by Rose Edmunds
‘You made the same assumption, so you’re a cretin too.’
‘But I wasn’t trying to flog it. If you’re going to rip someone off, at least do it intentionally.’
‘How about we discuss it over lunch?’ she said. ‘Where are you?’
We arranged to meet in a Mayfair pub, where they did a lunch buffet. If nothing else, I’d punish Mel by forcing her to watch me eat a decent-sized meal.
***
Mel arrived on the dot, exhibiting a disconcerting defiance, and wearing a puffer jacket spookily similar to the one I’d bought in Prague.
‘So,’ she said as we stood at the bar waiting to be served with drinks. ‘How much do you know?’
‘Why are you asking—so you can lie your way out of the rest?’
‘No, of course not—I’ll tell you everything. I always planned to eventually.’
We ordered a bottle of Pinot Grigio, and sat at the last vacant table, next to the Gents. The prospect of drinking with the treacherous cow did not enthral me, but I reckoned the conversation would flow more freely with wine than without.
‘What you have to understand,’ she began, as she took a few rocket leaves, a tomato and a tiny slice of ham from the buffet, ‘is this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for Tom and me to get sorted financially.’
‘I get that, but it doesn’t excuse your lies.’
I piled my plate just to wind Mel up, and I watched her eying my food, no doubt mentally totting up the calories. Still, I’d lost two of the five pounds now, and was it my imagination, or had she regained a little of her weight?
‘Tom had the deal with Ivanov—a finder’s fee of a million dollars. But when Živsa was killed, he figured Lytkin must be desperate to get his hands on the picture, and decided it would be safer to take the painting and sell it to him.’
‘For considerably more money, obviously.’
‘Yes—obviously.’
‘How much?’
‘Five million, all untraceable.’
Which was, at any rate, consistent with Lytkin’s version.
‘Am I supposed to be impressed?’
‘It’s a lot of money, even for you.’
I ignored the barb.
‘But what you two did was despicable. Leaving aside all the lies and the sham kidnapping, you stole a picture worth a hundred million dollars…’
‘It was only a copy,’ she countered, as though this was a mitigating factor.
‘But you weren’t aware of that when you took it. And it’s still worth ten million.’
‘Ah but it had been stolen anyway. Even Stan didn’t properly own it.’
‘But he almost certainly owns the one you stole. And you sold the painting for a mere fraction of what you perceived to be its value.’
The need to fund her brother’s care home fees had motivated her earlier fraud, but this was different—greed, pure and simple, with no redeeming features.
‘Yes, well,’ she said, shifting uneasily in her seat.
‘And why not tell me your plans, instead of putting me through hell, worrying about you?’
‘Because you’d be all sniffy about it, because you’re oh so whiter than white when anybody else stands to make money.’
The emphasis on the “anybody else” stung, especially with Lytkin’s offer in mind.
‘It’s alright for you to implement your fancy tax planning schemes and rob the poor to give to the rich,’ she went on, warming to her theme, ‘so how is what we did any worse?’
I couldn’t be bothered to waste my breath challenging her infantile concept of morality, and instead asked whether Tom’s abandonment in Zurich had been part of the setup. Which would, on reflection, account for his rapid rehabilitation.
Unexpectedly, she strenuously denied this.
‘He cut and run. Truly—I knew nothing about the deal he’d cut with Lytkin, or where he’d gone—you saw the state I was in. I thought he’d got what he wanted from me and bailed on me. But you see, he explained it all to me afterwards. He thought it was safer I didn’t know about Lytkin. Also, he really needed you to buy into the idea he’d ditched me, and he says I can’t fake emotion. To be honest, I’m still pissed off with him, and I’ve told him never to do it again. He put me through hell, even though he was back in touch within a day or so.’
I tended to believe her, given the crap job she’d made of feigning a kidnap victim’s emotions. And in hindsight, I could pinpoint the exact moment when she and Tom had reconnected. She’d bucked up considerably after her visit to the ladies’ room in the restaurant in Zurich.
