Читать книгу The Gilded Seal - James Twining - Страница 11

Drumlanrig Castle, Scotland

18th April – 12.07 p.m.

It seemed less a castle than a mausoleum to Tom; a place of thin shadows, cloaked with a funereal stillness, where muffled footsteps and snatched fragments of hushed conversations echoed faintly along the cold and empty corridors.

It was an impression that the furnishings did little to dispel, for although the cavernous rooms were adorned with a rich and varied assortment of tapestries, gilt-framed oil paintings, marble-topped chests, rococo consoles and miscellaneous objets d’art, closer inspection revealed many of them to be worn, dusty and neglected.

‘This place reminds me of an Egyptian tomb,’ Tom whispered. ‘You know, stuffed full of treasure and servants and then sealed to the outside world.’

‘It’s a family home,’ Dorling reminded him. ‘The Dukes of Buccleuch have lived here for centuries.’

‘I wonder if they’ve ever really lived here or just tended it, like a grave?’

‘Why don’t you ask them? That’s the Duke and his son, the Earl of Dalkieth,’ Dorling hissed as they walked past an old man being supported by a younger one. Both men nodded at them solemnly as they passed by, their faces etched with a mournful, almost reproachful look that made Tom feel as though he had invaded the privacy of an intimate family occasion. ‘Poor bastards look like somebody died.’

‘That’s probably how it feels.’ said Tom sympathetically. ‘Like somebody who has been a member of their family for two hundred and fifty years has suddenly dropped down dead.’

‘It’s much worse than that,’ Dorling corrected him, eyebrows raised playfully. ‘It’s like they’ve died and left eighty million quid to the local cat’s home.’

The hall had been sealed off; a square-shouldered constable was standing guard. From behind him came the occasional white flash and mechanical whir of a police photographer’s camera. Tom felt his chest tighten as they stepped closer, Dorling’s words echoing in his head: ‘He’s left you something.’

The disturbing thing was that Milo and he had always had a very simple agreement to just keep out of each other’s way. So something serious must have happened for Milo to break that arrangement now, something that involved Tom and this place and whatever was waiting for him on the other side of that doorway. The easy option, Tom knew, would have been to refuse to take the bait, to walk away and simply ignore whatever lay in the next room. But the easy option was rarely the right one. Besides, Tom preferred to know what he was up against.

Seeing Dorling, the constable lifted the tape for them both to stoop under. To Tom’s right, some forensic officers in white evidence suits were huddled next to the wall where Tom assumed the painting had been hanging.

‘There’s nothing here,’ Tom almost sounded relieved as he glanced around. Knowing Milo as he did, he’d feared the worst.

Dorling shrugged and then motioned towards two men who were standing at the foot of the staircase. One of them was speaking to the other in a gratingly nasal whine, a shapeless grey raincoat covering his curved shoulders. The corners of Tom’s mouth twitched as he recognised his voice.

‘It was opportunistic,’ the man pronounced. ‘They walked in, saw their chance and took it.’

‘What about the little souvenir they left behind?’ the other man queried in a soft Edinburgh burr. ‘They must have planned that.’

‘Probably smuggled it in with them under a coat,’ Dorling agreed. ‘Look. I’m not saying they didn’t plan to come here and steal something, just that they weren’t that bothered what they took. Probably wouldn’t know who da Vinci was if he jumped up and gave them a haircut.’

‘Would you?’ Tom interrupted, unable to stop himself, despite Dorling’s earlier warning.

The man swivelled round to face him.

‘Kirk!’ He spat the name through clenched teeth, yellowing eyes bulging above the dark shadows that nestled in his long, sunken cheeks. His skin was like marble, cold and white and flecked with a delicate spider’s web of tiny veins that pulsed red just below the surface.

‘Sergeant Clarke!’ Tom exclaimed, his eyes twinkling mischievously. ‘What a nice surprise.’

Tom could no longer remember quite why Clarke had made it his personal mission to see him behind bars. It was a pursuit that had at times verged on the obsessive, Clarke’s anger mounting as Tom had managed again and again to slip from his grasp. Even now, he refused to believe that Tom had gone straight, convinced that his newly acquired respectability was all part of some elaborate con. Still, Tom didn’t mind. If anything he found Clarke mildly amusing, which seemed to make him even angrier.

‘It’s Detective Sergeant Clarke, as well you know,’ Clarke seethed, the sharp outline of his Adam’s apple bobbing uncontrollably. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I invited him,’ Dorling volunteered.

‘This is a criminal investigation,’ Clarke rounded on him. ‘Not a bloody cocktail party.’

‘If Tom’s here, it’s because I think he can help,’ Dorling replied tersely.

‘For all you know, he nicked it himself,’ Clarke sneered. ‘Ever think of that?’

The man standing next to Clarke turned to Tom with interest.

‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’ He was about fifty years old, tall, with wind-tanned cheeks, moss green eyes and a wild thatch of muddy brown hair that was thinning from the crown outwards.

‘Bruce Ritchie,’ Dorling introduced him to Tom. ‘The estate manager. Bruce, this is Tom Kirk.’

Tom shook Ritchie’s outstretched hand, noting the nicotine stains around the tips of his fingers and the empty shotgun cartridges in his waxed jacket that rattled as he moved his arm.

‘I take it you have some direct … experience of this type of crime?’ He hesitated fractionally over the right choice of words.

‘Too bloody right he does,’ Clarke muttered darkly.

‘Can I ask where from?’

‘He’s a thief,’ Clarke snapped before Tom could answer. ‘That’s all you need to know. The Yanks trained him. Industrial espionage. That is until he decided to go into business for himself.’ Clarke turned to Tom, a confident smirk curling across his face. ‘How am I doing so far?’

