‘Didn’t the beeper on the courtyard security lights waken you?’ I asked, puzzled.
Henry looked sheepish. ‘I turned the beeper off. We’ve been having a bit of a problem with foxes, and I got fed up with being wakened up night after night.’ I said nothing. I hoped the look on my face said it for me. ‘I know, I know,’ Henry said. ‘I don’t think Inspector Mellor’s overly impressed either. Shall we?’
I followed him into the hall. It was a surprisingly bright room for the period. It was two storeys high, with a whitewashed vaulted roof and gallery for Blondel unplugged. The wall that gave on to the inner courtyard had a couple of feet of wood panelling above floor level, then it was hundreds of tiny leaded panes of glass to a height of about eight feet. The outer wall’s panelling was about four feet high before it gave way to more windows. I didn’t envy the window cleaner. At the far end was a raised dais where Henry’s distant ancestors had sat and lorded it over the plebs and railed against the iniquities of the window tax. It was around the dais that the paintings hung. A tall, thin man was stooped like a crane over the space where the Monet used to be. As we entered, he turned towards us and fixed me with a glum stare.
Henry performed the introductions while Inspector Mellor and I weighed each other up. He looked more patrician than Henry, with a high forehead over a beaky nose and a small, cupid’s bow mouth. At his request, I ran him through the security arrangements. He nodded noncommittally as he listened, then said, ‘Not a lot more you could have done, short of having CCTV.’
‘Professional job, yeah?’ I said.
‘No doubt about it. They obviously chose their target, cased the place thoroughly, then did a quick in and out. No identifiable forensic traces, according to my colleagues who turned up after the event.’ Mellor looked as depressed as I felt.
‘Does it put you in mind of anyone in particular?’ I asked.
Mellor shrugged. ‘I’ve seen jobs like this, but we haven’t managed an arrest on any of them yet.’
Henry closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Is there any chance of getting my Monet back?’ he asked wearily.
‘If I’m honest, sir, not a lot. Thieves like this only take what they’ve already got a market for,’ Mellor said. ‘Sooner or later, we’ll get a lucky break and we’ll nail them. It could be on this case. What I’d like to do is send a couple of my lads over when your staff are next in. These thieves will have been round the house more than once. It’s just possible one of your attendants noticed repeat visitors.’
‘They’ll be in at half past nine on Thursday,’ Henry said. ‘The house is closed to the public on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays, excepting bank holidays.’
Mellor turned away and spent a few minutes studying the Boudin, the Renoir and the two Pissarros that flanked the space where the Monet had been. ‘Personally,’ he said softly, ‘I’d have gone for the Boudin.’
Not me. The Monet would have looked much better with my colour scheme. But maybe Inspector Mellor’s living room was blue-based rather than green, cream and peach. While Henry escorted Mellor off the premises, I mooched around the hall, wondering what to do next. Mellor’s plan to interrogate the staff had disposed of the only idea I had for pursuing any kind of investigation. I slumped in the attendant’s chair by the door and stared down the hall at the wires sticking out of the ancient panelling where the Monet had been attached to the alarm system and the wall. Inspiration failed to strike; but then, nothing does in this country any more.
When Henry came back, I forced myself upright and said brightly, ‘Well, Henry, Mellor didn’t sound too optimistic about what the forces of law and order can achieve. Looks like it’s down to me to get your Monet back.’
Henry tugged at the lobe of his ear and looked uncomfortable. ‘Is there much point, Kate?’ he asked. ‘I mean, if the specialists don’t know where to start looking, how can you expect to succeed?’
‘People have a tendency to tell me things they don’t necessarily want to share with the police. And that includes insurance companies. I also have more unorthodox sources of information. I’m sure I can develop leads the police will never encounter.’ It was all true. Well, all except the last sentence.
‘I don’t know, Kate. These are professional thieves. Looking at the state of the porch door, they’re clearly quite comfortable with a considerable degree of violence. I’m not sure I’m entirely happy about you pursuing them,’ he said dubiously.
‘Henry, I might only be five foot three, but I can look after myself,’ I said, trying not to think about the last occasion where I’d told the men in my life the same damn lie. The scar on my head was just a distant twinge when I brushed my hair now, but the scar inside went a lot deeper. I hadn’t exactly lost my bottle; I’d just acquired an overdose of wariness.
‘Besides,’ I carried on, seeing his look of frank disbelief, ‘you’re entitled to the first thirty hours of my time for free, according to your contract.’
‘Ah. Yes. Of course.’ His reserve was nailed firmly in place again, the eyes locked on the middle distance.
‘Apart from anything else, me nosing around will convince your insurance company that you’re not trying it on,’ I added.
His eyes narrowed, like a man who’s seen a bloody great wave heading straight for his bows. ‘Why should they think that?’ he said sharply.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time somebody’s set up their own burglary for the insurance,’ I said. ‘It happens all the time round where I live.’ A frown flickered across Henry’s face. ‘There’s nothing you want to tell me, Henry, is there?’ I added apprehensively.
‘There’s no earthly reason why I should arrange this,’ he said stiffly. ‘The police and the insurance company are welcome to check the books. We’re making a profit here. House admissions are up on last year, the gift shop has increased its turnover by twenty-five per cent and the Great Hall is booked for banquets almost every Saturday between now and February. The only thing I’m concerned about is that I’m due to leave for Australia in three weeks and I’d like the matter resolved by then.’
‘I’d better get weaving, in that case,’ I said mildly.
I drove back to Manchester with a lot on my mind. I don’t like secrets. It’s one of the reasons I became a private eye in the first place. I especially don’t like them when they’re ones my client is keeping from me.
The atrium of Fortissimus Insurance told me all I needed to know about where Henry’s massive premiums were going. The company had relocated in Manchester from the City, doubtless tempted by the wodges of cash being handed out by various inner city initiative programmes. They’d opted for a site five minutes’ walk down Oxford Road from the rather less palatial offices of Mortensen and Brannigan. Handy, we’d thought, if they ever needed any freelance investigating, though if they had done, it hadn’t been our door they’d come knocking on. They probably preferred firms with the same steel-and-glass taste in interior decor, and prices to match.
Like a lot of new office complexes in Manchester, Fortissimus had smacked a brand new modern building behind a grandiose Victorian façade. In their case, they’d acquired the front of what had been a rather grand hotel, its marble and granite buffed to a shine more sparkling than its native century had ever seen. The entrance hall retained some of the original character, but the glassed-in atrium beyond the security desk was one hundred per cent fin de quite another siècle. The pair of receptionists had clearly absorbed their customer care course. Their grooming was