1 Witchy Business (3 page)

Even dressed in a towel, I looked more like myself in the mirror now that I’d showered. My skin was back to its oh-so-pale best that sometimes made people wonder what foundation I was using, my hair had that reddish auburn luster that didn’t seem quite so out of place in Scotland, and the sharpness of my features framed eyes that seemed to shift and change color between green and gray, depending on the light.

On the whole, probably thanks to all that exercise I’d been getting chasing after apologetic werewolves, I thought I was doing pretty well for thirty-five years old. Not in witch years, ha—that joke was quite old.

My phone rang, dragging me from my thoughts. I answered the phone, pulling on some underwear as I did and almost going sprawling as a result.

“Elle Chambers,” I said a little breathlessly as I got my balance.

“Ms. Chambers, this is Iain Peach from Gerard and Philips.” The accent was softly Shetlands, as if its owner had tried hard to lose it as he’d gone up in the world. If he was working for G&P, he
had
gone up in the world. They were one of the firms I occasionally consulted for, and they weren’t the sort of company that most people contacted for home and contents or health coverage. G&P were specialists.

 “Something rare has been stolen,” I said.

“How did you know that?” he asked.

“Magic.”

“This really isn’t—”

I sighed. “You specialize in insuring high-value objects. I can hear how worried you are, and G&P have used me when things have gone missing previously.” So…not magic at all. Face to face, I couldn’t have read his mind. On a phone, I couldn’t even pick up emotions, beyond hearing nice insurance brokers sounding like they were about to have some kind of breakdown. “You sound very upset. What’s happened?”

“About an hour ago, we received a call from one of our customers notifying us of a potential claim relating to an insured item.”

Trust an insurer not to get to the point. “And the item is?”

“A rare M.C. Escher. We believe it to be the only one in existence.”

That made it valuable. One of the side effects of my job was that I had to keep up with prices for these things. An ordinary print of one of Escher’s designs might not make more than a few hundred dollars on the international market. A rare one could be worth a hundred thousand. Not the biggest payout G&P had ever made, but certainly one worth calling me in for.

Why? Because I could save them money. First, I’d check whether the claim was real. Then, if I could, I’d try to recover the item. Even if it meant buying it back, that wouldn’t be at the full insured cost. In the absolute worst-case scenario, where the insurers made a final payout before I found it, at least they’d have the art to defray the cost. This was all assuming I could find it, of course, but my record was as good as anyone’s.

“So,” I said, “where will I have to fly to? Which museum?”

“It isn’t a museum,” Iain replied. “The client is a private collector.”

Private collections were a little rarer than they used to be, at least outside of bank vaults. Nowadays, a buyer at an auction was as likely to be someone like Iain’s bosses, buying a valuable investment, as it was someone just wanting to put it up on a wall.

“Even so, I’d better get the tickets booked,” I insisted, trying to remember where in the house I left my laptop.

“You won’t need to fly,” Iain said quickly. “Actually, that’s part of the reason we’re contacting you about this one. The theft occurred in Edinburgh, in the home of one of our clients, Niall Sampson. If you’re interested, I’ll email you the details. We’d appreciate it if you could get started straight away. Mr. Sampson is quite anxious that this be dealt with quickly.”

Was I interested? I didn’t need to think before I answered that. What else was I going to do? Go out and acquire a social life in all those bars I didn’t dare step inside? Call Rebecca and see if she had any more cases out in the middle of nowhere for me to take? I might not have been able to enjoy everything about the city, but the chance to look for stolen art in the middle of the city I called home? That was everything I could wish for right now.

“I’ll get over there straight away,” I said. “My usual terms?”

“Of course.” There was a pause as Iain cleared his throat. “The item in question is going to cost G&P about £1,000,000 if we have to pay off the claim to the client. So, your ten percent fee for this job, if you recover the Escher, would be—”

“£100,000?” About thirty percent more than I had budgeted for the total value of the rarest Eschers, given the exchange rate. What had he produced that was worth that? I struggled to keep my voice calm. “Of course.”

Iain sighed heavily. “Find it.”

There was one good thing to come out of all this: at least I now knew which outfit I was going to wear for the rest of the day.

The outfit in question consisted of a dark skirt, cream blouse and dark jacket, with comfortable stacked heels that were just high enough to be noticeable but just low enough that I could walk anywhere with them, even in a garden. An old, but still serviceable, Gladstone bag contained my laptop, along with everything else I might conceivably need for an investigation. Which meant I could quite happily use the bag as a blunt instrument, or possibly an anchor, if it came down to it.

Even so, I barely felt dressed up enough for the house where Iain’s directions led me. A large Georgian townhouse sat surrounded by a waist-high stone wall—it was the kind of place that only the city’s richest inhabitants could possibly afford. Of course, I should have guessed that part already. G&P’s clients weren’t exactly poor, as a rule.

