The Girl with the Emerald Ring: A Romantic Thriller (Blackwood Security Book 12)

by Elise Noble

  “No. I’m a bitch, but not that much of a bitch. I’ll help you to get Lenny enrolled in a community detox program and provide you with a flat for three months so you can get back on your feet. I also run a charitable foundation, and its mentoring scheme has good success at helping participants to find stable jobs. Legal jobs.”

  Another stupid sob threatened to escape. Three months of accommodation and detox for Lenny? That was a good offer, and if somebody had dangled it in front of me this morning, I’d have bitten their arm off. But the first option? The thought of working for Emmy both scared and intrigued me. I had no doubt she’d be a hard master, but the idea of being moulded into her image? Last night, she’d taken charge and saved Lenny, then used her calm authority to get him a private room at the hospital. Every time someone asked me a difficult question, she’d jumped in and deflected, and nobody had dared to argue. I didn’t much like her, but I’d envied her. And now she was offering me the chance to become her?

  Honestly, I doubted I had it in me, but I only had to stick it out for six months. Six months, and I’d have enough money for a down payment on a flat. Perhaps even enough to buy outright in the suburbs. Then me and Lenny wouldn’t have to keep moving from squat to squat, constantly looking over our shoulders. And if he went to the Abbey Clinic, maybe I wouldn’t have to spend the rest of my life watching out for the telltale signs of addiction either.

  “Why are you helping me? I broke your nose.”

  “That was a wake-up call. I underestimated you. Trust me, it won’t happen again.” She got up, closed her laptop, and tucked it under her arm. “Think about it,” she said over her shoulder as she headed for the door. “You’re welcome to stay here while you decide.”

  Hmm… How long could I stretch this out? Emmy said I could stay at her house while I considered my options, and since I didn’t have to go back to the pub now no matter what, I wondered if a month was a reasonable amount of time to make a decision.

  Six months. Twenty-six weeks, one hundred and eighty-two days. That was a long time in hell. Realistically, yesterday’s chase had only taken a minute or two, but it had felt like an hour. Could I hack it?

  And would community detox work for Lenny? He’d already tried it twice before and fucked up by drinking, and I couldn’t supervise him every second of every day. I’d still have to work. He’d narrowly survived last night’s overdose, but would he live to see twenty-five?

  Quiet footsteps sounded behind me, and I spun in my seat to see a grey-haired woman in the doorway. She looked like somebody’s grandma, all smiley and kind and a tiny bit plump. Probably not my grandma, though, although since I hadn’t met either of them and I barely even remembered my mother, I couldn’t be sure.

  “You must be Sky?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m Ruth, the housekeeper here. You didn’t like your breakfast?”

  “No. I mean, yes, it was really good. I just lost my appetite.”

  “Anything I can help with?”

  “Not really. I don’t think so.”

  “Well, I’m always here if you need an ear. Did Emmy leave?”

  “Just a minute ago.”

  “Ah.”

  From the way she said it, I knew she’d put two and two together about my lost appetite and Emmy’s recent departure. I wasn’t one for sharing my problems, but if Ruth had worked in the house for a while, maybe she could give me some information?

  “Have you known Emmy for long?”

  “Over seventeen years now.”

  Really? Seventeen years? That meant she’d met Emmy right about when Emmy started doing her “problem fixing.”

  “She says I remind her of the way she used to be.”

  “Well, dearie, I’ve only just met you, so I’m not the best judge of that, but I can tell you that Emmy’s changed considerably in that time. She was one step up from a street urchin when she first arrived, and she gave Black a good challenge. Although secretly, I think he enjoyed it.”

  “Black?”

  “Her husband.”

  “Her husband? Was he the person who…” Who what? “Who…recruited her?”

  “Oh, yes, dearie. They didn’t get married right away. No, they spent two years at each other’s throats first. Do you want something else to eat? I’m just about to start on lunch.”

  I shook my head. “Do you like working for her?”

