

The Mistress

John Headford

This novel is a work of fiction. The names and characters

are the products of the author's imagination and any resemblance

to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Copyright John Headford

All rights reserved

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Coveted by many, can a mistress only be true to one person? She steals the heart, encourages men to lie and cheat, leaves a trail of destruction. Despite these pitfalls, men still fight to keep her to themselves.

Wealthy men conspire to own a masterpiece. A young man seeks a new beginning with his family. He becomes unwittingly embroiled with criminals and stolen art. His wife and daughter are placed at risk. The values they hold dear are tested to the extreme.

A strong woman weakens when she has to choose between duty or love. She devises ways to deceive friends and enemies. Intending to win at any cost she discovers that in the world of ruthless men greed and betrayal are fitting partners. Emotions run high as she struggles to survive.

In a world of double dealing and forgery many believe that the end justifies the means.

By the same Author

Peace Offering

For Neve and Connor

Chapter One

The forger studied the brush strokes that created a unique sense of mystery. He visualized himself being the artist, selecting the lines that both gave clarity but at the same time secrecy as the woman appeared to linger on the couch. Attractive, with black hair she had posed half naked. As if waiting for her lover to catch up she partially covered her full breasts with a lace vest. The smile in her deep green eyes and on the pouting lips seemed to dare the observer to look away, for if he did, he would miss something erotic.

Unpacking his tripod he started to assemble one of the most powerful professional cameras in the world. It **would produce an image of the quality and resolution necessary to copy the painting in its finest detail.**

**' Sorry Sir,' a strong commanding voice said from behind him, 'no photography allowed.'**

'It will only be the one,' the man appealed to the security guard.

'And if all of our two thousand visitors a week took one, how many would that be sir?'

'Well I realise that, but I didn't intend to use flash. No harm will come of it.'

'It damages the art work. You obviously know that, stop trying it on.'

'What about a wide shot of the gallery, you could stand by this masterpiece,' he indicated where he wanted the man to be.

'Look sir, we try to be very helpful here at Thornton House and Gardens. I can see that's a very good camera but ours is even better and to save you all the trouble of setting up, framing the shot, processing the film,' the guard smiled as though he would announce an amazing surprise, 'we've done it for you.' He paused to let the message sink in. 'You are going to be astounded at the quality of the snaps we've taken and they are all available in our shop, from ninety nine pence'

'I'm sorry; you seem to have misunderstood my intentions. I need to take a professional photograph to assist in my teaching role at the University.'

'No problem at all sir, let me direct you to our Curator and Head of Education, he is sure to be helpful and you will probably be able to buy the full set at a discount, but for today, and always, unless you have express permission, no photography allowed, sir.'

The photographer sighed with exaggerated frustration, he had been caught out. 'Thank you for being so helpful,' he started to pack his equipment away, 'how do I acquire express permission?'

'You don't sir,' said the guard as he gently ushered the nuisance visitor towards the exit.

The onlookers who had gathered around to hear the commotion began to disperse. The camera bag fell onto the floor. The contents spilled out. The round film cartridges rolled in every direction. Laughing some of the crowd jumped back others picked them up. The guard refrained from shouting at the man. Using an enormous amount of self discipline he reverted to being helpful, collecting items and pushing them into the bag. As he twisted around he knocked an elderly lady to the floor. The whole event turned into a farce with several visitors rushing to her assistance.

Taking advantage of the distraction three men lifted one painting each off the display wall at the opposite end of the gallery. Immediately the interference alarms started to reverberate throughout the hall. The high pitched wail sounded like a fire alarm. It created panic. Young and old headed for the door. In the centre of the rush ran the three thieves each carrying a square framed painting. The guard regained his composure and started to give chase.

A man appeared in the entrance doorway and fired a hand gun into the ceiling. It had the opposite effect to a starting pistol; the rushing crowd stopped and turned around heading back, blocking the security guards attempt to give chase. Finally he arrived at the doorway in time to see a white van speed across the well tended lawn and down the drive onto the A380 heading towards the motorway junction a short two miles away.

'CEO5V something,' he started to repeat to himself.

Other members of the security team arrived and persuaded visitors to return to the art gallery for questioning by the police. The photographers bag complete with camera and film had been placed safely on one of the central benches. However the art enthusiast himself seemed to have disappeared. Very few people had escaped the building; only one had made it to a waiting motorcycle at the rear.

The police arrived in sufficient numbers to quash any attempt by the remaining visitors to leave the area.

'Who had witnessed the robbery?' Descriptions of the three thieves were taken for later comparison. Tempers had reached the limit when the Detective Inspector in charge arrived.

