Keep Your Eyes on Me

by Sam Blake

  ‘But it won’t come to that?’

  ‘I hope not. I’m going to need to find forensic experts to look at those photos, hire a detective to get evidence of my movements on the days the pictures relate to. If I can get CCTV of me somewhere else, then it’ll prove that the pictures are faked and I won’t need to bring you into it at all.’

  ‘That’s going to be expensive.’

  ‘With that and the lawyers, it’s going to cost thousands. But I’m going to sell some paintings, some Vittoria found in the attic. I didn’t even know they were there. They’re very valuable. I’ve got a dealer coming from London to look at them tomorrow. He can organise a private sale and keep it out of the media.’ Marcus glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘I’m going to have to go, sweet pea. I want to get back tonight to get ready for this guy.’

  Stephanie nodded. Their time together always felt too short. Sometimes she felt like they never finished a conversation. ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘Monday lunch-time – I’m seeing the lawyers again first thing. I’ll come straight over when I land. I’m hoping this guy will sell the pictures fast and then we can get the ball rolling.’

  ‘Why don’t you bring them here?’

  ‘I don’t want anyone seeing me with them or him. The bloody paparazzi seem to know everything these days, and someone is using photos of me in the press. I don’t want to take any risks. He can bring the pictures back with him tomorrow and then there’s no association to me. They’ve had a bit of a chequered history, from what I can gather, and I’ve enough to deal with. Vittoria will have checked him out – if she thinks he can be trusted, that’s good enough for me.’ He stood up.

  ‘Let me call you a cab.’ Stephanie reached for her phone.

  *

  In the back of the taxi on the way to Heathrow Marcus pulled out his phone and dialled Vittoria’s number. He couldn’t put off telling her about the meeting any longer. She answered on the third ring.

  ‘What happened? I’ve been waiting for you to call.’

  There was an edge to her voice. He let out a sigh through clenched teeth and recapped the events of the day.

  ‘So you’re briefing the lawyers on Monday?’

  ‘That’s about it. I’m hoping this guy of yours can give me an idea of the value of the paintings tomorrow so I know where we are.’

  ‘That makes sense. Turn your phone off when you get to Dublin – if the press gets wind of your meeting with HR from anyone in TransGlobal they’ll be trying to get in touch for a comment. You don’t want to say anything they can misquote. I’ll call you on the landline to see how you get on with Croxley. You’ll know it’s me – very few people have that number.’

  ‘I think only Aidan does at this point. No one uses landlines any more.’

  ‘Just as well, honestly. Keep the gates closed too. Don’t let anyone in at all. You don’t want some guy pretending he’s coming to clean the windows getting pictures of the house.’ Vittoria had a hard tone to her voice but Marcus knew she was right. She was usually right. It was one of the problems of being married to such a high achiever. After everything, she’d aced her exams, getting a distinction in her master’s. She didn’t mess about.

  ‘Christ, this is such a nightmare.’ Marcus let out a sigh, anguish raw in his voice.

  ‘It’s your worst nightmare. But hopefully it’ll all be resolved quickly.’

  Vittoria ended the call and Marcus looked at the phone in his hand. It was going to be expensive whichever way he looked at it, but like always, she was right.

  He was the victim here and the lawyers would prove it. He just need to hold onto that thought.

  Chapter 45

  ‘I REALLY NEED to get this oiled.’ Jack looked over his shoulder at Lily and grinned, his fringe flopping in his eyes. The steel protested as he heaved up the shutter on the back door of Power’s Fine Prints. Jack pulled it to waist height using the handles on the bottom edge and then shoved it up far enough to get the pole their grandpa had made from its corner. Slotting it underneath, he pushed the shutter up to its full height and laid the pole gently back against the wall, pulling the bunch of keys out of his jeans pocket.

  ‘You won’t believe the mess he made. I was tidying up all last night.’

