Page 83 of Next in Line

The walls were lined with safe-deposit boxes. The security guard checked the small red numbers, selected one and pulled it out as if it were a body in a morgue, then placed it on the table in the centre of the room. Producing a large set of keys from his pocket, he chose one and opened the first of two locks, before stepping back and saying, ‘I’ll leave you now, Mrs Faulkner. Please, take your time.’

‘Thank you,’ said Christina. She didn’t move until the heavy door had been closed behind him; she then opened her handbag and took out the second key to open the client’s lock. Rather enjoying herself, she lingered before lifting the box’s lid, to reveal ten thousand neatly wrapped cellophane packets each containing twenty crisp fifty-pound notes.

Mr Rosen’s sons stepped forward and after one look began to transfer the money from the deposit box into their suitcases, while their father sat silently behind them on the only chair.

Christina walked up to the table, unclipped the locks of the wooden casket and raised the lid. Henry VIII was staring directly at her, as he’d done with so many beautiful women in his day. But she rejected his advances until she had lifted the portrait from its bed of red satin and carried it nearer to the light so she could check the letter attached to the back. Once she recognized Holbein’s hand, she felt reassured.

She placed the picture carefully back in its box, and closed the lid. The two young men were still filling their suitcases when she bade Mr Rosen farewell, before jabbing the green button on the wall by the door.

The old man rose unsteadily from his chair and bowed as the door opened and Christina quickly departed.

‘They will be here for a few more minutes,’ she said to the waiting security guard. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

‘As you wish, madam,’ he replied, before he pushed the heavy door back into place.

Christina took the lift to the ground floor and left the bank, tightly clutching onto the small wooden casket. She crossed James’s Street, and hurried off in the direction of the Van Haeften gallery, a few blocks away. Once again, she failed to notice a man standing in the entrance of Lobb’s, watching her walk past. He didn’t bother to follow her, but then he knew where she was going.

The moment he saw the wooden casket, Johnny van Haeften recognized the family crest on the lid. He could feel his excitement mounting as Christina placed it on the table in the centre of the gallery. She flicked open the clasps and lifted the lid to reveal Henry VIII in all his pomp and glory.

‘May I?’ van Haeften asked, his fingers trembling.

Christina nodded, and he gently lifted the painting out of its red satin resting place. He studied Henry for some timebefore turning him over and reading the letter attached to the back.

‘I think you said twelve million, possibly fifteen,’ said Christina, ‘if I remember correctly.’

‘I did indeed,’ replied van Haeften.

•••

The man waited a few minutes before crossing the road and entering the bank, where he hung around in the lobby looking as if he were waiting for someone, which indeed he was. He didn’t have to wait long before the lift doors opened and three men appeared, one of them pulling two large suitcases. They walked straight past him without saying a word, and left the cases by his side, before walking out of the bank and going their separate ways.

He gripped the handles of the cases and began pulling them towards the door, surprised by how heavy they were. Once out on the pavement, he hailed a taxi, hoisted the cases into the back and pulled the door shut. Safer than an armoured car, he’d decided, because that would only attract attention and require a lot of form-filling.

‘Where to, guv’nor?’ asked the cabbie.

‘The Mayfair Trust Bank on Park Lane,’ said Lamont. He would have given the address of his bank in Hammersmith if he’d thought he could get away with it. But he was well aware that other eyes would be watching him, and if he didn’t deliver the money straight back to where it had originally come from, it would be the last cab journey he’d ever take.

•••

Van Haeften studied the painting closely for some time before he said, ‘Fifteen million would have been a fair price, had it been the original.’

Christina stared at him. ‘But I saw it in Mr Rosen’s home in Amsterdam only a week ago,’ she eventually managed, her voice rising with every word.

‘I’m sure you did,’ said van Haeften calmly. ‘And the casket, the oak panel and the frame are all contemporary, as is the painting. But sadly, it isn’t by Holbein.’

‘But the letter on the back,’ she protested, ‘proves it’s the original. If you read it, you’ll see that I’m right.’

‘I fear not, Mrs Faulkner.’

‘Read it!’ she demanded.

Van Haeften didn’t protest, knowing only too well that although the client was not always right, one should never contradict them.

Christina was speechless.

‘What would you like me to do with the picture, Mrs Faulkner?’ van Haeften eventually asked.

‘I don’t give a damn what you do with it!’ Christina yelled as she turned and ran out of the gallery. She didn’t stop running until she reached St James’s, where she crossed the road – narrowly avoiding being run over by a black cab – and pushed open the door into the bank. She charged up to the reception desk.

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