by Peter Watson
‘Hello Edward, this is Lynne Irving. Harry says he met you at the I of A library today. We never see you now but Mason Inchcliffe from Harvard is coming to dinner next Wednesday . . . are you free? We’d love to see you. You know the number . . . Do try and make it. Bye!’
A pause. A warble. A click. Edward swallowed some juice. ‘This is Nancy, with the laughing face. We can’t go on, not meeting like this. At the tone, it will be . . . six forty-two precisely . . . We are getting to be like those couples in Swiss clocks – only one of them ever comes out at any one time. Never together. In case you have a map pinned up and a special operations room tracking my movements, today I was at Kirkleatham, near Middlesborough. Sculptures by Henry Cheere . . . Oh Woodie, there’s not much cheer talking to your tape all the while.’ She rang off.
Edward sat back in his chair. If she missed him so much, why hadn’t she left a number where he could reach her? Why didn’t she call late at night or early morning? And what was that crack about a map and an operations room? A coincidence or something more? And if she wasn’t mixed up in this Apollo Brigade business why was she behaving so oddly? Edward felt sick.
He thought of his other message. He didn’t think he could face dinner with Mason Inchcliffe. Inchcliffe was a distinguished scholar but a difficult man. He edited a journal, The Fifteenth Century, which combined history, art history, economic history, architectural history – and whatever else Inchcliffe thought worthy. He was a bit of a campaigner for causes – it made his journal very lively but it also made his company rather tiring.
Edward dialled the Irvings’ number. He got Harry, not Lynne.
‘Edward! Hey! Good to hear you. Can you come to dinner?’
‘No, I don’t think so, Harry. I’m very tied up just now – Hillier’s in hospital, you know.’
‘Yes, I heard. Too bad. Inchcliffe’s here on one of his campaigns. He’s hoping to do an entire issue of that journal of his on one subject.’
‘God forbid!’
‘You don’t like the idea? He’s asked me to . . .’ And Irving was off, talking about Irving. It took Edward several minutes to disentangle himself and he only managed to do so by promising to try to look in for a drink on the following Wednesday, after the dinner party.
He put down the receiver but as he did so a thought struck him and he lifted it again immediately. His movements slowed and he replaced the receiver a second time. He sat for a moment, his hand on the instrument, thinking. Finally, after a few moments, he picked it up yet again, and dialled.
‘Lynne? It’s Edward again. No, I haven’t changed my mind about dinner – but may I speak to Harry again, please.’ He waited while Harry was brought to the phone. ‘Harry . . . hello again, sorry about this . . . Look . . . you don’t happen to have a copy of the Journal of Classical Greece at home by any chance? Our conversation earlier reminded me that you might . . . Well, I’m interested in the style of the journal, the writing style I mean . . . Well, yes, I do have something I’m thinking of submitting . . . It’s not sculpture, Harry, otherwise I would submit it to you . . . No, I’d rather not talk about it until I’ve got it all down on paper . . . Yes, I’ll hold on.’ He waited while Irving checked in his library. At length, Irving picked up the phone on his desk.
‘You have got one!’ breathed Edward. ‘Wonderful. May I collect it now, please? . . . Well, I’m seeing Hillier tomorrow and I need to discuss it with him . . . Great . . . I’ll be there in thirty minutes.’
Sixty minutes later, Edward was clambering down a gangplank just off Chelsea embankment. This time he had travelled not on his bicycle but in the very old but lovingly restored Aston Martin. Finding the row of houseboats had been no problem but he had found Victoria Tatton’s number only with the aid of the headlights of passing cars. He hammered on what he hoped was Victoria’s door.
‘Yes? Who is it? It’s ten o’clock, for pity’s sake.’
‘It’s Edward. Invading your privacy.’
He heard the bolt being pulled back. Then she stood before him. She was wearing trousers and had a bright scarlet bandana around her neck. She looked spectacular and meticulous at the same time. She held a bowl in one hand. ‘Couldn’t resist the cannelloni, right?’
‘Wrong. Cancel the cannelloni. I’ve got something else for you to cook. New names for the computer.’
