False Impression Read online

  A week later, the drunken body of Pierre de Rochelle was found slumped in a Marseille alley, his throat sliced open.

  Four years later, the Marseille police closed the file, with the words NON RESOLU stamped on the cover.

  When the estate was finally settled, Fenston had sold off all the works, with the exception of the Renoir, the Monet, and the two Pissarros; and after compound interest, bank charges, and lawyers’ fees, Pierre’s younger brother, Simon de Rochelle, inherited the flat in Marseille.

  Jack rose from behind his desk, stretched his cramped limbs, and yawned wearily before he considered tackling Chris Adams, Jr., although he knew Adams’s case history almost by heart.

  Chris Adams, Sr., had operated a highly successful fine art gallery on Melrose Avenue in Los Angeles. He specialized in the American School so admired by the Hollywood glitterati. His untimely death in a car crash left his son Chris, Jr., with a collection of Rothkos, Pollocks, Jasper Johnses, Rauschenbergs, and several Warhol acrylics, including a Black Marilyn.

  An old school friend advised Chris that the way to double his money would be to invest in the dot.com revolution. Chris, Jr., pointed out that he didn’t have any ready cash, just the gallery, the paintings, and Christina, his father’s old yacht—and even that was half owned by his younger sister. Fenston Finance stepped in and advanced him a loan of twelve million dollars on their usual terms. As in so many revolutions, several bodies ended up on the battlefield: among them, Chris, Jr.’s.

  Fenston Finance had allowed the debt to continue mounting without ever troubling their client. That was until Chris, Jr., read in the Los Angeles Times that Warhol’s Shot Red Marilyn had recently sold for over four million dollars. He immediately contacted Christie’s in L.A., who assured him that he could expect an equally good return for his Rothkos, Pollocks, and Jasper Johnses. Three months later, Leapman rushed into the chairman’s office bearing the latest copy of a Christie’s sale catalogue. He had placed yellow Post-It notes against seven different lots that were due to come under the hammer. Fenston made one phone call, then booked himself on the next flight to Rome.

  Three days later, Chris, Jr., was discovered in the lavatory of a gay bar with his throat cut.

  Fenston was on holiday in Italy at the time, and Jack had a copy of his hotel bill, plane tickets, and even his credit-card purchases from several shops and restaurants.

  The paintings were immediately withdrawn from the Christie’s sale while the L.A. police carried out their investigations. After eighteen months of no new evidence and dead-ends, the file joined the other LAPD cold cases stored in the basement. All Chris’s sister ended up with was a model of Christina, her father’s much-loved yacht.

  Jack tossed Chris, Jr.’s, file to one side and stared down at the name of Maria Vasconcellos, a Brazilian widow who had inherited a house and a lawn full of statues—and not of the garden-center variety. Moore, Giacometti, Remington, Botero, and Calder were among Señora Vasconcellos’s husband’s bequest. Unfortunately, she fell in love with a gigolo, and when he suggested—The phone rang on Jack’s desk.

  “Our London Embassy is on line two,” his secretary informed him.

  “Thanks, Sally,” said Jack, knowing it could only be his friend Tom Crasanti, who had joined the FBI on the same day as he had.

  “Hi, Tom, how are you?” he asked even before he heard a voice.

  “In good shape,” Tom replied. “Still running every day, even if I’m not as fit as you.”

  “And my godson?”

  “He’s learning to play cricket.”

  “The traitor. Got any good news?”

  “No,” said Tom. “That’s why I’m calling. You’re going to have to open another file.”

  Jack felt a cold shiver run through his body. “Who is it this time?” he asked quietly.

  “The lady’s name, and Lady she was, is Victoria Wentworth.”

  “How did she die?”

  “In exactly the same manner as the other three, throat cut, almost certainly with a kitchen knife.”

  “What makes you think Fenston was involved?”

  “She owed the bank over thirty million.”

  “And what was he after this time?”

  “A Van Gogh self-portrait.”

  “Value?”

  “Sixty, possibly seventy million dollars.”

  “I’ll be on the next plane to London.”

  8

  AT 7:56, ANNA closed the Wentworth file and bent down to open the bottom drawer of her desk. She slipped off her sneakers and replaced them with a pair of black high-heeled shoes. She rose from her chair, gathered up the files, and glanced in the mirror—not a hair out of place.

  Anna stepped out of her office and walked down the corridor toward the large corner suite. Two or three members of the staff greeted her with “Good morning, Anna,” which she acknowledged with a smile. A gentle knock on the chairman’s door—she knew Fenston would already be seated at his desk. Had she been even a minute late, he would have pointedly stared at his watch. Anna waited for an invitation to enter and was surprised when the door was immediately pulled open and she came face-to-face with Karl Leapman. He was wearing an almost identical suit to the one Fenston had on, even if it wasn’t of the same vintage.

  “Good morning, Karl,” she said brightly, but didn’t receive a response.

  The chairman looked up from behind his desk and motioned Anna to take the seat opposite him. He also didn’t offer any salutation, but then he rarely did. Leapman took his place on the right of the chairman and slightly behind him, like a cardinal in attendance on the Pope. Status clearly defined. Anna assumed that Tina would appear at any moment with a cup of black coffee, but the secretary’s door remained resolutely shut.

  Anna glanced up at the Monet of Argenteuil that hung on the wall behind the chairman’s desk. Although Monet had painted this peaceful riverbank scene on several occasions, this was one of the finest examples. Anna had once asked Fenston where he’d acquired the painting, but he’d been evasive, and she couldn’t find any reference to the sale among past transactions.

  She looked across at Leapman, whose lean and hungry look reminded her of Cassius. It didn’t seem to matter what time of day it was, he always looked as if he needed a shave. She turned her attention to Fenston, who was certainly no Brutus, and shifted uneasily in her chair, trying not to appear fazed by the silence, which was suddenly broken, on Fenston’s nod.

  “Dr. Petrescu, some distressing information has been brought to the attention of the chairman,” Leapman began. “It would appear,” he continued, “that you sent one of the bank’s private and confidential documents to a client before the chairman had been given the chance to consider its implications.”

  For a moment Anna was taken by surprise, but she quickly recovered and decided to respond in kind. “If, Mr. Leapman, you are referring to my report concerning the loan to the Wentworth Estate, you are correct. I did send a copy to Lady Victoria Wentworth.”

  “But the chairman was not given enough time to read that report and make a considered judgment before you forwarded it to the client,” said Leapman, looking down at some notes.

  “That is not the case, Mr. Leapman. Both you and the chairman were sent copies of my report on September first, with a recommendation that Lady Victoria should be advised of her position before the next quarterly payment was due.”

  “I never received the report,” said Fenston brusquely.

  “And indeed,” said Anna, still looking at Leapman, “the chairman acknowledged such, when his office returned the form I attached to that report.”

  “I never saw it,” repeated Fenston.

  “Which he initialed,” said Anna, who opened her file, extracted the relevant form, and placed it on the desk in front of Fenston. He ignored it.

  “The least you should have done was wait for my opinion,” said Fenston, “before allowing a copy of a report on such a sensitive subject to leave this office.”