DI Jones parked his unmarked police car outside the cordon of blue and white incident tape. He pushed his way through a small group of onlookers, flashed his warrant card at the Constable guarding a gap and marched towards the buildings entrance. At the top of stone steps by the massive doorway he could see his right hand man Sergeant Eric Bradford. Jones smiled with relief, thinking that the preliminary work would already be complete.

'What have we got here then Sergeant?'

'Paintings stolen by armed men, sir. One gun discharged into the entrance hall ceiling and a getaway car down to the motorway.' He knew the boss liked his reports short and sweet.

'Any one hurt?'

'No, some hysteria shown by visitors to the art exhibition, but they've settled down now. We're just finishing questioning. From what I can see there are no reliable witnesses. I'm hoping the CCTV pictures will give us more information. Shall I introduce you to the man in charge? The Curator as he likes to call himself.' A practical, down to earth character the sergeant disliked pomp and ceremony. 'He seems more of an Admin Manager to me.'

Ignoring the question, DI Jones asked, 'has the Armed Response Unit been.'

'Been and gone sir.'

'Description of the stolen paintings?'

'Curators finding the photographs and descriptions now.'

'Value?'

'Millions.'

'Pounds?'

'He didn't say but from the colour of his face it must be.'

'Has he closed for the day?'

'Will do when we allow the visitors to leave.'

'Push it along then. Any forensic evidence?'

'None as yet.'

'Right I'd better have a word with the,' he paused searching for the right word and sighed when he acknowledged that it had to be, 'the Curator.

'Over there sir,' the Sergeant pointed to a side door marked with the word Private, 'he's probably drinking his Earl Grey by now. Looks just the type for afternoon tea, especially after a shock to the system.'

He watched until DI Jones reached the door and with a single knock entered the Curator's office. Turning to his work Eric Bradford marvelled at the way he and the boss worked together. Partners for three years they now had complete confidence in each other and like two football strikers they instinctively knew how to achieve the best results. Teamwork, he thought to himself, you can't beat it.

The Curator of Thornton House Galleries was indeed drinking his afternoon tea as he quickly gathered together the best description of the lost art work. When the knock came to the door he attempted to hide the bottle of whiskey he'd used to add sustenance to his brew.

In his deep mellow voice he queried, 'Come in!' the door opened almost before the words were uttered, he added, 'why don't you?'

'Thank you sir,' with a flash of his warrant card the Detective Inspector said, 'I'm DI Jones, you must be the Curator.' He read the name plate on the desk, 'Robin Walsh?'

'That's me. Come in, come in. Have you made any progress?' He pushed the bottle into the drawer of his desk.

'Hardly likely is it? We've only just arrived. Have you produced the descriptions yet?'

'Just about complete, allow me another few minutes. What about the getaway van?'

Hiding the fact he knew little about it DI Jones replied, 'my Sergeant's got the matter in hand. Now, tell me about security here at the Hall.'

'We have a staff of three security guards working at any one time. Spread around the rooms where the art is on display. Alan Bedows is our headman; you might know him, retired police officer in his late fifties. We've never had any bother before.'

Making notes, DI Jones mumbled, 'Go on.'

'One problem that we have is that the display areas are near to the entrance therefore recently we fitted interference alarms to each painting. Any movement and the alarm alerts security who blocks the exits. Plus we use close circuit video recording of all public rooms and the entrance.' He finished assembling the photographs and sheets of paper. Passing them over he said, 'this is a very accurate description of the stolen paintings.'

'Are they valuable?'

'If sold at auction, on the open market, they would probably reach around two million pounds sterling.' The Curator sighed, 'we have been very lucky.'

'Lucky?'

'The next painting along the wall, called the Mistress, is valued at twenty five million pounds minimum.'

'I expect they are all insured.'

'Of course, against fire and water damage, not against theft, it would be too expensive. In any case, a painting as famous as the Mistress can't be sold on the open market, it's too well known. The seller and hence the thief would be caught within a very short time.'

Shaking his head in disbelief the detective decided he had heard enough for the time being. 'I've got to get on Mr Walsh. You will be staying on the premises for a while?'

Answering the question, the Curator, sighed, 'until six o'clock or until you have finished questioning the staff.' He had little doubt that he had received instructions to stay on the premises until told he could leave.

Entering the main building Jones found an attractive woman dressed in a black trouser suit examining the area around the missing paintings.

'Who are you then?' he asked abruptly.

