Priceless (23 page)

Julian called Nat Wilde from the service station at Membury. Wilde took his call at once.

“Julian Trebarwen. How the devil are you?”

“Good, good,” said Julian. “I’ve got the Madonna I was telling you about. I could be in London in two hours or so. Shall I bring it straight to your office?”

Wilde paused.

“No,” he said eventually. “Don’t bring it here. Not to the office. Bring it over to my place later. I’ll be home from six-thirty. You know where I live.”

Julian agreed to the rendezvous. Leaving the “priceless” Madonna wrapped in her rags on the backseat of the car, he scuttled across the rain-swept parking lot into the service station itself. He had a pee, then bought a coffee and a sausage roll, which he ate sitting next to a window, watching the rain.

God
, he thought as he looked out on the gray, gray landscape.
How on earth did my life get so bloody complicated?

CHAPTER 30

M
athieu Randon’s plan to sell his art collection to fund his good works was swinging into action. His assistant Bellette issued invitations to the world’s best auction houses to pitch for Randon’s business. He had met with and decided against most of the big names, and thus invitations were sent out to a second tier of smaller houses, including, in London, Ludbrook’s and Ehrenpreis.

“Fuck me,” said Nat Wilde when he heard that Randon had summoned him. “I thought the old bugger was dead.”

Carrie was rather less surprised when she received the call from Bellette. After reading that article in
Vanity Fair
, she had taken the initiative and contacted Randon’s office. She was pleased that her overture had been taken seriously.

“Where would Monsieur Randon like to meet me?” Carrie asked in immaculate French.

Bellette replied in perfect English. “He has requested that you join him on the Côte d’Azur. On his yacht.
The Grand Cru.”

“That will be fine.” Carrie betrayed no hint of excitement. She wanted Bellette to be clear that she was used to dealing with people who had yachts. She wanted Mathieu Randon to be sure that she was a professional who could handle the wealthy without getting flustered. Inside, however, she was very excited indeed.
The Grand Cru
might not have been the biggest yacht in the world, but it
was definitely one of the most beautiful boats plying the Med right then.

“You are to fly to Nice next Thursday,” Bellette continued. “And stay overnight at the Hotel du Cap in Antibes. Monsieur Randon will send a tender to fetch you from the hotel jetty the following morning at eleven-thirty sharp.”

“Of course,” said Carrie, flicking to the correct page in her calendar and seeing that, thank goodness, she had a very light couple of days. Mostly in-house stuff. Meetings that could easily be set back or brought forward. She would be in France whenever Randon wanted her.

“I’ll email you with the travel arrangements.”

“I wonder,” Carrie asked Bellette, “if it would be possible for me to see an inventory of the work Monsieur Randon is hoping to consign.”

“That’s not possible,” said Bellette. “He would rather talk you through the collection himself.”

Damn it
, thought Carrie as she put down the phone. That was not helpful. Like most of her peers in the auction world, Carrie was a generalist. She knew a little about a lot of things. When visiting a client such as Mathieu Randon, she would generally study up on their collection before she arrived, cramming her head with facts that would remain just long enough to convince the potential client that she knew more about Rembrandt or Picasso or Giacometti than anyone else in the business. She wondered if Randon was being deliberately difficult, in order to suss out what she really knew. Well, she would do her best to short-circuit that ruse. She called Jessica into her office.

“I need you to track down every piece of information you can about Mathieu Randon. I want you to find out which dealers he’s bought from before. I need to know as much as you can possibly find out about his taste.”

•          •          •

Nat Wilde tasked Lizzy Duffy with exactly the same mission.

Randon’s arrogance—getting his assistant to call up to
tell
, rather than ask, Nat when they would be meeting—suggested that he knew he had something special. Possibly enough to build an individual sale around. Nat salivated at the thought.

Having been asked to produce a report on the type of artwork Randon was likely to have in his collection so that Nat could pitch his presentation just so, Lizzy naturally assumed she would be accompanying him on the jaunt to the Côte d’Azur. As soon as she heard about the trip she started to plan her holiday wardrobe in her head. How hot would it be? Back home that evening she studied her winter-white body in the bathroom mirror. First thing the next day she made an appointment to have a spray tan. She’d never done it before, but the girl at the salon, who was the same color as a fishstick, assured Lizzy that it would look “Really natural. Because it’s formulated with natural oils and stuff.”

Lizzy wasn’t entirely convinced but she went ahead anyway. The alternative, to have to wear ankle-length caftans the whole time, was not an option. If Nat was going to take her to the Hotel du Cap, one of the world’s most romantic hideaways, she wanted her body to look its very best.

Lizzy had her first spray tan session two days after Nat got the call from Randon’s office. She timed it for the end of the day so that she could sleep in the gloop for maximum effect.

“Lizzy,” said Sarah Jane the next morning. “Are you okay? You look a bit yellow.”

Yellow was not the color for Lizzy later that day when
Nat thanked her for the report she had written about Mathieu Randon’s art habits.

“I’m extremely grateful. You’re such a star, Lizzy darling. So diligent. It’s great to know that the office will be in good hands while Sarah Jane and I are in the Cap d’Antibes.”

“What?” Lizzy spat the word out. “You and Sarah Jane? You’re taking
Sarah Jane?”

“Well, I need to take somebody, but I can’t take you, can I? Not after that lecture I got from old Ludbrook the other week. It’ll make him suspicious.”