‘The text you received after lunch that day—was it from Tom?’
She nodded.
‘So when exactly did you find out he wasn’t Maurice Beresford…?’
She didn’t reply at once, as if assessing how little disclosure she could get away with while still maintaining the illusion of honesty.
‘Come on, Mel,’ I said. ‘Level with me.’
‘OK—but you won’t like it. I knew from the start.’
‘What you mean the first night in Prague…?’
‘No—before then—we’ve been together a few months now. And you can thank Tom for the money I repaid you.’
I had no desire to thank Tom for anything, and I’d half a mind to pay the bloody fifteen grand back. Mel let the full extent of her betrayal sink in before continuing.
‘We saw the article about you and George in the Globe, and had a hunch Stan might have the missing self-portrait. I mean, it stood to reason, didn’t it? And you’re so clever at finding stuff out we thought if need be we’d rope you in to help us. And you made it so easy for us, saying what hotel you were staying in.’
Damn that wretched article. Instead of generating favourable publicity, it had lured all the reptiles out of the swamp.
‘So you approached Ivanov?’ I said, now realising Tom had lied about this too.
‘Yes—why not?’
‘And why the masquerade as Beresford?’
‘Tom’s an actor—he likes to play a part. But he thought it might give him more credibility with Novak too.’
Which hadn’t worked, because Stan knew Hardacre was a phony. If Stan hadn’t been such an inveterate liar, I might have unmasked Beresford much earlier.
‘So why didn’t you just tell the truth and ask me to help?’
It rankled hugely that everyone had taken advantage of me, when a little honesty could have achieved the same results.
‘We were planning to, but when Tom met you he said he didn’t trust you—thought you might muscle in with Ivanov. He said you were arrogant…’
‘Not shallow?’
‘No—that was Beresford. Arrogant, Tom said.’
‘Me. I should have thought the fake Beresford took the biscuit in that department.’
‘You must be kidding—you’re unbearably conceited. You expect everyone to bow and scrape to you because of the mega job paying half a mill. I mean, you’re on about it all the time, as if the money defined you, and you deserve respect simply because of it. And like I said before, you hate the idea of anyone else turning a profit.’
If I hadn’t been so angry, I might have grudgingly admitted there was a granule of truth in her accusations, but I was loath to give her the slightest edge in what had turned into a verbal sparring match.
‘That’s not fair…’ I began, but she cut off my protest.
‘Let me finish before you start trying to defend your position, which is another annoying habit of yours—you never let anyone else get a word in.’
Why shouldn’t I defend my position, I wanted to scream. For years my abusive mother had ignored my views and trivialised my concerns, and enough was enough. I didn’t have to take that shit now.
‘I disagreed with him over trusting you. But anyway, the fiction played out nicely because predictably you hated Beresford and George felt you were being unreasonable. And once you’d agreed to be involved, I knew you wouldn’t let go until yo
u’d solved the mystery.’
The anger ratcheted up another notch.
‘I trusted you. You assured me Beresford was trustworthy, when all my instincts were screaming out the opposite.’
‘Well, you should have trusted your instincts then, shouldn’t you. I’ve told you this before.’
‘And why stage the kidnap?’
‘To cool off Ivanov, of course.’
‘Again, you could have come clean. Why didn’t you?’
‘Remember, Tom’s an actor by training, he likes to stage-manage everyone and he says most people perform better if they’re unaware they’re playing a part.’
I had almost reached boiling point as I absorbed the epic scale of the deception. As the world’s leading expert at playing a part, nobody stage-managed me.
‘And all that bollocks about tracing him via the castle?’
‘That was my idea, although we did view Molly’s Lodge.’
‘We?’
‘Yes, I was the woman with Tom, so I couldn’t go with you in case she recognised me.’
‘And Tom’s mother?’