Turning to face him she smiled, 'Detective Sergeant Hill, you must be the DI. Nice to meet you, sorry I didn't check in earlier but you looked busy.'

'I've not asked for forensics,' he didn't recognise the tall blond.

'You haven't got them sir,' she pulled out her warrant card and passed it over.

'SOCA?'

'Serious Organised Crime Agency!'

'I know what it stands for. What are you doing here?'

'Sorry, thought you knew. Your Chief Inspector asked me to come and take a look. I specialise in stolen art and antiquities'

Keeping his frustration in check, 'you must have met DS Bradford.'

'Eric, yes we've just met. He's chasing up the van used to get away from the crime scene. He asked me to take a look at the gallery.'

There it was again reference to the van. He hoped Eric Bradford had all the details. 'Found anything here of interest?'

'Not yet. I'm hoping to see the CCTV soon. Have you seen the Mistress?' she pointed to the medium sized painting by the side of the empty spaces where the stolen pieces of art had hung.

'Ah, yes, the Mistress?' He followed her pointed finger, to the frame. He estimated the painting measured sixty centimetres square. He looked at the subject and immediately felt drawn to its honesty. Simple but astoundingly flirtatious, he knew he wanted to know more about the women who had posed; the artist had somehow surrounded her with an air of secrecy. 'How old is it?' he asked.

'Painted in 1893 by Diego Alfredo, part of the King of Spain's collection for nearly a century. She's worth about thirty million to some, to others who have fallen in love with her, she is priceless.'

'Very interesting, tell me, how did you become so knowledgeable about art?'

'Degree at Cambridge, worked for an auction house for a few years.' Her piercing blue eyes looked him up and down. 'I know my job Inspector; don't worry about my contribution to the enquiry.'

Back on track he handed over the document Walsh had produced. 'Here are the descriptions of the stolen pieces. Can you provide an analysis of the robber's intentions and how we can trace them?'

'Of course,' she said confidently, but if we don't find the artwork in the very near future the problem will become more difficult to resolve. Moving stolen paintings of this size will take some planning. They probably have already thrown the frames away.'

'How do they move them around?'

'Depends on where they are required. On the road in this country and Europe, maybe in a container mixed in with other art work. Potentially they could paint over the stolen masterpiece and restore it later when we have stopped looking. Or they may just lock it away for ten years and then try to sell it. Depends on why they stole the paintings they did.'

'Could they have been stolen to order?'

'Yes, but the idea that some millionaire has a private collection is fanciful. I think it's more likely that they will try to sell them back to where they have been stolen from. Hold the the gallery to ransom, so to speak.'

DS Bradford walked over to join them. 'Hi Sam, how's it going? I see you've met the boss.'

'Yes, we've met,' she smiled, 'I think he's going to welcome me onto the team. He's given me work anyway.'

Interrupting the banter DI Jones asked, 'have you found the van?'

'Not yet, but we have a good description,' he laughed, 'to quote the security guard, "it's a white van".' Recognising that his boss didn't see the funny side of his comment he quickly added, 'part registration CEO5V, probably a Ford Transit.' The traffic boys are searching for it on the road and on motorway cameras.

'Talking of cameras, can we look at the CCTV from the gallery?'

'That's why I came over. It's ready in the back office. I'll lead the way.'

The back office looked like a store room. Boxes of brochures were stacked on the floor to head height. Chairs had been drawn around a square garden table with a small TV placed in the centre. To one side a DVD player waited to play the recorded crime. The security man controlling the playback introduced himself and apologised on behalf of Alan Bedows who had to attend to other business.

'OK, let the show begin,' said DI Jones as he sat in the chair directly facing the screen.

The small screen came alive with coloured images. A white van approached the entrance to the hall. Parking at the bottom of the six steps the driver stepped out. He wore white dungarees with splashes of coloured paint, a blue tea shirt and a peaked baseball cap that prevented identification from the camera high above him.

'We have builders working at the rear of the building,' the security man interjected.

The driver went around to the rear doors of the van and opened it allowing two more men to clamber out. All of them were identically dressed. Carrying a white dust sheet they looked the part for professional decorators. As they moved to the gallery entrance a fourth man climbed out of the passenger door. Dressed as a rambler, and again wearing a peaked hat.

'They seemed to know about the camera,' suggested DS Bradford. 'Peaked baseball caps for all concerned. The same clothing made it difficult for any witness to describe them. Most of the statements concentrate on what they were wearing. They are all a similar height, no distinguishing hair or facial features.'

'They all look healthy young men between twenty and thirty years old,' commented Samantha Hill. 'Looks as though they work out too, look at the shape of their bodies they could be weight lifters or maybe swimmers.'

