Page 22 of Traitors Gate

Who would want a middle-aged cop set in his ways, who enjoyed nothing more than locking up hardened criminals and whose only recent experience of love had been one night stands with women he didn’t want to wake up with? His thoughts turned to Alice Clarke and he began to wonder if it was possible …

CHAPTER 9

ON LANDING ATJFK, BETHmoved slowly through passport control, but as she had only hand luggage she was among the first to emerge in Arrivals.

Ever-reliable James was waiting to greet her. Although he’d retained his boyish good looks, with those piercing blue eyes and tousled fair hair, he was now a couple of inches taller and clearly no longer a child. In fact, he looked every inch an FBI agent, dressed in a dark blue suit, white button-down collared shirt and what she assumed must be a Harvard tie.

After James had given Beth an American hug, he took her bag and guided her to a nearby car park. During the long walk they chatted about William and the children, not touching on the real reason she’d flown to New York at a moment’s notice following his phone call. It was not until they set out on the bumper-to-bumper journey into the city that she finally asked James the burning question.

He replied, ‘I would never have found out if I hadn’t visitedmy dentist for an annual check-up and come across the ad while browsing through an old copy of theNew York Times.’

‘Were they surprised when a G-man asked to view such an exclusive property?’

‘Why shouldn’t James Buchanan, scion of the Buchanan shipping line, be looking for a luxury apartment on East 61st Street overlooking Central Park? After all, seven million should be well within his budget.’

‘But not within the salary of an FBI agent,’ teased Beth. ‘More importantly, why did you bother to follow it up?’

‘I wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t thought I’d seen the painting before, and then I remembered how much I’d admired the original in the Fitzmolean when I visited you a couple of years ago.’

‘As Miles Faulkner is involved,’ said Beth with some feeling, ‘I can no longer be sure it is the original.’

‘What will convince you otherwise?’ asked James.

‘If I can remove a tiny sliver of paint from Faulkner’s picture, a lab will be able to test it and confirm when it was painted, fairly accurately to within ten or twenty years.’ She opened her handbag and produced what looked like a small compact. ‘Everything I require is in here, but I’ll need a few minutes alone if I’m going to get a sample.’

‘I’ve already told the realtor I’ll be bringing my interior designer with me tomorrow morning, so I’ll just have to take a little longer inspecting the master bedroom,’ said James.

After they drew up outside the apartment block the following morning, James handed his car key and a five-dollar bill to the doorman, saying, ‘I shouldn’t be more than an hour.’

When they entered the apartment block he gave his name to the concierge on the front desk, who told him the realtor had already arrived and was waiting for them on the ninthfloor. Indeed, when the lift doors opened, she was standing there waiting to greet them.

‘Good morning, Mr Buchanan,’ she said with a welcoming smile.

‘Good morning,’ said James, shaking her warmly by the hand. ‘This is my interior designer—’ he didn’t offer a name ‘—so I hope you’ll forgive her poking around while we discuss terms.’

The word ‘terms’ brought a smile to the realtor’s face. She unlocked the front door to let them both in, before beginning on a tour of the apartment. Beth quickly learnt that adjectives were her speciality.

‘This is the entrance hall, which you can see is spacious …’ But it was not until they reached the ‘magnificent’, ‘vast’, ‘superb’ living room overlooking the park that Beth saw the painting for the first time.

It hung above an Adam-style fireplace and dominated the room. James ignored the picture and walked out onto a balcony that overlooked Central Park, which was indeed magnificent, vast and superb.

‘I’ll catch up with you,’ Beth said, her eyes never leaving the painting ofChrist’s Descent from the Cross.She understood immediately why James had suggested it would be worth crossing an ocean to see it for herself.

James took his time admiring the view and pointing out several landmarks to the agent, while keeping his back to Beth.

The painting was certainly identical to the one on display in the Fitzmolean, which had been donated to the museum by none other than Miles Faulkner. William had hinted at the time of Faulkner’s trial that such an act of selfless generosity might have persuaded the judge to settle on a morelenient sentence as it clearly showed remorse. But such was the quality of the work that Beth couldn’t be sure which was the masterpiece and which a convincing counterfeit. Both bore the name Peter Paul Rubens painted in bold black lettering on the bottom of the frame.

Beth still wanted to believe the original was hanging in London, and this was nothing more than a superb copy, but her experience of Miles Faulkner over the years didn’t fill her with confidence. Looking around to check the realtor was nowhere to be seen, she opened her handbag and extracted the little compact. Removing a scalpel no larger than a nail file, she carried out the delicate exercise of removing the tiniest sliver of paint from a dark corner of the canvas which she deposited carefully in the box before dropping it back in her bag. She could feel herself sweating as she replaced the compact with a pocket camera and took several photographs of the painting. The ornate gold frame clearly wasn’t the original, but she couldn’t be sure about the canvas.

She measured the frame, followed by the canvas itself, before finally joining James in the master bedroom where she pretended to take an interest in the soft pastel colour scheme. As they moved from room to room, she regularly stopped to admire the many magnificent – no exaggeration – works that hung on almost every wall. The realtor didn’t mention a single one of them, but then they weren’t part of the fixtures and fittings. Beth had to say one thing for Faulkner: he may have been a crook, but he was a crook with taste.

James didn’t give the impression of being in any hurry as they moved on to the ‘well-equipped’ kitchen, followed by the ‘well-appointed’ study, before finally returning to the ‘spacious’ hallway.

‘I’ll be meeting with my broker later this afternoon,’ heassured the realtor, before once again shaking hands with her. ‘Broker’ was another word that always brought a smile to a realtor’s lips.

‘There’s already been a great deal of interest in the apartment,’ she claimed as she accompanied them back to the elevator.

‘I’m sure there has,’ said James.

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