‘Agency?’ Ritchie guessed, his tone suggesting that, far from scaring him off, Clarke had only succeeded in further arousing his interest.

‘That’s right,’ Tom nodded, realising now that Ritchie’s stiff-shouldered demeanour and calculating gaze probably betrayed a military background. Possibly special forces. ‘You?’

‘Army intelligence,’ he said with a grin. ‘Back when we didn’t just do what the Yanks told us.’

Clarke looked on unsmilingly as the other three men laughed.

‘So you don’t agree that this was opportunistic?’ asked Ritchie.

Tom shook his head. ‘The people who did this knew exactly what they were here for.’

‘You don’t know that,’ Clarke objected.

‘Opportunistic is settling for the Rembrandt or the Holbein nearer the entrance, not deliberately targeting the da Vinci,’ Tom retorted, sensing Clarke flinch every time he moved too suddenly.

‘Do you think they’ll try and sell it?’ Ritchie pressed.

‘Not on the open market. It’s too hot. But then that was never the plan. Best case they’ll lie low for a few months before making contact and asking for a ransom. That way your insurers avoid paying out full value and you get your painting back. It’s what some people say the National Gallery in London had to do to get their two Turners returned, although they called it a finder’s fee.’

‘And worst case?’ Ritchie asked with a glum frown.

‘If you don’t hear from them in the next twelve months, then chances are it’s been taken as collateral for a drugs or arms deal. It’ll take seven years for it to work its way through the system to a point where someone will be willing to make contact again. The timings run like clockwork. But I don’t think that’s what’s happened here.’

‘You’re just making this up,’ Clarke snorted with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘You don’t know anything about this job or who pulled it.’

Tom shrugged.

‘Four man team, right?’

‘Maybe.’ Clarke gave an uncertain nod.

‘I’d guess two on the inside and two on the outside – a lookout and a driver. The getaway car was probably stolen last night. Something small and fast. Most likely white or red so it wouldn’t stand out.’

‘A white VW,’ Ritchie confirmed, his obvious surprise giving way to an irritated frown as he turned to Clarke. ‘I thought we’d agreed not to release any details yet?’

‘We haven’t,’ Clarke spluttered.

‘I know because it’s his usual MO,’ Tom reassured him.

‘Whose?’

‘His name is Ludovic Royal,’ Tom explained. He’s known in the business as Milo. French, although he would argue he’s Corsican. Turned to art theft after five years in the Foreign Legion and another ten fighting in West Africa for whoever could afford him. He’s ruthless and he’s one of the best.’

‘Why’s he called Milo?’

‘Back when he first got started a client, some Syrian dealer, stiffed him on a deal. Milo hacked both the guy’s arms off, one at the elbow, the other at the shoulder, and left him to bleed to death. When the photos leaked to the local press in Damascus they dubbed it the Venus de Milo killing. The name stuck.’

‘And that’s who you think did this?’ Ritchie sounded sceptical.

‘It’s too early to say,’ Clarke intervened.

‘Have you found the gambling chip yet?’ Tom asked. ‘It’s a small mother-of-pearl disc about this big, with the letter M inlaid in ebony.’

Clarke glared furiously at Dorling. ‘What else have you told him?’

‘Nothing,’ Dorling insisted.

‘I don’t care who’s told who what,’ Ritchie said firmly. ‘I just want to know what it means.’

‘Milo likes to autograph his scores,’ Tom explained. ‘It lets the rest of us know how good he is.’

‘The gambling chip is his symbol,’ Dorling confirmed. ‘They’re pretty common in the art underworld,’ he paused, deliberately avoiding Tom’s gaze. ‘Tom’s was a black cat, you know, like the cartoon character. That’s why they used to call him Felix.’

Ritchie nodded slowly, as if this last piece of information had somehow confirmed a decision that had been forming in his mind.

‘What do you know about the painting?’ he asked.

‘I know it’s small, about nineteen inches long and fifteen wide, so it won’t be hard to smuggle out of the country,’ Tom began. ‘I know it was painted between 1500 and 1510 and that a total of eleven copies were produced by da Vinci’s workshop. Yours was the original.’

‘What about its subject matter?’ Ritchie pressed.

‘Who cares?’ Clarke huffed impatiently.

‘It shows the Madonna pulling the infant Jesus away from a yarnwinder, a wooden tool used for winding wool,’ Tom replied, ignoring him. ‘It’s meant to symbolise the cross and the fact that even her love cannot save him from the Passion.’

‘Some of the copies even have a small cross bar on the yarnwinder to make the reference to the crucifixion more explicit,’ Ritchie confirmed with a nod. Then he paused, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to continue.

‘Is there something else?’ Tom ventured.

‘You tell me,’ Ritchie said with a shrug, pointing to his right.

The forensic team had shifted to one side and Tom could now see the panelled wall where the painting had hung between two other works. But instead of an empty space, something seemed to have been fixed there. Something small and black.

‘They found the gambling chip you described in its mouth,’ Ritchie explained, earning himself a reproachful glare from Clarke.

‘In what’s mouth?’ Tom breathed.

He stepped closer, his heart beating apprehensively as the shape slowly came into focus.

He could see a head, legs and a long black tail. He could see a small pink tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth. He could see trails of dried blood where it had been nailed to the wall and a pool of sticky dark liquid on the top of the display case beneath it rendered a translucent pink by the light shining through the glass.

It was a cat. A crucified cat.

He glanced sharply at Dorling who gave him a telling nod.

‘I told you he’d left you something, Felix.’