The DVD pictures carried on moving. The filming changed to the inside of the hall where the security guard could be seen arguing with an old gentleman who wanted to take a photograph. The altercation ended with the pair of them on their knees picking up rolls of film. Other visitors to the gallery looked on and seemed thoroughly entertained. The three men dressed as decorators simply walked in behind the group dropped the dust sheet in the corner and each lifted a painting from the wall. Almost in sequence with the alarm sounding they turned around and walked quickly towards the doorway.

'Watch out for the gunshots, any second now,' said DS Bradford.

As the alarm sounded the visitors started to head out of the building. From outside a hand holding a gun pointed around the corner and fired into the ceiling.

'It's a pistol,' DI Jones pointed out, 'no shell casings to be found.'

DS Bradford replied, 'none at all. No bullets either, the gunman used blanks, but it had the desired affect. Everyone but the thieves turned around and ran back in.'

The small audience watched the DVD images finish with the white van driving away its number plate partially obscured with mud.

'Not a chance of identifying anyone from that,' DI Jones said.

'Not a chance,' agreed DS Bradford.

'I think I may be able to help,' Samantha Hill volunteered.

'You can?'

'I can't identify the decorators.'

'You can't,' interrupted a disappointed DS Bradford.

'I can tell you who the photographer is: the one that caused the distraction.'

'Who is it then?' asked DI Jones impatiently.

'It's Bob Fry, a well known art forger. He must have had something to do with the robbery. It can't be a coincidence. Can it?'

Chapter Two

Looking down at the ship the Captain could see he would not be returning to her. Stricken by a storm the container ship had issued a mayday call. Yes it had been force nine but his ship had been built to survive such natural events. Only the damage to the hull and subsequent flooding in the engine room had caused her Master to call for assistance. The crew well drilled in survival at sea and the emergency procedures had launched the life boat. Now, as he felt the down draft of the rescue helicopter he could relax.

Breaking News - Associated Press   
A container ship is sinking in the Channel 40 miles south of the Lizard in Cornwall. All 23 crew of the MSC Nader are abandoning ship and as yet there are no reports of injuries. Falmouth Coastguard is co-ordinating the rescue.

A Maritime and Coastguard Agency tug, the Scotsman, plus a helicopter from RNAS Culdrose, are heading towards the vessel. The French are also involved in the rescue effort.

The Nader, a Panamix container vessel built in the 1990s was en route from Antwerp to Peru, South America via the Panama Canal. In trouble in the English Channel the rescue tugs had to decide between heading for the nearest harbour, several miles away in the heart of the storm or to seek temporary respite in sheltered water. Taking the safest option, they plotted a route for the South coast of England and the safety of Lyme Bay. The decision had not been taken lightly. The government had to be involved. The Secretary of State's Representative agreed with the professional advice given, two thousand containers would be too great a risk to other shipping if allowed to break free and float in the busy sea lanes that connected Europe with the rest of the world. Within sight of the coast she suffered serious structural failure. The next night some of the containers were lost.

BBC Latest News

According to the Maritime and Coastguard Agency (MCA), 50 coastguards are out looking for the missing 40ft long containers.

The MCA spokesman said: "After discussions with Devon Police we are asking members of the public not to approach the containers which may carry a risk of chemical pollution. "We don't want anyone to open the containers, if they see them please ring the coastguard."

***

The group of plunderers stood around the bar. None of them had met before. Each laughed and joked about their booty. Taken from the containers on the shore the products ranged from nappy liners to motorcycles.

'There must have been hundreds of people down on the beach.'

'Grab what you can, that's what I was told.'

'Is it legal?'

'No one's there to stop us!'

The conversation ranged from man to man. They ignored the television behind the bar until the news broadcast showed the wreck of the cargo ship. A mile off shore it still looked enormous. Towering rows of cargo containers provided a multi-coloured display. The ship's foredeck lay low in the churning water. Grounded at high tide it would not float off the inshore rocks without assistance from a tug. A few containers appeared to be floating away towards the shore. The camera view moved to cover the coast line where eleven containers had already beached. As the shot zoomed in men and women could be seen looting cargo through open doors. Goods spilt out onto the wet sand; some floated in the water, moving gently in and out with the waves.

James Crandle watched and listened from the back of the room. Seated by himself, he sipped his afternoon beer. Occasionally he glanced at the TV whilst at the same time he appeared to read the paper. What no one could see, what he kept to himself, was the sense of elation at being one of the first to find the stranded containers and the very first to enter what had now been named the 'Furniture Warehouse'. It held personal belongings, boxed up for transit from one country to another. He felt guilty at taking what he could carry but he knew that if left it would be destroyed either by sea water or the army of thieves that would follow him.

