Be Careful What You Wish For: The Clifton Chronicles 4 (35 page)

‘So with a bit of luck I’ll have a clear run from the moment they’re picked up by the lodge’s driver on Friday morning, until they arrive back in London the following
Tuesday evening.’

‘Unless something unforeseen happens.’

‘It always does, and there’s no reason to believe it will be any different this time.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Ross. ‘Which is why I’ll be at Waverley station on Friday morning, and as soon as the three of them set off for Glenleven,
I’ll phone you. Then all you’ll have to do is wait for the Stock Exchange to open at nine o’clock, when you can start trading.’

‘Will you be returning to Glenleven?’

‘Yes, I’ve booked a room at the lodge, but Jean and I won’t be checking in until some time on Friday afternoon, for what I hope will be a quiet weekend in the Highlands.
I’ll only ring you if an emergency arises. Otherwise you won’t hear from me again until Tuesday morning, and only then after I’ve seen the three of them boarding the train back to
London.’

‘By which time it will be too late for Martinez to do anything about it.’

‘Well, that’s plan A.’

Wednesday morning

‘Let’s just, for a moment, consider what could go wrong,’ said Diego, looking across at his father.

‘What do you have in mind?’ asked Don Pedro.

‘The other side have somehow worked out what we’re up to, and are just waiting for us to be holed up in Scotland so they can take advantage of your absence.’

‘But we’ve always kept everything in the family,’ said Luis.

‘Ledbury isn’t family, and he knows we’re selling our shares on Monday morning. Fisher isn’t family, and he’ll feel no obligation to us once he’s handed in
his letter of resignation.’

‘Are you sure you’re not overreacting?’ said Don Pedro.

‘Possibly. But I’d still prefer to join you in Glenleven a day later. That way I’ll know the price of Barrington’s shares when the market closes on Friday evening. If
they’re still above the price we originally paid for them, I’ll feel more relaxed about putting more than a million of our shares on the market on Monday morning.’

‘You’ll miss a day’s shooting.’

‘That’s preferable to two million pounds going missing.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll have the driver pick you up from Waverley station first thing on Saturday morning.’

‘Why don’t we cover all our options,’ said Diego, ‘and make sure no one is double-crossing us?’

‘So what do you suggest?’

‘Phone the bank and tell Ledbury you’ve changed your mind, and you won’t be selling the shares on Monday after all.’

‘But I have no choice if my plan is to have any chance of succeeding.’

‘We’ll still sell the shares. I’ll place the order with another broker just before I leave for Scotland on Friday evening, and only if the shares have maintained their value.
That way we can’t lose.’

Thursday morning

Tom parked the Daimler outside Agnew’s in Bond Street.

Cedric had given Sebastian an hour off to collect Jessica’s pictures, and had even allowed him the use of his car so that he could get back to the office quickly. He almost ran into the
gallery.

‘Good morning, sir.’

‘“Good morning, sir”? Aren’t you the lady I had supper with on Saturday night?’

‘Yes, but it’s a gallery rule,’ Sam whispered. ‘Mr Agnew doesn’t approve of the staff being familiar with the customers.’

‘Good morning, Miss Sullivan. I’ve come to collect my pictures,’ said Sebastian, trying to sound like a customer.

‘Yes, of course, sir. Will you come with me?’

He followed her downstairs, and didn’t speak again until she’d unlocked the door to the stock room, where several neatly wrapped packages were propped against the wall. Sam picked up
two, while Sebastian managed three. They carried them back upstairs, out of the gallery, and placed them in the boot of the car. As they walked back inside, Mr Agnew came out of his office.

‘Good morning, Mr Clifton.’

‘Good morning, sir. I’ve just come to collect my pictures.’

Agnew nodded as Sebastian followed Samantha back down the stairs. By the time he caught up with her, she was already carrying two more packages. There were another two left, but Sebastian only
picked up one of them, as he wanted an excuse to come back downstairs with her again. When he reached the ground floor, there was no sign of Mr Agnew.

‘Couldn’t you manage the last two?’ said Sam. ‘You are so feeble.’

‘No, I left one behind,’ said Sebastian with a grin.

‘Then I’d better go and fetch it.’

‘And I’d better come and help you.’

‘How kind of you, sir.’

‘My pleasure, Miss Sullivan.’

