Arthur was never going to make a fuss. He didn’t do fuss, overplaying his in control card once too often. His persona was gentle and unthreatening but it could have been contrived. I wasn’t sure. This was the first time I felt threatened in his company. I covered the cheese and suggested that perhaps we should call it a day.

‘I’m happy to leave the cheese. Look after the waistline.’ He patted his flat stomach and wiped his moistened lips with the edge of a serviette. He stood and scraped back his chair across the wooden boards.

The phone rang again. My thrill at Mitch’s determination and persistence was shattered when I heard the caller’s voice.

After Arthur left, tail between his legs, I replayed the message. Oliver. The bastard. Mitch must have spoken to him. Perhaps Mitch had been phoning to warn me. Perhaps he had confronted Oliver, head-on. While I was desperate to know what was happening, I decided it would have to wait. I was exhausted. Dealing with Arthur hadn’t been as easy as anticipated.

61

Arthur

I treated myself to a new jacket, pale linen with an expensive cut. The navy trousers were hand tailored in Milan and the crisp white shirt in Rome, according to a fawning sales assistant.

I wandered through Knightsbridge, glancing every so often at my reflection in shop windows and whistled confidently in the bright sunshine. Away from the pungent claustrophobia of the underground, the exclusive streets welcomed me into their bosom. I would definitely pass as a serious connoisseur of fine art; a wealthy collector of expensive treasures.

Pennington’s Art Gallery was smaller than I imagined, more bijou. Cramped might have been a better description. I extracted my Gucci sunglasses from my jacket, set them on top of my head and pushed open the door, confident but nonchalant.

‘Good morning, sir.’ James Pennington welcomed me as he stood up from behind an obscenely large mahogany desk located at the back of the shop. ‘How can I help you?’

I did wonder if this was the real James Pennington or some ageing lookalike who had usurped his position and was covering the business while the real owner was sunning himself on a yacht in the Mediterranean. His voice buried the doubts. It was nauseatingly upper class, crystal cut.

‘I’m interested in eighteenth century Italian art.’ I took the sunglasses off my head and swivelled them teasingly in my fingers. If Mr Pennington was counting pound signs no one would have guessed. Money didn’t appear to be a driving passion. ‘I’m a good friend of Rebecca Carrington. She suggested I pop by and have a look at your collection,’ I continued. I peered inquisitively at printed details attached to a monstrous modern collage of multicoloured shapes. The creep turned to face me. I’d caught his interest.

‘Rebecca? How is she?’