by Sam Blake
Vittoria nodded. ‘It’s the timing that is absolutely crucial.’
‘No problem. I’ll be there. Where will you be?’
‘I’ve got a few things to do.’ Vittoria smiled at her enigmatically. ‘I’ll be keeping busy.’
Chapter 42
EDWARD CROXLEY sat on the chaise longue in his studio apartment and put his head in his hands. Matilda snuffled around his feet with her pug nose, her corkscrew tail moving in what, for Matilda, was a wag. She was almost round, like a little barrel on legs; he needed to stop his neighbour feeding her scraps when she minded her or he’d have to start carrying her soon. She looked at him with her liquid brown eyes. She was gorgeous and Edward needed gorgeous right now.
Christ, how had he got himself into this mess? Perhaps it was his own fault – he’d been showing off that night at the gallery, had made more of his art trading than it really was, but when a Russian oligarch turns up on your skyline you don’t tell him you’ve been selling chocolate-box prints for old ladies in Kent. It was Croxley’s nature to big things up, always had been. But perhaps it was time to stop.
The small balding man with the slightly alarming black eyebrows had been so interested in what he did, he’d told him too much. He, Edward Croxley, was a total fucking idiot. He should have realised that he was being sized up for something. Kaprizov’s English was heavily accented, like he’d never been bothered to learn it properly. But who needed to worry about learning another language when they had beautiful women fawning all over them and an entourage who looked after their every need. He’d invited Edward to another party, and it hadn’t been long before the five-star Mayfair lifestyle and fringe benefits had sucked him right in.
Going to the sales and buying what he was told was so easy. Well, it had been until the fuck-up with the amulets, and the message had come through loud and clear that it was his job to sort it out.
He’d been convinced they had to be in the shop. At least he’d been right about Jack Power buying the box. Who put six-thousand-year-old amulets into a fucking teapot anyway? Someone somewhere should get roasted for that.
Croxley flicked his fringe out of his eyes and pushed his glasses up his nose. They were a fashion statement, didn’t help him see at all, but he’d got used to them now, and they made him look clever. He was good with that.
Matilda rolled over beside his foot with a loud sigh and then farted. She looked up at him, expecting her stomach to be rubbed. He reached down to oblige. He had his iPad on the pouffe in front of him – he’d been in the middle of googling Vittoria’s husband, Marcus Devine, when a wave of despair had hit him.
Now he had Vittoria on one side and Sergei on the other. How bad could it be?
At least he had three of the amulets. When he’d dropped them off earlier, Sergei had looked at him and shaken his head. Edward had actually wanted to punch him, but instead he’d said, ‘I’ll have the fourth this weekend, plus more paintings. If Igor liked the look of the last one he’s going to be very happy. I have it safely stored at Power’s Fine Arts. You can collect it there at any time.’
‘He does not want paintings. He wants these gold charms for his niece’s wedding and for her three bridesmaids. Something old the British saying goes. Igor wants the groom and his parents to know that he will stop at nothing to ensure Anastasia’s happiness.’
Croxley was quite sure Igor Kaprizov would manage that.
Now he tried to bring himself into the moment. He needed to find out as much as he could about Marcus Devine to make sure he wasn’t taken unawares on Saturday. Vittoria had been very precise about what he needed to do.
Edward had cringed, his stomach rolling over, the minute Vittoria had mentioned the pool. He hadn’t been near a swimming pool since that party, since Arabella; the image of her lying there face down at the bottom of the crystal clear water would never leave him. She’d been so pale, her blonde hair waving like a plant in the movement of the water.
Even now it made him feel sick to his stomach.
He’d gone upstairs to look for an empty loo, had seen her stumble into a bedroom followed by about six jocks. It was her friend’s birthday and she was a virgin, so it was high time to put an end to that, apparently. But then she’d started screaming. He’d seen a scuffle through the open door, heard the bang as the French windows were slammed open, then a splash. She’d jumped off the balcony right into the pool. She’d been drinking, doing lines. Whatever had happened, she’d never surfaced and no one had jumped in after her. And the water had washed away any DNA.