*
Edward stepped over the outstretched legs of Bernard Midwinter and Bob Leith. ‘I’m sorry we’re late, sir,’ he said to the Prime Minister. He lifted an upright chair from the doorway to the study and put it down where Victoria could sit on it. He himself perched on the arm of the sofa.
O’Day glared at him furiously but it was Lockwood who spoke first. ‘We’re not very formal here, Dr Andover, but we do believe in punctuality. All of us in this room are busy people. We all have jobs that we think are important. A midnight meeting starts at midnight, not at ten past, or twenty past. I hope I never have to say this again but –’
‘We have a name, sir.’
Lockwood was annoyed at being interrupted. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What sort of name?’ barked O’Day.
Everyone now stared at Edward.
Edward looked at Victoria and then back at the Prime Minister. ‘Sir, as Commander O’Day has probably told you, he, Inspector Leith, Miss Tatton and I spent the day trying to find a name, a Greek name, of someone who travelled to Switzerland and is involved in one of the Greek groups that have views on the Marbles.’
‘Yes,’ said Lockwood. ‘He’s explained all that. Are you trying to tell me that you have more up-to-date –’
‘Yes. Yes sir, I am.’
O’Day spoke sharply. ‘What! How?’
The sofa arm was uncomfortable and Edward moved himself to prevent one leg from going to sleep. ‘As the commander may have told you, sir, I found nine Greek names in the Institute of Archaeology library, nine names where the authors of articles in academic journals had expressed views that might mean they would support the aims of this Apollo Brigade.’
‘And you drew a blank. Yes, we’ve heard all that.’ Lockwood was listening but still looked stern.
‘Well, when I got home, there was a message on my answering machine. It was an invitation to dine with an American academic, a very forceful character who edits a journal and uses it to campaign for causes he supports.’
‘You will explain the connection, I hope.’ Lockwood placed the whisky bottle he was holding on the mantelshelf.
‘Yes . . . I had to refuse the dinner invitation but it set me thinking. Of the nine names I found today, four had published their articles in the same periodical, the Journal of Classical Greece. What I hadn’t grasped this afternoon was that, even if none of the academics who wrote for the Journal would actually take action on their beliefs, one of the editors might. If this American academic I mentioned could use his journal for campaigning, so could one of the Greek editors.’
Lockwood’s expression had softened.
‘Around nine-thirty tonight I managed to get hold of a copy of the Journal. All the editors, four of them, are listed inside the front cover. Around ten o’clock, I picked up Miss Tatton and we went round to St James’s Palace and spent a couple of hours with the computer, checking back through the passenger manifests of Olympic Airways and Swissair. That’s what we’ve been doing. That’s why we were late.’
‘And?’
Edward looked at Victoria and motioned for her to take up the story.
‘One editor of the Journal of Classical Greece has travelled between Athens and Zurich three times in the past fifteen months –’
‘What! . . . What’s his name?’ Lockwood’s fist clenched tightly.
‘Dimitri Kolettis.’
‘He’s the senior editor,’ added Edward. ‘At least, his name comes top of the list, and the list is not alphabetical. It also says that he is a professor at the University of Thessaloniki.’
‘Maybe he went skiing.’ O’Day’s voice was still s
harp.
‘Unlikely,’ said Victoria. ‘One meeting was in September and on each occasion he only stayed one or two nights. We’ve found his name on the return manifests.’
‘He could have been using a Swiss bank.’ O’Day wouldn’t give up.
‘And he could have been buying a cuckoo clock, or some fancy chocolate. Stop it, commander.’ Lockwood nodded at Victoria and Edward. ‘Well done. Of course there may be a perfectly innocent explanation for this man’s trips to Switzerland but my gut tells me we are off and running.’ He turned back to O’Day. ‘Obviously, you will work all tomorrow checking this Kolettis character. Have Athens locate him and then, with luck, he will lead us to the others. I shall be at Chequers, not far away. You can reach me there if you need to.’
