False Impression (39 page)

They both
bounced down the spacious metal tube, and a few seconds later landed with a
thud on a pile of sheets, pillowcases and towels in the laundry room. Krantz
leapt up, grabbed the smallest overall from a peg on the wall, pulled it on and
ran across to the door. She opened it slowly and peered out through the crack
into the corridor. The only person in sight was a cleaner, on her knees
polishing the floor. Krantz walked quickly past her and pushed open the
fire-exit door, to be greeted by the word Subsol on the wall in front of her.
She ran up one flight of steps, pulled up a window on the ground floor and
climbed out onto a flower bed. It was pouring with rain.

She looked
around, expecting at any moment to hear the raucous sound of a siren followed
by floodlights illuminating every inch of the hospital grounds.

Krantz had
covered nearly two miles by the time the philanderer required the privacy of
the linen closet for a second time that night. The nurse screamed when she saw
the blood all over the white walls. The guard ran back into the corridor and
charged towards the prisoner’s room. The chair-bound guard at the end of the
passage leapt up from his seat as the smoker came rushing in from the fire
escape. The philanderer reached her room first. He pulled open the door,
switched on the light and let out a tirade of expletives, while the smoker
smashed the glass covering the alarm and pressed the red button.

O
ne of Anna’s
golden rules when she woke in the morning was not to check the messages on her
cellphone until she had showered, dressed, had breakfast and read the New York
Times. But as she had broken every one of her golden rules during the past
fortnight, she checked her messages even before she got out of bed. One from
Stalker asking her to call, which made her smile, one from Tina – no message,
and one from Mr Nakamura, which made her frown – only four words, ‘Urgent,
please call.

Nakamura.’

Anna decided to
take a cold shower before she returned his call. As the jets of water cascaded
down on her, she thought about Mr Nakamura’s message. The word urgent always
made her assume the worst – Anna fell into the half-empty-glass category,
rather than the half-full.

She was wide
awake by the time she stepped out of the shower.

Her heart was
pounding at about the same pace as when she’d just finished her morning run.
She sat on the end of the bed and tried to compose herself.

Once Anna felt
her heartbeat had returned to as near normal as it was likely to, she dialled
Nakamura’s number in Tokyo.

‘Hai,
Shacho-Shitso desu,’ announced the receptionist.

‘Mr Nakamura,
please.’

‘Who shall I say
is calling?’

‘Anna Petrescu.’

‘Ah yes, he is
expecting your call.’ Anna’s heartbeat quickened.

‘Good morning,
Dr Petrescu.’

3«7

‘Good afternoon,
Mr Nakamura,’ said Anna, wishing she could see his face and more quickly learn
her fate.

I’ve recently
had a most unpleasant conversation with your former boss, Bryce Fenston,’
continued Nakamura.
‘Which I’m afraid’ – Anna could hardly
breathe – ‘has made me reassess’ – was she about to be sick?
– ‘my opinion of that man.
However, that’s not the purpose
of this call. I just wanted to let you know that you are currently costing me
around five hundred dollars a day as I have, as you requested, deposited five million
dollars with my lawyers in London. So I would like to view the Van Gogh as soon
as possible.’

‘I could fly to
Tokyo in the next few days,’ Anna assured him,

‘
but
I would first have to go to England and pick up the
painting.’

‘That may not
prove necessary,’ said Nakamura. T have a meeting with Corus Steel in London
scheduled for Wednesday, and would be happy to fly over a day earlier, if that
was convenient for Lady Arabella.’

‘I’m sure that
will be just fine,’ said Anna. I’ll need to contact Arabella and then call your
secretary to confirm the details.

Wentworth Hall
is only about thirty minutes from Heathrow.’

‘Excellent,’
said Nakamura. ‘Then I’ll look forward to seeing you
both
tomorrow evening
.’ He paused. ‘By the way, Anna, have you given any more
thought to becoming the director of my foundation?