  “For the both of them, you mean. I wouldn’t have stayed for so long if I didn’t. They’re good people.”

  Good people. Good people who occasionally did bad things. Wasn’t that me as well?

  Emmy was right—I did have a lot of thinking to do.

  CHAPTER 18 - BETHANY

  DELIVER THE PAINTING and then go back to work, Emerson had said. Forget today ever happened.

  How? How was I supposed to do that?

  The fact that I’d handled stolen goods preyed on my mind for the rest of Wednesday and most of Thursday, and I found myself scrutinising every painting in the gallery, wondering about their provenances. When I took Hugo his morning tea, I’d barely been able to look him in the eye. He was busy touching up a landscape with a tiny paintbrush. Who owned it? Where did it come from?

  I’d breathed a sigh of relief when he’d locked and alarmed his workroom at lunchtime on Thursday and headed out for an appointment. At least I could avoid facing him for another day. And at three o’clock, Henrietta tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Hugo just called. He’s been delayed at the hospital, so he won’t be back until late.”

  “The hospital?”

  “I think it’s some routine scan. I saw a letter on his desk the other day. Anyhow, he wants one of us to lock up, but he also asked me to run an errand, so that means you.”

  An errand? I’d bet Chaucer’s last bag of carrots that Henrietta’s “errand” involved a hot yoga class followed by happy hour with her equally obnoxious friends, but I honestly didn’t care because it meant I wouldn’t have to put up with her for the remainder of the afternoon.

  “Sure, I can lock up.”

  “Get Gemma to help you. Although I’m not sure where she’s gone.”

  Neither was I. I recalled her “popping out to pick up a salad” at lunchtime, but I hadn’t seen her come back. I typed out a quick text message.

  Me: Hey, are you okay? Henrietta’s gone out, and I was wondering if you could help me lock up?

  Five minutes later, I got a reply.

  Gemma: Sorry, I had a headache, and Hugo said I could go home.

  Me: Is there anything I can do? Want me to pick up some paracetamol and bring it over when I finish?

  Gemma: Ry’s looking after me, but thanks for the offer.

  Ry. The boyfriend. A bulky man who towered over me and bore a passing resemblance to The Rock, but with more hair. I’d only met him once—Ry, not The Rock—when he came to pick Gemma up after work one day, and he’d rubbed me up the wrong way. The man was too slick, too charming, and while Gemma spoke about him in glowing terms, I worried that things were happening too fast between them. She’d changed since he came onto the scene. When I first met her, she’d been sweet, bubbly, a bit ditzy, but always friendly. Now she was quieter. Meeker. She’d lost weight too, half a stone or so, and she’d been slim in the first place.

  But what could I do? She claimed to be happy, and if Ry was spending his evening taking care of her, perhaps I was anxious over nothing.

  Me: Hope you feel better soon! See you tomorrow x

  The gallery was quiet, and with Henrietta out of the way, I sat myself at the front desk where I could see the door and began hunting through recruitment websites. I’d come in early this morning and updated my CV, but it was still woefully inadequate. Everywhere wanted experience, experience, experience even for an entry-level position, and I didn’t know how to use a franking machine or set up databases or navigate the latest CRM systems. Plus explaining the total absence of gainful employment throughout my twenties and the fact that I’d lasted les
s than six months at my last job promised to be awkward, and that was if I even made it to the interview stage. I sent off half a dozen applications for roles I didn’t particularly want, then turned to YouTube.

  Dammit, Beth, stop wasting your time on horse videos.

  I should be doing something constructive instead. Something work-related since Hugo was paying me. Like…checking the art theft database for stolen paintings. Would that count for the “IT skills” section of my CV? My hands hovered over the keyboard. No, I really didn’t want to look at that list, but once I’d had the idea, I couldn’t shake it.

  With no customers around, I tried searching, only to find there were in fact a bunch of databases and most of them required registration. Well, no wonder so much stolen art slipped through the cracks. The FBI’s database was open to the public, so I clicked through the paintings, both sad and horrified that so many masterpieces had been lost. Then guilty when I saw Red After Dark’s entry.

