‘Under the circumstances?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s good. You must be pleased.’
‘Yes, I think we have made reasonable progress. There is light at the end of the tunnel now. In fact, the whole thing is almost complete.’
‘I see.’ Taking her feet off the desk, Mosman sat up in her chair. ‘And what will your conclusions be?’
‘My conclusions?’ Highman stared again into his glass. ‘Well, I really think that I would like to wait until the whole thing is finished before-’
‘Come on, Harris,’ she snapped. ‘I have more than enough on my plate right now without having to worry about what you’re cooking up.’
‘I am not cooking up anything,’ Highman protested. He could hear the tension in his voice, and hated himself for it. Why did he let this woman browbeat him so?
‘In that case,’ she said, effortlessly slipping back into smooth CEO mode, ‘why the secrecy?’
‘There is no secrecy,’ he whined, reflexively gulping down another mouthful of scotch.
Mosman smiled sadly. ‘If I didn’t know better,’ she said quietly, ‘I might think there is something of a conspiracy developing here.’
‘There is no secrecy,’ he repeated, ‘and there is no conspiracy. What there is. .’
Placing her hands on the desk, Mosman leaned forward. ‘Yes?’
‘What there is,’ he began again, ‘is a rather significant discrepancy between what we believe should be in the collection and what we can actually account for.’
‘Which means what?’
Highman let out a deep sigh; so much for keeping his own counsel. ‘Which means that, so far, there are more than a hundred paintings — having an estimated total market value of more than thirty million pounds — which we cannot find.’
Mosman stared at him. ‘And what do you think happened to them?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘But you must have some ideas?’
Highman looked her in the eye. ‘I am not going to sit here and speculate.’
‘But presumably you will be required to indulge in some speculation when it comes to your final report?’
Highman shrugged. ‘The National Audit Office will inevitably demand some kind of explanation.’
‘I’m sure they will,’ she sniffed.
‘No doubt we will all then have questions to answer.’ Some more than others.
‘Mm.’
‘A collective failure of control and monitoring would appear to run all the way through the organization.’
‘All the way to the top?’
Surprised to see that his glass was now empty, he looked up. ‘Yes.’
Mosman drained her own glass and poured herself another. She didn’t offer him a refill. ‘So I’m going to be hung out to dry?’
‘I wouldn’t like to pre-empt what might happen.’
There was a sound in the doorway and Mosman lifted her gaze past her colleague’s shoulder. ‘Can I help you?’ Before Highman could turn round to see who it was, he felt a cool pressure in the hollow at the base of his skull. A look of horror flashed across Mosman’s face as she jumped from her chair. There was a grunt, followed by a metallic click, and then Highman felt himself pitching forward into darkness.
Pulling a box of Handi Wipes from a desk drawer, Zoe Mosman began furiously wiping Harris Highman’s blood splatter from her face. ‘What the hell did you do that for?’ She reached instinctively for her glass of whisky but her hand was shaking so much that she only succeeded in knocking it to the floor. ‘Fuck it!’ Unscrewing the cap, she took a long hard swallow directly from the bottle. And then another. She would have a monster fucking hangover in the morning, but right now that was the least of her worries.
The man standing over Highman’s body said nothing. She had no idea who he was but she knew perfectly well who had sent him.
Feeling distinctly woozy, Mosman placed a hand on the desk for some support. ‘How are we going to clean this mess up?’
‘We’re not.’ Slowly the man lifted the gun, giving her time to finally understand what was going on, before firing twice.
Bringing the Audi A3 to a halt at the side of the kerb, Toby Gray tried to keep his voice sounding casual. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’
Maude Hall smiled. Toby was okay but it was only their second date, and he was a long way from getting invited into her flat ‘for coffee’. She yawned theatrically. ‘It’s late and I’ve got an early start in the morning. Maybe next time.’
‘Sure, no problem.’
‘Thanks. I had a nice time.’ Undoing her seatbelt, she reached across and gave him a peck on the cheek.
‘Me too,’ Toby blushed.
‘I’ll give you a call.’ Opening the door, she slipped out into the cold night air.
Standing in the entrance hall of Murdoch Mansions, Maude listened to the Audi pulling away from the kerb. Picking up her mail, she slowly climbed the stairs to her first-floor flat. Reaching the door, she carefully placed the key in the lock.
‘Jenny. .’
Frowning, she turned to face Trevor Miller.
‘Or should I say Maude?’
‘What the fuck is someone doing, out riding a bike at this time of night?’ Marcus Evans made a vigorous hand gesture through the windscreen. ‘Oi, fuckface! Get out the way.’
Gripping the steering wheel tightly, Dennis Smith swerved round the cyclist and accelerated across the otherwise almost empty Blackfriars Bridge, heading north.
‘Fucking hell, Den, how fast can this thing go?’
‘I’ve had it up to over ninety,’ Smith grinned, ‘but don’t tell the boss.’ Foot to the floor, he started drumming on the steering wheel of the Vauxhall Combo. ‘Spurs were good tonight.’
‘For a fucking change.’
‘Against shit opposition though.’
‘You can only beat what’s put in front of you,’ Evans mused. Right on cue, a caller on 5Live was making the same point, before concluding, ‘We’re only two or three quality signings away from being a great team.’
‘We’re always two or three quality signings away from being a great team, you dick,’ Smith grunted towards the radio. Flicking on the indicator light, he lifted his foot off the accelerator. ‘How do I get on to Queen Victoria Street? Can I turn left up here?’ Looking for a sign, he didn’t see the man in the suit step out from behind the number 63 bus, which was heading south. Head down, he was talking into his mobile phone as he wandered into the middle of the road.
‘Fuck!’ Evans screamed. Before his mate even had time to touch the brakes, there was a huge thud and the windscreen shattered.
‘Fuuuucccckkkkk!!!’ The steering wheel spun out of his hands and Den watched in horror as the van roared across on to the wrong side of the road, heading directly for the water.
Standing on Blackfriars Bridge, the inspector gazed east, past St Paul’s and the City, towards Docklands. The sky was a deep blue, full of promise, and there was a pleasing nip in the air. Another day: busy people simply getting on with their lives. ‘What a great city.’ Breathing in deeply, he turned to his sergeant. ‘What a fucking great city!’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Joe Szyszkowski was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Carlyle found himself talking to a pimply youth whom he had never seen before. In an ill-fitting suit, with an appallingly bad bog-brush haircut, the kid stood maybe an inch or two taller than the inspector himself. Hopping from foot to foot, he had a pained expression as if he urgently needed the bathroom.
‘Who are you?’ Carlyle asked, suitably unimpressed.
‘Eric Peterson.’ Fumbling in the pocket of his raincoat, the youth pulled out a business card. ‘Transport for London and Special Adviser to the Mayor.’ He tentatively offered the card. Hands kept firmly in his pockets, the inspector ignored it.
‘What are you doing here?’ Carlyle gestured towards the south end of the bridge and the yellow police tape flapping in the wind. ‘You should be behind the cordon.’