. It had to be somewhere.

  Croxley opened an email to reply to Vittoria Devine.

  Whatever he was going to do about these amulets, he needed to come up with a solution damn quick. He really didn’t know how much longer he could stall Sergei for. Maybe this painting really was a currency he could use.

  He might be bargaining for his life.

  Chapter 16

  ‘LILY POWER, you’re a magician.’ Lily spoke out loud, smiling to herself as she leaned in closer to the pair of 4K monitors on the desk in front of her, scanning the image she’d been working on. Marcus Devine smiled back at her. Beside him, apparently in the cockpit of a Boeing 787, was an Italian escort by the name of Bellissima Serata. She wasn’t Italian at all – she was Romanian – and she had achieved her fame via a dubious track of dating the right people and winding up on a reality TV show about a select London borough that Lily doubted she’d ever visited in daylight. But she was writing a tell-all memoir – Stripped Back: Sex, Scandal and Secrets – purporting to be a ‘true account’ of her many tabloid relationships. It was amazing what you could find on the Internet when you started to look. Lily had to give it to her, though: she was a beautiful girl. A beautiful girl who undoubtedly loved publicity.