He addressed Victoria and Edward. ‘As I explained to the others before you two came, I have arranged for a leak to appear in the Sunday Post this weekend. I therefore invite you all for lunch on Sunday to review progress. We can study reaction to the leak, Dr Andover will have talked to the blackmailers again and Commander O’Day will, with luck, have some information from Greece . . . So, thank you for coming. No midnight meeting tomorrow. We’ll make it midday the day after, at Chequers.’
Chapter Eleven – Saturday
Edward dabbed his knife into the mustard at the edge of his plate and spread it on to the bacon pinned under his fork. Every day of his life, when he was in Britain, Edward started his day with two rashers of bacon, two tomatoes – all grilled – and a slice of toast. Several women friends had hinted it was unhealthy, two had insisted it was lethal and only one had offered to cook it for him. Nancy liked cooking.
The morning’s papers lay at his feet. He couldn’t concentrate. What was he going to do about Nancy? Most of him still didn’t believe she was mixed up in this affair in any way. Her odd behaviour – he had to admit it was odd behaviour – must be due to something else. Another man? But, if so, why did she bother to keep in contact? It was as if she was touching base with her phone calls, keeping a line open as some kind of failsafe in case . . . in case what? He bit into some toast. None of it made any sense. What if she was involved? Why, in that case, was she even calling him? To pretend everything was normal? Because she couldn’t face him in person but needed to keep in touch so as not to make him suspicious, and in case she might need at some stage to understand the thinking at the Palace? He smeared more mustard on the rest of his bacon. He had to concede that Nancy’s behaviour, weird as it was, fitted the second scenario better than the first.
If it was true, it was shattering. It meant that he had been used. It meant there had been no genuine warmth in Nancy at all. It probably meant she had lied to him about all sorts of things, not just her feelings about him or the fact that Rysbrack’s sculpture was in the Pontefract church. It meant that Nancy had singled him out as a target a long time ago. He stared at the remains of a tomato on his plate. He and Victoria Tatton had been very excited last night when they had found Dimitri Kolettis’s name on the passenger manifests. Edward had been too excited to take much notice of the dates he had flown to Zurich. Now he saw their significance. The Greek’s first trip had taken place several weeks before Nancy had introduced herself to Edward, after his lecture at the Courtauld Institute. She must have come to London – or been sent – with the express intention of meeting him. Of seducing him.
Now, suddenly, Edward realized why Nancy had kept in touch. He had told her everything that had happened in the early stages! He had been used again. He refused to believe it. Nancy had been too . . . too breezy to have made up her research in the north. He knew that to be real. Her lovemaking had been not only exciting, it had been genuine, he was convinced. She liked him, just as he . . . liked her.
He ate the last of his toast. His judgement was shot. He would have to talk to her – tackle her with his suspicions. He would know from her reaction. No sooner had he thought this than he realized he couldn’t do it. If he did, and she was involved, the whole thing would explode. The Queen would be humiliated and eventually it would emerge that Edward, Edward who had had his suspicions about Nancy for days, and told no one, was responsible for the failure of – everything.
Edward found that, unconsciously, he had been holding his breath. He closed his eyes and sucked in some air. He was trapped.
*
As Edward approached the studio that morning, along the balcony overlooking the little courtyard, he heard a strange hum breaking into the Saturday silence of the palace. He inserted his key into the lock, turned it and pushed at the door. Frank got out of his chair but, seeing it was Edward, just nodded and sat down again. He was still reading the same paperback.
Edward stepped past the pictures to see Victoria hunched over a computer printer which was spewing out lines of writing. O’Day had a long sheet of paper in his hands and was scanning it.
‘We’ve made an early start,’ he said. ‘Overnight I heard from Athens and I also had an idea. The news from Athens is a list of ten names. The good news is that six of the names were on our list of yesterday. The bad news is that none of the other four – all Greek MPs, by the way – features on the passenger manifests.’
‘Why, then, the printouts?’
‘Ah! That’s the idea I had. What you and Tawsy here didn’t think to check last night was if anyone came with Kolettis.’
‘How could we? We didn’t have any other names?’
