by Lena Jones
I’d forgotten that Mr Cohen was there!
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, stopping and meeting his gaze. ‘I’ve just realised that someone I trusted has been betraying me – betraying us, because it looks as though he’s passed on your name, and details of your involvement.’
‘Are you sure it’s them? Perhaps you’re mistaken?’
‘No, I don’t think I am. It all makes sense, you see. He’s the only person who had access to every part of the information.’ But my head is still reeling, hoping to uncover another possibility.
It can’t be him. I’ve trusted Arthur with my insecurities as well as my private hopes about getting justice for Mum. It occurs to me that I care too much about him, as a friend. He’s become the person I’m closest to, after Dad, Liam and Brianna. Tears fill my eyes and I have to stop pacing, because I can’t see.
‘Don’t forget that phones can be tapped, emails intercepted …’ says Mr Cohen.
‘I know. But some of this particular information was discussed face to face. So unless someone had planted a bug actually on him …’ I sit down heavily. ‘I don’t want to believe it – I thought he was my friend …’
Mr Cohen regards me with an expression full of compassion. ‘Do you need a cup of tea?’ he asks.
I smile weakly. ‘Thank you, but no. What I need to do is confront him.’
Sam Cohen’s face creases up with concern. ‘Please, don’t take any chances. You didn’t hear what he – what the visitor – said to me, the threats he made …’
‘Don’t worry. I’m used to dealing with bullies.’
‘I didn’t finish telling you about him,’ he says.
I take a deep breath. ‘You’re right. What does his voice sound like?’
‘Deep and northern – Liverpudlian or Geordie maybe. I’m afraid I’m not very good at accents.’
I make a note. ‘OK. I’ll ask my cheating colleague about him. There can’t be too many of his associates that fit his build and accent. I’ll make sure you don’t get any more threats.’
But the conservator is reaching for his phone. ‘There’s no need for that …’
‘Who are you calling?’
‘The police. I’ve been a coward, not alerting them sooner. I can’t let you put yourself in danger.’
‘What do you mean, you’ve been a coward?’
He doesn’t meet my gaze. ‘Perhaps if I’d called the police when I first uncovered the fakes, your mother might still be alive.’
‘What makes you think she didn’t die naturally?’
‘I’m sure of it,’ he says. I meet his eye and wait. ‘It was something the northern man said … What was it …? Ah, yes: “If you aren’t straight with us, you’ll go the same way as Clara Oddlow. You knew her, didn’t you?”’
He sees me flinch and a look of distress crosses his face.
‘I’m so sorry – how clumsy of me! You didn’t know she’d not died naturally?’
‘I suspected,’ I say weakly.
‘I assumed you knew …’
I did know. But it’s still hard to hear someone say it out loud – it makes it real. I blink hard to stop the tears that are threatening to spill out. Mum was murdered. And by the sounds of it, she was definitely killed by the people behind the art forgeries. If I can catch them, I might be able to get justice for my mum. Hopefully, I’m not too late to help Sheila Smith too.
‘I’m going to call the police,’ he says again.
‘Please don’t – at least not until you’ve heard from me again.’
‘All right. I’ll give you a few days,’ he says.
‘Thank you. I just need a bit more time …’ A final thought occurs to me. ‘Do you know Sheila Smith?’ I ask him.
‘Yes, very well. She’s a dear friend of mine. Why? Has something happened to her? That man asked about her too, but I was determined not to tell him anything that might implicate Sheila.’
‘She’s gone missing,’ I say. ‘And I think your blackmailer and my colleague might be behind her disappearance.’
He has a hand to his mouth in shock. ‘Not Sheila! But she wouldn’t hurt a fly!’
‘I think she’s still alive,’ I tell him. ‘I found proof that she’s being held somewhere …’ I don’t want to lie to him, so I say no more.
‘Poor Sheila!’
‘I’m going to find her,’ I say. ‘It’s going to be all right – I promise.’