“But,” Lizzy tried, “surely he’ll be just as suspicious if you leave me behind? I’m the natural choice for the job. He might think you’re trying to double bluff him if you don’t take me. I’m your number two.”

“Exactly,” said Nat. “Thus you’re next in line when it comes to control of the office.”

“Olivia could go to France,” Lizzy tried. “She hasn’t been on many trips.”

It got worse.

“Now, darling,” said Nat. “You didn’t hear this from me, but Mathieu Randon is an infamous ladies’ man, and alas, our sweet Olivia is no real beauty. We’re going to need every advantage we can get to bring this baby back to Ludbrook’s, and my suspicion is that Randon will find Sarah Jane slightly more enticing than Olivia and her terrible glasses.”

Lizzy didn’t know what to be most offended about: Nat’s bloody awful sexism, which he seemed to find such a joke, or the implication that Sarah Jane was more attractive than Lizzy too.

“Fine,” said Lizzy. “I’m sure I’ll be able to manage the office on my own in your absence. After all, you’re only going to be away for one night.”

“Three nights. It’s a long way to go for twenty-four
hours. But two of those nights will be over the weekend, so you won’t have to worry about that.”

On the contrary, Lizzy worried very much indeed.

Lizzy’s mood did not improve when Sarah Jane came by her desk and announced that she had mislaid the paperwork relating to one of the paintings in that evening’s old masters sale.

“The little Madonna,” she clarified.

“What was in the file?”

“Just a copy of an entry in a museum inventory from the seventies.”

Lizzy spent two hours chasing down the museum’s curator and persuading her to go down into the dusty archive and pull the inventory out again. The photocopied entry regarding the Madonna was faxed over just in time.

“Thanks,” Sarah Jane said. “You really saved my butt. Look, I’m sorry about the Randon job. I was really surprised when Nat asked me to go with him. I mean, you’re the obvious choice,” she added, echoing Lizzy’s thoughts. “Seeing as how you know so much more about just about everything.”

“It’s okay.” Lizzy shrugged. “I have plenty to do here. And in some ways, Nat has paid me the ultimate compliment by saying that I’m too important to leave the office if he’s not here in charge.”

Sarah Jane frowned. She knew that this was a dig at her but couldn’t quite understand it.

Lizzy forced herself to sit on her annoyance. Her department was a small department in a small firm, and Sarah Jane was popular with everybody. But Lizzy couldn’t help measuring herself up against the other girl. Sarah Jane was taller than her and thinner and had bigger breasts.
Did Nat prefer bigger breasts? He’d always been very complimentary about Lizzy’s A cups. He’d called them “delicious” on more than one occasion and frequently sent text messages inquiring as to their well-being. Still Lizzy couldn’t help thinking back to that awful conversation she’d overheard while stuck under Nat’s desk. What was it Ludbrook had called them? Fried eggs? The truly galling thing was that Lizzy could have sued John Ludbrook from here till Christmas for sexual harassment had she not been in such a compromising position when she’d overheard the slur.

The thought was preoccupying Lizzy as she and Olivia manned the phones at that evening’s auction.

“Are you still there?” her client asked her as it neared his time to bid. Lizzy was miles away. “Er, hello?” said the voice at the other end of the line. “You’ve gone all quiet. I really don’t want to lose this picture.”

The picture in question was the Renaissance Madonna whose provenance documents Lizzy had spent the afternoon tracking down. Right at that moment, Sarah Jane, wearing pure white gloves, was carrying the little painting onto the stage. She turned from left to right, slowly, showing everyone in the room exactly what they were bidding on. Nat gave the description and opened the bidding. There was a bid from the floor right away, and then Olivia jumped in with her phone bidder. Lizzy would have to wait.

She waited in vain. By the time Olivia’s phone bidder had dropped out, the price of the painting had exceeded Lizzy’s bidder’s limit. He was not happy. Lizzy apologized, though what she really wanted to do was point out that he wouldn’t have gotten the painting even if he had had a chance to bid. It had been bid beyond his price. Simple as that. Still, she murmured a few words of
condolence before she called her next phone bidder and put them on alert.

The little Madonna was sold to Yasha Suscenko.

“Who’s it for?” Sarah Jane asked him when the sale was over.

“She’s so beautiful,” said Yasha, “I may have to keep her for myself.”

His dark brown eyes moved from the painting to Sarah Jane’s face. She blushed.

CHAPTER 31

Y
asha Suscenko should have been pleased. He took his latest purchase straight back to his office. Though the painting had been unattributed, Yasha had a feeling that there was a very talented hand behind it. A student of Ricasoli’s studio if not the man himself. Yasha knew that several of his rival dealers had had the same idea, which was why it had bust through its high estimate within seconds. To have secured it was a result, but Yasha had other things on his mind. Not least the black Bentley Continental Flying Spur that had been parked outside his building since his meeting with Belanov in Surrey. As surveillance vehicles went, it was far from discreet, but Yasha knew that was the point. Belanov wanted Yasha to know that he was being watched.

In just a couple of days, he would be flying out to Moscow, to the palatial Rublevka Avenue home of Yuri
Vasilyev, the man who currently owned the portrait Belanov wanted so badly. In the top drawer of Yasha’s desk was the Polaroid that Belanov had shown him. Yasha had studied it closely for anything that might enable him to tell Belanov that the trip would be a waste of time, but the damn thing looked real, and that meant that Yasha would have to bring it back to London for his master. If Belanov didn’t take the painting, someone else would, and if it ever reappeared on the market at twice what Vasilyev was asking for it now, Yasha’s head would roll.