Keep Your Eyes on Me Page 13

  What on earth could that be?

  Chapter 20

  AS VITTORIA LEFT Power’s Fine Prints in Bloomsbury, over in Notting Hill Lily dipped into the door of an artisan coffee shop and looked around for a table. It was a patisserie as well as a coffee shop and obviously very popular on a Saturday morning, the scents of freshly baked cakes luring passers-by in from the pavement. When Vittoria had given her Stephanie Carson’s address, she’d looked it up and seen that this coffee shop was almost opposite her house. The perfect location to get a feel for the neighbourhood. And a feel for Stephanie Carson.

  Queuing up, she ordered a latte just as a table in the broad window became available. Lily indicated to the girls behind the counter that she’d sit down.

  It was a tiny table, covered in a cheerful red chequered cloth, and it had a perfect view. Settling in to her chair, Lily looked out across the wide road, trees dotted down both sides, their leaves turning shades of russet.

  The houses looked Victorian and, although terraced, many had three floors, the brickwork a pale yellow, windowsills crowded with planters and flowerboxes. Several had ornate stained-glass panels above the front doors. Lily could see Number 121 easily, with its low white-capped brick wall and an elegant ball-cut bay tree in a pot beside the front door-step. It looked like something out of a magazine. As she watched, a tortoiseshell cat popped up from the paved front garden and sat on the wall washing itself.

  Lily wasn’t an expert on property but she wondered how Stephanie Carson could afford such a lovely house on an actor’s salary. She knew Stephanie was the lead in that crime drama Lies, but even with a top ITV salary – she’d checked out some of the actors on Coronation Street to give her a guideline – it seemed a tall order. When Lily had looked up the address, she’d found that it had been bought three years ago for almost a million pounds.

  Perhaps Stephanie Carson had invested in property incredibly wisely and sold on her previous home for a massive profit?

  Lily rather doubted it. She was twenty-three, the same age as Lily, and she’d only had theatrical parts until her TV break on Lies.

  But perhaps she had wealthy parents.

  Or a wealthy boyfriend.

  As Lily nursed her coffee, she watched the world go by. She wasn’t entirely sure why she was here – the chances of actually seeing Stephanie were very slim, and she didn’t have any of Vittoria’s detective’s capabilities in following people if she did appear. But Lily wanted to get a sense of the area, of Stephanie’s life, and although she had a million things to do to get ready for New York, her time was her own now. With everything happening at No. 42, she’d decided to hand in her notice at the coffee shop in St Pancras station – she really had too much on her mind to focus on which customer wanted a skinny latte and who wanted a flat white. She had enough savings to last until her first No. 42 pay cheque arrived, and, incredibly, they were going to look after her relocation and rental costs for the first three months until she got settled in New York. Marianne Omotoso had mentioned it in her interview but Lily hadn’t quite taken it in – the whole experience had been so overwhelming. When she’d formally accepted and Marianne’s delighted email had arrived, she’d laid everything out in black and white.

  And one thing was for sure, they really wanted her.

  Which was an idea that Lily was still having problems adjusting to. She’d talked about it to Nathan over brownies in the Red Fox Films kitchen and he’d smiled at her in complete understanding, shaking his head. ‘That’s called imposter syndrome. Wait till you get to New York and people start fawning all over you, then you’ll really feel like you’re in some sort of giant reality experiment …’

  Nathan had no idea how close he was to the truth. Her life was starting to feel like a TV drama, and she hadn’t even left London yet.

  But key to getting to New York at all was getting the shop back – and the clock was ticking. So rather than sitting in the kitchen of her flat worrying, here she was sitting opposite Stephanie Carson’s rather lovely house.

  At least working towards Vittoria’s goal made her feel like she was doing something to sort out her own problems. She was on Stephanie’s case and she prayed that Vittoria was being as diligent with Edward Croxley.

