Altered Images (23 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Sunday, the final day of the conference. In her room, Frederica put the last brush stroke to ‘The Old Mill and Swans', not caring if she never saw it again. It was nearly ten o'clock when she left the college to collect a rental car. Outside, a man watched her, then followed.

The city dozed in a typical Sunday morning torpor, as the city's many clocks and church bells tolled for Sunday Morning worship. It was a glorious day, in a glorious city, but Frederica, for once, failed to notice. Instead, she glanced at her watch. If she wanted to, she could be home in time for Sunday lunch. The sooner she was away from here, the better.

Oh Lorcan, what a mess we made of things, she thought bitterly, as she turned into the premises of the garage. Behind her, the man following her extracted a mobile phone and made a short call.

Frederica paid for the car, returned to St Bede's, and carefully manoeuvred the estate car into the small car park. She was watched by more than one interested party. Parked in Walton Street on a double-yellow line, a silver Aston Martin was attracting many admiring
glances.

Lorcan was just walking through Becket Arch when he saw a familiar red head disappear through Webster's main doors. He paused in the shadow of the arch, a tired, blonde Adonis in his blue shirt, navy trousers and jacket.

His eyes roamed around casually. No policemen. They must be parked outside, watching for her to come out.

Lorcan straightened up, wincing as he watched her emerge, the sheet-covered canvas glaring whitely in the morning sun. Dammit, why didn't she just carry a great big sign, saying, ‘Here I am, the Forger—Come and Get Me'! The woman's recklessness was enough to make his blood freeze.

Lorcan followed her as she disappeared into the car park, watching as Frederica very carefully placed her burden in the back of the spacious vehicle.

Behind him, a gang of conference delegates headed for the Chapel, curious to experience Oxford College worship for themselves. Inside, Annis was already in place, waiting to enact her big dramatic scene about sitting in a pew which didn't have a radiator next to it.

Frederica, suddenly remembering she'd left her jar of brushes behind, sprinted back to her room. Lorcan tried the door of the estate, relieved that she hadn't locked it behind her.

He looked around, very carefully scanning
non-college
windows, but could see no tell-tale movement. He carefully extracted the canvas, shut the car door behind him, and headed for one of the postern gates that led into the alley.

He quickly checked both ends, and once he was certain that it was deserted, sprinted towards Walton Street. Carefully placing the canvas on to the back seat of his sports car, he covered it with a black-and-red checked picnic cloth. Then he gunned the engine and roared off just as Frederica returned to the car park. Her footsteps faltered. Where in the hell was the painting?

*          *          *

In the Chapel, everyone rose for the opening hymn, wondering about the significance of Annis's half-hysterical choice of seat. The Chaplain's service was simple, reverent and touching, leaving everyone feeling uplifted and relaxed.

Everyone, that is, except Ray. He had his briefcase beside him, and instead of it being innocently empty now, it still contained the Hogarth. As he sang ‘Abide with Me' his eyes bored into the back of Carl Struthers' neck, in the pew in front. Ray could cheerfully have strangled him. Right now, the painting could be in his suitcase in the wardrobe back at the Raleigh, and as safe as houses. But no. Struthers had rung him this morning
demanding
to see the painting. Demanding to inspect it. Threatening to withdraw his offer to buy it if Ray refused. Damn him! First he'd insisted on joining the conference, now he was throwing his weight about.

The service came to an end and people began to leave.

‘I don't know why you made all that fuss,' Reeve said loudly, glaring at Annis. ‘You're a real spoilt brat, you know that?'

Annis glowered back at him. ‘I just don't like radiators, that's all,' she snapped, both of them ramming home the clue for the benefit of the late arrivals, who hadn't been there in time to catch it.

Reeve shook his head. ‘What's up, Annis dearest? Nerves a bit on edge, hum? Perhaps you know something about dear John that nobody else does?'

‘Oh shut up,' Annis snapped, taking a step back and unintentionally bumping into Ray. Ray, caught half-rising from the pew, found himself knocked forwards, the briefcase falling out of his hand and down on to the hard tiled floor with a dull thud.

