The Gilded Seal

‘Oliver Cook,’ Tom improvised a name and a reason for calling. ‘I work for the London Times. We were hoping to get a quote from Mr Quintavalle for a piece we’re running tomorrow. Who am I speaking to?’

‘Officer Juan Alonso of the Seville Police,’ came the heavily accented reply.

‘The police? Is Mr Quintavalle in some sort of trouble?’

Another pause, then the man replied in a hesitant, almost apologetic tone.

‘Señor Quintavalle is dead.’

‘Dead?’ Tom gasped. ‘How? When?’

‘Last week. Murdered. If you like, I transfer you to my superior,’ Alonso suggested eagerly.

‘That’s kind, but I’m on a deadline and I’m a quote down,’ Tom insisted, trying to keep his voice level. ‘Thanks for your help. Buenas noches.’

He punched the off button. There was a long silence. Dominique placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I was too late,’ he said slowly, shaking her off. ‘He came here because he needed my help. He needed my help and I wasn’t here for him.’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she said gently.

‘It’s somebody’s fault,’ Tom shot back.

‘He’s dead, Tom. There’s nothing you can do for him now.’

‘I can find out who did this,’ Tom said coldly, his eyes rising to meet hers. ‘I can find out who did this and make them pay.’

NINE (#ulink_d5d0c51e-6244-5e09-9c14-3046e9153fa1)

Soho, New York

19th April – 8.50 a.m.

Reuben Razi’s gallery occupied the ground floor of one of Soho’s characteristic cast-iron warehouses, the rusty scar of its fire-escape zig-zagging up the recently painted white façade.

Jennifer had yet to see anyone enter the building, but it was still early. She’d been sitting in her car, parked outside the model agency on the opposite side of the street, since seven thirty, watching the neighbourhood slowly stretch, yawning, into life. The early start had been deliberate. Razi’s receptionist had told her he would not be in until after nine, but she wanted to get a feel for the world Razi lived in before she met him.

According to the file spread across her lap, Razi had fled to the US from Iran after the fall of the Shah. Penniless and not speaking a word of English, he had begun importing Middle Eastern antiquities, and from those modest beginnings had evolved the small but prosperous fine art business he ran today. He specialised in the mid-market, selling second-tier artists and minor works by some of the bigger Impressionist and Post-Impressionist painters – the sort of piece that was worth hundreds of thousands rather than millions. It was a formula that seemed to have worked, given that Razi was able to afford a sprawling compound out in Long Island from where he commuted every day.

The only slight question mark on his resumé had been over the sale of a number of paintings reported to belong to the Fanjul and de la Torre families. As refugees from Fidel Castro’s regime in Cuba, their art collections had been seized by the Communists, but some of the more valuable works had reappeared several years later in US and European auction rooms. Razi had been named by an informant as the link man between the Cuban government and an Italian art dealer who had arranged for the works to be smuggled abroad. Nothing had ever been proven, of course, and Razi’s name had been just one of several in the frame. It certainly wasn’t enough to undermine his credibility or the trust that Lord Hudson so clearly had in him.

A Range Rover swept past her, its tyres drumming noisily over the cobbled street, the sunlight winking in its heavily tinted windows. She checked the plates, confirming that it was the same car that had already driven past twice this morning. According to the list she had in front of her, it was registered in Razi’s name.

This time, rather than drive on, the Range Rover drew up outside the gallery. As the driver’s door opened, a girl ran out of the building. A man stepped from the vehicle and scurried inside, Jennifer just catching a glimpse of the back of his head before he vanished. The girl meanwhile clambered in, adjusted the driver’s seat and pulled sedately away, Jennifer guessing that she had gone to park it somewhere. She gave it a few minutes and then followed the man inside, the file clutched under one arm.

The gallery was a large, open-plan space, every inch of which had been painted an unforgivably clinical white. Despite its size, there couldn’t have been more than fifteen paintings on display, small islands of colour marooned amidst the walls’ featureless expanse, each illuminated by a single brushed-steel spotlight that protruded from the ceiling like a medical implant.

‘I’d like to speak to Mr Razi, please,’ Jennifer instructed the receptionist, holding out her ID.

‘He’s in a meeting right now,’ the receptionist trilled through a saccharine smile. ‘Can I take a message?’

‘You must be Agent Browne.’

Jennifer looked up to where the accented voice had come from. A man was beaming down at her over the mezzanine level’s railings like a ringmaster welcoming her to the circus.

‘Mr Razi?’

She stepped back to get a better view. He had a swarthy face and a pencil-thin moustache dyed an unlikely shade of black to match his carefully styled hair. According to the file he was in his early fifties, but he looked older, and the diamond stud in his left ear suggested someone clinging by his fingertips to the rock-face of youth. Amidst the sterile surroundings, his vibrant purple velvet suit seemed almost unreal, and made him look as if he had been superimposed against the gallery walls.

Without answering, he stepped away from the balustrade and made his way down to her, each heavy footstep making the spiral staircase vibrate with a dull clang. He held out his hand and, as she shook it, he bowed theatrically. A thatch of long dark hairs poked out from under the cuff of his starched white shirt and now she was closer she could see that his face was pitted with acne scars.

‘Hudson said you’d come.’ He pressed a hand over his mouth, affecting surprise, his English strangely stilted. ‘Was that very wrong of him?’

‘Not wrong. Just not ideal.’

‘You must forgive him,’ Razi pleaded, bringing his hands together as if in prayer, the large gold rings that adorned every finger glinting like brass knuckles. ‘He thought I should know. It is my painting, after all.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said with a shrug, not wanting to put Razi on the defensive. Not yet at least. ‘We’re all after the same thing.’

‘And what is that?’

‘To figure out what’s going on, as fast as we can.’

‘Exactly!’ He smiled in agreement, the faint glint of several gold teeth coming from the back of his mouth. ‘I hope you didn’t waste too much time this morning?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I drove past at eight o’clock and saw you outside. And again at quarter past. Were you hoping to see anything in particular?’

Jennifer paused. She was less worried at having been spotted than intrigued as to why Razi had felt it necessary to drive past his gallery twice before finally going inside.

‘Why don’t we sit down?’ she suggested.

‘By all means.’ He nodded towards a secluded area at the rear of the gallery where a white leather divan had been provocatively placed at a forty-five-degree angle across the floorspace. Jennifer instinctively wanted to straighten it. They sat down and he turned to face her with his palms resting on his knees.

‘We should start with a few questions, if that’s okay?’

‘You are very beautiful, Agent Browne.’ Razi smiled, his nostrils flaring slightly as he spoke. ‘But I expect many men tell you that.’

Jennifer gazed at Razi unblinkingly. She knew that in his business, the ability to read people was the key to convincing someone to pay a hundred thousand for something worth fifty. She therefore took the compliment as a sighting shot to calibrate how he should play her, rather than a line. Having said that, from what she’d seen so far, Razi was also a performer. One who clearly liked to keep his audience slightly off-balance. Either way, her best policy was not to react.

‘When did you buy the Gauguin?’

Razi sat back resignedly and began to slowly crack his knuckles in turn. ‘About ten years ago. At the time, people said I overpaid, but a Gauguin is a Gauguin, whatever the period.’

‘And you never doubted its authenticity?’