Page 58 of End Game
‘No good,’ said Rebecca, summing up all their feelings.
•••
By the time Artemisia returned to the Olympic Park on Wednesday morning, she knew everything there was to know about Natasha and Alain – well, everything except why a recently engaged couple looked so distressed.
Artemisia had spent most of the night trying to work out how she could possibly enter their closed worlds, and was none the wiser by the time her alarm went off.
On the journey back to the Olympic Village, Artemisia had worked out where she might find them if they weren’t in the village, which was at least a start. When she arrived at the training track an hour later, she spotted them both stretching in the warm-up area. Ballet dancers would have been impressed.
After forty minutes of well-honed exercises, they moved across to the high jump pit and carefully measured out their run-up to the bar, so that their front foot always landed on the same spot – they had placed two coins on the ground as markers – before take-off. They did not tire themselves moving the bar up inch by inch, as they had been doing that daily for the past four years, but instead satisfied themselves with perfecting their run-ups. If they didn’t hit the exact spot every time, they would have no hope of clearing the bar when it reached a personal best.
Eventually, they put their tracksuits back on and left the warm-up area together, once again holding hands.
Artemisia left her place in the stand and followed them, keeping her distance. They stopped on the way back to the village, took a seat on a bench and shared a bottle of orange juice.
They were happily chatting away when Artemisia decided to move in and interrupt their thoughts. She would have to blow her cover, which was a big risk – but one worth taking.
She walked slowly across to join them. ‘Hi,’ she said, giving them a warm smile. ‘My name is Artemisia Warwick, and I’m a journalist with theDaily Mail. I wondered if you would allow me to ask you a few questions?’
It was as if the devil had appeared by their sides, because they immediately jumped up and quite literally fled, no longer holding hands.
Artemisia sat down on the bench and tapped Robert’s number into her mobile.
‘If they want to talk, they’ll talk,’ he said, after she’d told him what had just happened, ‘and if they don’t, they’re entitled to their privacy.’
Artemisia frowned. ‘Of course you’re right,’ she replied. ‘I now know they are my exclusive, but what I don’t know is how to get them to reveal it.’
Thursday, 2 August – day 7 of the Games
AWALK IN THE PARKmeant only one thing to Booth Watson. Miles had something he needed to discuss urgently and not in chambers.
They always met at ten o’clock outside the Churchill War Rooms in Whitehall. Booth Watson wondered who Miles wasgoing to declare war on today. Churchill was one of his client’s biggest heroes, although Mrs Thatcher wasn’t far behind. They would then walk around the lake past Buckingham Palace, the home of his biggest hero. Booth Watson could only wonder how his client felt about being involved in disrupting her journey to the opening ceremony.
Booth Watson was wearing his trademark dark blue double-breasted suit – his Savile Row tailor making a gallant effort to disguise his weight problem – cream shirt, Middle Temple tie, and carrying a rolled umbrella, despite the fact the sun was shining. Miles came strolling down Birdcage Walk a few minutes late, not surprised to find BW waiting for him. After all, a thousand pounds a day retainer had the tendency to ensure you were on time.
After a brief handshake, neither of them spoke before they crossed the road and entered the park. They then followed a route that never varied and took about forty minutes, although Miles accepted that he would be billed for an hour.
‘How is the contract for my deal with Bernie Longe coming along?’ was Miles’s first question as they took their usual path beside the lake.
‘Almost completed,’ said Booth Watson, as a squirrel joined them. ‘I should have the final draft ready for you by tomorrow.’
‘Perfect timing,’ said Miles, as they continued walking. ‘I thought you’d be interested to know I received a letter from the Fitzmolean yesterday.’
‘Saying what?’
‘When the Hermitage exhibition closes, the director has been instructed to hand the Van Gogh self-portrait over to you. They asked if I could let them know when it would be convenient to collect it.’
‘So the Russians have kept their word,’ said Booth Watson, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.
‘For now, yes,’ said Miles, ‘but they could still change their mind after the closing ceremony. I will, therefore, need you to draft a reply to Mrs Warwick informing her that if the board felt able to accept my terms,’ he paused for a moment, ‘I would be willing to rewrite my Will and leave my entire collection, including the Van Gogh, to the Fitzmolean.’
‘And what might those terms be?’ asked an incredulous Booth Watson.
A duck waddled onto the grass, looked up and quacked, but quickly moved on when he discovered they had nothing to offer.
‘An invitation for me to join the board of the Fitz,’ said Miles.
‘That’s never going to happen,’ said Booth Watson as they reached the bridge and crossed the lake. ‘And you know it.’