He squeezes my hand as he shows me out of the back door. ‘Don’t take any risks,’ he says. ‘It isn’t worth it.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ I say.
As I head out to hail a cab, it occurs to me that Sam didn’t even ask how I bypassed the lock on the gate. He really needs to step up his security. I keep glancing around, but there’s no one watching as I make my way through the dark, sleeting streets to the main road.
Sitting in a black cab travelling home, I send a message to my dear, ever-reliable friends:
I need you!
Liam replies instantly:
Liam
When and where?
My house, in half an hour
Liam
As you know, my guardian doesn’t like me going out after 8 on a school night, but I’ll find a way to convince him!
Brianna
I’ll get my brother to bring me. Need a lift, L?
Liam
Nah, it’s fine, thanks – I’ll take a taxi
I laugh, remembering that Liam accepted a lift once from Brianna’s brother, and arrived at his destination green and shaken. He kept clutching my arm and saying, ‘Never again!’
My friends are coming! I text Dad, to let him know I’m on my way home and that he’s to expect visitors.
He texts back:
Do I have to lay out the best china?
Just the best crisps?
I decide to shelve thinking about Arthur’s treachery until I’m back in the house, preferably with my real friends for support. However, while the rational part of my brain may have approved this plan, my emotions have another idea: anger is coursing through me like adrenaline.
I’m starting to doubt everything I’ve learnt about him – his near-photographic memory, his knowledge of art history and technique, his irreverent manner … Everything he ever said to me – and every accompanying expression – flashes up in my mind as the cunning concealment of a master of disguise. But why? I can’t work out what his motives might be.
Whatever his reasons, I’ve been gullible and naive. Did my experience with Wallace Jones teach me nothing?
So, I think, what is real? Is Arthur’s Auto-Focus mechanism merely an invention, to convince me we had things in common? And I fell for it too. Was I really so desperate to believe I wasn’t alone in my quirky ways, that I accepted without question this packaged version of a friend and fellow investigator?
It was all vanity, I think to myself. You looked at Arthur and it was like looking in a mirror.
This time, the house is bright and welcoming as the taxi pulls up. I can see that Dad’s made a fire in the living-room grate and he’s sitting watching television.
It’s only as I open the front door that I remember Professor D’Oliveira. She doesn’t know what I know about Arthur! There isn’t time to speak to her before my friends arrive, so I pull out my phone, switch it on and send her a message:
Do not trust Arthur Fitzwilliam – I’ll explain tomorrow
My phone rings almost immediately. ‘Hello?’ I say.
‘What on earth was that message?’ asks the professor’s voice. ‘You cannot just send a note like that, without any explanation.’
‘Sorry. I just …’
Dad comes out of the living room, and I gesture to my mobile. He nods and retreats, closing the door behind him.
Opening the door to the stairs, I perch on the third step.
‘Well?’ says the professor.
‘Is it safe to say here?’
‘Our phone network is encrypted,’ she says impatien
tly.
‘Right … well …’ and I fill her in on the order of events, followed by my reasoning. She goes very, very quiet. Eventually, I say, ‘Professor?’ just to check we haven’t been cut off.
‘I’m still here, child. I just … Of all the people …’
‘I know. I feel like an idiot. I trusted him completely.’
‘You will both have to be suspended, obviously.’
Panic grabs me by the tongue. ‘Both?’
‘Well, this is all hearsay. You can’t expect me to believe your story, purely because you’ve spoken to me first. For all I know, Mr Fitzwilliam may have a similar story about you.’
‘He doesn’t.’
‘So you say. But you must remember that one of our longest-serving and most-trusted staff members, Wallace Jones, turned out to be a traitor. I can’t take any more risks.’
I blink back tears. ‘You can’t honestly think … You must know …’ My voice breaks. I can’t believe the professor would suspect me – I’m the one who brought in Jones, after all.
There’s a knock on the front door, and I come out from the stairs to open it. Brianna’s on the doorstep, and I give her a one-armed hug while keeping the mobile pressed to my ear.
