by Elise Noble
The American put his head in his hands. “Fucking cursed. Shoulda cuffed her to a damn railroad track.”
“Uh, I’m really not sure what’s happening here. Am I actually awake?”
“We all are. Wish we weren’t.”
“Why is that girl covered in tape?”
“Because she was in your car.”
“You made a citizen’s arrest?” That made a degree of sense, although where did the handcuffs come from?
“Something like that.”
Wait a minute… “But you didn’t know she’d stolen my car until I got here.”
“We attempted to discuss the matter with her, and there was an altercation. It seemed safest to incapacitate her while we spoke to you.”
The blonde managed to get the handcuffs back onto the car thief, and she half dragged, half carried her in our direction. Rats. What was I supposed to say? I wasn’t sure whether to feel sorry for the teenager or give her a piece of my mind.
“Get the hell off me,” she groused as she got closer.
“Shut up and walk.”
“I’m sorry I took the car, okay?”
“No, you’re sorry you got caught. There’s a difference.”
“I was gonna put it back. I just needed to pick up my brother.”
“Ever heard of a cab?”
“Ever heard of being poor?”
“Yes, actually, I have.”
I glanced across at Rafiq, who was watching the little scene with undisguised curiosity, nose pressed against the glass. Probably it wasn’t every day he drove to the middle of nowhere with a freaked-out female only to be thrust into the middle of a bad B-movie. The blonde woman followed my gaze and sighed.
“Let’s lose the audience, shall we?”
I stiffened. Surely she didn’t mean…?
“He’s not involved in this, I swear. He’s just a taxi driver I met this morning. Please don’t hurt him.”
Her laughter surprised me. She didn’t look like the sort of woman who’d have a sense of humour.
“Relax. I’m just gonna pay the fare and send him back to London.”
“You are?”
“I’ll even give him a tip.”
She motioned for Rafiq to roll down the window and peeled four fifty-pound notes off a roll from her trouser pocket. Apart from drug dealers and billionaires, who carried that kind of cash around with them?
Wait. What if she was a drug dealer? I only had the American’s word that he was a private investigator, and I’d learned during my degree that stolen art was often used as collateral in drug deals. Had I walked into the middle of something far worse than I’d ever imagined?
“Maybe I should go back with him. Here…” I held out the keys. “Do what you want with the car.”
“No, we need you as well.”
Rafiq picked up on my anxiety, bless him. “I will take the lady back.”
Another laugh. “Chill, pal. I’m a plainclothes police officer.” The blonde flashed an official-looking badge in a leather wallet—phew—and Rafiq bobbed his head in understanding. “You’ve interrupted an operation, unfortunately, but it’s all under control now. We’re finishing up, and then we’ll be off too. Ms. Stafford-Lyons here is assisting with our enquiries.”
“Yes, mam. I should go back to London?”
“Just return to your job and forget this ever happened.”
“Okay, yes.”
No! If the police impounded my car as evidence, how would I get home? “Wait—”
The blonde peered at Rafiq’s windscreen. “Hey, did you realise your private-hire licence has expired?”
“I am leaving right away. I forget everything, no problem.”
She moved the sports car back far enough to let him past, and I choked on the cloud of dust he left behind. Gravel from his spinning wheels pebble-dashed the front of my Fiesta. The teenager glared at me as if this were all my fault.
“Why didn’t you stop him?” she asked.
“How?”
“Grab the keys? Jump in the car?”
“That lady is a policewoman,” I hissed. “I’d have been arrested.”
“Bitch, please. If you believe she’s a cop, I’ve got a bridge to sell you.”
Uh-oh. “A-a-aren’t you a police officer?”
“Fuck no. I got the badge off the internet for a fancy-dress party. Can’t believe he fell for it.”
The brat rolled her eyes. “See?”
