‘You’ll get the other five hundred, as promised,’ said Miles. ‘But not until the paintings are safely back in their old home.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Reg as he turned to unlock the security door.
Lamont and Miles returned to the car. Once Lamont was back behind the wheel, he checked his watch and said, ‘We’re going to have to get a move on if you’re hoping to be on time for your next meeting.’
Miles gave him a curt nod, but didn’t say anything other than to repeat, ‘Don’t break the speed limit.’
Lamont stuck to the inside lane as they headed towards London, all the time keeping an eye out for any police patrol cars. He didn’t want to draw up beside one at a traffic light and risk one of them being recognized. He moved into the centre lane as they continued on towards Hyde Park Corner. Although Lamont had driven the course the day before, he hadn’t been able to find a parking meter near the bank, and this wasn’t a day for leaving the get-away car on a double yellow line. He circled the bank and eventually found a meter about a hundred yards from the bank’s main entrance. A calculated risk.
Lamont fed the meter with enough coins to allow them a couple of hours, the maximum on offer; every minute of which they would need. As he began to walk towards the bank, Miles slipped out of the car and followed in his wake. They avoided the reception desk and joined a group of other grey suits who were stepping into a lift. Lamont pressed the button marked 5 and the door slid closed. It was clear to Miles that Lamont, like the experienced ex-policeman he was, had done his homework, to reduce the risk of surprises as far as possible. But Miles knew there would always be something he hadn’t anticipated.
When the lift door opened on the fifth floor, Lamont was the first out. He walked briskly down the corridor and knocked on a frosted glass door that announced ‘Mr Nigel Cotterill, Area Manager’. He didn’t wait for a response, although they were a few minutes early for their appointment. They might need those few minutes later.
If Mr Cotterill was surprised to see his erstwhile client, he didn’t show it, as he’d already had two meetings with Lamont and knew exactly what was expected of him.
Miles took a seat on the other side of the manager’s desk, while Lamont stood a pace behind him. Their roles reversed.
‘As Mr Lamont will already have told you,’ said Miles, ‘I require a new safe-deposit box, for which I will be the only keyholder.’
Cotterill nodded, opened a file on his desk, took out several documents and placed them neatly in front of one of the bank’s most important customers. Miles read each one carefully before penning his real signature on the bottom line.
‘What about my other request?’ he asked as he screwed the cap back on his fountain pen.
‘We are currently holding twenty-six million pounds in your name following the sale of your fifty-one per cent holding in Marcel and Neffe. But as you will be aware, the money is lodged in a client account so that Mr Booth Watson can withdraw funds on your behalf when required, or to cover his fees and expenses as your legal representative.’
‘How much has he taken out while I’ve been... since I last saw you?’
Cotterill glanced at the debit column. ‘Two hundred and forty-one thousand, seven hundred pounds,’ he said.
Miles didn’t comment, except to say firmly, ‘While I’m moving the contents of my old safe-deposit box to the new one, make sure that the full balance in the joint account is transferred to my private account, from which I will be the only person authorized to make withdrawals.’
‘I’ll have all the necessary forms ready for you to sign by the time you return,’ said Cotterill. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll ask our head of security to accompany you to the lower ground floor, and open the strongroom for you. The number of your new box is 178.’ He handed over a key, picked up the phone on his desk and dialled security.
Chapter 31
‘Lot number twenty-one, the Max Ernst,’ said the auctioneer. ‘I have an opening bid of seven thousand pounds. Eight thousand,’ he announced after turning his attention to the other side of the room. ‘Do I see nine thousand?’ he asked, to be greeted with a nod. ‘Ten thousand?’ he suggested to the former bidder, but received no response. He brought the hammer down with a thud, ‘Sold, for nine thousand pounds.’
‘So how much profit did we make on that one?’ asked Christina.
‘I originally paid eight thousand for it,’ said Beth, ‘but after Christie’s have deducted the seller’s premium, we’ll be lucky to break even.’
‘How unlike you.’
‘Everybody loses sometime. The trick is not to make a habit of it.’
‘Are you thinking of buying anything else today?’
‘There’s a Graham Sutherland watercolour of Coventry Cathedral that I’m interested in. Lot twenty-seven. But on this occasion, I’ll be representing a client.’
‘Why don’t they bid for themselves?’
‘Whenever this particular client attends an auction, she gets carried away. So she tells me her upper limit and then I bid on her behalf.’
‘How much do you charge for your services?’
‘Five per cent of the hammer price.’
‘Lot twenty-seven,’ proclaimed the auctioneer. ‘The Graham Sutherland. I have an opening bid of six thousand pounds. Do I see seven?’
Beth raised her paddle high in the air. ‘Thank you, madam. Eight thousand?’ He received an immediate response from a telephone bidder. ‘Do I see nine?’ Once again, Beth raised her paddle.
‘Ten thousand?’ asked the auctioneer, and back came her rival. ‘Eleven thousand?’ He smiled hopefully at Beth, who shook her head, as it was above her agreed limit. ‘Sold, for ten thousand pounds,’ declared the auctioneer as he wrote down the paddle number of the phone bidder.
Beth’s heart was still thumping, and she wondered how many years it would be before it didn’t do so whenever she was bidding. She hoped it never would.
‘That won’t pay for lunch,’ said Christina. ‘Are we going to be given another chance of getting our money back?’
‘Possibly. But Lot thirty-four is the only one I’m still interested in.’
Christina flicked through the pages of her catalogue until she came to a painting of a woman lying in a field of corn, by Andrew Wyeth. ‘I like it,’ she whispered.
‘Did I hear you correctly?’ asked Beth.
‘You did. It reminds me of a Pissarro Miles now has after I foolishly parted with my half of his collection. If he hadn’t stolen all my money,’ she said wistfully, ‘I’d buy the Wyeth and start my own collection.’
Words Beth thought she’d never hear, but then Christina never failed to surprise her.
‘Why are you so keen on this particular painting?’ Christina asked.
‘Wyeth’s an American artist, and has a devoted following in the States, particularly in Pennsylvania, where he was born. If I can get hold of it, I’ll put it back on the market with Freeman’s, the leading auction house in the state.’
‘Cunning,’ said Christina. ‘Unless of course there are any Americans sitting in the room.’
‘We’re about to find out,’ said Beth as the auctioneer announced, ‘Lot thirty-four, the Andrew Wyeth. What am I bid?’
‘Will you—’
‘Shush!’ said Beth.
‘I’m looking for an opening bid of five thousand pounds. Five thousand?’ he repeated, several times.
‘Why aren’t you bidding?’ asked Christina.
‘Shush,’ repeated Beth.
‘Do I see four thousand?’ he asked, trying not to sound desperate. Just when it looked as if he would have to call the lot in, Beth slowly raised her paddle. Her heart was at it again, and it only started to return to normal when the auctioneer’s hammer eventually came down and he said, ‘Sold, for four thousand pounds to the lady seated on the aisle.’ Beth raised her paddle a second time so that the auctioneer could record her paddle number on his sales sheet.