  What had happened at the hotel after I left? I wished I’d thought to get Alaric’s number so I could ask. Yes, I had Emerson’s card, but quite frankly, she scared me, so I figured I’d just keep checking the papers for news instead.

  And there was The Girl with the Emerald Ring, still stunning even on a computer screen. I hoped whoever had her was treating her well. It would be sacrilegious to roll up a painting like that and stuff it into a closet, but I’d heard of that happening.

  Then I saw it. A small still life, a plate of fruit and a deer skull, nothing particularly special on the surface except it was an early Pieter Claesz and it had been stolen three years ago, estimated value $150,000. And soon after I began working at the Pemberton gallery, I’d seen a remarkably similar painting in Hugo’s studio.

  I clicked frantically through the list, breathing a sigh of relief each time I reached the bottom of the page without seeing another piece I recognised from upstairs. And then my heart stuttered. There, front and centre, was an oil-on-canvas of a Venetian bridge, and Hugo had been working on one just like it last month.

  “What are you looking at?”

  At the sound of the voice, I jumped out of my skin and knocked over my coffee cup. The contents sloshed across my keyboard, and the laptop began making a horrible whirring noise before the screen went dark.

  Shit!

  “H-h-Hugo, I’m so sorry. I thought you were at the hospital.”

  “They made me wait for two hours, then cancelled the appointment. Damn bureaucrats.” He dropped his handkerchief onto the rapidly spreading puddle while I rummaged in my handbag for the packet of tissues I knew was in there. They didn’t help much either, and I ran to the bathroom for paper towels. When I got back, Hugo was still staring at my blank screen.

  “What were you looking at?” he asked again.

  “Oh, nothing important.”

  “The Stolen Art File?”

  “I-i-it’s important to remain diligent.”

  “Yes it is, and I see from your flustered demeanour that you think you recognised a painting?”

  “Uh, that Francesco Guardi did look similar to one you were working on last month.”

  “Not the same painting at all. The one upstairs was in for assessment, but it proved to be a reproduction. A worthless copy. The workmanship was sloppy, and the pigments…” He shook his head and tutted. “Far too modern. I prepared a report for the auction house saying so.”

  I should have been relieved, but Hugo’s explanation seemed too smooth, almost as if he’d prepared the spiel in advance just in case. Was he telling the truth? I wanted to believe him, but I wasn’t sure I did.

  “That’s a relief.”

  What else could I say?

  “Rest assured, if I had any inkling a painting brought here was stolen, I’d have reported it myself. And there’s no need for you to keep checking the database. I do so regularly.”

  “Okay, I won’t.”

  “Congratulations for being on the ball though, Bethany.” He tilted the laptop to one side and lukewarm coffee ran out of the USB port. “I’m not sure this is recoverable.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Let’s leave it to dry overnight, shall we? Can you lock up on your way out? It’s gone six o’clock.”

  So it had. I kicked myself for not keeping an eye on the time—I should have left half an hour ago, and then there would have been no coffee spillage and no awkward moments with Hugo. Mental note—set an alarm on my phone to remind me to go home.

  “Absolutely. And again, I apologise about the laptop.”

  I poured myself a large gin and tonic the moment I got home, which I most certainly needed because my phone rang right after I took the first mouthful. I’d been staring at it as I turned Emerson’s business card over and over in my hands, wondering whether I should call her about the other two paintings I’d seen.

  Reporting my suspicions would be the responsible thing to do, wouldn’t it? Plus I’d absolve myself of any further responsibility. But what if I’d been mistaken about the Pieter Claesz? And what if Hugo had told the truth about the Guardi?

  I was still agonising over the conundrum when my mother called.

  Oh, hurrah. Just when I thought a bad day couldn’t get any worse.

  As usual, there was no preamble. She got straight to the point. Small talk was for acquaintances at parties, not her own daughter.

  “Bethie, you haven’t forgotten your father’s birthday get-together on Saturday, have you?”

