He couldn’t be sure how much time had passed before a nurse finally emerged from the delivery room, gave him a warm smile, and said, “Congratulations, Mr. Karpenko, it’s a girl.”
“And my wife?”
“She’s fine. Exhausted, and will need to rest, but you can go and see them both for a few minutes.” Sasha followed her into the room, where Charlie was tenderly holding her newborn child. A wrinkled little thing with unfocused blue eyes stared up at him. He hugged Charlie, thanked whatever gods there were for this miracle, and gazed down at his daughter as if she was the first child that had ever been born.
“Pity this didn’t happen a week ago,” said Charlie.
“Why, my darling?”
“Imagine how many more votes you might have got if you could have told the audience at the debate that your daughter was born in the constituency.”
Sasha laughed as a nurse placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “We should let your wife rest.”
“Of course,” said Sasha, as another nurse gently lifted the baby from her arms and placed her in a cot.
Sasha reluctantly left the room, although Charlie had already fallen asleep. Once he was back out in the corridor, he stopped to stare at his daughter through the window in the door. He waved at her; stupid really, because he knew she couldn’t see him. He turned and began to walk toward the stairs, and for the first time in hours, his thoughts returned to what was going on at the town hall. He ran along the corridor and down the steps, wondering if he’d be able to find a taxi at that time of night. He walked across the lobby and was just about to push the door open when a voice behind him said, “Mr. Karpenko?”
He turned around to see a nurse standing behind the reception desk. “Congratulations,” she said.
“Thank you. I couldn’t be more delighted that it’s a girl.”
“That wasn’t why I was congratulating you, Mr. Karpenko.” Sasha looked puzzled. “I just wanted to say how pleased I am that you’ll be our next MP.”
“You know the result?”
“It was announced on the radio a few moments ago. After three recounts, you won by twenty-seven votes.”
34
ALEX
Boston
“I’m sorry to say that Anna was spot on,” said Rosenthal. “More than fifty of the pictures are copies, and remembering your own experience with the Warhol, it’s not difficult to work out who’s got the originals.”
“And she’s probably sold them all by now,” said Alex. “Which means the bank can never hope to recover its losses.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Rosenthal. “The art world is a small, close-knit community, so if a painting from the Lowell Collection were to appear on the market, it would almost certainly be recognized immediately. And we’re not talking about one painting, but over fifty. However, now that Mr. Lowell is dead, his sister may well feel confident enough to dispose of them, especially if she believes her only other source of income is about to dry up.”
“Which it most certainly is,” said Alex with considerable feeling.
“Then the first thing we have to do is find out where the paintings are located.”
“Tucked safely away in Evelyn’s villa in the south of France would be my bet,” said Alex.
“I agree,” said Anna. “Because if they were in her apartment in New York, Lawrence couldn’t have missed them.”
Rosenthal’s next question took them both by surprise. “How well do you know Mr. Lowell’s butler?”
“Not that well,” admitted Alex. “Why do you ask?”
“Do you have any idea where his loyalties lie?”
“When it comes to the Lowell family,” said Alex, “you have to support either one faction or the other, as I found out to my cost fairly early on. But I’ve no reason to believe he’s not a member of the home team.”
“Then with your permission,” said Rosenthal, “I’d like to ask him a couple of questions.”
“I can’t see why not,” said Alex, ringing the bell.