  Lily had absolutely no idea how Vittoria was going to manage to get the shop back, but she had absolute faith that she would. There was something about her that inspired confidence and gave the impression that she didn’t take any prisoners. Vittoria had said on the plane that they were two intelligent women, but Lily had the distinct impression that Vittoria was a lot more intelligent than she was, that she was one of those super-bright all-round super-successful types that was just brilliant at everything they did. The type that was head girl in school, got four As and played tennis for England. She sure hoped so. Lily reckoned she had a plan that could, literally, bring down Marcus Devine, but she was quite sure Vittoria would need to use all her skills to find out what was going on with Edward Croxley.

  Lily felt the dark hole of despair opening up in her stomach. She’d sent Jack off to an auction today. If they couldn’t trade from the shop, they could trade from home for a bit once they had some stock. Jack had lots of contacts. He might not make much but if he had something to sell he would have something to keep him in the game, and to keep him busy.

  And the last thing Lily needed was Jack getting depressed. She corrected herself. More depressed. Ever since he’d turned up on the doorstep, she felt as if he’d retreated into himself, that a part of him was distant, lost. And she needed to find it again before she could head to New York.

  At least work was distracting him a bit.

  He loved country house auctions; you just never knew what might turn up.

  As Lily nursed her latte, across the road the front door of Number 121 opened. Lily’s eyes widened as a woman who was undoubtedly Stephanie Carson stepped out. She wasn’t wearing a coat, had her handbag under her arm and her mobile phone to her ear as she turned to pull the door closed behind her. Lily took a quick swig of her coffee as Stephanie walked to her front gate and out onto the pavement, pausing to check the traffic so she could cross the road. Lily watched in amazement: she was heading directly for the coffee shop.

  Casual in jeans and running shoes, Stephanie Carson was wearing an A-line navy T-shirt that stretched over her pronounced bump. She had her thick blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. A moment later the bell on the café door tinkled and Stephanie came in, still speaking into her phone. From where she was sitting Lily could just hear her conversation.

  ‘Of course, I’ll see you on Tuesday. And I’m fine, really. I love you, darling … I know, I’m missing you too.’

  Stephanie clicked off the phone and smiled at the girl behind the counter, who obviously knew her well. The girl grinned at her. ‘Almond croissants?’

  Stephanie laughed. ‘Please. My God, I don’t know what it is about them but I just can’t stop eating them. I wake up thinking about them.’

  The girl leaned into the display case to bag the pastries. ‘At least it’s not coal – could you imagine craving that?’

  Stephanie laughed and began opening her bag to look for her purse. Behind her Lily stood up, her phone in her hand as if she was texting. Heading for the counter, Lily caught the eye of the girl behind the till. ‘Can I get another latte, please?’

  ‘Of course, I’ll bring it over.’

  Stephanie glanced up at her and Lily made an exaggerated look of surprise. ‘I don’t believe it. You’re not Stephanie Carson?’ Lily shook her head in disbelief. ‘My goodness, I was only talking to my colleagues in New York about you the other day.’

  Stephanie’s face was cold, her grin polite. She was obviously used to being spotted and not a fan of having to talk to people who thought they knew her.

  ‘Really? That sounds interesting.’

  Pretending she hadn’t noticed Stephanie’s reaction, Lily continued, ‘I work for No. 42 – we’re looking to make a splash
with our new collection in the UK. I was telling Marianne, the design director, about your TV show. We’re looking for rising stars for a new range launching in January.’

  It was Stephanie’s turn to look surprised. ‘Oh.’ Her whole attitude changed. ‘That sounds very interesting.’

  Lily shook her head again, glancing back at her phone like her text was far more important than the conversation. ‘How mad to bump into you.’ She smiled absentmindedly. ‘Lovely to meet you.’

  Lily turned to go back to her table, as if the conversation was over. Behind her Stephanie said loudly, ‘Do you know, I think I might have something too – have you got green tea? And I might have one of those croissants now?’

  Lily turned back, her brow furrowed, deep in thought, apparently only half-concentrating on what was going on in the coffee shop. ‘Would you like to join me? I was supposed to be meeting my brother but he’s going to be ages, apparently.’