Because Mr
Fenston did convince me of one thing: you are certainly worth five hundred
dollars a day.’

Although it was
the third time Fenston had read the article, a smile never left his face. He
couldn’t wait to share the news with Leapman, though he suspected he’d already
seen the piece. He glanced at the clock on his desk, just before ten. Leapman
was never late. Where was he?

Tina had already
warned him that Mr Jackson, an insurance assessor from Lloyd’s of London, was
in the waiting room, and the front desk had just called to say that Chris
Savage of Christie’s was on his way up.

‘As soon as
Savage appears,’ said Fenston, ‘send them both in and then tell Leapman to join
us.’

‘I haven’t seen
Mr Leapman this morning,’ said Tina.

“Well, tell him
I want him in here the moment he arrives,’ said Fenston. The smile returned to
his face when he re-read the headline, Kitchen Knife Killer Escapes.

There was a
knock on the door and Tina ushered both men into the office.

‘Mr Jackson and
Mr Savage,’ she said. From their dress, it would not have been difficult to
fathom which
was the insurance broker
, and which one
spent his life in the art world.

Fenston stepped
forward and shook hands with a short, balding man in a navy pinstriped suit and
crested blue tie, who introduced himself as Bill Jackson. Fenston nodded at
Savage, whom he had met at Christie’s on several occasions over the years. He
was wearing his trademark bow tie.

‘I wish to make
it clear from the outset,’ began Fenston, ‘that I only want to insure this one
painting,’ he said, gesturing towards the Van Gogh, ‘for twenty million
dollars.’

‘Despite the
fact that it might fetch five times that amount were it to come under the
hammer?’ queried Savage, who turned to study the picture for the first time.

‘That would, of
course, mean a far lower premium,’ interjected Jackson. ‘That’s assuming our
security boys consider the painting is adequately protected.’

‘Just stay where
you are, Mr Jackson, and you can decide for yourself if it’s adequately
protected.’

Fenston walked
to the door, entered a six-digit code on the key pad next to the light switch
and left the room. The moment the door closed behind him, a metal grille
appeared from out of the ceiling and eight seconds later was clamped to the
floor, covering the Van Gogh. At the same time, an alarm emitted an
ear-piercing sound that would have caused even Quasimodo to seek another
vocation.

Jackson quickly
pressed the palms of his hands over his ears and turned round to see that a
second grille had already barred his exit from the only door in the room. He
walked across to the window and looked down at the midgets hurrying along the
sidewalk below. A few seconds later, the alarm stopped and the metal grilles
slid up into the ceiling. Fenston marched back into the room, looking pleased
with
himself
.

‘Impressive/
said Jackson, the sound of the alarm still reverberating in his ears. ‘But
there are still a couple of questions I will need answered,’ he added. ‘How
many people know the code?’

‘Only two of
us,’ said Fenston, ‘my chief of staff and myself, and I change the sequence of
numbers once a week.’

‘And that
window,’ said Jackson, ‘is there any way of opening it?’

‘No,
it’s
double-glazed bulletproof glass, and even if you could
break it, you’d still be thirty-two storeys above the ground.’

‘And
the alarm?’

‘Connected
directly to Abbott Security,’ said Fenston. ‘They have an office in the
building, and guarantee to be on your floor within two minutes.’

‘I’m impressed,’
said Jackson. What we in the business call triple A, which usually means the
premium can be kept down to one per cent or, in real terms, around two hundred
thousand dollars a year.’ He smiled. ‘I only wish the Norwegians had your
foresight, Mr Fenston, and then perhaps we wouldn’t have had to pay out so much
on The Scream.’

‘But can you
also guarantee discretion in these matters?’

Fenston asked.

‘Absolutely,’
Jackson assured him. We insure half the world’s treasures, and you wouldn’t
find out who our clients are, were you to break into our headquarters in the
City of London. Even their names are coded.’

‘That’s
reassuring,’ said Fenston. ‘Then all that needs to be done is for you to
complete the paperwork.’