  Lily smiled to herself. The moment she’d handed him the keys, he’d shot off to check out the shop, had been gone for hours. She’d been desperate to look herself but he needed time alone there, to get his head straight, and he was going to have to get used to doing things on his own when she moved. Before she could answer, Jack had the door open and the alarm had begun to pip. He disappeared inside and Lily could hear him punching in the code. A moment later he hit the light switch. The single light bulb struggled to light the room but it was pretty clear there was stuff everywhere.

  The back room was always dark, the narrow alley running behind the shops letting little light in through the wired glass, the iron bars on the window blocking out more. Lily stuck her head inside and looked around. Loose prints were scattered over the floor, the paper yellowed and foxed, books thrown on top of them, many open as if someone had flicked through the pages to look inside and then discarded them.

  Edward Croxley had really searched the place. Lily felt her temper rising at his total disrespect for the past, for the leather-bound volumes that had survived pestilence, flood and literal bombs to be flung like rubbish on the floor. But then the amulets were just as valuable – more so, bearing in mind his circumstances and what might have happened if they hadn’t found them. And they were very small.

  ‘Come through. I cleared up the shop yesterday – it’s not perfect but it’s straight enough for us to open. I can do the store rooms and upstairs gradually. You never know, I might find some other hidden gems we didn’t know we had.’

  Following him through to the main shop, Lily stuck her hands in her dungaree pockets and grinned, her heart bursting at Jack’s complete change in outlook, at his positivity. She’d always loved opening up the shop in the morning with their grandpa, loved the smell of old books that accumulated there overnight, as if they had all been busy visiting each other and chatting while she’d been away, but for Jack, this shop was part of him. And its loss had been a black hole that had literally sucked in everything good about his life from the moment it had gone to the moment she’d handed him the keys.

  As he reached the front of the shop ahead of her, Jack flicked on the main lights, turning and throwing a grin to her over his shoulder. She could immediately see where things had been moved: the globe was over to one side; some of the pictures on the walls were still slightly crooked. She felt an urge to check the first editions in the display case to make sure Croxley hadn’t damaged them, but Jack was already rolling up the front-door shutter, the sunlight streaming in, dust dancing in the beams of light as if they were magic. A moment later Jack was outside, pushing up the shutter on the window, letting in even more light.

  Lily felt tears welling up, but she turned and brushed them away before Jack could see them. He didn’t seem to notice, but came back inside and stood with his hands on his hips looking at the window display and out onto the street.

  ‘I reckon instead of having a mishmash of everything in the window, we need to theme it each week or every two weeks – we could do botanticals one week and maps the next, maybe animal etchings the next. We want people to stop and see what’s new. And you know that shop opposite the museum, the one that has all those hilariously titled books? Let’s look for some crazy ones – How to Groom Your Moustache or Climbing the Pennines with Yaks, I don’t know, but there have to be some here like that. I think it’ll get people talking. And maybe –’ he paused like he’d had a sudden revelation ‘– maybe sharing the display on social media. We need an Instagram account. Why didn’t I think of that before? And a hashtag, something quirky people will follow.’

  ‘Climbing the Pennines with Yaks?’ Lucy laughed out loud. ‘Well, while you’re looking for that, I’m goin
g to find those bird of paradise prints – I need to check out the colours. The photos didn’t come out very well on my phone.’

  ‘That’s exactly the type of thing I mean. If you do a collection of birds – or remember the cabbages you did for your final show? If you do anything like that for No. 42, we can do a window, add in pictures of the collection or, even better, a video screen showing the pieces in 3-D. Could you film some on your phone?’

  ‘I think you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself there, J, but it all needs freshening up – that I agree with one hundred per cent. Is upstairs a total mess?’

  Lily wasn’t sure if she was ready to see what Croxley had done to the store rooms. Christ, she hoped he hadn’t damaged anything.

  ‘Yes, but, look, it all needed a spring clean, has done for years. I’ve been wanting to catalogue everything and reorganise, so let’s use the opportunity …’

  Lily grinned. The difference in Jack was incredible. Personally, she’d always found that anger made her focus, gave her direction. She could imagine Jack’s reaction when he’d first come in, but he was channelling all the negative emotion now and looking at the shop with new eyes: that could only be a good thing.