‘Liam’s just arriving,’ she whispers, and I nod and keep the door open until he joins us, dressed in a beige wool overcoat and looking a little too grown-up somehow.
‘What’s wrong?’ he whispers, and I put a finger to my lips before saying into my phone,
‘You can’t really think I’d—’
‘I would like you to come in to see me at eight thirty tomorrow morning,’ she says firmly. ‘You’ll be handing over your case to Sofia Solokov, who has finished the investigation she was conducting.’
Of course she has.
‘But we have to find Sheila by the end of the day tomorrow,’ I start. ‘There won’t be enough time for Sofia to catch up …’
‘This is not open to discussion.’
I want to shout that it’s not fair, but I know better than to continue to argue with Professor D’Oliveira. Perhaps she’ll let me defend myself tomorrow, when we meet.
‘Goodnight, Agatha,’ she says. ‘You did the right thing, coming to me.’
Then why does it feel as if I’m being punished?
‘Goodnight, Professor,’ I say dully.
As soon as Dad realises my friends have arrived, he very kindly vacates the living room. He even comes back bearing a tray with glasses, a bottle of coke and a big bowl of crisps, then creeps back out.
The three of us sit down and I gaze at my friends fondly. Right now, I feel so grateful to have Liam and Brianna in my life. It feels like it’s been a lot longer than a day since I last saw them.
‘What did Hargrave say when he saw you were bald?’ I ask Brianna, who has had her entire head shaved since yesterday morning.
She makes an impatient gesture. ‘Tsk, who cares about that! What’s going on with you?’
Liam leans forward. ‘It’s that Arthur guy, isn’t it?’
‘How did you know?’ I ask.
He shrugs. ‘I didn’t like the sound of him.’
Brianna winks at me and whispers, ‘Jealous, much?’
I don’t respond to her jokey manner. ‘Liam was right,’ I say.
‘I knew it!’ he says with glee. Then he sees my expression and says, ‘I don’t mean … I mean … I’m just glad my instincts were right.’
‘I wish mine had been,’ I say glumly.
‘Come on, then – what’s he done?’ asks Liam.
I tell them everything – about Sheila’s disappearance, and the hieroglyphic symbols she used, about the forged paintings and the cufflink, and ending with our suspicions about Lord Rathbone.
‘As soon as I started to look into the forgeries,’ I say, ‘Arthur began to steer me towards him as the likely culprit.’
‘Sarah’s dad’s pretty annoying, but he’d never get involved in something like that,’ says Brianna. ‘He’s far too worried about his reputation to think about breaking the law.’
‘But you know he’s been arrested, right?’ says Liam.
‘What?’ I look at him in horror.
‘You didn’t know? It came up in my news feed on the way over here.’ He taps on his phone and hands it over to me.
Renowned Millionaire Philanthropist Arrested Over Stolen Paintings
Lord William De’Ath Rathbone was arrested this evening, amid claims he knowingly traded in stolen artworks. It is alleged that the peer, a well-known patron of the arts, is involved in a forgery ring believed to have been replacing famous paintings with forged copies. Police have refused to disclose details of the stolen artworks, but their value is rumoured to total millions. Lord Rathbone has made no comment on the charges he faces.
I hand the phone back to Liam.
‘So who told the police about him?’ he asks.
‘I’m guessing it was Arthur,’ I say. ‘It’s in his interests to find a scapegoat for his own crimes.’
‘What are his crimes?’ asks Brianna.
‘I think it’s bad. I’m pretty sure he’s involved somehow in Sheila Smith’s disappearance. And as I’ve worked out she was on to the forgers, I’m guessing that means Arthur’s also involved with them.’
‘So it’s all one big interconnected web?’ says Liam.
‘Yes. Basically, Sheila must have accused someone of producing the forgeries – or perhaps she told the wrong person what she’d uncovered, expecting them to back her up. Instead, she was seized, probably on her way home from the local shops after work on Friday last week.’
‘You seem pretty sure about all this,’ says Brianna.