‘I can do that,’
said Jackson, ‘just as soon as Mr Savage confirms a value of twenty million for
the painting.’

That shouldn’t
be too difficult,’ said Fenston, turning his attention to Chris Savage, who was
staring intently at the picture. ‘After all, he’s already assured us that the
Wentworth Van Gogh is worth nearer one hundred million.’

The Wentworth
Van Gogh most certainly is,’ said Savage, ‘but not this particular piece.’ He
paused before turning round to face Fenston. The only part of this work of art
that’s original is the frame.’

‘What do you
mean?’ said Fenston, staring up at his favourite painting as if he’d been
informed that his only child was illegitimate.

‘I mean just
that,’ said Savage. The frame is original, but the painting is a fake.’

‘A fake?’
repeated Fenston, hardly able to get the words out.

‘But it came
from Wentworth Hall.’

‘The frame may
well have come from Wentworth Hall,’ said Savage, ‘but I can assure you that
the canvas did not.’

‘How can you be
so sure,’ demanded Fenston, ‘when you haven’t even carried out any tests?’

‘I don’t need to
carry out any tests,’ said Savage emphatically.

‘Why not?’
barked Fenston.

‘Because the
wrong ear is bandaged,’ came back the immediate reply.

‘No it’s not,’
insisted Fenston, as he stared up at the painting.

‘Every
schoolchild knows that Van Gogh cut off his left ear.’

‘But not every
schoolchild knows that he painted the self portrait while looking in a mirror,
which is why the right ear is bandaged.’

Fenston slumped
down into the chair behind his desk, with his back to the painting. Savage
strolled forward and began to study the picture even more closely. ‘What
puzzles me,’ he added, ‘is that although the painting is undoubtedly a fake,
someone has put it into the original frame.’ Fenston’s face burned with anger.
‘And I must confess,’ continued Savage, ‘that whoever painted this particular
version is a fine artist.’ He paused. ‘However, I could only place a value of
ten thousand on the work, and perhaps
‘ he
hesitated –
‘a further ten thousand on the frame, which would make the suggested premium of
two hundred thousand seem somewhat excessive.’ Fenston still didn’t respond. ‘I
am sorry to be the bearer of such bad news,’ concluded Savage as he walked away
from the picture and came to a halt in front of Fenston. ‘I can only hope that
you haven’t parted with a large sum, and, if you have, you know who is
responsible for this elaborate deception.’

‘Get me
Leapman,’ Fenston screamed at the top of his voice, causing Tina to come
running into the room.

‘He’s just
arrived,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell him you want to see him.’

Neither the man
from Lloyd’s nor the Christie’s expert felt this was the moment to hang around,
hoping to be offered a cup of coffee. They discreetly left, as Leapman came
rushing in.

‘It’s a fake,’
shouted Fenston.

Leapman stared
up at the picture for some time before offering an opinion. ‘Then we both know
who’s responsible,’ he eventually said.

‘Petrescu,’ said
Fenston, spitting out the name.

‘Not to mention
her partner, who has been feeding Petrescu with information since the day you fired
her.’

‘You’re right,’
said Fenston, and turning towards the open door he hollered ‘Tina’ at the top
of his voice. Once again, she came running into the room.

‘You see that
picture,’ he said, unable even to turn round and look at the painting. Tina nodded,
but didn’t speak. ‘I want you to put it back in its box, and then immediately
dispatch it to Went worth Hall, along with a demand for...’

‘Thirty-two
million, eight hundred and ninety-two thousand dollars,’ said Leapman.

‘And once you’ve
done that,’ said Fenston, ‘you can collect all your personal belongings and
make sure you’re off the premises within ten minutes, because you’re fired, you
little bitch.’

Tina began
shaking as Fenston rose from behind his desk and stared down at her. ‘But
before you leave, I have one last task for you.’ Tina couldn’t move. Tell your
friend Petrescu that I still haven’t removed her name from the missing,
presumed dead list.’