  He continued, interrupting her thoughts. ‘Oh, and I found that picture you said to look for – it was under the counter. I put it in the safe in a Selfridges bag.’

  Lily fingered the leather jewellery box in her pocket and made a beeline for the safe.

  Chapter 46

  IT WAS STILL DARK when Vittoria slipped out of the door of room 520 in The Hogarth Hotel and headed for the lift wearing Lily’s coat, a pair of imitation tortoiseshell glasses and an auburn wig, a small padded envelope concealed deep inside the coat pocket. She’d never really thought that the lock-picking skills she’d been taught by her eldest cousin when she was nine would ever come in useful, but had been pleasantly surprised to discover that she hadn’t lost her touch. With the right tools, opening the connecting door between 520 and 521 had been as simple as slicing butter.

  In 521, she’d set her alarm for 3 a.m. but she’d hardly slept, adrenaline coursing through her as she’d tossed and turned. She’d already been wide awake when her phone had finally pipped. Today was going to be the longest day of her life but Vittoria knew she had reserves of stamina that few people possessed.

  For the next twenty-four hours she would be running on the very same adrenaline that had kept her awake, and her nerves.

  When it was all done, then she could rest. It was all about mind over matter. After the accident the doctors hadn’t expected her ever to walk again, let alone dance, but she couldn’t live without that connection between her mind and her body, the sound of music stimulating her muscles to react, to create. It was the way she was made.

  Downstairs, she’d hovered around the corner from reception, waiting for her moment. Despite the early hour, there were still people in The Lighthouse Bar, the stragglers from a wedding perhaps – they certainly looked as if they’d started the evening dressed smartly, but now seemed to be draped along the bar, empty champagne bottles littering its length. Vittoria felt sorry for the staff, who were no doubt dead on their feet but had to keep the guests happy. But from the amount they’d obviously drunk, she was sure the takings were worth the overtime.

  Vittoria had only had to wait a few moments for the doorman to be distracted from his post by the girl on reception. She could hear them laughing in the alcove that hid the reception desk. She’d been watching him for the last few days and prayed that he’d be leaning over the desk now, his back to the corridor, in what seemed to be his customary position during the quiet moments of the day.

  It was important nobody saw her or at least, if they did see her, that they didn’t recognise her. She’d be picked up on the hotel’s CCTV cameras, but she’d had a good look at the bank of screens behind the reception desk, and with the coat and wig and glasses she knew she could pass for Lily.

  The nylon Pacsafe cross-body bag she wore under Lily’s coat contained everything she needed for the next twenty-six hours. She couldn’t carry a bulky hold-all or her trolley case so had reduced the contents to the absolute essentials: latex gloves; the Irish passport and a pink paper driver’s licence she’d collected from Mr Bahnschrift in Mile End; the Visa Debit card that Aidan had sent; and a cheap unlocked phone she’d picked up in Tottenham Court Road. She’d been practising opening the back of it wearing the gloves – she just needed to fit the SIM card and it should work just fine. It was a back-up in case something went wrong and she couldn’t send the texts she needed to from the correct phone. She’d run through this a million times in her head, had checked and double checked the travel connection times, had memorised the schedule. It was going to work. For her and for Lily.

  This was it.

  Deep down, Vittoria knew that the irony in all of this was that if Marcus had kept his eyes on her and not been distracted by every passing piece of skirt, the outcome of today could be so different.

  But he hadn’t. And he’d lied and lied again.

  And the reason for the accident, the accident that had almost ended her life, had been his wandering eye as well. Vittoria could still feel her anger rising whenever she thought about it.

  Croxley’s eye had wandered too: to the dazzling riches that could come his way if he pushed things just a little bit, not doing anything overtly illegal but at the same time facilitating the importation of antiquities from war-torn areas. Antiquities that people had died trying to protect.

  Edward Croxley obviously didn’t give a damn for truth or history or the preservation of ancient civilisations. He was purely interested in profit. And it was time Croxley paid the full price for his part in a chain that got people killed and sold irreplaceable objects to the highest bidder.

