A sickly smile passed across Brabo’s face. Maybe the shortbread had gone down the wrong way. ‘And who is this gentleman you refer to?’
‘That’s one of the things we were hoping you would be able to tell us,’ Carlyle said smoothly. This lawyer clearly had an inside track on the police investigation, but where had he got his information from? No point in worrying about that now. The inspector eyed the pile of biscuits on Untersander’s desk. Shortbread wasn’t his favourite but he was still tempted.
‘We really have no idea,’ Brabo replied, injecting just the right amount of dismay into his voice to suggest the disappointment of an honest citizen unable to be of more assistance with the police’s enquiries. ‘The phone you are referring to was bought by Mr Untersander for his daughter. But unfortunately, the young lady lost it several months ago.’
How very convenient, Carlyle reckoned. ‘So why didn’t you cancel the contract?’
Untersander gave a sheepish grin.
‘Apparently,’ Brabo explained, ‘Sofia — Mr Untersander’s daughter — forgot to mention it.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘You know what children are like.’
‘I do indeed,’ Carlyle agreed. He turned to face Untersander. ‘So you know nothing about these phone calls, but you do admit to knowing Zoe Mosman?’
‘Yes, professionally speaking,’ said Brabo, ‘which should be no great surprise. Both are important players in the London art world, which is not that extensive.’
‘Do you do business with the Government Art Collection?’
‘I believe,’ said Brabo, ‘that the gallery has sold them the odd piece over the years.’
‘Oh? I thought that the government were sellers, not buyers?’
The lawyer shrugged. ‘Recently, yes, they have sold some things, but we have not been involved in that.’
‘What the GAC has been putting into the market lacked quality,’ Untersander explained. ‘They keep the good stuff well under lock and key.’
Brabo shot him a plaintive look that said Leave the talking to me. ‘The main thing is that it was not the kind of thing the Untersander Gallery has been looking to acquire.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle frowned, keen to move the conversation along. ‘So the man who kills Mrs Mosman calls a phone number that was yours. . before you lost it. That’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think?’
Keeping his face blank, Untersander held the inspector’s gaze.
‘That,’ Brabo snapped, ‘is not something you would reasonably expect us to comment on.’
Having despatched Joe back to the station to check on the ongoing search for Monty Laws, Carlyle headed towards Green Park underground station, pondering his next move. He was just about to descend towards the tube when a call came in from Dominic Silver.
‘What have you got for me?’ the inspector asked brusquely.
‘Not a lot,’ Dom admitted glumly. ‘Over the years, it looks as if Trevor Miller really has turned into a Grade A bastard.’
‘I knew that already.’ In the middle of a relentless stream of pedestrians at the entrance to the tube, the inspector was not inclined to stop and chat. ‘The question now is: where the bloody hell is he?’
‘I’m still asking around.’
‘Thanks.’
‘But I think you need to be careful.’
‘I’m always careful.’
‘Seriously. This guy is way past caring. I am in blood/Stepped in so far that, should I wade no more/Returning were as tedious as go o’er.’
‘You what?’
‘Macbeth.’
Carlyle grunted. He wasn’t in the mood for Shakespeare.
‘Miller’s just ploughing ahead,’ Dom explained, ‘in the hope that he can somehow escape the mess he’s in. A few more bodies — yours, for instance — is neither here nor there to him now.’
‘He’s running, I’m chasing; not the other way round. That means he’ll want to steer well clear of me.’
‘I hope you’re right — but it wouldn’t do any harm to have someone watching your back.’
‘I’ve got plenty of support. Don’t worry about that. Let me know if you get any lead on his location.’ Not waiting for a reply, Carlyle ended the call, before skipping down the steps and into the station.
The Rolodex standing on Harris Highman’s desk was open at Carlyle’s card. Taking a seat in the dead bureaucrat’s chair, the inspector looked around the grey office, searching for some kind of inspiration. ‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’ he mumbled.
On the desk was a mug from the British Museum’s Book of the Dead exhibition. Carlyle recalled Helen dragging him to see it several years earlier. If he remembered correctly, he had trailed round the exhibits with a distinct lack of good grace. Dead people didn’t interest him that much; an amusing thought for a policeman.
Next to the mug, a glossy magazine lay open. Idly picking it up, Carlyle glanced at the photos displayed in the centre-spread and frowned. ‘Shit!’
‘Excuse me?’
A sickly-looking young man in a suit and tie stood in the doorway. He was clutching a collection of files to his breast and there was a pained expression on his face. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘Police,’ said Carlyle sharply, closing the magazine and tossing it on the desk.
‘Ah.’ The man edged backwards.
‘Sit down.’ The inspector pointed to the chair in front of Highman’s desk. Reluctantly the young man did as he was told. Keeping his eyes on the cop, he slowly lowered himself into the seat.
‘Who are you?’
‘Mark Segel. I’m one of Mr Highman’s assistants.’ The voice was quiet, the accent American. ‘I’ve been working here for a year, on secondment from the Brooklyn Museum.’
Good for you, Carlyle thought. ‘Have you been interviewed by us already?’
Segel nodded. ‘I don’t know why anyone would want to kill Harris.’
‘No,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘I suppose not.’
‘He was a very. . quiet man.’
‘What about Mrs Mosman?’
Segel let his grip on the files loosen slightly. ‘I didn’t know her.’
‘No? But what about gossip, tittle-tattle. . stuff like that?’
The youngster frowned. ‘Why would you be interested?’
‘I’m interested in everything,’ Carlyle smiled. ‘That’s the only way you find out why someone got shot.’
‘Well,’ lowering his voice, Segel leaned forward slightly, ‘she had a reputation for being a bit of a bitch.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Just in general.’ The kid shrugged. ‘I didn’t really have any personal experience of that; she was never around. Anyway, I was working full-time for Harris.’
‘Were you involved in the GAC Audit he was working on?’
‘Yes.’ Segel’s face brightened a little. ‘We were working on a final draft of the report. It was due to go to Mrs Mosman, and then to the Arts Minister. I guess it will go on hold now until Zoe’s successor is announced. I gave a copy to Sergeant Si. . Si. .’
‘Szyszkowski.’
‘Yes. Do you work with him?’
Carlyle nodded. He realized that he hadn’t got round to looking at the material Joe had collected regarding the shootings here. Did that make him sloppy? Or just overworked? ‘In a nutshell, what does it say?’
‘The report?’
‘Yes.’
Segel gave him a thoughtful look. ‘It was only a draft.’
‘I understand that,’ Carlyle said patiently, ‘but what does it say. . in draft form.’
Segel glanced over his shoulder before lowering his voice to the level where the inspector had to concentrate hard to hear him. ‘The audit shows that there are more than one hundred and twenty paintings unaccounted for in the collection.’ He let out a nervous giggle. ‘Art worth tens of millions of pounds has. . disappeared.’
‘Stolen?’
‘Most likely, I’d say. Stolen or lost. Probably a bit of both.’
Carlyle thought about that for a moment. ‘Can’t you track these things?’
Segel shook his head. ‘Not in this case. The systems and controls were either rudimentary or non-existent. That was quite amazing really.’