The red Rolls-Royce drew up outside Agnew’s gallery. Don Pedro stepped out on to the pavement and looked in the window to see a full-length portrait of Mrs Kathleen Newton, Tissot’s beautiful mistress. He smiled when he saw the red dot.
An even bigger smile appeared on his face after he had entered the gallery. It was not the sight of so many magnificent paintings and sculptures that caused him to smile, but the plethora of red dots by the side of them.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked a middle-aged woman.
Don Pedro wondered what had happened to the beautiful young woman who’d met him the last time he’d visited the gallery.
‘I want to speak to Mr Agnew.’
‘I’m not sure if he’s available at the moment. Perhaps I might be able to assist you.’
‘He’ll be available for me,’ said Don Pedro. ‘After all, this is my show,’ he added, raising his arms aloft as if he were blessing a congregation.
She quickly backed off, and without another word knocked on the door of Mr Agnew’s office and disappeared inside. Moments later the owner appeared.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Martinez,’ he said a little stiffly, which Don Pedro dismissed as English reserve.
‘I can see how well the sale is going, but how much have you taken so far?’
‘I wonder if we might go into my office, where it’s a little more private.’
Don Pedro followed him across the gallery, counting the red dots, but waited until the office door was closed before repeating his question.
‘How much have you taken so far?’
‘A little over ￡170,000 on the opening night, and this morning a gentleman called to reserve two more pieces, the Bonnard and an Utrillo, which will take us comfortably over ￡200,000. We’ve also had an enquiry from the National Gallery about the Raphael.’
‘Good, because I need a hundred thousand right now.’
‘I’m afraid that will not be possible, Mr Martinez.’
‘Why not? It’s my money.’
‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for several days, but you’ve been away shooting in Scotland.’
‘Why can’t I have my money?’ demanded Martinez, his tone now menacing.
‘Last Friday we had a visit from a Mr Ledbury of the Midland Bank, St James’s. He was accompanied by their lawyer, who instructed us to pay any monies raised from this sale directly to the bank.’
‘He doesn’t have the authority to do that. This collection belongs to me.’
‘They produced legal documents to show that you had signed over the entire collection, with every piece listed individually, as security against an agreed loan.’
‘But I repaid that loan yesterday.’
‘The lawyer returned just before the opening yesterday evening with a court order restraining me from transferring the money to anyone other than the bank. I feel I must point out to you, Mr Martinez, that this is not the way we like to conduct business at Agnew’s.’
‘I’ll get a letter of release immediately. When I return, I expect you to have a cheque for one hundred thousand pounds waiting for me.’
‘I look forward to seeing you later, Mr Martinez.’
Don Pedro left the gallery without shaking hands or uttering another word. He walked briskly in the direction of St James’s, with his Rolls-Royce following a few yards behind. When he reached the bank, he strode in and headed straight for the manager’s office before anyone had the opportunity to ask him who he was, or who he wanted to see. When he reached the end of the corridor, he didn’t knock on the door, but barged straight in, to find Mr Ledbury seated behind his desk dictating to a secretary.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Martinez,’ Ledbury said, almost as if he’d been expecting him.
‘Get out,’ Don Pedro said, pointing at the secretary, who quickly left the room without even glancing at the manager.
‘What game do you think you’re playing, Ledbury? I’ve just come from Agnew’s. They’re refusing to hand over any money from the sale of my personal art collection, and say you’re to blame.’
‘I’m afraid it’s no longer your collection,’ said Ledbury, ‘and it hasn’t been for some considerable time. You’ve clearly forgotten that you assigned it to the bank after we extended your overdraft facilities yet again.’ He unlocked the top drawer of a small green cabinet and took out a file.
‘But what about the money from my sale of the Barrington’s shares? That netted over three million.’
‘Which still leaves you with an overdraft –’ he flicked through a few pages of the file – ‘of ￡772,450 at close of business last night. In order not to put you through this embarrassment again, let me remind you that you also recently signed a personal guarantee, which includes your home in the country and no. 44 Eaton Square. And I must advise you that, should the sale of your art collection fail to cover your current overdraft, we shall be asking you which of those properties you wish to dispose of first.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘I can, Mr Martinez, and if necessary, I will. And the next time you want to see me,’ said Ledbury as he walked across to the door, ‘perhaps you’d be kind enough to make an appointment through my secretary. Let me remind you, this is a bank, not a casino.’ He opened the door. ‘Good day, sir.’