Edward bit his lip. Pools just weren’t his thing.
His heart lurched. He’d thought for a moment Vittoria was trying to frame him, but she needed to sell the pictures and only he could do that. No one threw away two million quid – more if you took the other pictures into account. And it was pretty obvious Marcus Devine had to be right on the edge.
Riffling through the newspapers in the basket beside the chaise longue, he found the Sunday Inquirer and shook it open. The photos of Bellissima and Marcus Devine were pretty big. Devastatingly big. Edward could see why Vittoria was upset. He’d crossed paths with Bellissima a few times and she was a total bitch, always looking for anything that would get her picture in the paper.
Could he do what Vittoria wanted? Did he have any choice? He needed that fourth amulet or there was a very good chance he’d wake up dead one day next week, and if his neighbour was left to look after Matilda, she’d pop.
Croxley had thought the painting would help smooth things, but it was the amulets that Kaprizov wanted – he’d get to the paintings later. He was interested in those, for sure, but he had a one-track mind, and right now that was focused on his niece and making sure she was totally and blissfully happy on her wedding day, and if that meant giving her amulets that had been covered in blood from the moment the first looter had run up to smash open the museum doors, then so be it. Edward didn’t see how they could possibly bring her luck, but that wasn’t his problem. Making sure Sergei got them was, and right now Vittoria Devine had the last one.
She’d booked him on a flight at lunch-time from Heathrow. He’d be in Dublin by 1.30 p.m. and needed to get a taxi to the house in Killiney. There were gates and a long drive but Marcus was very friendly and he needed some good news. That’s what he’d be delivering.
All he had to do was have a brandy with Marcus and then go down to the pool house to see the paintings and give him an idea of what they were worth. What could be simpler?
Chapter 43
IT WAS EARLY evening when Vittoria’s phone rang. She’d been lying back with her eyes closed, and the sound made her jump. Reaching for her mobile on the bedside table she could see Aidan’s name on the screen. He spoke before she could say even hello.
‘You’ve been very quiet – how are you doing?’ His voice was full of concern.
Vittoria stretched and sat up in her bed, pulling the pillow straight behind her and hooking her hair behind her ear out of the way of the phone. The curtains were open and she had a lovely view of the grand buildings on the opposite side of Great Russell Street. She knew she had a busy day tomorrow, had been resting, working through everything in her mind, mentally checking and double checking. In the background at Aidan’s end she could hear the sounds of a busy hospital, voices and the clattering of trolleys. Aidan must have just finished his rounds. She could see him standing in his white coat, the pocket bristling with pens, his stethoscope around his neck and a face mask pulled down around his neck. He always wore a black T-shirt to work with black denims and a chunky brown leather belt. He was going grey now, like Marcus, but wore his hair shaved, and started the week clean shaven but by Friday had very sexy stubble. That and his sparkling blue eyes had the nurses fawning over him. With good reason.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve been busy.’
‘But Marcus—’
‘Needs to keep his trousers on a bit more often.’
‘Vittoria …’ His tone was warning.
>
‘There’s no point getting “thick” with me, as you say. He’s the one with the pregnant mistress and spread all over the tabloids.’
She mentally kicked herself. Lashing out at Aidan, the one person who was a constant in her life, who was lovely and reliable and everything Marcus wasn’t, was the last thing she wanted to do. Sometimes she said things she really didn’t mean. It was some sort of weird defence mechanism. At this stage, after all these years, she was pretty sure he understood her, but she didn’t want to hurt him.
‘I just wanted to make sure you were OK, lovely.’
‘I’m doing good now the shock has worn off.’
‘Have you spoken to him about it?’
Vittoria tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. ‘Which part exactly? He’s denied being with this Bellissima but he can hardly deny paternity, now, can he?’ She drew a ragged breath. ‘And I’m not going to tell him I hired a private detective to find out what he’s been up to. It’s not as if she’s the first – or the only one, come to that. I think he’s had more than one on the go at a time. Poor bitches, they’ve no idea.’
