Anna stepped forward and thrust out her hand, but Arabella didn’t respond. She simply took her in her arms and said, “If I can do anything to help you avenge my sister’s death...”
“Anything?”
“Anything,” repeated Arabella.
“When the North Tower collapsed, all the documentation concerning Victoria’s loan was destroyed,” said Anna, “including the original contract. The only copy is in your possession. If—”
“You don’t have to spell it out,” said Arabella.
Anna smiled. She wasn’t dealing with Victoria any longer.
She turned to leave and had reached the hall long before the butler had time to open the front door.
Arabella watched from the drawing-room window as Anna’s car disappeared down the drive and out of sight. She wondered if she would ever see her again.
“Petrescu,” said a voice, “is just leaving Wentworth Hall. She’s heading back in the direction of central London. I’m following her and will keep you briefed.”
23
Anna drove out of Wentworth Hall and headed back toward the M25, looking for a sign to Heathrow. She checked the clock on the dashboard. It was almost 2 P.M., so she had missed any chance of calling Tina, who would now be at her desk on Wall Street. But she did need to make another call if there was to be the slightest chance of her coup succeeding.
As she drove through the village of Wentworth, Anna tried to recall the pub where Victoria had taken her to dinner. Then she saw the familiar crest flapping in the wind, also at half-mast.
Anna swung into the forecourt of the Wentworth Arms and parked her car near the entrance. She walked through the reception and into the bar.
“Can you change five dollars?” she asked the barmaid. “I need to make a phone call.”
“Of course, love,” came back the immediate reply. The barmaid opened the cash register and handed Anna two pound coins. Daylight robbery, Anna wanted to tell her, but she didn’t have time to argue.
“The phone’s just beyond the restaurant, to your right.”
Anna dialed a number that she could never forget. The phone rang only twice before a voice announced, “Good afternoon, Sotheby’s.”
Anna fed a coin into the slot, and said, “Mark Poltimore, please.”
“I’ll put you through.”
“Mark Poltimore.”
“Mark, it’s Anna, Anna Petrescu.”
“Anna, what a pleasant surprise. We’ve all been anxious about you. Where were you on Tuesday?”
“Amsterdam,” she replied.
“Thank God for that,” said Mark. “Terrible business. And Fenston?”
“Not in the building at the time,” said Anna, “and that’s why I’m calling. He wants your opinion on a Van Gogh.”
“Authenticity or price?” asked Mark. “Because when it comes to provenance, I bow to your superior judgment.”
“There’s no discussion on its provenance,” said Anna, “but I would like a second opinion on its value.”
“Is it one we would know?”
“Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear,” said Anna.
“The Wentworth Self-Portrait?” queried Mark. “I’ve known the family all my life and had no idea they were considering selling the painting.”
“I didn’t say they were,” said Anna without offering further explanation.
“Are you able to bring the painting in for inspection?” asked Mark.
“I’d like to, but I don’t have secure enough transport. I was hoping you might be able to help.”
“Where is it now?” asked Mark.
“In a bonded warehouse at Heathrow.”
“That’s easy enough,” said Mark. “We have a daily pickup from Heathrow. Would tomorrow afternoon be convenient?”
“Today, if possible,” said Anna. “You know what my boss is like.”
“Hold on. I’ll just need to find out if they’ve already left.” The line went silent, although Anna could hear her heart thumping. She placed the second pound coin in the slot — the last thing she needed was to be cut off. Mark came back on the line. “You’re in luck. Our handler is picking up some other items for us around four. How does that suit you?”
“Fine, but could you do me another favor and ask them to call Ruth Parish at Art Locations, just before the van is due to arrive?”
“Sure. And how long do we have to value the piece?”
“Forty-eight hours.”
“You’d come to Sotheby’s first if you ever considered selling the Self-Portrait, wouldn’t you, Anna?”
“Of course.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” said Mark.
Anna replaced the receiver, appalled by how easily she could now lie. She was also becoming aware just how simple it must have been for Fenston to deceive her.
She drove out of the Wentworth Arms car park, aware that everything now depended on Ruth Parish being in her office. Once she reached the orbital road, Anna remained in the slow lane as she went over all the things that could go badly wrong. Was Ruth aware that she had been fired? Had Fenston told her she was dead? Would Ruth accept her authority to make such a crucial decision? Anna knew that there was only one way she was going to find out. She even considered calling Ruth, but decided any prior warning would only give her more time to check up. If she was to have any chance at all, she needed to take Ruth by surprise.
Anna was so deep in thought as she considered every possibility that she nearly missed her exit for Heathrow. Once she had turned off the M25, she drove on past the signs for terminals one, two, three and four, and headed for the cargo depots just off the Southern Perimeter Road.
She parked her car in a visitor’s space directly outside the offices of Art Locations. She sat in the car for some time, trying to compose herself. Why didn’t she just drive off? She didn’t need to become involved or even consider taking such a risk. She then thought about Victoria and the role she had unwittingly played in her death. “Get on with it, woman,” Anna said out loud. “They either know or they don’t, and if they’ve already been tipped off, you’ll be back in the car in less than two minutes.” Anna looked in the mirror. Were there any giveaway signs? “Get on with it,” she admonished herself even more firmly, and finally opened the car door. She took a deep breath as she strolled across the tarmac toward the entrance of the building.
She pushed through the swing doors and came face-to-face with a receptionist she’d never seen before. Not a good start.
“Is Ruth around?” Anna asked cheerily, as if she popped by the office every day.
“No, she’s having lunch at the Royal Academy to discuss the upcoming Rembrandt exhibition.”
Anna’s heart sank.
“But I’m expecting her back at any moment.”
“Then I’ll wait,” Anna said with a smile.
She took a seat in reception. She picked up an out-of-date copy of Newsweek, with Al Gore on the cover, and flicked through the pages. She found herself continually looking up at the clock above the reception desk, watching the slow progress of the minute hand: 3:10, 3:15, 3:20.
Ruth finally walked through the door at 3:22 P.M. “Any messages?” she asked the receptionist.
“No,” replied the girl, “but there is a lady waiting to see you.”
Anna held her breath as Ruth swung around.
“Anna,” she exclaimed. “It’s good to see you.” First hurdle crossed. “I wondered if you’d still be on this assignment after the tragedy in New York.” Second hurdle crossed. “Especially when your boss told me that Mr. Leapman would be coming across to collect the picture personally.” Third hurdle crossed. No one had told Ruth she was missing, presumed dead.