The Landlord increased the volume on the TV.

'They can't get away with that can they?' asked one of the plunderers as he watched a team of men remove a motorcycle using a tractor and trailer.

'It's got to the point where gangs are claiming containers. You can't get near them.'

'It's time the police got a grip,' said another onlooker in the bar.

Crandle casually sipped his drink. He didn't know the true value of his rescued package but he estimated it would be several hundred pounds.

The door to the lounge opened with a crash. A thick set man came in struggling to carry a box full of bottles. Looking into the corner he shouted, 'Crandle, where have you been? You want to see the goings on down at the beach. Your mates are there filling up there vans.'

'I can't be bothered to push through the crowds to recover a truck load of nappies. What have you got there? It looks heavy.'

'It's six bottles of wine in payment for salvaged goods. There's a black market out there. Get moving man.'

'Put them down and let's have a drink. What are you having, a pint of bitter?'

The room gradually returned to normal. Crandle and his mate, Dave Sampson, argued about the profit that could be made by raiding the containers from the shipwreck. Eventually they decided to leave and carried the bottles between them until they parted company at the bottom of the street where Crandle lived.

The tiny terraced fisherman's cottage that Crandle called home stood almost on the roadside. No front garden, a doorway that allowed direct access to the lounge and the staircase to the two bedrooms and bathroom. In the back, a small but functional kitchen had a wood burning stove. The rear door opened onto a small paved yard that gave access to the alley way behind the row of similar properties. The home smelt of burning wood, whiskey and cooked fish. He loved it.

Hanging his all weather coat on the banister Crandle walked through to the back room, thinking about the goods taken from the beach. Wreckers had done the same thing centuries ago. On this occasion the ship had foundered through bad weather but the plundering of goods from the shore seemed logical to a community that made its living from the sea. That's how it had always been.

Sitting down in his easy chair he gazed up at his only piece of recovered booty, standing on the mantel piece of his empty fireplace. He had recognised it straight away, although it must be a copy, it looked like the original masterpiece. Standing he adjusted the table light shade to gain a better view. He adored the way the brush strokes added texture to the artist's interpretation of composition and light.

'Fantastic,' he said out loud unable to contain his pleasure.

He had seen the original on a fun day out with his family two years ago before the so called "amicable arrangement". Since his separation he had lived alone having no interest in the opposite sex, hoping that one day he could be reunited with his wife and daughter.

He laughed to himself, 'well at least I can say I now have a mistress.'

It had been his lucky day, being one of the first on the beach and entering the container full of furniture. The painting had been boxed and he hadn't known the subject until he opened the professional packaging in his kitchen. Now gazing in wonder at the painting he recognised as the Mistress by Diego somebody-or-other, he couldn't remember the name, he realised that a copy of this quality could be quite valuable. 'What to do with it, that's the question?' He asked himself.

Turning out the lights he made his way up the stairs. Tired from his early morning adventure he decided to find a solution tomorrow, for the time being he would keep the painting. The owners would think it lost forever. No rush for him to find it for them.

BBC Radio News

In a second day of looting from containers lost from the stranded MSC Nader, the Coastguard Agency has described the scenes on the beach as abysmal and disgraceful.

Hundreds of people have driven to the area, some simply to look at the stricken vessel; others came to steal anything they could lay their hands on.

The police are being asked to close the beach to prevent accidents and the theft of goods that will be reclaimed by the owners.

The phone rang on and on. Crandle wouldn't invest in an answering machine because he would have to start phoning people back. He let it ring until he couldn't bear the noise anymore. Whoever it was they were persistent. Carrying his early morning mug of tea into the lounge, he picked up the receiver.

'Crandle,' he said with a sigh that implied you've interrupted my breakfast.

'Jim, its Dave; why aren't you down on the beach with the rest of us?'

'Maybe because I'm too honest to take advantage of someone elses misfortune.'

'Oh, like that is it, got out of the wrong side of the bed.' Without waiting for an answer the excited voice carried on, 'listen, I've picked up something that I want your opinion on. Can you meet me at my place in about an hour?'

'What is it?'

'Can't tell you now but I need someone with engineering knowledge.'

'It sounds to me as though this is going to cost you,' he paused for effect, 'at least two pints of bitter at lunchtime.'

'Okay, okay, you're on, but meet me at my place first.'