“The bickering’s cute, but we don’t have time for it. Chances are, that dude’s gonna call the cops anyway, and none of us want to be here when he does. Thanks to Miss Fisticuffs here, I need to see a doctor, and you, Ms. Stafford-Lyons, need to deliver a painting.” She raised an eyebrow at the American. “Right?”
He paused before speaking, as if he couldn’t make up his mind how to answer. Finally, he nodded. “Right.”
“Hold on… You want me to deliver a stolen painting?”
“Yes, because how else will we know who picks it up?”
“But…but…surely it should be turned over to the police?”
“Red After Dark isn’t our target. It never was. We’re more interested in one of the other paintings that was taken that day, and this is the first lead we’ve had in a while. We need to make the most of it.”
“Which painting? The Girl with the Emerald Ring? Fool’s Gold?” I couldn’t quite remember the other three. Did one have a shepherd in it?
“The Girl with the Emerald Ring.”
“I know Emerald was the most valuable, but I’ve always loved the Klimt. It was on a par with The Kiss. Exquisite.”
“I don’t disagree, but let’s just say we have our reasons for going after Emerald.”
“You really are private investigators?”
“Yes, we really are.”
The woman reached through the window of the sports car and came back with another wallet, this one slim black leather with well-worn corners. I realised it was a reflection of her. She wasn’t quite as polished as she’d made out at the show last night. Her accent had switched from RP to East London, and up close, there was a tiredness in her face she couldn’t hide. Plus her nose was swelling rapidly. She needed ice.
“Here.” She passed me a business card printed on thick cream stock. “That’s me.”
Emerson Black
Director
Blackwood Security
“And I’m Alaric,” the American said.
“Do you work at Blackwood Security too?” The card had a London address and phone number, and his accent definitely wasn’t local.
Emerson answered for him. “We have branches all over the world.”
“And the Becker Museum hired you?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny.” She shrugged. “Client confidentiality.”
Of course. But it made sense—from what I’d heard, the police didn’t treat art theft as a priority. And why would they? They were too busy dealing with knife crime and terrorism, and budgets had been cut to the bone if the newspapers were to be believed.
“I’m not certain it’s a good idea to just hand the painting over to a stranger. Well, Hugo told me the man’s name, but if he lied about the painting, he probably lied about who I’m meant to be meeting too.”
“The alternative is to hand it to the police, and they’ll want to know where it came from… It’s up to you. How do you like jail?”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Think of it as gentle encouragement.”
I really didn’t like that woman, and I didn’t trust her either, but her words did spark a glimmer of hope. If I delivered the painting, Hugo wouldn’t fire me. I could avoid that particular black mark on my CV. Continuing to work at the gallery wasn’t an option, obviously, not if he was handling stolen goods. Even if he did it unknowingly, Alaric was right—Hugo should have taken more care to check Red After Dark’s provenance. What if it happened again and the police turned up? As an employee, my reputation would be tra
shed even more than it was already. Far better to leave on my own terms and get a reference. Then at a later date, perhaps I could report what I knew to the police anonymously?
And what if these PIs did manage to get The Girl with the Emerald Ring back as well as Red After Dark? The art world would owe them a debt of gratitude, and another generation would be free to enjoy some of the world’s most spectacular treasures.
“You want me to deliver the painting, and that’s all?”
“Deliver the painting and then go back to work. As I said to your driver, forget today ever happened. But if you spot any more stolen artifacts in the Pemberton gallery, I’d appreciate a heads-up.”
That didn’t quite fit with my plans, but I wasn’t going to argue. Not when I just wanted to get out of there. Fortunately, the brat took Emerson’s attention, which gave me room to breathe.
“What about me? She’s got her car back, so no harm done, right? If you let me go, I promise I’ll keep my mouth shut about the painting and all the other shit.”
“Let you go? Oh no, sweetheart. I’ve got plans for you.”
“Plans? What plans?”
For the first time, a hint of worry came into the teenager’s voice. Even though I was still mad at her for taking my car, I also felt pity because I wouldn’t have wanted to be on the receiving end of Emerson’s “plans” either.