‘But we don’t need one, do we?’ O’Day grinned and tapped his temple, to suggest Edward and Victoria had not been using their brains. After his anger of the evening before, when he had clearly been a little jealous of the breakthrough Victoria and Edward had made in his absence, he obviously felt himself back in command. ‘We’re checking the other passengers on the flights which Kolettis made. If we find the same name on more than one flight . . . you see what I mean?’
Edward did. And it was true: Victoria and he had been too pleased with their discovery of Kolettis to think it through any further. He sat himself on a chair and said, ‘Give me a printout.’
Victoria’s fingers were doing a complicated jig on the keyboard. Even her fingers seemed tidy – composed, meticulous. Today she was wearing a bright scarlet suit, a welcome splash of colour in this room. The low collar of the suit made her neck seem even longer today. He was amazed that she could have such a long neck and yet be so tiny. Nancy had a long neck too . . .
The printer started to judder again and paper rolled forward. Edward could see the columns of names ranged against the left-hand margin. Victoria waited a moment, then got up from her seat. She ripped the paper from the printer, then tore off the separate sheets. She held two pieces out for Edward to take. ‘This first one is the manifest for Kolettis’s second flight to Zurich, in September last year, and his flight back two days later.’ She smiled. ‘And you owe me a pasta dinner. You should have seen that cannelloni when I got home last night.’
Edward smiled and took the lists. Each of them contained between two and three hundred names, so comparing all of them was not easy. He tried hard to concentrate on the lists but his thoughts kept straying to Nancy. He even found himself looking for the name ‘Tucker’ on the passenger manifests. It didn’t appear to be on the two he was holding. But the lists were not arranged alphabetically, so it wasn’t easy to be sure.
Suddenly there was a knock on the studio door. O’Day looked up, alarmed. Frank had shot to his feet and was looking at O’Day. Edward moved round to the edge of the Canaletto and approached the door, O’Day motioning him to deal with whoever it was. Edward was just about to open the door when a voice rang out on the other side. ‘It’s Wilma! I’ve made a jug of coffee. Do you want it, or shall I drink it myself?’
Edward’s sigh eased into a grin and he opened the door. As he took the tray, he gave Wilma a wink though he felt like kissing her. ‘I didn’t know you were coming in today. This is a real treat.’
‘The son’s gone mountaineering, the daughter’s sailing, so she sa
ys, with friends. Besides, a crisis is a crisis. If you want anything, just holler.’
‘Thanks Wilma, we will. Bless you.’
Edward carried the tray in and Frank closed the door behind him. They drank their coffee in silence and got back to work.
Suddenly Leith whispered, ‘Yes! I’ve got one.’
Everyone looked at him.
‘I have “A. Leondaris” travelling Athens-Zurich on Swissair on February the eleventh and Zurich-Athens, on Olympic, on the twelfth. Kolettis was on both flights. Anyone else got Leondaris on their lists?’
One of the phones rang out. It was the instrument Edward had used the first time he spoke to the blackmailers. He glanced at O’Day and Leith. They moved to their earpieces.
Edward picked up the receiver. ‘Yes?’
Wilma’s voice was heard. ‘A gentleman. He says he called the other day. About the Second World War pictures.’
‘Yes, Wilma. Thank you. Put him on please.’
There was a pause. Then, ‘Good morning, Dr Andover.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes, what?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You know the rules. The Victoria and Albert Museum, in South Kensington. There’s a bank of phones near the restaurant at the Exhibition Road entrance. In half an hour, exactly.’
The line went dead.
O’Day turned first to Victoria. ‘Little point in you coming, Tawsy. Stay here and keep on with the lists. We’ll be back as soon as we can.’
When they reached the gallery, Edward led the way. He was familiar with the layout of the V & A. Inside the entrance he turned left and descended some stairs, past some early twentieth-century costumes. Ahead of them was the restaurant, newly refurbished in Scandinavian-style wood. To the left was the bank of phones. There were about six minutes to go and he used the opportunity to call Mordaunt, at Windsor, to keep him up to date.
Right on time, the phone near where Leith was standing gave a cracked ring. The inspector stepped back and Edward wedged himself into the cubicle. He picked up the receiver.