‘Welcome.’ I clamp my teeth together and smile nervously at the Rembrandt. ‘The countess will be here soon. I need to get the painting over to the showing room.’
‘You’ve not done it yet?’
‘No, I . . .’ My words tail off when I remember why I’m running behind. I must not tell Becker that I bumped into Brent. Or that I’ve spoken to my ex. Not right now. Maybe never. ‘I took a call from the estate agent dealing with my father’s shop. There’s been an offer, and I’ve accepted.’ My mind is reeling, wondering what Becker’s done and how the hell he’s done it.
‘That’s great. You must be relieved.’
‘Yeah,’ I reply quietly. Great. Is it? And how the heck has he got a new woman?
‘Have you seen Gramps today?’ He cuts into my tatty mind with his question, and I’m grateful, because my brain is beginning to hurt.
‘Three million quid, Becker.’
‘Oh, I didn’t tell you that bit?’
He knows damn well he didn’t, a bit like he neglected to mention that he planned on turning over Brent again. Wasn’t fifty million enough self-satisfaction? ‘No, you didn’t.’
He chuckles, light and sweet. ‘Don’t worry, it’s insured. But don’t lose it, eh?’
Air inflates my cheeks. ‘I have work to do. I’ll see you soon.’ I’ll grill him about the car when I can look him straight in his shady face.
‘Actually,’ he says. ‘Something just came up. I have to stop by in Clapham. Can you take care of the countess yourself?’
Clapham? What’s in Clapham? I narrow an eye, suspicious. ‘Sure,’ I say slowly. ‘Where will I find the papers in case she wants to see them?’
‘In the file in the library. See you soon, princess.’
I hang up and tap my foot, trying to figure out what’s gone down. I know how much Becker wanted that car. How’s he pulled this off? ‘What have you been up to, Saint Becker?’ I ask thin air, as I try to think. My brain begins to ache again. I haven’t got time for this, and something tells me I need it. As well as some aspirin to soothe my thumping head. I go to the library to fetch the paperwork before collecting the painting and weaving my way through the maze of Becker’s other treasures with the utmost care, peeking over the top of it as I go.
I reach the showing room and lay it gently on the floor, tuck the file in the corner, before grabbing the only easel in the room and positioning it near the back wall, perfectly centred, so when you enter the room, it’s the first thing you see. My next job is stripping down all of the protective coverings, so I start to pick and feel for an edge to peel at.
‘We have visitors.’
I look over my shoulder and find Mrs Potts’s peeking around the door. ‘Two minutes.’
She nods and backs out of the room, leaving me to continue carefully peeling away the coverings. The painting in all of its glory is revealed, and it literally takes my breath away. ‘Wow, you’re so pretty,’ I muse, my eyes skating over the oil on panel. The frame is now perfect, and the painting looks so much brighter in the flesh, polished and almost new.
A shrill laugh distracts me from my admiring, reminding me that I haven’t got time to sit here gazing at the magnificent piece of art. I jump up and place the painting on the easel, making sure it’s dead centre and secure before gently releasing it and tentatively pulling my hands away.
‘Ready, dear?’ Mrs Potts is back.
I give a sharp nod, feeling unreasonably nervous, and hold up the protective sheeting with a questioning face. Mrs Potts puts her hand out, and I rush over to give her the rubbish. ‘Thank you,’ I say, brushing down my dress and moving back a few steps.
‘Good afternoon.’
The greeting makes my head snap up and my back snap into shape. The accent told me what I would be faced with before I got a chance to look, so I don’t know why I’m surprised when I find a woman in fur. It’s everywhere, in the form of a hat on her head, a stole over her shoulders, the cuffs of her suede gloves, and the trim of her leather riding boots. She’s tight-jawed and looking me up and down.
‘Where’s Becker?’ she asks, sniffing back her obvious disappointment to find me here instead.
I need to nail this. Grin and bear it. So I do. I slap a ridiculous smile on my face. ‘He’s tied up.’ I didn’t mean to say that.
She looks at me, her painted on eyebrows forming high arches. ‘Tied up, you say?’
She’s imagining that. Becker tied up. She must be sixty. A looker, even if she has a stick up her arse. ‘You’ll be dealing with me today.’ I sweep out my arm, gesturing to the painting. ‘Petronella Buys, Wife of Philips Lucasz.’ Just talk about the painting. I can do that. ‘Are you familiar with Rembrandt, madam?’ I ask, smiling at the painting fondly.