“I need to see a doctor and have a very awkward conversation with my husband.” Her husband? Poor guy. “Since you’ve sidelined me, you get to make amends by taking my place on the surveillance team.”
Alaric opened his mouth to argue, but Emerson silenced him with a sharp look. That didn’t stop the brat from protesting though.
“Are you kidding? I don’t know the first thing about surveillance.”
“Maybe not, but you’re street-smart, and that’s something you can’t learn by taking a course. Just do what Alaric tells you and don’t steal any more cars. How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“How old are you really? Don’t lie to me. I’ll find out the truth, one way or another.”
“Seventeen.” Her tone turned sulky. “But I’ll be eighteen in two months.”
Emerson nodded to herself, and I couldn’t read her smile. Cunning? Satisfied? Whatever, it made me nervous.
“Your name?”
“Sky.”
“Your real name?”
“That is my real name.”
“Full name?”
“Sky Malone. I don’t have a middle name. My birth mother was too busy smoking crack to think of one.”
Emerson’s smile only grew wider.
“Alaric, meet Sky. You can bond in the car. A father-daughter surveillance team—how does that sound?” Then to Sky, “Don’t forget to call him Daddy, sweetheart. He likes that.”
Alaric’s face clouded over. “Shut the fuck up, Emmy.”
“What happened to your sense of humour?”
“I lost it eight years ago.”
“Ooh,” Sky said. “Have we wandered into a domestic?”
This time, they both turned to her and spoke in unison. “Be quiet.”
She ignored that. “Look, I’d love to help, but I can’t.”
“I wasn’t giving you a choice. A couple of hours, and it’ll be over.”
“No, you don’t understand. I can’t. I only came here to pick up my brother, and he doesn’t do well on his own.”
“Yeah, I know. We met. Find him some clothes, and I’ll drop him off in London on my way to the doctor.”
“No offence, but I don’t trust you.”
“I get it. Believe me, I understand how hard it is to trust people in your position, but sometimes you have to take a chance. The other option is for me to call social services and the cops. Technically, you’re still a minor, and I’m sure between them they can put you through hell for the next two months.”
“You’re a bitch.”
“I’m not disagreeing with you, but I’m a bitch with enough contacts in London to make your life a misery if you cross me. I’ll take your brother home, but you will do this job. Get your knee cleaned up. There’s a first aid kit in the boot of my car.” Sky’s expression turned mutinous, but Emerson didn’t care, and now the woman turned her attention on me. “Do you need to call your contact to explain you’re running late?”
I couldn’t decide whether to be envious of her self-confidence or disgusted by the way she ordered people around. But I realised I had to do as she said. I was the wrong side of thirty so threats of social services wouldn’t work on me, but she’d surely think of a way to make my life even more of a misery than it already was. And as she said, it would all be over in a couple of hours.
“Yes, I should probably call.”
“Gimme five minutes to round up the right junkie and organise a team to come and clean up this shithole, then we’ll get going.”
CHAPTER 12 - SKY
“FOR THE RECORD, Emmy was bullshitting about the Daddy thing,” Alaric said as we followed Bethany Stafford-Lyons’s car along the M4 towards Richmond-upon-Thames with the AC blasting. Stafford-Lyons. I’d been dead right about the posh part. Who needed two surnames?
“Yeah, I figured that. She looks like she talks a lot of bullshit. All I can say is that she’d better take Lenny home the way she said.”
Otherwise, it wouldn’t be her hunting me down. London was my home turf, and I’d find that bitch, starting with a trip to Blackwood Security’s building in King’s Cross. I’d seen the card she gave to Bethany and memorised the address out of habit.
“She will.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’ve known her for a long time, and she’s a woman of her word.”
“I figured you two had some weird kind of history. Do you, like, know her, know her?”
“None of your business, kid.”
“So that’s a yes, then.”