‘We primed her to expect the call and she played along—Tom must have inherited his acting ability from her. Had to clear all my stuff out of the house though in case you spotted it.’
‘So you guys led me by the nose.’
‘Yep—I told Tom you’d fall for it. Another problem with you is how you try to rationalise everything. You’re so damned smart—give you a few little clues and you’ll ferret away, piece them together and reach a logical conclusion. But sad to say your thinking is very linear—OK for your high-powered job, but real life is more muddled, as even you must be learning by now…’
Enough. These two arch manipulators had preyed on my weaknesses and I’d allowed myself to be suckered. Even my intellect had been used as a weapon against me. But this self-knowledge did not diminish my rising anger—quite the reverse. And the only outlet for the explosive rage at myself was Mel.
She must have seen it coming, with her “superior” emotional intelligence. Arguably, she’d even provoked it to regain the upper hand morally.
‘Who the fuck are you to criticise me? How dare you speak to me like that?’
‘Because nobody else does,’ she replied.
Except for Little Amy, of course.
‘You’re just a little upstart from nowhere who believes a few street smarts compensate for mediocre brainpower. In fact, mediocre is being kind to you. Which wouldn’t matter so much, but you’re nasty, manipulative and see others as tools to further your own ends. You and that piece of shit Tom deserve each other—there’s no real affection between you.’
‘And how would you know?’
‘You should be apologising for deceiving and manipulating me, but instead you’re slagging me off. You’ve done your utmost to wind me up ever since you walked in here, starting with the pathetic amount of food on your plate. Don’t tell me it’s all you eat, because I know better than most what it takes to stay a size eight.’
‘Pity you can’t hack it then. Fact is you’re jealous of me. I’m more beautiful than you, I’ve got the man and now I’ve got more money too. You liked me when you thought I was a little nobody, a lowly payroll clerk who didn’t represent a threat. That’s how you operate, and if people use you, it’s because you use them.’
Mel’s idea of a discussion over lunch seemed to consist of a rant detailing how I deserved everything—not at all what I’d envisaged. God forbid she’d ever apologise, but I had no intention of taking her insults lying down.
‘If I’m everything you say, Mel, you’re ten times worse. In fact, the only good thing I can say about you is the way you care about your brother Joey. Even with his learning disability, he’s got more brains in his little finger than you. And he’s a much nicer, more genuine person as well. I let the other business go because you stole from a bunch of crooks to help Joey. This is sheer greed and I’ve half a mind to report you and Tom to the police.’
‘So it’s OK for you to make money advising rich bastards how to avoid paying tax, but it’s not acceptable for us to take steps to set ourselves up on a sound financial footing.’
‘Oh here we go again. You know what—the boot is on the other foot—you’re jealous of me. It’s you who keeps banging on about the job, the money, and the house. Anyway, I don’t do tax anymore—I’m a private eye. And I’m going to report you.’
‘You wouldn’t. You owe me. I saved your life.’
‘You can’t trade on that forever. But, here’s an idea. Shall we ask George and Stan for their opinions?’
‘No,’ she replied, horror struck.
‘I insist.’
‘But George will go to the police—that’s the kind of guy he is.’
Though neither George nor Stan had favoured police involvement when they believed we’d given up the painting to rescue Mel, the situation was now transformed. I had no preconceptions about their attitude, but I’d unwittingly lied for Mel and felt obliged to set the record straight before I moved on.
‘We’ll give the money to charity,’ said Mel, panicked. ‘Anything they want. Ask them.’
‘No—you and Tom must talk to them, because you cheated them. Let’s all go this evening and tell them the truth.’
‘About everything?’ Mel asked, no doubt scared her fake identity might come to light.
‘Everything.’
‘And what happens if I refuse?’
‘I’ll contact the police myself.’
‘You’re threatening me,’ she said. ‘I don’t like that.’
‘You’re not meant to like it. And I don’t like being scammed.’