'Twelve thirty on the dot,' Crandle replaced the handset smiling at the phrase Dave had used "someone with engineering knowledge".

He had knowledge of electronics, structural engineering and boat engines. When he had arrived in the area needing work he touted himself around as a marine engineer. Odd jobs came his way and gradually he developed a reputation for good work. Now self employed he earned a reasonable living without having to commit himself to office hours. It suited him because irregular hours had been his background. He hadn't acquired his skills in the normal way. With eleven years in the Royal Marines he had been thoroughly trained to destroy structures using electronic weaponry and escape in fast boats. Now he used the same skills constructively and had slowly adapted to a quieter life.

Five feet eleven inches tall, muscular but wiry he needed physical activity each day. Over the years he had become addicted to exercise. Long distance running along coastal paths seemed to satisfy his needs and deal with his frustrations. Changing into his kit, he decided to run before calling to see Dave. Unshaven as he left the cottage, with short cropped hair, he realised he must look like a boxer in training for the next big fight.

'Right what have you've found?' asked Crandle, an hour later, showered and cleaned up after his exercise.

Dave Sampson had only just arrived back at his bachelor pad, a two bed roomed, second floor apartment overlooking the harbour. Out of breath from rushing from the beach he didn't speak but opened the door to allow them both to enter.

'Fancy a cup of tea?'

'Not at twelve thirty,' said Crandle, thinking about his pie and peas at the Admiral Nelson. Dave hadn't carried anything in with him so the item to be viewed must already be in the flat.

'Yesterday,' he paused to take a deep breath, 'fairly late on, I found something on the beach.'

'Fell out of one of the containers did it?'

'Well it could have,' laughed Dave, 'but I wouldn't want to know that, in case the owner laid claim to it. Maybe it was washed ashore.'

'Okay, cut the crap Dave. Let's take a look and then we can be off.'

Leading the way into the kitchen Dave partially opened the door and then stopped short, looking questioningly at Crandle he said, 'this is strictly between us. No one else is to know; unless I say so.'

'Fine, what have you found?'

Pushing the door open he allowed a full view of what he had placed on the table.

'What do you think?' he said, admiring the antique that had captured his imagination as he unwrapped the packaging.

Crandle gazed at the European style ornamental clock. The frame made of bronze, he assumed it couldn't be gold, had intricate swirls with vine leaves working from the feet to the base of the time piece that stood twenty centimetres above the table. The white enamel face and black fingers pointed to five o'clock.

'It's the wrong time,' he said.

'I know it's the wrong time, it's not going, but what do you feel about it?'

Walking around the table, looking from all angles, Crandle had to admire the craftsmanship. 'It's well made. Looks French, delicate and expensive, needs a pendulum,' he observed.

'That's why I need you; the Engineer. I can't get it to work. Have a look at it for me. Probably needs a drop of oil.'

Opening the back plate Crandle looked in to discover a jewelled movement, lots of golden cogs and springs, he had little idea how it worked. 'You didn't find it on the beach like this. Where's the packaging? Have you found the Pendulum?'

Dave opened the bathroom door and produced the remnants of a wooden box. Damp from sea water, he had torn it apart to find out its contents. Looking inside the now crushed bubble wrap and Styrofoam he suddenly produced the missing item. 'This is it, now let's see if it works'

Typed on what was left of the box could be seen barcode references. Crandle picked one of the torn sides up; turning it over it had an address boldly printed with a sign that instructed this way up. 'You realise this belongs to someone!'

'Everything belongs to someone. It belongs to me! I'm the salvager. It's the same as everything else that fell off that ship.'

'Not quite,' said Crandle, 'this came out of the container full of furniture. It looks as though the contents were personal possessions in transit. Someone's moving home from across the world. You'll have to give it back,' as he said the words he realised that he would have to do the same with his painting. He placed the pendulum on its hanger and gave it a swing.

'Now it looks the business. Maybe the insurers will pay me for salvage,' suggested Dave.

'Maybe,' answered Crandle pensively, 'we will have to wait and see who claims it. Now, let's go for that pint and lunch. I can't think straight until you feed me.'

Walking to the pub Crandle started to think about the Mistress. He decided not to mention the work of art to his friend. He had several options, one of which was to keep it, another to sell it back to the owners, or maybe sell it at an auction. A copy would have some value but he thought not enough for the police to investigate every occurrence. There were probably hundreds of prints, a bit like the Bubbles painting that Pears had used to advertise their soap. Still, he'd not seen one of the Mistress before and he liked it. Tell no one, he thought to himself. Attending a forces briefing for the Middle East he had previously learnt the Arabian proverb a secret is like a dove: when it leaves my hand it takes wing.