  Stephanie smiled, her whole face lighting up. ‘That would be lovely, thank you. I’d love to hear more about No. 42 – I haven’t heard anything from my agent.’

  Pulling out a chair, Stephanie sat down, putting her phone next to her on the table. As she bent sideways to slide her handbag under the chair, struggling with her bump, Lily glanced at her screensaver just before it went to sleep. Marcus Devine smiled back at her.

  She was utterly shameless.

  As Stephanie straightened up, Lily switched off her own phone, dropping it into her satchel. ‘We’re looking at lots of different people – the PR team might not have got to the agent stage yet. Obviously, it’s a very important position for a brand like ours. They have to do lots of background checks.’

  ‘OK, right.’ Stephanie’s colour heightened very slightly. ‘So tell me what you do. Do you work in New York?’

  The girl arrived with her coffee and Stephanie’s pot of tea as Lily said, ‘I’m starting officially at the end of the month. I’m a jewellery designer – I’m going to be working on their bespoke ranges. I was with them last week and we’re looking at campaigns for the launch of a new high street range.’ Lily sipped her coffee. ‘They want to make the fact that I’m English into a story for the press and we were working out how that could tie into their marketing strategy for the retail lines.’

  Stephanie thought for a moment, then said, ‘That’s so interesting – how can I help?’

  ‘Well, I’ll be working on one-off commissions, suites of jewellery for their top-level clients, but we’re going to develop retail lines around the themes of the commissioned pieces. So if Beyoncé is wearing one of our star tiaras to the Grammys, there will be a range of star products to match it in high street shops. We want people who will be well-photographed to be wearing those ranges too. I adored your show Lies and I thought you’d be perfect; you’ve picked up a huge following.’

  A smile flicked across Stephanie’s face. ‘That sounds great. So you’re looking for brand ambassadors, really?’

  Lily took another sip of her coffee. ‘Exactly. We’ll supply you with jewellery and obviously pay you a retainer to make sure you mention No. 42 whenever you can. I’m sure you’ve done it for other brands?’

  ‘No, actually, I haven’t, but I adore No. 42. I’ve already got some of their pieces – a friend brought me the Asteroid cuff and earrings for my birthday.’

  ‘Wow, you have a very nice friend – that’s a gorgeous collection. In silver?’

  ‘Rose gold.’ Stephanie blushed faintly.

  As well she might. Lily knew that the cuff alone in that collection cost over seven thousand dollars. Marcus Devine must have spent the best part of ten thousand on his lady love’s birthday gift.

  It had probably cost him about the same to hire a hitman to try to murder his wife.

  Chapter 21

  VITTORIA SHIVERED as the taxi dropped her off outside Mile End tube station. It was starting to rain and a stiff breeze was sending rubbish tumbling up the broad pavement. She had an overwhelming feeling of greyness as she pulled her coat around her and pushed the cab door closed. She wasn’t sure if it was the overcast sky or the expanses of concrete, but for a moment she was sure the driver had brought her to the wrong address; this area felt like it was a long way from anywhere called Paradise Gardens.

  Anxiety made her stomach hollow, nerves fluttering like trapped birds. She couldn’t afford for this part of the plan to go wrong. Looking around her, Vittoria got her bearings before making a beeline for the route that she had carefully memorised. The apartment she needed was apparently only a two-minute walk away.

  She headed down a side street into a warren of multi-storey flats, netted windows rising above her like watchful eyes in blank faces. Reaching what appeared to be the entrance of the building she needed, she spotted a sign on the wall to her right indicating floor and apartment numbers. This was it.

  On the outside the building looked smart enough, but as she took a step inside the lobby area, it was a different matter. The lifts were covered in graffiti, ‘out of order’ signs stuck on the steel doors, the darkened corners of the concrete hallway littered with syringes and McDonald’s wrappers.