  Of course I hadn’t forgotten. I’d been dreading it for weeks. Why? Because Piers’s parents were friends of the family, which meant they’d be invited, and that invitation would extend to Piers himself. And Piers was insensitive enough to attend if there was free booze involved. I’d been hoping for some last-minute illness or accident that might give me an excuse to skip the party—perhaps I could accidentally fall off Chaucer or have him stomp on my foot? A broken toe would be far less painful than having to face my ex-husband.

  “No, no, I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Good. Don’t be late again—we need you to help serve the canapés.”

  That was my parents—stingy to the last and always looking for an opportunity to exert control. Why hire an extra waitress when I could be pressed into duty? They’d probably make me help with the washing-up afterwards too. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “It’s in my diary. Er, is Piers coming?”

  “And his new fiancée too, I believe.”

  What?

  “His fiancée? He’s engaged?”

  “Just last week. Andromeda’s such a darling girl. An actress. You remember her?”

  “Yes, I remember,” I said through gritted teeth. The image of Piers pumping away on top of her would be burned into my retinas forever.

  “Bethie, you should stop being so bitter. After all, it was you who left him, not the other way around.”

  “Mum, he cheated on me.”

  “Oh, not this again. Men are like that, I’m afraid, darling. You just have to learn to live with it. Seven o’clock sharp.”

  She hung up, and I stared at the screen, wondering not for the first time how I could possibly be related to that woman. Yes, we looked quite similar—even now, thanks to my mother’s endless nips and tucks—but inside? Claudette Stafford-Lyons was so heartless I was amazed blood still circulated in her body.

  CHAPTER 19 - SKY

  STAY OR GO? Stay or go? Stay or go?

  I’d slept on it, and although I knew logically what I should do—put up with six months of hell while Lenny got better, then take the three hundred grand and run—the thought of quitting London for the unknown left me nauseous.

  And killing people? Although Emmy hadn’t said the words, she’d intimated them, and I wasn’t sure I could do that. Yeah, I knew that sort of shit must go on—the Russians had been caught doing it often enough—but assassins had always been nameless, faceless ghouls, not pretty blondes who lived in mansions and wore designer outfits. And certainl
y not girls like me.

  I’d called Reuben this morning to talk about it. Not the killing part, obviously, but the possibility of moving to America to be…well, I’d told him I’d be a glorified private investigator. At first, he’d been supportive, happy I’d found a job that would utilise my skills.

  “Always said you had the moves, love,” he told me. “’Bout time someone else saw your potential. America’s a long way, though, and what about Lenny?”

  “Lenny’s rehab comes as part of the package.”

  “Ain’t never heard of a job offerin’ that before.”

  “Me neither. But he needs more help than I can give, and this might be the only way. He overdosed last night.” I swallowed to keep the sob inside. “He bloody died, Reu, and the woman who would be my boss, she saved him.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “In the hospital. I need to find somewhere for him to go when he comes out. Somewhere without dealers on every damn corner.”

  “Like a rehab place,” Reuben finished for me. “They payin’ you too? Or is it one of those internships where you gotta make your own way?”

  “They’d be paying me. Really well, actually.” I took a deep breath. “Three hundred thousand for six months.”

  Even over the phone, Reuben’s disappointment was palpable.

  “Sky, what I tell you about scams? You a smart girl, and you still fallin’ for this shit?”

  “I know, I know, it’s crazy. And if I wasn’t standing in this woman’s freaking mansion, I’d be laughing about it with you over Maccy D’s on Saturday morning. But she’s loaded, Reu. She’s got a fucking Picasso hanging in her hallway. Hell, she probably spends three hundred grand on shoes every year.”

  “You know I only ever want what’s best for you, love, but I’m not sure this is it.”

  “But what if it is? What if this is my only chance to make something of myself, and I turn it down? I don’t want to spend the rest of my life living in shitty squats and praying Lenny doesn’t self-destruct while I go out to work.”

  There was a long silence.