Chapter Three

Bob Fry considered himself to be an art restorer, yes he had been involved in forgery in the past but now apart from exceptionally lucrative deals he kept away from criminal activity. Living in his converted barn, last valued at over a million pounds, life seemed good. Waking at seven in the morning he padded into the kitchen, the coffee machine timer guaranteed him a strong cup of Columbian filter before taking a shower. Standing at the back of the building looking at the beautiful countryside spread out before him he couldn't see the half mile driveway that swept in from the main road to his front door. He missed the three police cars that cruised quietly to a halt. The door bell rang.

'Good morning sir,' DI Jones smiled a greeting, 'sorry to intrude at this time of the day but we need to have a word with you.'

Familiar with police procedures Bob quickly recovered from seeing so many uniformed officers at his door. Addressing the plain clothes detectives he said, 'how can I help?'

'Could we have a moment of your time inside,' DS Bradford pointed into the large entrance hall.

'All of you?'

'I'm afraid so sir. You are Mr Robert Fry the owner of this property, Chesterton Farm sometimes known as the Barn? Without waiting for a reply,' DS Bradford waived a document in the air, 'we have a search warrant for the building and surrounding outhouses.'

'You had better come in then.' Bob Fry turned and led the way to his kitchen. 'What's it all about your warrant and cars full of men? Most of this building is open plan you'll not have far to look for whatever it is your searching.' His words reflected what he could see happening, policemen were spreading out and carefully lifting aside blinds, furniture, carpets.

'You seem relaxed about it all Mr Fry,' DI Jones observed. 'Seen it all before have we?'

'Not here, not at the farm, this is where I live. Once before at a client's office block. That's another story.' He noticed the pretty blond plain clothes officer admiring the art work hung on walls around the main lounge. Dressed in black with blond hair she didn't look the normal recruit to the service. 'Who's the pint of Guinness then?' he joked. Quietly admiring the practical way she assessed the paintings.

'DS Hill to you,' DI Jones responded sharply, 'helping us with our enquiries, she's an art critic.' He found himself defending the recent recruit to his team. At five foot eleven inches, with her casual but professional approach to the work, her presence seemed to encourage enthusiastic efforts from all involved. Not that she had gone out of her way to impress the search team; if anything she had seemed demure and modest. However, she had briefed the team in what to look for and they had hung on every word spoken.'

'Ah, if she's interested in art she will want to see my gallery and workshop upstairs in the loft.'

'I think she'll find her way sir.' He paused to observe his team systematically covering the ground floor of the building. Seeing the search under the control of Eric Bradford he returned his attention to his suspect. 'Now then, let me pose a few questions. Yesterday you were taking in the sights at Thornton House Gallery?'

'Would it do any good to deny it?'

'Not really Mr Fry, we have you on CCTV. Can you explain to us why you were there? It seems you became mixed up in an art robbery,' DI Jones smiled thinking how unfortunate, you being an art forger.

'I assume with the lack of a caution and a charge that I don't need a solicitor. It's a good gallery and as you know I have some expertise in art. I intended to take a photograph of a painting called the Mistress, the security guard stopped me. If you know anything about me you will know that I have never stolen art so crudely. I've served my time, yes, but I hope my reputation is for a more subtle approach. Not stealing several paintings in one swoop.'

'Perhaps you don't mind increasing the odds now you are becoming the elder statesman. We know of your previous history of forgery and sale of copied art work. If it was a coincidence why didn't you wait to be interviewed?'

Here Bob Fry looked at his questioner with a quizzical smile. 'Are you crazy? With a record like mine I could have expected at least a night in the cells. I didn't know about the robbery, it was just a coincidence. An unfortunate one for me, I left as quickly as possible by the back entrance. Left my camera and film as it happens, I'm hoping some honest soul will hand it in.'

'They did indeed sir, we thought we would help you a little and have developed the film for you. It seems you have a fondness for the Mistress and nothing else.'

'That's correct. It is the only painting that I value in the gallery. I wanted a photograph for my album.'

DI Jones looked at Bob Fry, who was still wearing his red dressing gown; he was about five feet six inches tall, slightly overweight, gray hair, a pasty coloured face with a moustache that covered all of his top lip. He knew that his suspect had reached the age of sixty three the previous year and by the look of it needed to retire and take it easy. 'Can I suggest that you go with one of our good officers and put some clothes on? Meantime, we will continue to take a look around.

'By all means Detective,' he stopped, 'I don't think I had sight of your warrant card.'

The card was thrust under his nose.