  Vittoria started up the stairs, the heels of her boots echoing with every step. She kept to the shadows, praying she wouldn’t meet anyone, her mouth dry, her heart careering. On the sixth floor she found another sign with the apartment number she needed. The flat was at the very end of an open landing, children’s toys strewn along the walkway. Looking out over the balcony, she could see dark clouds gathering, promising more rain.

  She reached the door and knocked, waiting a few moments.

  There was no reply. Merda.

  She knocked again.

  Vittoria’s stomach fell. Whatever about Croxley getting excited about a missing Pissarro turning up for private sale, proving its provenance was vital to his actually selling it. And that was why she was here. She had no idea how long this would take but it was vital that she got it organised today.

  Before she’d left Dublin, Vittoria had thought long and hard about provenance. She didn’t need a bill of sale – it wasn’t that sort of picture. What she needed was a way of demonstrating how it might have come into the collection.

  It had been so obvious when she’d finally come up with an answer. Marcus’s father’s dinner parties had been legendary and were precisely where this type of thing would have been discussed. They provided the perfect solution.

  Years ago, Vittoria had been amazed to read that, at the end of the war, then Taoiseach Eamon de Valera had visited the German Embassy in Dublin to offer his personal condolences over the death of Adolf Hitler, his political allegiances fuelled by anti-British sentiments. It had all been in a review of a thriller set in post-war Ireland – the ‘Emergency’, as the Irish referred to the Second World War – the author capturing the hostility towards the UK perfectly. As a neutral English-speaking country, Ireland had become a very attractive stopping off point for anyone who needed to vanish from the victorious allied forces.

  Marcus’s father was a judge; he mixed in political circles. It didn’t require a huge leap of logic to make the connection: it was just ‘proving’ it that was vital.

  But there were reams of Judge Devine’s letters and papers in Marcus’s winter study, in the drawers of the huge leather-topped desk his father had used. Pulling it open, pushing aside the spare pairs of spectacles and old fountain pens in the central drawer, Vittoria had started going through everything, looking for something that she could make work. His mother had kept diaries, mainly about the weather and her hair appointments, but occasionally who was coming to dinner, often detailing the menus themselves. Which had made quite incredible reading as she’d flicked through; Vittoria knew her diet was restrictive but the very thought of the amount of food that was served made her feel quite queasy.

  The diaries gave her fabulous context and a way for others to verify the document Vittoria planned to create. Eileen the copyist had given her – well, had given Marcus, w
hom she thought she was corresponding with – the name of a man who was a wizard with all sorts of documents. ‘Marcus’ had emailed in a panic saying he needed someone to write a letter in his father’s hand – he’d spilled coffee all over a pile of documents heading for an exhibition at the Law Library and needed them replaced as discreetly as possible. It had sounded a bit odd even to Vittoria, but it was the only thing she could think of on the spur of the moment. And it had worked.

  Sifting through the papers in the drawers, old play programmes, articles torn from newspapers, the stubs of cheque books, eventually Vittoria had found what she needed: a letter from Marcus’s father to his mother, one that said very little except that he’d be back in Killiney soon. Which didn’t help anyone, but the fact that it was one line and the rest of the page was blank, and it had been dated 17 July but with no year, made it the perfect vehicle to substantiate the supposed origin of this particular painting – and several more, should they be needed. He hadn’t even signed it. It looked like it might have been wrapped around something, Vittoria had no idea what.

  It had taken Vittoria a while to get the wording right, but the letter just needed another paragraph in which Marcus’s father mentioned that he had invited some acquaintances to dinner, including a wealthy Dutch businessman and prominent art collector. In the letter, Marcus’s father wanted to make sure that a vintage port was well aired and that they used the crystal decanters with the family crest.

  It needed to be dated 1964.

  Vittoria had done her homework.

  It wouldn’t take Croxley a moment to discover that the Dutch businessman, Pieter Menten, had later been convicted of being a member of the SS. There were several newspaper reports about how the house he’d bought in Waterford had been looted and set on fire, how the local gardaí had suspected Mossad.

  Raymond Bahnschrift, the man who had been recommended to write the letter, had been hard to contact. But perhaps that was a good thing in his line of work.