‘You're the one John was gunning for, not me,' Annis snapped, desperately ignoring Ray's fumbling. Reeve's eyes glinted as he realised the problem, but they were in no danger of losing their audience! By now everyone was watching them. The conclusion to the murder mystery was tonight, and
everyone
was determined to get the identity of the murderer right. It had become a matter of principle to everyone, especially the publishers who specialised in books on crime.

Ray watched, aghast, as the locks of the briefcase caught on the side of the pew and snapped open. Annis half-looked down, aware that she'd been clumsy, trying desperately to think of a way to cover it up. Reeve's voice rose magnificently. ‘Hah! I know a few things about the dearly-departed John that would make your hair curl. And I have a good idea who killed him!' he announced dramatically. All eyes flew to his face.

Ray scrabbled for the briefcase. As he did so, some of the papers became dislodged, revealing the scroll. Out of the corner of her eye, Annis saw it. One end had come undone and unfurled a little, giving her a glimpse of dark, deep, oils. Ray shut the briefcase with a snap and stood up. His face was flushed.

He glanced around quickly. Luckily, everyone was too busy concentrating on the performance by the two actors to pay any attention to him. But as he turned, he caught Annis's eye, just as she was looking up from the floor. And he felt a hard, cold, snake of fear lance through him.

If he'd seen the rolled up painting, so had she!

‘Oh that's just so much rubbish, Reeve darling,' she purred. ‘If you know who killed
him,
why don't you just tell the police? The Inspector is just outside, after all.'

Reeve sneered. ‘Don't worry I will. But first, I just want to check something out,' he said, before leaving, shouldering his way through the thrilled delegates, a look of fury and determination on his handsome face.

Annis shrugged very elegantly, smiled vaguely at her watching audience, shot Ray a thoughtful look, and left.

Outside, she headed for the Lodge and waited for Reeve to catch up with her. She wondered, vaguely, what Ray was doing with a painting in his briefcase. Something to do with the play, probably. Perhaps he'd thought up a last-minute change?

‘Hello you murderous female, you,' a warm voice whispered in her ear and she jumped and looked around.

‘You idiot!' she spluttered at Reeve. ‘Don't creep up on me like that. I might extract a dagger from my sleeve and stab you.'

‘You? You'd probably miss, you clumsy so-and-so. Don't think I didn't notice you knocking our esteemed director for six.'

Annis laughed. ‘I know. Wasn't it awful? Thanks for helping me cover it. Do you think they noticed?'

‘I think the men were far too busy watching your flushed cheeks and flashing eyes, to notice anything,' Reeve drawled. ‘So what did Ray have to say? Did he haul you over the
coals,
or applaud us for our impressive improvisation?'

They had an hour before lunch, and without thinking about it, headed for the Fellows' Garden, which they now thought of as their own, secret garden.

‘He didn't say anything as a matter of fact,' Annis murmured thoughtfully. ‘He just stared at me as if he'd seen a ghost.'

They sat down on the warm grass, in the shade of the magnificent silver birches. ‘I wonder why he was so shaken?' Reeve said, leaning back on one elbow.

Annis smiled lovingly down at him. ‘I've no idea. But when his briefcase fell open, I saw a rolled-up painting. A bit strange, don't you think?'

Reeve opened his eyes and looked at her. Then he frowned. Suddenly he remembered the feeling he'd had when he and Annis had gone to rehearsals in London that day and discovered Ray arguing with someone in the bedroom. He had the same feeling of unease now. The sensation of something being not quite right. And now this. The more he thought about it, the more he didn't like it.

‘You know,' he said thoughtfully, ‘that painting the College was good enough to take down from Hall is a really valuable picture. You heard what that fine art student said.'

Annis scowled. The last thing she wanted to talk about was a girl as pretty as that student.
‘I
suppose,' she shrugged indifferently. ‘But what are you saying? That it somehow found its way into Ray's briefcase?' she laughed. ‘That's stretching your imagination a bit too far, isn't it?'

‘I suppose so.' Reeve shrugged. ‘But, Annis, I don't like this,' he added slowly. ‘Something's not quite right.'

‘Not quite right . . . ?' Annis repeated softly, letting two of her fingers walk up his calf.

