The Gilded Seal

‘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.’