  Vittoria glanced around the corner towards the front door again and, satisfied she wouldn’t be seen, slid past the reception desk, her Nikes silent on the polished wooden floor.

  Outside the air was crisp with the promise of a new day and a hint of autumn. The main entrance to the hotel opened straight onto Great Russell Street, and Vittoria slipped down the broad granite steps like a shadow. Behind her on Tottenham Court Road she could hear police sirens, the clatter of a bin lorry starting its rounds, but here the streets were empty, shopfronts closed, the streetlamps throwing pools of yellow light onto the paving stones and the piles of black sacks clustered, knotted tight, waiting for collection.

  Vittoria hurried along the pavement, not waiting for the pedestrian lights at the junction. There seemed to be a lull at this time in the morning, like the city was caught between night and day, like it was resting and waking at the same time. Like everything was about to happen.

  Crossing the road, the sound of her runners was hollow in the stillness. Outside Power’s Fine Prints, Vittoria pulled the padded envelope out of her pocket and slid it through the letter slot in the roller shutter. Lily had told her the mail was captured in a wire cage on the other side, that they always came in the back and unhooked the cage before they pushed up the shutter.

  Now, as Lily put it, the ball was rolling.

  As she straightened, a taxi pulled around the corner and stopped in front of her, its headlights blazing. She pulled open the rear door, climbed into the back of the car and mentally ticked the first box in a long list.

  *

  The 5.16 from St Pancras to Luton Airport Parkway was busier than Vittoria had expected, although four people on the subterranean platform at St Pancras wasn’t exactly a rush. Conscious of the CCTV in the station, Vittoria turned up the collar of Lily’s coat to hide her face. She’d been watching Lily, noted how she walked, how she continually pushed her glasses up her nose. Body language was as important an identifier as someone’s face.

  As she settled into a carriage that she practically had to herself, Vittoria ran through the timing in her mind for the billionth time.

  She was heading to Luton Airport, but not to catch a plane.

&
nbsp; Right beside the train station was the Renew Motel and, inside it, the Sprint Hire budget-car-rental desk. It was just over a four-hour drive to Holyhead, all motorway. Vittoria had thought about taking a cab – there were lots of drivers who would do a trip like that for cash, off the record – but she couldn’t afford any weak links in this chain. A woman travelling on her own to Holyhead from London in a taxi would be hard to forget and, whatever about fooling the CCTV cameras, sitting silently in the back of a car for that long gave the driver plenty of time to look at her, to wonder if the thick auburn hair hiding her face was perhaps a wig. And then if he saw the news and put two and two together?

  Hiring the car was a bit more complicated but safer.

  The Visa Debit card wasn’t traceable to her, and she had a solid alibi worked out so there was no reason for anyone to link the car, and therefore the payment, to her. She intended to make absolutely sure that Aidan was safe.

  Vittoria glanced at the time on her phone. She’d booked the 11.30 a.m. Irish Ferries swift ferry, which would dock at 13.19 in Dublin Port, just as Edward Croxley landed at Dublin Airport.

  The beauty of the ferry was that they rarely checked your documents as thoroughly as they did in the airport. A woman travelling alone on an Irish passport would be waved through between the trucks.

  If everything went to plan, she would have the car back in just over twenty-four hours. Vittoria was pretty sure that at 6 a.m. the staff were unlikely to be hugely alert, but she had all the required documentation.

  Everything was worked out meticulously. There would be plenty of time this afternoon when she got to Dublin to make sure the circumstantial evidence was in place – her ferry back to Holyhead wasn’t until 20.55.

  But then would come the bit she was dreading – driving back through the night to drop the car off and repeat her train trip into central London. She knew she’d be exhausted, emotionally and physically. She’d factored in some time to rest – a vital hour when she’d force herself to sleep in a service stop on the way down from Holyhead to Luton. Falling asleep at the wheel and crashing the car would be pretty stupid after everything she’d put in place to get this far.