Page 37 of Traitors Gate

More tapping followed before the assistant enquired, ‘Window or aisle?’

• • •

It was Ross who spotted her as she took her seat a few rows in front of them. He nudged William and pointed. He didn’t seem that surprised, but then he didn’t believe in coincidences.

‘Do you think it’s possible Christina knew exactly what we were up to?’ asked Ross.

‘It would certainly explain why Faulkner was always one step ahead of us.’

‘But I thought she was a close friend of Beth?’

‘Christina’s a close friend of anyone who will pick up her next meal ticket.’

• • •

Christina was among the first off the plane when it landed at Heathrow. She would have taken a taxi to her flat in Mayfair, but didn’t have enough cash to cover the fare, so she climbed aboard a coach showing ‘Victoria Station’. Another first.

‘That’ll be four pounds ninety,’ said the ticket collector as she climbed aboard. She handed over her last five-pound note and waited for the change.

William and Ross took the next tube to arrive and slowly learnt just how many stops there were on the journey intoLondon. William finally reached home at 8.33 a.m., only to discover Beth had already left.

‘Mum wanted to be early for her first day at work, so she took your car,’ explained Artemisia. ‘By the way, Dad, where have you been?’

‘New York,’ said William.

‘Nice one, Dad,’ Peter responded as William ran back out of the house in search of a taxi, still hoping to get to the Fitz in time to brief Beth before the chairman turned up.

When Christina finally got off the bus, she decided to go directly to the museum so she could tell Beth what she’d done. It began to rain.

‘Why can’t you ever find a cab when you want one,’ muttered a frustrated William to an audience of one. He gave up and began jogging towards Knightsbridge.

• • •

Miles called the concierge desk at his New York apartment building even before he’d sat down for breakfast.

‘Did the shippers pick up the crate?’ he demanded without announcing his name.

‘I’ll check the logbook, Mr Faulkner,’ said the night porter, and a moment later reported, ‘Yes, sir. DHL signed for one crate at three forty-two yesterday afternoon to be delivered to the Fitzmolean Museum in London.’

‘Couldn’t be better,’ said Miles, before he put down the phone and said to Collins, ‘I think I’ll have a glass of champagne with my breakfast.’

• • •

Beth was among the first to arrive at the museum that morning.

She walked briskly up the sweeping staircase to the first floor and paused for a moment in front of a door markedDIRECTOR. She nearly knocked, before she opened the door and walked into her office. A vase of fresh flowers was on her desk along with a welcome back card from the chairman of the board. Beth wondered if she would be replaced before the flowers had shed their petals. Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ she said, fearing it might be Sir Nicholas enquiring why an empty frame was propped up against the wall in the main gallery. But it was a young lad who poked his head around the door. A face she didn’t recognize.

‘Sorry to bother you, director’ –for how much longer?she wondered – ‘but a large crate has just been delivered to reception and they won’t release it without your signature.’

Beth began to pray as she leapt up from behind her desk and charged out of the room, almost knocking the young man over. She slipped off her high heels and ran down the stairs two at a time before reaching the entrance hall. She recognized the crate immediately, and could only assume that, as William hadn’t rung, the trip had been unsuccessful, not least because the manifest was labelled RETURN TO SENDER. After letting out a deep sigh, Beth accepted she needed to get the painting back on the wall in the main gallery before the doors were opened to the public at ten o’clock, even if it was a fake.

The courier handed over a release form along with a chewed Biro. ‘Sign here, here and here, miss,’ he said, pointing to three dotted lines. She scoured the small print for a clue, but was none the wiser. The value of the contents was recorded as less than ten thousand pounds, along with her signature.

After Beth had signed the form, she asked the doorman and the young lad to carry the crate into the main gallery, where the old frame was still propped up against the wall.

‘Is Fred still the works manager?’ Beth asked the doorman.

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