Martinez slunk out of the manager’s office, down the corridor, across the banking hall and back on to the street, to find his Rolls-Royce parked outside waiting for him. He even wondered if he still owned that.
‘Take me home,’ he said.
When they reached the top of St James’s, the Rolls-Royce turned left, drove down Piccadilly and on past Green Park station, from which a stream of people was emerging. Among them was a young man who crossed the road, turned left and headed towards Albemarle Street.
When Sebastian entered Agnew’s gallery for the third time in less than a week, he only intended to stay for a few moments to collect Jessica’s picture. He could have taken it when the police had accompanied him back to the gallery, but he’d been too distracted by the thought of Sam locked up in a cell.
This time he was distracted again, not by the thought of rescuing a damsel in distress, but by the quality of the works of art on display. He stopped to admire Raphael’s La Madonna de Bogotá, which had been in his possession for a few hours, and tried to imagine what it must be like to write out a cheque for ￡100,000 and know it wouldn’t bounce.
It amused him to see that Rodin’s The Thinker had been priced at ￡150,000. He remembered only too well when Don Pedro had purchased it at Sotheby’s for ￡120,000, a record for a Rodin at the time. But then, Don Pedro had been under the illusion that the statue contained eight million pounds in counterfeit five-pound notes. That had been the beginning of Sebastian’s troubles.
‘Welcome back, Mr Clifton.’
‘My fault again, I’m afraid. I forgot to pick up my sister’s picture.’
‘Indeed. I’ve just asked my assistant to fetch it.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Sebastian said as Sam’s replacement appeared carrying a bulky package which she handed to Mr Agnew. He took his time checking the label, before passing it to Sebastian.
‘Let’s hope it’s not a Rembrandt this time,’ said Sebastian, unable to resist a smirk. Neither Mr Agnew nor his assistant rewarded him with a smile. In fact, all Agnew said was, ‘And don’t forget our deal.’
‘If I don’t sell a picture, but give it to someone as a gift, have I broken our agreement?’
‘Who were you thinking of giving it to?’
‘Sam. My way of saying sorry.’
‘I have no objection to that,’ said Agnew. ‘Like you, I feel sure Miss Sullivan would never consider selling it.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Sebastian. Then, looking at the Raphael, he said, ‘I’ll own that picture one day.’
‘I hope so,’ said Agnew, ‘because that’s the way we make our money.’
When Sebastian left the gallery, it was such a pleasant evening that he decided to walk to Pimlico so he could give Sam her ‘wait and see’ present. As he strolled through St James’s Park he thought about his visit to Grimsby earlier that day. He liked Mr Bingham. He liked his factory. He liked the workers. What Cedric called real people doing real jobs.
It had taken Mr Bingham about five minutes to sign all the share transfer certificates, and another thirty minutes for them to devour two portions of the finest fish and chips in the universe, eaten out of yesterday’s copy of the Grimsby Evening Telegraph. Just before he left, Mr Bingham had presented him with a jar of fish paste and an invitation to spend the night at Mablethorpe Hall.
‘That’s kind of you, sir, but Mr Hardcastle is expecting me to have these certificates back on his desk by close of business this evening.’
‘Fair enough, but I have a feeling we’ll be seeing more of each other now that I’m joining the board of Barrington’s.’
‘You’re joining the board, sir?’
‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it when I know you better.’
That was the moment Sebastian realized that Bob Bingham was the mystery man who could not be mentioned until the deal had been closed.
He couldn’t wait to give Sam her present. When he arrived outside her block of flats, he opened the front door with the key she’d given him that morning.
A man hiding in the shadows on the other side of the road made a note of the address. Because Clifton had let himself in with his own key, he assumed that this must be where Clifton lived. Over dinner, he would tell his father who had purchased the Barrington’s shares, the name of the Yorkshire bank that had handled the transaction, and where Sebastian Clifton lived. Even what he’d eaten for lunch. He hailed a taxi, and asked to be taken to Eaton Square.
‘Stop!’ Luis shouted when he spotted the placard. He jumped out of the taxi, ran across to the paperboy and grabbed a copy of the London Evening News. He read the headline Woman in coma after jumping from Night Scotsman and smiled before getting back in the cab. Clearly someone else had carried out his father’s orders, too.