‘I know you’re hurt, but—’
‘Aidan, mio piccolo amore, I’m sorry, but I’m all out of sympathy. He’s brought everything that is happening on himself. And it’s gone too far this time. He’s gone too far.’ She left the sentence hanging. ‘He hasn’t changed since he was at school, you know. But it ends here.’
Of everyone she knew, Aidan was probably the only person who truly understood what Marcus was really like, what she’d been through and the extent of her injuries after the accident. He’d monitored her case closely. He’d been called to A&E when she’d originally been brought in, had been part of the team that had wired her back together, and then he’d stayed beside her through every step of her recovery. He’d been friends with Marcus in school – they’d fallen out at the time Aidan’s brother had died and then lost contact. But ironically, on the night of the crash, he’d dropped into the same party she and Marcus had been at on his way in to work.
With Marcus visiting the hospital most days, and Aidan keeping a close eye on her, the two of them had reconnected, had gone on to buy a boat together, naming it after Aidan’s younger brother, Danny, who had died so tragically and so young. And Aidan had become a permanent fixture in both their lives. A very welcome fixture. There were times when, without him, Vittoria had been sure she’d have gone quite mad.
‘You know I’d told him I wanted to start thinking about adoption? I’m heading for thirty. If I’m going to be a mother, I want to be a young mother.’
‘You’ll always be young, Vittoria – as long as you can hear music, you’ll dance and that will keep you young forever.’
Her voice softened. ‘If it wasn’t for you I’d be in a wheelchair, and I would probably be quite deranged.’
‘You know you’re a fighter. I’ve never seen you give in to anything; you’d have found a way.’ Behind him she heard a voice and the phone clattered like he was putting his hand over it. A moment later he was back, his voice a little louder. ‘I need to be quick, they’re waiting for me.’ She could hear a woman’s voice in the background as he continued. ‘How long are you staying in London?’
‘I’ll be back officially on Sunday.’
‘Sunday? That’s good. Did the card arrive OK? You’ve got it?’
‘I have, thank you. It came this afternoon. Thanks so much. I suddenly realised I couldn’t buy anything without Marcus seeing exactly where I’ve been and what I’ve been spending. I need some privacy and this is London.’
Aidan laughed. ‘What have you done with your own cards? Maxed them out already?’ Fortunately, he continued, saving her from having to come up with an answer. ‘I could have just sent you mine, you know.’
‘You’re lovely but I think someone would have noticed that I’m not Dr Aidan Kelly, don’t you? This card doesn’t have a name on it so I won’t need to pretend I’m you. Your text with the PIN number arrived, so I’m good to go now.’
‘Make sure you buy something gorgeous – treat yourself.’
A wave of emotion filled her eyes with tears. Aidan was such a gem – she’d told him she needed a prepaid Visa currency card from the post office, and he hadn’t even queried it or asked when she’d pay him back. ‘Oh, Aidan, what would I do without you?’ She caught a tear with her finger.
He laughed. ‘Most people want to get rid of me – apparently my jokes are terrible. What time are you back? I’m racing all day Saturday. Marcus said he’s busy but I’ve got a full crew for Danny Boy and it’s almost the end of the season.’
‘That sounds like a lot of fun. I land about 4.30 on Sunday, I think, should be back at the house by 5.30. Why don’t you come over for supper?’
‘Sounds good. Marcus will probably want to talk about his legal thing, about suing the Inquirer. He said he has to be in London again on Monday.’ Before she could answer he dropped his voice. ‘You sure you’re going to be OK?’
‘I’ll be grand, honestly.’
‘I hope so.’ His tone said it all. ‘I’ll see you Sunday.’
She clicked the phone off, the sincerity with which he had spoken hanging between them like a kiss.
Chapter 44
THE ICE CHINKED in the glass as Stephanie put it down on her kitchen table beside Marcus. His uniform jacket was slung around the back of the chair, his tie loose.
