that made it even more convincing. Even more convincing was the buzz from certain quarters that she was not the first to make such inquiries. A Japanese collector had approached a professor in Barcelona, a curator in Los Angeles had been queried by a Belgian entrepreneur — there were questions in the air.
If she could find Elata, Nessa figured she would know within a half hour if she was right or not. She would charge him with theft and threaten him with a jail term of several years for stealing the letter from the museum. She would find out about the Picassos — as well as many other paintings. For he was a nervous man, haughty but on the edge and easily broken; she’d seen it in his eyes on the platform.
She could have grabbed him then. But at that moment there had been nothing to charge him with.
Nessa stared at a list of the men and two women who were suspected of having employed Elata over the last decade; it was not a long list, but every name was a prominent member of the art community and the world at large. Two had net worths that topped that of several countries. To say that their wealth and power protected them was an understatement — though with the right evidence, such as a sworn confession from the master forger himself, even the difficult might be attempted.
Others had tried to take Elata down. To fantasize like this was dangerous.
Her boss wanted him. More — he wanted the Picassos. He salivated over them — phony or real made little difference. Find them, and his career would be made; the French government would undoubtedly issue a medal.
Her boss wasn’t kidding. He’d authorized her to go “anywhere in pursuit of tangible leads.” Whatever resource she wanted, she could have.
As long as she succeeded.
Nessa pushed the thick pile of papers into the case folder. It was late, far past quitting time; the other offices were dark. She shoved the printouts and her notes into the top drawer of her desk, locked it, and went to leave.
The phone rang. She nearly blew it off, but then decided to pick it up — sometimes her ma called her here when she couldn’t reach her at the apartment.
Then again, her mother was sure to ask her whether she had a boyfriend for the umpteenth time. Perhaps she should just let it ring.
Nessa grabbed it a half second before the voice-mail system would have taken over.
“Nessa Lear,” she said.
“Put more snap into it, lass. You want ’em tremblin’ before they start talking to you.”
“Gorrie!”
“I won’t argue with you,” said her old partner. “It’s too good to hear your voice.”
“How are you?”
“Up to the kilt in muck n’ mire.”
“You’re drivin’ roun’ Inverness in a kilt these days? Do you carry your bagpipes with you?”
“ ’Neath the kilt.” His voice suddenly downshifted. “Ness, dearie, I need a favor.”
“Favor?”
“I have a string of accidents that add into something more than accidents, if you know what I mean. Murder, I think.”
“In Inverness?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“How can I help?”
Gorrie told her about the records involving the nuclear plant’s waste. Interpol had a database of international terrorists, and he wondered if he might have her check the names against them. He also had the name of the transport company that moved the waste.
“This isn’t an Interpol matter,” she told him.
“I know,” said her old partner. “But I’m beginning to think the woman at UKAE is involved. Constance Burns. Ever hear of her?”
“Not at all. You want me to run her name too?”
“Couldn’t hurt. She’s in Switzerland on vacation, or at least supposed to be. Hasn’t returned my calls yet, an’ I was just settin’ here wonderin’ why.”
“Technically, you’re supposed to be dealing through MI5,” she said. “Or at least—”
“I called to London and there’s no one can help me till the morning,” he said. “You would have liked this case, Nessa. Deputy Chief Constable is in a twit over his detection rate.”
She typed in her password and entered the data bank. She hadn’t been here long enough to know what the bosses might think of helping out a fellow police officer; she imagined the reaction could run from awarding her a commendation to kicking her back to Scotland.
“Nothing on any of your hits. Transport company again?”
“Highland Specialty Transport. I have done some checkin’ on my own. Seems to be a subsidiary of a Yank concern: Aesthetic Transfers.”
“Aesthetic Transfers?”
“Aesthetic Transfers Inc. I have the address here.”
“Hold on, Gorrie.” Nessa pulled open the drawer. Her fingers trembled as she clawed at the file.
Aesthetic Transfers — an international transportation firm specializing in international art and antique shipments and used by several museums. Sole stockholders — Morgan Family Trust (II).
Part of the Morgan empire controlled by Gabriel Morgan — a suspected dealer of fraudulent and black-market artworks and current tax scofflaw wanted by the U.S. Treasury Department. A suspected associate and possible employer of Marc Elata. Holed up in Zurich, Switzerland, where he had successfully fought off extradition by U.S. authorities.
“Frank,” she said, picking up the phone again. “Tell me everything again, very slowly. No, wait — give me your number. I’ll call you back on my mobile phone.”
“Department will pay for the call.”
“That’s not it — I want to get going. I’ll talk to you on the way.”
“Where are you going?”
“Switzerland. Give me your number.”
When he hung up with Nessa, Gorrie glanced at the clock. Though he had told his wife he’d be home by eight, he realized there was little sense making it there on the dot; she’d be talking schoolteacher talk with the visitor for hours and he’d only end up brooding in the corner. Better to take the time to work on this tangled knot.
Talking to Nessa made things no clearer, though it was good to hear her voice again. She seemed to be making a splash.
Gorrie’s thoughts returned to Cardha Duff. If the murder had anything to do with the power plant and its waste, the lass didn’t fit — unless Mackay had told her about the goings-on there.
Possible.
He drew out the file on the murder, looking over the report on her belongings. Nothing unusual, but then they hadn’t bothered with an extensive inventory, given the circumstances of death. The apartment hadn’t appeared ransacked. He could go back there and hunt around, but wouldn’t a murderer have done the same?
If it was murder. The lab report leaned heavily toward accident.
If someone intended on killing her — if someone really wanted to do her in — why wait for several days after the others?
Maybe they didn’t know about her until then.
Gorrie went back through his notes to make sure that Christine Gibbon hadn’t given the name during their initial interview. It didn’t appear there — but DC Andrews had conducted the actual interview, and he had not as yet typed his notes for the file.
A week late at least. Nessa would not have been so tardy, even as one of the unwashed.
Gorrie picked up the phone and called the young detective constable at home. Andrews’s wife answered, giving a timid hello.
“Hello, Marge,” Gorrie told her. “I just need a word with your husband. I won’t keep him, I promise.”
“Inspector Gorrie, how are you,” she said loudly, undoubtedly intending her husband nearby to hear and