Once they were back in the stock room, Sebastian closed the door. ‘Are you free for dinner tonight?’

‘Yes, but you’ll have to pick me up here. We still haven’t completed the hanging for next Monday’s exhibition, so I won’t be able to get away much before
eight.’

‘I’ll be standing outside the door at eight,’ he said as he put his arm around her waist and leant forward . . .

‘Miss Sullivan?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Sam. She quickly opened the door and ran back upstairs.

Sebastian followed, trying to look nonchalant, and then remembered neither of them had picked up the last painting. He shot back downstairs, grabbed the picture and quickly returned to find Mr
Agnew talking to Sam. She didn’t look at him as he strolled past her.

‘Perhaps we could go over the list once you’ve dealt with your customer.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Tom was placing the last picture in the boot when Samantha joined Sebastian on the pavement.

‘Like the wheels,’ she said. ‘And a chauffeur to go with them. Not bad for a guy who can’t afford to take a shop girl out to dinner.’

Tom grinned and gave her a mock salute before getting back into the car.

‘Neither of them is mine, unfortunately,’ said Sebastian. ‘The car belongs to my boss, and he only said I could borrow it when I told him I had an assignation with a beautiful
young woman.’

‘Not much of an assignation,’ she said.

‘I’ll try a little harder tonight.’

‘I’ll look forward to that, sir.’

‘I only wish it could have been sooner, but this week . . .’ he said without explanation as he closed the boot of the car. ‘Thank you for your help, Miss Sullivan.’

‘My pleasure, sir. I do hope we’ll see you again.’

Thursday afternoon

‘Cedric, it’s Stephen Ledbury from the Midland.’

‘Good morning, Stephen.’

‘I’ve just had a call from the gentleman in question to say that he’s changed his mind. He won’t be selling his Barrington’s shares after all.’

‘Did he give a reason?’ asked Cedric.

‘He told me he now believes in the long-term future of the company, and would prefer to hold on to the stock.’

‘Thank you, Stephen. Please let me know if anything changes.’

‘I most certainly will, because I still haven’t cleared my debt with you.’

‘Oh yes, you have,’ said Cedric without explanation. He put down the phone and wrote down the three words that told him everything he needed to know.

Thursday evening

Sebastian arrived at King’s Cross station just after seven. He walked up the steps to the first level and stood in the shadow of the large four-sided clock which
allowed him an uninterrupted view of
The Night Scotsman
standing at platform five waiting to transport 130 overnight passengers to Edinburgh.

Cedric had told him he needed to be certain that all three of them had boarded the train before he could risk releasing his own shares on to the market. Sebastian watched as Don Pedro Martinez,
with all the swaggering confidence of a Middle Eastern potentate, and his son Luis strode on to the platform just minutes before the train was due to depart. They made their way to the far end of
the train and stepped into a first-class carriage. Why wasn’t Diego with them?

A few minutes later, the guard blew his whistle twice and waved his green flag with a flourish, and
The Night Scotsman
set off on its journey north with only two Martinezes on board.
Once Sebastian could no longer see the plume of white smoke coming from the train’s funnel, he ran to the nearest telephone box and phoned Mr Hardcastle on his private line.

‘Diego didn’t get on the train.’

‘His second mistake,’ Cedric said. ‘I need you to come back to the office immediately. Something else has come up.’

Sebastian would have liked to tell Cedric that he had a date with a beautiful young woman, but this was not the time to suggest he might have a private life. He dialled the gallery, put four
pennies into the box, pressed button A and waited until he heard the unmistakable voice of Mr Agnew on the other end of the line.

‘Can I speak to Miss Sullivan?’

‘Miss Sullivan no longer works here.’

Thursday evening

Sebastian had only one thought on his mind as Tom drove him back to the bank. What could Mr Agnew have meant by ‘Miss Sullivan no longer works here’? Why would
Sam give up a job she enjoyed so much? Surely she couldn’t have been sacked? Perhaps she was ill, but she’d been there that morning. He still hadn’t solved the mystery by the time
Tom parked outside the front entrance of Farthings. And worse, he had no way of contacting her.

Sebastian took the lift to the top floor and went straight to the chairman’s office. He knocked on the door and walked in, to find a meeting in progress.