I pulled my car up in front of the place, behind a police forensics van and a couple of squad cars. There was a uniformed officer waiting discreetly by the front door. He looked around restlessly, as if they were just finishing up, which meant that they’d obviously been sent here straight away, had done their investigation, and were ready to go either for a late lunch or on another call. It was either efficiency at its best, or someone didn’t care as much about the crime as they should.

My initial thought was that it was probably efficiency. Contrary to what people saw on TV, the police were usually pretty good at their jobs. The only problem they faced was one of resources. Like forensic hours. That the forensics van had been sent at all was actually quite impressive. Most people who got burgled were lucky to get any kind of forensics at all, let alone a couple of hours after the crime. Apparently, the theft of something as expensive as the rare artwork made it as much of a priority as murders or drug traffickers.

The local police reaction to this theft potentially made things quite interesting for me. The attitude of the police to my work varied considerably, from the officers who didn’t want me anywhere near their crime scenes, to ones who accepted that I was potentially a valuable asset and a source of information. Which I was, generally, so long as that information didn’t involve too many things that the police weren’t meant to know about.

Like exactly how I got my results. Around police officers and detectives, I had to remember not to do anything too overt with my powers. It would not do to let the Lothian and Borders police force start worrying about witches. Not only did Scotland have some unhappy history where we were concerned, but it would also mean giving away the secret of my biggest advantage.

I took out my business card as I approached the officer on the door.

“Good afternoon. I’m Elle Chambers. I’ve been assigned to look into this theft case for G&P Insurance. May I go in?”

The officer gave me a look that suggested he had probably been told to keep the general public out, but wasn’t sure how that applied to insurance investigators. I made the decision easier with the smallest push of my power. Not much. Just a little tendril of general good feeling.

I smiled without teeth showing, yet exuded a pleasant friendliness that definitely set boundaries as a professional colleague.

“I’m expected.”

That assertive statement hit the mark, because the officer smiled back. “Yes, ma’am. We’re almost done here anyway.”

That meant that either things were open and shut, or there hadn’t been too much to find. Either way, it meant that I probably wouldn’t have to worry about there being too many police around while I worked. Or about having to do things their way.

I went inside—the inside of the house was so opulent it almost took my breath away. Thanks to a few years of going after expensive items, I did manage to refrain from oohing and aahing. The décor matched the outside, and there wasn’t one stick of modern furniture. Everything was antique, and probably expensive to boot. Certainly, I spotted plenty of Chippendale and Charles Rennie Mackintosh as I went through the hallway. It might have been easy to get lost in a house like that, but I could feel the pull of a cluster of emotions ahead of me, so I set off toward them.

That snooping quickly brought me to a room that was more like a museum gallery than anything most people would keep in their homes. There were original paintings hanging from the walls, all expensively framed, and the lighting was every bit as fitting as a museum’s. I spotted a Hogarth and a seventeenth-century work by Gabriel Metsu. Sculptures stood on marble and obsidian plinths, mostly complex, modern pieces whose appearances seemed to change, depending on the angle from which the viewers looked at them. It was a stunning room, obviously created by an art collector who loved his pieces and treated them as precious children.

There was not a speck of dust anywhere.

At the heart of it all was an empty space on the wall. There was nothing as jarring as the space where a picture used to hang. Not just an empty space, but a definite absence, in the noticeable fading of the wall paint around it, and in the asymmetry the absence created in the spacing of the pictures around it. It was impossible to ignore. Around the empty frame shape in the paint stood three people: a police detective in his fifties making notes, a younger woman in the coveralls of a forensics specialist, and…

I knew he had to be the owner of the house the moment I saw him. No one in the police would dress quite so elegantly, in dark navy pants, a crisp white shirt with silver art deco cufflinks, and a waistcoat. It made him look a little like he’d just stepped in from a formal function, or maybe just from another era.

It wasn’t just the way he was dressed, though. He was…handsome was the wrong word. This man was beautiful in a way that suggested he should have been in one of the paintings on his walls, not just admiring them. His blond hair fell loose almost to his shoulders, and the shape and stance of his body hinted that beneath those clothes he was fit and athletic, while his features were simply astonishing. He had to be at least my age, but there was something about him that seemed almost ageless. I only realized that I was staring when it occurred to me that the only way I could know just how deeply blue his eyes were would be if he were looking straight at me.

“Um…I’m Elle,” I managed, and then tried to recover a little. “Elle Chambers. I’m the insurance investigator from G&P.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Elle,” he said, extending a hand. There was a slight accent to his speech that I couldn’t place, though it was subtle and attractive. His touch was soft, almost sensual. I had to push back the urge to swallow nervously when his eyes flickered over me, measuring me, contemplating me. As for the urge to reach out and check what he felt in that moment…no. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.