“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 trashed 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.”