‘What do you think’s wrong, idiot?’ said Audrey.
‘And you’ve got no one to blame but yourself,’ said Alf, ‘because you did implore the Almighty to wait until after the election.’
‘Stop chattering, Alf,’ said Audrey, ‘and ring the hospital. Tell them there’s a woman on the way who’s about to give birth. Michael, go and fetch a taxi.’
Alf scuttled off to the phone at the other end of the bar while Sasha and Audrey supported Charlie as she made her way slowly out of the pub. Michael had already flagged down a passing cab and instructed the driver exactly where he had to go long before Charlie clambered into the back seat.
‘Hold on, darling,’ said Sasha as the taxi moved off. ‘We don’t have far to go,’ he added, suddenly thankful that the cottage hospital hadn’t yet been closed.
Headlights on full, the driver wove in and out of the late night traffic. Alf must have done his job, because when the cab pulled up outside the hospital entrance, two orderlies and a doctor were waiting for them. The doctor helped Charlie from the car while Sasha took out his wallet to pay the fare.
‘Have this one on me, guv,’ said the cabbie. ‘It’ll make up for the fact that I forgot to vote.’
Sasha thanked him, but cursed him at the same time as Charlie was eased into a wheelchair. If he lost by one vote . . . He held his wife’s hand while the doctor calmly asked her a series of questions. One of the orderlies wheeled her down an empty corridor to the delivery room, where an obstetrics team were waiting. Sasha only let go of her hand when she disappeared inside.
He began to pace up and down the corridor, berating himself for having pushed Charlie so hard during the last few days of the campaign. Alf was right, a child’s life was more important than any damned election.
He couldn’t be sure how much time had passed before a nurse finally emerged from the delivery room, gave him a warm smile and said, ‘Congratulations, Mr Karpenko, it’s a girl.’
‘And my wife?’
‘She’s fine. Exhausted, and will need to rest, but you can go and see them both for a few minutes.’ Sasha followed her into the room, where Charlie was tenderly holding her newborn child. A wrinkled little thing with unfocussed blue eyes stared up at him. He hugged Charlie, thanked whatever gods there were for this miracle, and gazed down at his daughter as if she was the first child that had ever been born.
‘Pity this didn’t happen a week ago,’ said Charlie.
‘Why, my darling?’
‘Imagine how many more votes you might have got if you could have told the audience at the debate that your daughter was born in the constituency.’
Sasha laughed as a nurse placed a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘We should let your wife rest.’
‘Of course,’ said Sasha, as another nurse gently lifted the baby from her arms and placed her in a cot.
Sasha reluctantly left the room, although Charlie had already fallen asleep. Once he was back out in the corridor, he stopped to stare at his daughter through the window in the door. He waved at her; stupid really, because he knew she couldn’t see him. He turned and began to walk towards the stairs, and for the first time in hours, his thoughts returned to what was going on at the town hall. He ran along the corridor and down the steps, wondering if he’d be able to find a taxi at that time of night. He walked across the lobby and was just about to push the door open when a voice behind him said, ‘Mr Karpenko?’
He turned round to see a nurse standing behind the reception desk. ‘Congratulations,’ she said.
‘Thank you. I couldn’t be more delighted that it’s a girl.’
‘That wasn’t why I was congratulating you, Mr Karpenko.’ Sasha looked puzzled. ‘I just wanted to say how pleased I am that you’ll be our next MP.’
‘You know the result?’
‘It was announced on the radio a few moments ago. After three recounts, you won by twenty-seven votes.’
34
ALEX
Boston
‘I’m sorry to say that Anna was spot on,’ said Rosenthal. ‘More than fifty of the pictures are copies, and remembering your own experience with the Warhol, it’s not difficult to work out who’s got the originals.’
‘And she’s probably sold them all by now,’ said Alex. ‘Which means the bank can never hope to recover its losses.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ said Rosenthal. ‘The art world is a small, close-knit community, so if a painting from the Lowell Collection were to appear on the market, it would almost certainly be recognized immediately. And we’re not talking about one painting, but over fifty. However, now that Mr Lowell is dead, his sister may well feel confident enough to dispose of them, especially if she believes her only other source of income is about to dry up.’
‘Which it most certainly is,’ said Alex with considerable feeling.
‘Then the first thing we have to do is find out where the paintings are located.’
‘Tucked safely away in Evelyn’s villa in the south of France would be my bet,’ said Alex.
‘I agree,’ said Anna. ‘Because if they were in her apartment in New York, Lawrence couldn’t have missed them.’
Rosenthal’s next question took them both by surprise. ‘How well do you know Mr Lowell’s butler?’
‘Not that well,’ admitted Alex. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Do you have any idea where his loyalties lie?’
‘When it comes to the Lowell family,’ said Alex, ‘you have to support either one faction or the other, as I found out to my cost fairly early on. But I’ve no reason to believe he’s not a member of the home team.’
‘Then with your permission,’ said Rosenthal, ‘I’d like to ask him a couple of questions.’
‘I can’t see why not,’ said Alex, ringing the bell.
Caxton appeared a few moments later. ‘You called, sir?’
‘Actually, it’s me who wanted a word with you, Caxton,’ said Rosenthal. ‘I was curious to know if Mr Lowell’s sister ever stayed at the house while he was serving in Vietnam.’
‘Regularly,’ said Caxton. ‘She treated it like a second home.’
‘And were you always around during those visits?’
‘No, sir, not always. Once a month my wife and I like to visit our daughter and grandson in Chicago for a weekend. Sometimes when we returned on a Sunday night, it was clear that Mr and Mrs Lowell-Halliday had visited the house in our absence.’
‘How could you be so sure?’ asked Alex.
‘There would be beds to make, tables to be cleared, glasses to be washed, and a lot of ashtrays to be emptied.’
‘So they could have been here on their own for at least forty-eight hours?’
‘On several occasions.’
‘That’s very helpful, Caxton,’ said Rosenthal. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s also most important, Caxton,’ said Alex, ‘that this conversation remains confidential. Is that understood?’
‘In the twelve years I served Mr Lowell,’ said Caxton, ‘he never found it necessary to question my discretion.’
‘I apologize,’ said Alex. ‘That was tactless of me.’
No one spoke until the butler had left the room, when Anna said, ‘Well, that certainly put you in your place, my darling.’
‘Actually, it was rather reassuring,’ said Rosenthal. ‘He would never have considered delivering such a rebuke if he had any intention of contacting Mrs Lowell-Halliday.’
‘I agree,’ said Anna. ‘But if Evelyn did take several of the pictures to the south of France, how can we prove it?’
‘That shouldn’t be too difficult,’ said Rosenthal. ‘One of the paintings she stole was a Rothko that measures about six feet by four. That isn’t something she could carry on board as hand luggage.’