The Gilded Seal. James Twining
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callous streets and a spiralling cycle of soft drugs, casual scams and brutal young-offender institutions. Responsible because, after his father’s death, she was the one who had picked up the reins of his business, first transferring it to London and then agreeing to stay and help run it. Protecting her was, therefore, a way of preserving the delicate thread of shared memories that led back to his father. Not that she wanted or needed much protection.
‘I can look after myself,’ she said, arching her eyebrows knowingly. ‘What are you doing up?’
‘Can’t sleep.’
‘Anything you want to talk about?’ She laid a concerned hand on his arm. ‘You were only meant to be gone a few days. It’s been three weeks.’
‘I got a lead on the Ghent altarpiece,’ he said defensively. ‘I followed it up.’
‘You look tired.’
‘I’ve got a lot going on.’
‘You need to slow down,’ she cautioned.
‘I like to keep busy.’
‘Keeping busy won’t bring any of them back, you know. Your father, Harry –’
‘I don’t want to talk about him.’ Tom felt his teeth clenching at the mention of Harry Renwick. A family friend and surrogate father to Tom, Renwick had revealed himself to be the murderer and criminal mastermind known as Cassius. The shock of his betrayal the previous summer still hadn’t left Tom; nor had the guilt he now felt at his role in Harry’s death, or his anger that Renwick had taken the truth about Tom’s father’s true involvement in his murderous schemes to his grave. There were still so many questions about the sort of man his father had been, about the people he’d known and the things he’d done. Questions, always questions, but never any way of answering them.
‘You never want to…’ She broke off suddenly, reached behind him and snatched the CCTV still off the desk where Tom had left it. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘Archie. It’s from that break-in at Apsley House.’
‘I know that man.’ She pointed at the blurred image.
‘Rafael?’ Tom gave a disbelieving frown. ‘I doubt it.’
‘He was here,’ she insisted. ‘The morning you flew off to Italy. He left you something.’
‘What?’
She pointed at the bookcase under the window. A long, narrow object had been placed there, wrapped in what appeared to be a white linen napkin.
Tom picked it up and carried it over to the desk. As he stood it up and undid the knot, the material fell away, revealing a porcelain obelisk, just over two feet long, inscribed with hieroglyphs.
‘What is it?’ asked Dominique, frowning.
‘It’s part of the Egyptian dinner service from Apsley House,’ Tom answered, grim-faced.
‘But they told us nothing was taken.’
‘That’s exactly what he wanted them to think.’
‘You mean he swapped this for a replica?’
‘I should have known better than to think he’d have run away empty handed. He’s too good.’
‘Who is he?’
‘A crook and a friend.’ Tom gave a wry smile.
‘In that order?’
‘He never saw the difference. Was there anything else?’
‘A letter.’ She handed him an envelope. It was made from thick, good quality ivory paper and a single word had been written across the front in a swirling copperplate script. Felix.
Tom snatched a knife out of the desk drawer and sliced it open.
‘It’s empty,’ said Dominique, looking up at him questioningly. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Only one way to find out,’ Tom said as he reached into the desk for his address book.
‘Have you seen the time?’ she warned him.
‘He’s up to something,’ he muttered, nodding at the stolen obelisk and the empty envelope. ‘What if he’s in some sort of trouble? What if he needs my help?’
He found Rafael’s number and dialled it. A few seconds later a voice answered.
‘Digame.’
‘Rafael?’ he asked in a tentative tone, not recognising the man’s voice and wondering if he’d misdialled.
There was a pause.
‘Who is this?’ There was a suspicious edge to the man’s voice.
‘Oliver Cook,’ Tom improvised a name and a reason for calling. ‘I work for the London Times. We were hoping to get a quote from Mr Quintavalle for a piece we’re running tomorrow. Who am I speaking to?’
‘Officer Juan Alonso of the Seville Police,’ came the heavily accented reply.
‘The police? Is Mr Quintavalle in some sort of trouble?’
Another pause, then the man replied in a hesitant, almost apologetic tone.
‘Señor Quintavalle is dead.’
‘Dead?’ Tom gasped. ‘How? When?’
‘Last week. Murdered. If you like, I transfer you to my superior,’ Alonso suggested eagerly.
‘That’s kind, but I’m on a deadline and I’m a quote down,’ Tom insisted, trying to keep his voice level. ‘Thanks for your help. Buenas noches.’
He punched the off button. There was a long silence. Dominique placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I was too late,’ he said slowly, shaking her off. ‘He came here because he needed my help. He needed my help and I wasn’t here for him.’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she said gently.
‘It’s somebody’s fault,’ Tom shot back.
‘He’s dead, Tom. There’s nothing you can do for him now.’
‘I can find out who did this,’ Tom said coldly, his eyes rising to meet hers. ‘I can find out who did this and make them pay.’
Soho, New York
19th April – 8.50 a.m.
Reuben Razi’s gallery occupied the ground floor of one of Soho’s characteristic cast-iron warehouses, the rusty scar of its fire-escape zig-zagging up the recently painted white façade.
Jennifer had yet to see anyone enter the building, but it was still early. She’d been sitting in her car, parked outside the model agency on the opposite side of the street, since seven thirty, watching the neighbourhood slowly stretch, yawning, into life. The early start had been deliberate. Razi’s receptionist had told her he would not be in until after nine, but she wanted to get a feel for the world Razi lived in before she met him.
According to the file spread across her lap, Razi had fled to the US from Iran after the fall of the Shah. Penniless and not speaking a word of English, he had begun importing Middle Eastern antiquities, and from those modest beginnings had evolved the small but prosperous fine art business he ran today. He specialised in the mid-market, selling second-tier artists and minor works by some of the bigger Impressionist and Post-Impressionist painters – the sort of piece that was worth hundreds of thousands rather than millions. It was a