Reeve swallowed hard. ‘Minx,' he muttered thickly. ‘Concentrate on the task in hand. You can ravish me later.'

‘Promises, promises,' Annis murmured with a grin. And for the next half-an-hour, neither of them gave the painting in Ray's briefcase another thought.

*          *          *

Ray was at that moment knocking on Carl Struthers' door. It was opened almost at once.

‘You have it?' Struthers demanded, the moment Ray stepped through the door.

‘Yes, I have it,' Ray snapped back, slinging the briefcase on to the bed and opening it. He extracted the painting and rolled it out on the bed. A look of pure rapture crossed Struthers' face that Ray, for some reason, found distinctly disgusting. Perhaps it was the naked greed that accompanied the look.

‘It's magnificent,' Struthers breathed,
stroking
the painting sensuously, as if it was a cat. ‘Wonderful!'

‘Glad you like it,' Ray snarled. ‘But if you want to take possession now, I have to have the money. Cash, like we agreed.'

Carl straightened. He had a thin face, topped with dark hair and greedy eyes. His thin mouth sneered. ‘I'm hardly likely to carry that amount of money around with me.'

Ray nodded, having expected nothing else, and rolled the canvas up again. ‘Then we meet in London, as planned.'

‘Yes,' Carl said, his eyes burning with the hot flame of obsession. Soon the painting would be all his. ‘Things have gone perfectly,' he muttered.

Ray grunted. ‘They
were
going perfectly,' he corrected.

Carl Struthers stiffened. ‘What do you mean?' his voice cracked like a whip. ‘The painting's ours, isn't it?'

‘Oh yes, it's ours,' Ray said flatly. ‘But your stupidity in having me bring it back here could have cost us dearly. In the chapel, the briefcase was knocked out of my hand. It snapped open,' Ray said, his voice spilling out in a rush. ‘Someone saw the scroll.'

‘Who?' Struthers hissed like a lizard. ‘Who saw it?'

For a moment, Ray had no intention of telling him. Then he saw the look in the avid art collector's eye and gulped. ‘Annis
Whittington,'
he squeaked. ‘The pretty actress with black hair and the beautiful eyes. She saw it. But I'm sure she's already forgotten all about it,' he wheedled hopefully.

Carl Struthers said nothing, and Ray, hugging the briefcase to him, all but ran out of the room. It wasn't in his nature to feel ashamed of himself, but as he headed back to the Raleigh to stow the painting, he began to feel worried. Very worried. But, surely, not even Carl Struthers would do anything stupid at this stage?

Back in his room, Carl Struthers stared blankly at a wall. Then his mind filled again with the vision of the Hogarth. So perfect. So utterly exquisite. Nothing must stop him gaining possession of it. Absolutely nothing! And no one.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

When Frederica left St Bede's for Lorcan's house, she was livid, and driving far too fast. The two policemen who were following her in a grey car pulled off on to the side of the road at a discreet distance and watched as she marched up to the front door of an impressive white villa. She leaned her finger on the bell and held it there aggressively, fuming.

‘Better phone this in to the boss,' the driver
of
the car said to his companion.

‘You think her contact's right here in Oxford then?' the other policeman asked, surprised.

‘Could be.'

Detective Inspector Richard Braine, contacted at home just before sitting down to his traditional Sunday roast, ignored his long-suffering wife's indignant look and took the phone call. He recognised the address at once, told his men that it was not the drop-off point, and to keep following Miss Delacroix. Next he rang Lorcan's number. The telephone rang and rang, but the man did not seem to be at home.

Frustrated, Frederica returned to her car and sat there, thinking. Behind her, the policemen waited patiently. He obviously wasn't burning the canvas here then. For she had no doubt whatsoever that it was Lorcan who'd taken ‘The Old Mill and Swans'. Could he have gone back to London? She supposed his gallery would have a basement, a room where he could safely burn the painting, far away from prying eyes.

Or, perhaps, even now, he was taking it to the Art Fraud Squad? ‘No,' she said aloud. Enough of that. Apart from anything else, the police needed to catch her in possession of the canvas in order to bring charges. The last thing Lorcan would do, if he was still working for the police, would be to steal the painting.