The Lost Relic

Goya when it finally resurfaced at the exhibition. I think it was her diary. Gabriella must have written in it that the map was in the frame.’

Mimi nodded sadly. ‘This would explain why they knew to look for “The Penitent Sinner”. She wrote everything in that diary.’

‘Except where the hidden room was,’ Ben said. ‘That much remained a secret.’ He paused. ‘Mimi, I should tell you that the person behind this is a Russian gangster called Grigori Shikov.’

Mimi blinked. ‘A Russian?’

‘He’s a very ruthless man and he clearly wants the Dark Medusa desperately enough that he won’t hesitate to kill for it. In all these years, has anyone ever approached you; threatened you, or anyone around you?’

‘No,’ Mimi said. ‘Never.’

Ben remembered what Pietro De Crescenzo had said about the mystery surrounding Gabriella Giordani’s companion. Nobody had ever known her surname – and Gabriella had obviously never given away her identity in the diary, either. For a man of Shikov’s power and influence, a Simonetta Renzi might have been traceable; but a ‘Mimi’ could vanish without a trace. Free to live a wealthy and contented life, while others had to suffer and die for what she’d taken.

Now Ben understood everything – all but one unresolved question.

‘Why did you want to contact me, Mimi?’ he asked quietly.

The old woman wiped a tear from her eye, then looked at him earnestly. ‘Mr Hope, “The Penitent Sinner” is not a drawing. It is a real person, and she sits before you now. I cannot undo the crimes I have committed in my past, but now it is time for me to make amends as best I can. When I saw you on television, this good man who risked his life to save others – l’eroe della galleria – I knew that I wanted this man to help me repay my debt.’

Ben was silent.

‘After Eduardo died, I started my business. I have worked hard, and been very successful. I am no less wealthy now than I was the day I sold the Dark Medusa to the oil sheikh. Mr Hope, I want you to take my money. All of it, save the small sum that will see me through to the end of my days. I want you to distribute the money among the families of those touched by the tragedy I have caused. I know I cannot bring back the loved ones they have lost. But it is all I can do.’ She leaned forward in her chair and looked into Ben’s eyes. ‘Will you agree?’

Chapter Seventy-One

‘She’s a crazy, rotten, lying old bitch,’ Darcey said through a mouthful of fillet steak. ‘I don’t like her.’

It was just after 9 p.m. and the night was still warm, a slight breeze wafting in from the sea. Their table for two had been set on the poolside patio of the guest annexe in the grounds of the Renzi villa, where Mimi had insisted they stay the night. The old woman had excused herself from dining with them, as she always retired early with just a cup of warm milk before bed. The food and wine she’d ordered in for them had come from one of Monaco’s best restaurants. They were into their second bottle of Chateau Mouton Rothschild.

‘She needed to confess to what she’s done,’ Ben said.

Darcey grunted. ‘Talk to a priest, then.’

‘She just wants to make amends. I can understand that. People make mistakes, Darcey.’

‘Oh, sure.’ Darcey didn’t look convinced. ‘People make mistakes. But they don’t wait until they’re about to cop it before they suddenly start coming on all repentant. So are you going to help her?’

‘I told her I would think about it,’ Ben said. ‘And I am. But things are a little complicated at the moment.’

‘You might say that.’

Ben pushed away his plate. He wasn’t hungry any more. He got up and walked through the open patio doors into the luxurious two-bedroomed annexe, went over to the armchair where he’d dumped his bag and undid the straps. Inside, folded up next to his dwindling money supply, was the list of eight different mobile numbers he’d copied from the call records of Spartak Gourko’s phone on the train journey from Milan. Out of the eight, three stood out as the ones Gourko had called most frequently and for longest. Ben had circled those three numbers so many times on the train that the paper was almost worn through.

And now he knew what to say. He perched on the edge of the armchair, turned on Gourko’s phone and dialled the first number on the list. The call cut straight to a mobile answering service. Ben waited for the beep, then left his message. Short and simple, slow and clear.

‘This is a message for Grigori Shikov. You know who I am. I have the Dark Medusa. Call me if you’re interested.’

Getting no reply on either of the other two most-used numbers, he left the same message and then got started on the others. By the time he’d worked his way through to the bottom of the list, he’d had only two replies. The first sounded like a bar or nightclub, loud music booming in the background. He didn’t leave a message. The second was an Italian guy who cut him off before he’d said three words.

Now all he could do was wait and hope that his message would hit its mark.

‘You look tired,’ Darcey said as he returned to the patio table. ‘Maybe you should go to bed.’

‘I’m fine,’ he said.

‘No, you’re not.’ Their glasses were empty. She grabbed the bottle, but there was no wine left. ‘Shit. Is that all they gave us?’

‘Maybe they thought a bottle of Mouton Rothschild each would be enough,’ Ben said.

‘There’s got to be more booze around here somewhere.’ Darcey jumped up and disappeared into the annexe. She returned five minutes later, wearing a grin and carrying a bottle and two crystal brandy glasses. ‘Voila. Now we know what the little door at the end of the passage is. You need to check out that wine cellar. It’s full of champagne. And look what I found. Armagnac, eighteen years old. Fancy a drop of the hard stuff?’

‘You’re a bad influence on me, Darcey Kane.’

‘I will corrupt you yet,’ she said, tearing the foil off the neck of the bottle. ‘If I die trying.’

As she poured out two brimming glasses, Ben used a book of matches to light up one of the Gauloises he’d bought from a kiosk at Monaco station. Still missing that old Zippo of his. He offered the pack to Darcey.

She shook her head. ‘No.’ Then, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘Oh, fuck it, go on then.’ She held the cigarette between her lips and Ben struck another match to light it for her. Inhaling too sharply, she gave a little cough. ‘Who’s a bad influence now?’ she spluttered. ‘What the hell are these things? They’ll kill us.’

‘Everyone says that,’ Ben said. ‘But if it’s a choice between these, the Russian mafia and British Intelligence, I’ll take the Gauloises.’

They sat and smoked and sipped the aged, rich brandy in silence for a while. From somewhere down below on the beach, there came laughter and the sound of someone plucking notes on a Spanish guitar – a soulful, melancholy melody that drifted up through the warm night air.

‘Are you going to call her?’ Darcey said.

Ben looked up from his thoughts. ‘Brooke?’

‘That’s who you were thinking about just now, isn’t it?’

It had been. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said. ‘Maybe there’s nothing I can do. Maybe it’s just over between us, and that’s it.’ He knocked back more brandy and decided he wanted to change the subject. ‘Do you have anybody?’ he asked her.

Darcey shook her head. ‘I’m kind of in-between things right now.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Well, that’s putting it mildly. I’m very in-between things. Two years.’

‘Long time,’ Ben said.

‘Long enough for the hurt to fade,’ she said. ‘His name was Sam.’

Ben looked at her.