***
I’d checked out of the Crowne Plaza before meeting Lytkin, so within forty minutes I was home.
George sounded intrigued by my call, though bewildered to hear that Tom and Mel were still an item.
‘Yes, it’s surprising, but that’s part of what they need to explain.’
I also planned to be honest with them about Lytkin’s offer, which would knock the wind out of Mel’s sails for sure.
We agreed to meet at George’s apartment at seven, and I texted the address to Mel.
We’ll be there you bitcoin, came the reply, bitcoin presumably being the predictive text substitute for bitch.
Through the afternoon, I tried to analyse my feelings. Fury at Mel and Tom dominated, but beneath all the anger, a niggling apprehension simmered away. If neither of those damned oligarchs was the culprit, then who the hell murdered Živsa?
My anxiety prompted me to reject Lytkin’s offer, even before I’d discussed it with George and Stan. Better to be alive and skint than dead with a pile of money in the bank. Additionally, I didn’t care to be beholden to a man with Mafia links, and especially not to receive money from him offshore. I composed a polite email to Lytkin explaining that I valued my life more than any money. He replied immediately, telling me he appreciated the risks and offering the services of a bodyguard. This only confirmed my decision.
Of course, had I known what was coming, I might have reached a different conclusion.
42
‘You’re late,’ said George, as he answered the intercom.
‘Yes I’m sorry—the tube was held at Earl’s Court for ages.’
‘Never mind, come on up. The five of us are having quite a party, but now you’re here it’ll really go with a bang.’
His voice sounded quavery, which I attributed to him being drunk. I must admit it seemed a bit weird that they’d laid into the booze with such enthusiasm, but who was I to moralise? And why the emphasis on the five of them—who was the fifth person?
Suddenly, the answer hit me—the tax investigations partner from Pearson Malone was probably there, and George was warning me to be careful what I said. As an alcoholic, that guy would be guaranteed to enliven any gathering, but why the heck had they asked him along? Jolly as he might be during the evening, he’d be ethically bound to repo
rt our discussion to the firm’s money laundering officer afterwards. Although perhaps if we got him drunk enough he might overlook these niceties.
The front door to the flat was ajar as I approached. At once, I sensed something amiss.
‘Get the hell out,’ said Little Amy. ‘Something’s badly wrong.’
Shit—why had she put in an appearance, just when I thought I had my head straight? And this coming from the girl who’d once told me to jump from the roof of St Paul’s, and failed to warn me of other equally dangerous situations. This time I knew in my gut she was right, but equally I was determined to ignore her. I’d like to say a desire to help my friends impelled me to rush into danger, but the truth showed me in a less praiseworthy light. I was about to succumb to my biggest weakness, bigger than my self-doubt, bigger even than my liking for gin—an irresistible impulse to find out.
Leaving aside the predictably worsening clutter situation, everything seemed normal as I made my way through the hall. But when I entered the lounge, I gasped at what met my eyes.
Stan sat on a chair in the corner, curiously impassive. Mel perched on the sofa, ashen and plainly terrified as Tom, trying not altogether successfully to appear brave, held her hand. George stood by the intercom, too terrified to move. And in the opposite corner, stood a man holding a gun—the fifth man,
Too late I cottoned on to George’s meaning—code to inform me that they had an armed intruder. Shame I’d been too dumb or foolhardy to pick up on it. For the second time in three months I’d walked into a potential shootout, and while having it happen once could be regarded as unlucky, twice began to look like sheer stupidity.
‘See—I told you to get out,’ Little Amy crowed.
I focussed on the man wielding the weapon. He seemed vaguely familiar, although I couldn’t immediately place him.
‘Eh bien—Amy Robinson—super sleuth,’ he said with a demented smile, before ranting on in French.
Now I remembered—he was the madman who’d burst into Stan’s local wine bar in Prague—the Canadian guy who’d been a Pearson Malone partner—Claude Lavigueur. What the heck?