“Oh, absolutely, you did quite the right thing. And you must let me have your bill for your trip to Europe. It sounds utterly dreadful, but the one positive thing to come out of it is that Mr. Haroun has agreed to pay some of your bill as a quid pro quo for your putting a stop to these burglaries.” All of a sudden, he’d gone motormouth on me.
I looked at him. “Don’t you want to know about your Monet?” I asked.
He flushed. “Mr. Haroun said you hadn’t managed to recover it. I… I didn’t want to remind you of your lack of success in that respect when you’d been so successful otherwise.”
The smell of bullshit filled my nostrils. “What I didn’t tell Mr. Haroun is that the painting showed up in the paperwork,” I said. “What it looked like to me was that the painting had been received by the drug runners, but hadn’t yet been swapped for a consignment of drugs.” I sat back and let Henry work that one out for himself. Right from the start, I’d been convinced he was holding out on me, and an idea of why was starting to form at the back of my mind.
“You mean it might still turn up?” he asked. Too nervously for my liking.
“It’s possible,” I said. “But there could be another explanation.”
By now, he wasn’t even trying to meet my eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m not following you.” He looked up, caught my glance and looked away, his boyish smile self-deprecating. “I’m obviously not as well up in the ways of criminals as you, Kate.”
“You want me to spell it out, Henry? You’ve been nervous about this investigation right from the start. I worked with you on the security for this place, and I think I got to know you well enough to realize you’re not the sort of bloke who gets wound up about something like a burglary where no one’s been hurt. So there had to be another reason. I only realized it some time during the fourth hour of close questioning by the Art Squad. Henry, if what you had nicked off your wall is a Monet, I am Marie of Romania.”
26
there was a long silence after I dropped my bombshell. Henry stared blankly at the papers in front of him, as if they’d inspire him to an answer. Eventually, I said quietly, “The rules of client confidentiality still apply. You’d be better off telling me what’s going on. Then, if what they stole from you does turn up, we’re ready with a story to cover your back.”
He glanced up at me quickly, then looked away again. He was pink to the tips of his ears. “When my parents died, there wasn’t a lot of money. I did my sums and realized that with a cash injection, I could make this place work. I was talking over my problem with an old friend who had had a similar dilemma himself. He told me what he’d done, and it seemed like a good idea, so I did the same thing.” More silence.
“Which was…?” I prompted him.
“After I’d had the Monet authenticated for insurance purposes, I took it to this chap my friend knew. He’s an awfully good copier of paintings. No talent of his own, just this ability to reproduce other people’s work. Anyway, once I had the copy, I sold the original privately to a Japanese collector, on the strict understanding it would never be publicly exhibited.” Henry looked up again, his eyes pleading for understanding. “I didn’t want to admit what I’d done, because the Monet is one of the main visitor attractions at the house. People come here to see the Monet because they’re interested in his work, people who otherwise wouldn’t cross the threshold. And no one ever noticed, you know. All those so-called experts never spotted the swap.” He perked up as he pointed out his one- upmanship.
“And then when the thieves took the copy, you couldn’t own up because that would mean admitting to the insurers that you’d been lying all along,” I said, feeling depressed at the thought of the risks I’d taken over a fake.
“I’ve been feeling terrible about taking their money under false pretences,” he admitted. “But what else can I do? If I tell the truth now, they’ll never reinsure me, and I’ll never get cover anywhere else. I’ve painted myself into a corner.”
“You’re not kidding,” I said bitterly. “Not to mention putting my life at risk.”
Henry sighed. “I know. I’m sorry about that. I simply didn’t know how to tell you the truth. You’ve no idea what a weight off my mind it is to have told someone at last.”
“Yeah, well, the Catholics wouldn’t have stuck with confession all these years if it didn’t have some therapeutic effect. The thing is, Henry, now I know for sure what I already suspected, I can’t sit back and watch you defraud Fortissimus to the tune of seven figures. I’ve done some hooky things for clients over the years, but this is a few noughts too far,” I said, the iron in my voice matching the anger inside me.
He met my stare at last, panic sparking in his blue eyes. “You said this came under client confidentiality,” he accused. “You can’t betray that confidence now!”
My first inclination was to say, “Watch me,” and walk. But I’d got to like Henry. And I believed him when he said he was sorry about the shit I’d been through. Besides, it doesn’t do in my business to get a name for selling your clients down the river. “Henry, this isn’t about betrayal. You’re making me party to a million-pound fraud,” I said instead.
“But even if it does come out, there will be no suggestion that you knew about it. After all, if you’d known the painting was only a copy, you wouldn’t have made such strenuous efforts to recover it,” he argued persuasively.
“But I’d know that I knew,” I said. “That’s the bottom line for me.”
Henry ran a hand through his gleaming hair. “So what did you come here for this morning, Kate? To get the truth and then throw me to the wolves?”
His words stung. “No, Henry,” I told him sternly. “I hoped you’d tell me the truth, that’s true. But I don’t want to shaft you. What I think we can do is stitch up a deal.”
He frowned. “You want a cut, is that it?” Luckily for Henry, he sounded incredulous. If he’d seriously offered me a bribe, all bets would have been off.
“No, Henry,” I said, exasperated. “What I mean is that I think I can do a deal with the insurance company.”
“You’re going to tell them I was trying to defraud them?”
“I’m going to tell them what an honest man you are, Henry. Trust me.”
An hour later, I was waiting to see Michael Haroun. I’d taken the time to get suited up in my best business outfit, a drop-dead-gorgeous lightweight woolen tailored jacket and trousers in moss green and grey. This was going to be such a difficult stunt to pull off that I was going to need all the help I could get. Call me manipulative, but this was one occasion where I was willing to exploit testosterone to the full.
I only had to hang on for ten minutes, even though the claims receptionist had warned me he was in a meeting that could take another half hour. That’s the power of hormones for you. Michael grinned delightedly at me, plonking himself down next to me on the sofa. “What a great surprise,” he said. “I hope you’ve not come to call off our dinner date tonight?”
“No way. This is strictly a business meeting,” I told him. I didn’t let that stop me brushing my knee against his.
“Right. Well, what can I do for you, Ms. Brannigan?” he said teasingly.
“This is all a bit embarrassing, really,” I said.
He raised one eyebrow. Sexy, or what? “Better get it over with, then.”
I pulled a wry face and tried to look innocent. “I’ve just come from our mutual client, Henry Naismith. He’s finally got round to clearing out some boxes of papers that were lurking in a dark corner of the cellar at Birchfield Place. And he found something rather disturbing.” I paused for effect.
“Not the Monet, I hope,” Michael joked.
“Not the Monet. What he did find was a bill of sale, and a note accompanying it in his father’s writing.” I took a deep breath. “Michael, the Monet was a fake. Henry’s father had it copied a couple of years before he died. He secretly sold the original to a private collector on the understanding it would never be displayed publicly, and the fake’s been hanging on the wall ever since.”
I’d never believed the cliche about people’s jaws dropping till then. But there was no other way to describe