I took some satisfaction when Alaric scowled, his pinched brows and flattened lips reflected in the windscreen. So far, he seemed slightly less unpleasant than Emerson, but she’d set a pretty low bar so that wasn’t saying much. And I still didn’t fully understand what was going on. Something about a stolen painting and a pickup, and Alaric needed a sidekick because a lone male watching people would stick out like a sore thumb if he hung around for more than a few minutes. Fine, I could stand next to him for a bit. I got that Emmy was pissed at me—her nose had looked like Rudolf’s by the time she drove away in that fancy car of hers, swollen across the bridge and turning a nice shade of red. Considering the way she’d trussed me up afterwards, I was oddly proud of myself for managing to inflict so much damage.
Lenny, of course, had no recollection of the incident whatsoever. We’d found him in the living room, seated in a dusty velvet armchair wearing only those damn boxers and a vacant expression. When I saw him, that was the closest I’d come to crying in months. Years, even. I just wanted him to get better, but apart from picking him up every time he fell, I didn’t know what to do. Drugs had taken ahold of him, and I was fighting a losing battle to break him free. Life had turned into a vicious circle—the more trouble he got into, the more it cost me to get him out of it, everything from paying off his dealers to making sure he ate. Lenny hadn’t been able to hold down even the most menial of jobs for months. And the more hours I worked, the less time I was able to spend babysitting him, which meant he got into even more trouble.
The selfish part of me was grateful that Emerson had taken charge of him because it meant that for an hour—just one damn hour—I could leave the worrying to somebody else. Helping some American to follow a painting was child’s play in comparison to watching my wayward foster brother. Especially since that painting was the one from the boot of the Fiesta. I mean, the thing was in a hefty wooden box. Nobody could slip it into a pocket or swallow it if the heat got too much.
And while I might not have had any formal training in surveillance, I’d gone through a phase of f
ollowing Lenny’s dealers and shopping them to Crimestoppers. Half a dozen of them had been arrested, and those assholes had been sneaky fuckers. I’d only stopped because Lenny had a knack for finding suppliers and each new one was worse than the last.
“So, what’s the plan, boss?” I asked.
“Stafford-Lyons is going to hand over the painting to a man in the bar of the Ash Court Inn at four o’clock. The hotel’s website says there’s a parking lot around the back, so I’ll drop you off and let you get in position in the bar while I find a spot for the car. Stafford-Lyons will circle the block a couple of times before she goes inside to give us time.”
“What should I do in the bar?”
“Relax. Buy a drink.”
“With what? In case you haven’t noticed, I have literally no money.”
Turned out the American carried twenties the way Emerson carried fifties. He peeled one off the wedge in his wallet and handed it over. Did he want the change? Because if he didn’t ask for it, I planned to keep it.
“Nothing alcoholic,” Alaric instructed. “Bar snacks are okay, but don’t order anything that requires cooking. Chances are, we’ll need to make a quick exit. Just follow my lead.”
I’d get food? Perhaps I should volunteer for this surveillance lark more often. My stomach grumbled in agreement, and I wondered if it would be rude to buy a dozen packets of peanuts to go. If only I had more pockets…
“Hungry?” Alaric asked.
“Starving. I skipped lunch.”
“There’re snacks in the glove compartment. Help yourself.”
He wasn’t kidding. I practically dove to open it, and a dozen bags of sweets fell into my lap. Had I died and gone to heaven? Unlikely. After the shit I’d got up to, I had a spot reserved in hell, but who cared when it came with jelly beans and gummy bears?
“That’s some sweet tooth you’ve got.”
“It’s all Emmy’s. She stashes candy everywhere her nutritionist won’t find it.”
I did the same, except with ramen noodles and a bunch of hungry housemates. Who had a freaking nutritionist, anyway? Emmy’s junk food habit meant dietary advice was obviously a waste of time, so she clearly had more money than sense. Still, I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. I tore open a packet of Skittles.