‘Thanks, sweet pea.’
He rubbed his eyes. He didn’t think he’d ever felt this tired, but it wasn’t just the jet lag from the Sydney trip: the disciplinary meeting had left him emotionally exhausted, utterly drained. Maybe he was getting too old for this job. But now, with the baby, with school fees, running two households …
‘So tell me, how did it go?’ Stephanie interrupted his thoughts.
Marcus took a deep breath. ‘Probably as I should have expected.’ He paused. ‘About as badly as it could have done, really.’ He sipped his brandy. ‘Didn’t help that I was late. I don’t know how the fuck that happened.’
She didn’t say anything. Marcus glanced at the kitchen clock. He’d been in the house over half an hour and hadn’t been able to speak yet, had come in and sat down and stared into space, trying to sort out his thoughts.
He was starting to understand what shellshock was all about.
He looked at the clock again. He didn’t have long, needed to get a flight back to Dublin to be ready for Vittoria’s art dealer tomorrow so he could start turning this fucking mess around. At least the brandy was helping. Taking a sip, he lined the glass up with the grain in the table, looking for the right words. He needed to explain to Stephanie: she deserved that.
‘I didn’t expect it to be easy but I wasn’t expecting that level of hostility. They were waiting for me in one of the conference rooms. Christ, their faces when I walked in. I checked and double checked the time – I thought I was at least forty-five minutes early, but … Jesus, I was late. I must have put the time down wrong or something. I don’t know how I did that.’
‘You’ve had a lot on your mind.’
He hardly heard her, took another sip of brandy. ‘There were three of them sat in a row on the opposite side of this huge table. They’d taken away all the chairs – there was just one pulled out on my side of the table.’ He closed his eyes, remembering the set-up. Highly polished, the table top reflected the men’s stark white shirts and dark suits, their ties the only variation in their corporate uniform; the one woman, the human resources director, was wearing a dark dress with a white collar. It was like they’d coordinated deliberately to intimidate.
The room was small, dominated by the table, decorated to look like a Victorian dining room, with thick brocade curtains and panelled walls, hunting paintings in heavy gold frames hanging on the walls. Ridiculous in the context of a modern building but reeking of empire and British authority.
‘It was like the fucking Spanish inquisition. The bitch from human resources was
like a machine gun with her questions. Who was this Bellissima, what had she been doing in the cockpit, why had I been in a strip club with her? I mean, it was so fucking stupid. Everyone knows tabloids make stuff up all the time.’
He rubbed his hand over his face. He’d shaved so carefully this morning, made sure he had knife-edge creases in his uniform, but none of it had helped. Across the table, Stephanie was sitting slightly sideways to allow space for her bump. With her blonde hair tied back and very little make-up on she looked lost and vulnerable.
‘What did they say about the suspension?’
He shrugged. ‘That it’s still in place. I think I’ve bought some time telling them I’m suing the paper for defamation. I’m not sure how long. They said for me to keep them informed at every stage and to talk to them after I’ve seen my lawyers. I didn’t tell them I’d spent yesterday morning with them.’
‘And the photos, did they believe you that they were fake?’
‘I don’t know.’ He rubbed his face again and took another swig of his brandy. ‘I think they were planning to sack me there and then, but I explained about the photoshopping, that I had witnesses who had seen me the night that one of me drinking had supposedly been taken. They want it all in writing.’
Stephanie winced slightly as the baby moved. She rubbed her belly. ‘So what’s next?’
‘I’ve transferred funds over to your bank account. I did that yesterday; it might take till Monday to show. About a half a million euro.’ He was looking into his glass, didn’t notice Stephanie’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘You’ll need to talk to your accountant about putting it into trust for the baby so you don’t lose half of it in tax.’ He spoke slowly. ‘I cashed in a load of bonds and moved the bulk of my savings. If it all goes wrong, I could end up bankrupt. I don’t want the lawyers getting their hands on money that should be yours.’