‘Well, I was abducted myself,’ I say, ‘and while Arthur and I were locked in the barn—’
‘Wait!’ Liam interrupts. ‘You were abducted? So, what – you were just going to leave that bit out?’
‘I’m telling you now, aren’t I? Anyway, the people who kidnapped us warned us off continuing the investigation. But what if Arthur knew them all along? What if the whole thing was a charade for my benefit?’ I think back to the kidnapping. It feels like it happened days ago. Was it really only this afternoon?
We all go quiet for a moment. Then Liam says, ‘Agatha, I think you should call Arthur.’
Brianna frowns. ‘What? Why?’
‘Because if she calls him, she can keep up the pretence of not knowing he’s a double agent – and he might accidentally give more away. The moment she confronts him with this, he’ll clam up and she might not be able to find out enough to help Sheila.’
‘The boy makes sense,’ says Brianna.
I check my watch. It’s half past eight. ‘I’ll call him now.’
My friends come to stand on either side of me as I call Arthur.
‘Hi, Aggie! How are you doing?’
‘Not too bad, thanks. Are you over the shock from earlier?’
‘Yeah. I reckon so. Sorry if I went pathetic on you.’
‘No, you were fine. You’d been through something awful. Look, I was wondering – have you seen the news?’
‘No, I’ve just got up. I went to bed when I got in. Why?’
‘It’s Rathbone. He’s been arrested.’
‘Really? Hold on – let me turn on my telly …’ He’s quiet for a moment, then I hear a television come on in the background. ‘I love 24-hour news channels,’ he says. There’s another pause, and then he whistles.
‘You’ve seen?’ I ask him.
‘Arrested on suspicion of trading in stolen art,’ he says.
‘So who do you think reported him?’ I ask.
‘I’ve no idea. Maybe the police have been monitoring his dealings.’
‘I wasn’t even sure it was Rathbone behind all this.’
‘I know! But I think they’ve got the right guy,’ he says.
‘I hope you’re right, especially as they’ve released his name. It’d be pretty awful if he’s innocent.’ I pause. ‘And we still do
n’t know what’s happened to Sheila,’ I say quietly.
‘Only fourteen hours to save the Earth,’ he says in a cheesy voice.
‘No, actually it’s more like twenty-four.’
‘It’s a Flash Gordon quote,’ whispers Liam in my ear.
Even so, twenty-four hours. How can I possibly find Sheila and rescue her in that time – especially as I have to report to Professor D’Oliveira at eight thirty in the morning? I decide to ignore the fact she’s taken me off the case. After all, it’s never stopped me before.
I finish the call to Arthur, promising to text him in the morning. Then I turn to my friends.
‘We have got to find Sheila now,’ I say. ‘Liam, is there any way to trace an unlisted vehicle registration number?’
‘I can find most things,’ he says.
I kiss his cheek. ‘Thank you!’
‘What’s my job?’ asks Brianna.
I reflect for a moment. ‘You’re helping me,’ I say.
Dad calls Liam’s guardian to ask his permission for Liam to spend the night. We hear Dad saying, ‘No trouble at all. Yes – he can have the sofa.’
Then it’s Brianna’s turn. This just involves texting her brother to say she won’t be home. ‘Oh – the seniors are away again,’ she tells us. That’s what she calls her parents.
‘Do they ever come home?’ I ask her.
‘Not if there’s champagne and tennis, and preferably a yacht, available somewhere else.’
‘I’m going to get on to the vehicle registration search,’ says Liam. ‘Can I use your computer?’
‘Of course.’ Brianna and I follow him upstairs to my room. While he’s tapping in codes and calling up screens of script, Bri and I sit on the bed, and I show her the letter from Mr Cohen, the art curator.
‘So your mum knew about the forged art?’
‘Yes. It’s what got her killed.’
‘You really think she was murdered? I mean, I know you’ve wondered before now …’
I repeat what Mr Cohen told me – the threat about going ‘the same way as Clara Oddlow’.