‘Sorry, I’ll—’

‘No, come in, Seb,’ said Cedric. ‘You remember my son,’ he added as Arnold Hardcastle walked purposefully towards him.

As they shook hands, Arnold whispered, ‘Only answer the questions that are put to you, don’t volunteer anything.’ Sebastian looked at the two other men in the room. He’d
never seen either of them before. They didn’t offer to shake his hand.

‘Arnold is here to represent you,’ said Cedric. ‘I have already told the detective inspector that I am sure there must be a simple explanation.’

Sebastian had no idea what Cedric was talking about.

The older of the two strangers took a pace forward. ‘My name is Detective Inspector Rossindale. I’m stationed at Savile Row police station, and I have a few questions to ask you, Mr
Clifton.’

Sebastian knew from his father’s novels that detective inspectors didn’t get involved in minor crimes. He nodded, but followed Arnold’s instructions and didn’t say
anything.

‘Did you visit Agnew’s Gallery in Bond Street earlier today?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And what was the purpose of that visit?’

‘To pick up some pictures I bought last week.’

‘And were you assisted by a Miss Sullivan?’

‘Yes.’

‘And where are those pictures now?’

‘They’re in the boot of Mr Hardcastle’s car. I was intending to take them back to my flat later this evening.’

‘Were you? And where is that car now?’

‘Parked outside the front of the bank.’

The detective inspector turned his attention to Cedric Hardcastle. ‘May I borrow your car keys, sir?’

Cedric glanced at Arnold, who nodded. Cedric said, ‘My chauffeur has them. He’ll be downstairs waiting to take me home.’

‘With your permission, sir, I’ll go and check if the paintings are where Mr Clifton claims they are.’

‘We have no objection to that,’ said Arnold.

‘Sergeant Webber, you will remain here,’ said Rossindale, ‘and make sure Mr Clifton does not leave this room.’ The young officer nodded.

‘What the hell is going on?’ asked Sebastian after the detective inspector had left the room.

‘You’re doing just fine,’ said Arnold. ‘But I think it might be wise, given the circumstances, if you don’t say anything more,’ he added looking directly at
the young policeman.

‘However,’ said Cedric, standing between the policeman and Sebastian, ‘I’d like to ask the master criminal to confirm that only two people boarded the train.’

‘Yes, Don Pedro and Luis. There was no sign of Diego.’

‘They’re playing right into our hands,’ said Cedric as DI Rossindale reappeared holding three packages. He was followed a moment later by a sergeant and a constable who were
carrying the other six between them. They propped them all against the wall.

‘Are these the nine packages you took from the gallery with the assistance of Miss Sullivan?’ asked the detective inspector.

‘Yes,’ said Sebastian without hesitation.

‘Do I have your permission to unwrap them?’

‘Yes, of course.’

The three policemen set about removing the brown paper that covered the pictures. Suddenly Sebastian gasped, and pointing at one of the paintings said, ‘My sister didn’t paint
that.’

‘It’s quite magnificent,’ said Arnold.

‘I wouldn’t know about that, sir,’ said Rossindale, ‘but I can confirm,’ he added, looking at the label on the back, ‘that it wasn’t painted by Jessica
Clifton, but by someone called Raphael, and is, according to Mr Agnew, worth at least one hundred thousand pounds.’ Sebastian looked confused, but didn’t say anything. ‘And we
have reason to believe,’ Rossindale continued, looking directly at Sebastian, ‘that you, in collaboration with Miss Sullivan, used the pretext of collecting your sister’s
paintings to steal this valuable work of art.’

‘But that doesn’t make any sense,’ said Arnold, before Sebastian had a chance to respond.

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘Think about it, detective inspector. If, as you suggest, my client, with Miss Sullivan’s assistance, stole the Raphael from Agnew’s, would you expect to find it in the boot of
his employer’s car several hours later? Or are you suggesting that the chairman’s chauffeur was also in on it, or perhaps even the chairman himself?’

‘Mr Clifton,’ said Rossindale, checking his notebook, ‘did admit that he intended to take the pictures back to his flat later this evening.’

‘Isn’t it just possible that a Raphael might look a little out of place in a bachelor flat in Fulham?’

‘This is not a laughing matter, sir. Mr Agnew, who reported the theft, is a highly respected West End art dealer, and—’