Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

“I didn’t steal it,” said Anna sharply.

“She retrieved it, on my behalf,” interjected Arabella. “And with my blessing, what’s more.”

“And are you still hoping that Fenston will agree to sell the painting so that you can clear the debt? Because if he did, it would be a first.”

“No,” said Arabella, a little too quickly. “That’s the last thing I want.”

Jack looked puzzled.

“Not until the police solve the mystery of who murdered your sister,” interjected Anna.

“We all know who murdered my sister,” said Arabella sharply, “and if she ever crosses my path, I’ll happily blow her head off.” Both dogs pricked up their ears.

“Knowing it is not the same as proving it,” said Jack.

“So Fenston has got away with murder,” said Anna quietly.

“More than once, I suspect,” admitted Jack. “The Bureau has had him under investigation for some time. There are four—” he paused “—now five murders in different parts of the world that have the Krantz trademark, but we’ve never been able to link her directly to Fenston.”

“Krantz murdered Victoria and Sergei,” said Anna.

“Without a doubt,” said Jack.

“And Colonel Sergei Slatinaru was your father’s commanding officer,” added Tom, “as well as being a close friend.”

“I’ll do anything I can to help,” said Anna, close to tears, “and I mean anything.”

“We’ve had a tiny break,” admitted Tom, “though we can’t be sure it will lead us anywhere. When Krantz was taken to the hospital to have the bullet removed from her shoulder, the only thing they found on her, other than the knife and a little cash, was a key.”

“But surely it will fit a lock in Romania?” suggested Anna.

“We don’t think so,” said Jack, after devouring another mushroom. “It has NYRC 13 stamped on it. Not much of a lead, but if we could find out what it opened, it might, just might, connect Krantz to Fenston.”

“So do you want me to stay in England while you continue your investigation?” asked Anna.

“No, I need you to return to New York,” said Jack. “Let everyone know you’re safe and well, act normally, even look for a job. Just don’t give Fenston any reason to become suspicious.”

“Do I stay in touch with my former colleagues in his office?” asked Anna. “Because Fenston’s secretary, Tina, is one of my closest friends.”

“Are you sure about that?” asked Jack, putting down his knife and fork.

“What are you getting at?” asked Anna.

“How do you explain the fact that Fenston always knew exactly where you were, if Tina wasn’t telling him?”

“I can’t,” said Anna, “but I know she hates Fenston as much as I do.”

“And you can prove it?” asked Jack.

“I don’t need proof,” snapped Anna.

“I do,” said Jack calmly.

“Be careful, Jack, because if you’re wrong,” said Anna, “then her life must also be in danger.”

“If that’s the case, all the more reason for you to return to New York and make contact with her as soon as possible,” suggested Tom, trying to calm the atmosphere.

Jack nodded his agreement.

“I’m booked on a flight this afternoon,” said Anna.

“Me too,” said Jack. “Heathrow?”

“No, Stansted,” said Anna.

“Well, one of you is going to have to change your flight,” suggested Tom.

“Not me,” said Jack. “I’m not going to be arrested for stalking a second time.”

“Before I make a decision on whether to change flights,” said Anna, “I’ll need to know if I’m still under investigation. Because if I am, you can go on following me.”

“No,” said Jack. “I closed your file a few days ago.”

“What convinced you to do that?” asked Anna.

“When Arabella’s sister was murdered, you had an unimpeachable witness as your alibi.”

“And who was that, may I ask?”

“Me,” replied Jack. “As I’d been following you around Central Park, you can’t have been in England.”

“You run in Central Park?” said Anna.

“Every morning around the loop,” said Jack. “Around the Reservoir on Sundays.”

“Me too,” said Anna. “Never miss.”

“I know,” said Jack. “I overtook you several times during the last six weeks.”

Anna stared at him. “The man in the emerald-green T-shirt. You’re not bad.”

“You’re not so—”

“I’m sorry to break up this meeting of the Central Park joggers’ club,” said Tom, as he pushed back his chair, “but I ought to be getting back to my office. There’s a stack of 9/11 files on my desk I haven’t even opened. Thank you for breakfast,” he added, turning to Arabella. “I’m only sorry that the ambassador had to disturb you so early this morning.”

“Which reminds me,” said Arabella, as she rose from her chair. “I must get on with writing some humble-pie letters, my thanks to the ambassador and my apologies to half the Surrey police force.”

“What about me?” said Jack. “I’m thinking of suing the Wentworth estate, the Surrey police, and the Home Office, with Tom as my witness.”

“Not a hope,” said Tom. “I wouldn’t care to have Arabella as an enemy.”

Jack smiled. “Then I’ll have to settle for a lift to the Wentworth Arms.”

“You got it,” said Tom.

“And now that I feel safe to join you at Heathrow,” said Anna, rising from her place, “where shall we meet?”

“Don’t worry,” said Jack. “I’ll find you.”

Leapman was driven to JFK to pick up the painting an hour before the plane was due to land. That didn’t stop Fenston calling him every ten minutes on the way to the airport, which became every five once the limousine was on its way back to Wall Street with the red crate safely stowed in the trunk.

Fenston was pacing up and down his office by the time Leapman was dropped outside the front of the building and waiting in the corridor when Barry Steadman and the driver stepped out of the elevator carrying the red crate.

“Open it,” ordered Fenston, long before the box had been propped up against the wall in his office. Barry and the driver undid the special clamps before setting about extracting the long nails that had been hammered firmly into the rim of the wooden crate, while Fenston, Leapman, and Tina looked on. When the lid was finally pried open and the polystyrene corners that were holding the painting in place were removed, Barry lifted the painting carefully out of the wooden crate and leaned it up against the chairman’s desk. Fenston rushed forward and began to tear off the bubble wrap with his bare hands, until he could at last see what he’d been willing to kill for.

Fenston stood back and gasped.

No one else in the room dared to speak until he had offered an opinion. Suddenly, the words came tumbling out in a torrent.

“It’s even more magnificent than I’d expected,” he declared. “The colors are so fresh, and the brushwork so bold. Truly a masterpiece,” he added. Leapman decided not to comment.

“I know exactly where I’m going to hang my Van Gogh,” said Fenston.

He looked up and stared at the wall behind his desk, where a massive photograph of George W. Bush shaking hands with him on his recent visit to Ground Zero filled the space.

Anna was looking forward to her flight back to the States, and the chance to get to know Jack a little better during the seven-hour journey. She even hoped that he would answer one or two more questions. How did he find out her mother’s address, why was he still suspicious of Tina, and was there any proof that Fenston and Krantz even knew each other?

Jack was waiting for her when she checked in. Anna took a little time to relax with a man she couldn’t forget had been following her for the last nine days and investigating her for the past eight weeks, but by the time they climbed the steps to the aircraft, together for a change, Jack knew she was a Knicks fan, liked spaghetti and Dustin Hoffman, while Anna had found out that he also supported the Knicks, that his favorite modern artist was Fernando Botero, and nothing could replace his mother’s Irish stew.