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“Neither do I,” said Peel. “But I’m sure the mighty Metropolitan Police will have it figured out in no time.”
Fletcher pushed a case file across his desk. “Your new assignment.”
“Anything interesting?”
“A rash of burglaries in Plymouth.” Fletcher smiled. “You’re welcome.”
19
Cork Street
As Detective Sergeant Timothy Peel set off for Plymouth that February afternoon, the man who had asked him to accidentally misplace Charlotte Blake’s legal pad was walking past the parade of luxury shops lining Burlington Arcade in Mayfair. He had returned to London on pressing business, namely, to recruit the final member of his operational team. The negotiations promised to be arduous and the price steep. Unlike Anna Rolfe, Nicholas Lovegrove never performed for free.
The prominent art consultant suggested lunch at the Wolseley, but Gabriel insisted they meet at his office instead. It was located in a redbrick building in Cork Street, two floors above one of London’s most important contemporary art galleries. Lovegrove’s receptionist was not at her desk when Gabriel arrived. His two underlings, both Courtauld-trained art historians, were likewise absent.
“As requested, Allon, it’s just the two of us.” They withdrew to Lovegrove’s inner sanctum. It was like an exhibition room at the Tate Modern. “What is this all about?”
“A friend of mine is looking to unload a few paintings and requires the assistance of an experienced, trustworthy consultant. Naturally, I thought of you.”
“What sort of paintings?”
Gabriel recited the names of six artists: Amedeo Modigliani, Vincent van Gogh, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Paul Cézanne, Claude Monet, and Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.
“Where are the paintings now?”
“They will soon be at the owner’s villa on the Costa de Prata.”
“Do you at least have photographs?”
“Not yet.”
Lovegrove, with his well-tuned ear for art world gobbledygook, was dubious. “Does the owner have a name?”
“Anna Rolfe.”
“Not the violinist?”
“One and the same.”
“Don’t tell me the paintings belonged to that awful father of hers.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“That means they’re toxic.”
“Which is why you’re going to dispose of them with the utmost discretion at Galerie Ricard in the Geneva Freeport.”
Lovegrove regarded Gabriel speculatively across the expanse of his desk. “I suppose this has something to do with that Picasso?”
“What Picasso, Nicky?”
“There is no Picasso?”
“Never was.”
“And the six paintings by six of the greatest artists who ever lived?”
“They don’t exist, either.” Gabriel smiled. “Not yet, at least.”