'By all means Detective Inspector, be my guest, help yourself to coffee.'

'He's a cool one that,' said DS Bradford, 'not a trace of nerves.'

They entered the dining room. One wall had smoked glass mirrors from floor to ceiling and from one corner to the other. In its reflection they could see themselves and the eight seat round table that had a glass chandelier above it. 'The mirrors make the room look twice as big,' said DS Bradford, 'personally I can't see the need for them. Everything in this place is enormous already.

'Not a fingerprint on them,' commented DI Jones. 'Must be a nightmare to keep clean, obviously doesn't have kids.'

They made their way up the stairs to the loft and workshop Bob Fry had told them about. The officers they passed on the way generally shook their head to declare nothing found.

DS Hill greeted them, 'interesting place this. She pointed at the unframed paintings hung on the wall. 'All original, Bob Fry is a very good artist in his own right, good enough to make a living at it, but only forgery could have helped him to buy a place like this.'

'Have you found any forgeries?' asked DI Jones.

'Over there, leaning against the wall,' she pointed to a corner of the artist's loft.

'Is that illegal?'

'Not until he tries to sell them.' The sun streamed in through the roof windows providing perfect light for painting. In a darker corner on a steel desk stood a thirty two inch flat screen TV surrounded by other small screen digital photograph frames. 'I find this corner the most fascinating. Take a look in here. Opening up the wide desk drawer she showed them rows and rows of carefully filed photograph negatives. 'Professional negatives, note the size of them,' she commented. Taking one out she held it up for the colleagues to look through. 'Scotland for Ever if I'm not mistaken, by Lady Butler, you can find it in Leeds City Art Gallery.'

'Is it an unusual photograph?' asked DS Bradford.

'I suspect it's unusual to have a photograph of this quality. It's not by itself; the whole drawer is full of them.' Choosing another she held it up, 'One of the Family by Frederic Cotman, last time I heard of it you could see it hanging in the Walker Gallery in Liverpool.'

'Why would he want all these photographs?'

'I assume it could help with copying, but he can't forge this many paintings. I think we are going to have to ask him about them and all the equipment in the cupboard.' DS Hill walked over to a metal cabinet; opening the door she showed them shelves full of computer equipment. 'Bob Fry is a man of many talents.'

'Let's regroup our search team, if they've finished they can leave. Then we will ask a few more questions,' suggested DI Jones. 'I take it there is no sign of the stolen paintings?'

'Not here.'

***

Having been lifted off the wall at Thornton Galleries the three stolen paintings in question were in transit to Geneva. The hired thieves had dispersed shortly after having handed the paintings over to their employer. It had all gone to plan and although the three 'decorators' and driver had never stolen art before, they had been well paid, enough money to return to Poland for the year. The employer had shipped the art work to Europe hidden in an articulated lorry trailer. Soon it would be locked away in a vault until needed to contribute to his pension fund. He had plans for the paintings but not for a several years.

***

DI Jones sat opposite Bob Fry in the mirrored dining room. DS Hill and DS Bradford sat together in a corner of the room, listening in but not asking questions.

'It seems you're in the clear Mr Fry.'

'I know you are keen to find something on me, but I have not been involved in robbery before or now. What can I do to help?'

'You could explain why you were at the gallery yesterday and why the interest in the Mistress painting?'

'I'm a business man; I need photographs of world famous art. Two years ago I came up with this great idea. To use high definition plasma screens for the reproduction of great paintings. I take a photograph or use one that's available and then using DVD playback display it on the screen. It can stay there for a fixed period let's say a day or you can set the package to rotate the world's greatest paintings.'

'You were at the gallery to take a photograph for your collection?'

'Yes the Mistress is not well known but is a superb piece of art. The original is worth several million. When you use the HD playback it's as though you have that piece of art in your home. I'm making art more available to the public.'

'But you had already taken several photographs. We have them on your camera. It's helping the thieves by distracting security that we have difficulty understanding.'

'I have taken a few in secret, it's difficult, this is new technology and I sometimes finish up with more photographs than I need. To be of the standard required you have to use a tripod. It was all a coincidence with the robbery, I panicked and ran off. Silly of me I know, but no real harm done, not by me anyway.'

Interrupting from the corner of the room DS Hill asked, 'why did you say the original Mistress is worth millions?'

Bob Fry looked at them in surprise, 'surely you know the one in the gallery is a copy. Not one of mine I hasten to add.'

Later back at the gallery the Curator, Robin Walsh, sat dazed from the news that his most important work of art had been copied. Describing the renovation work taking place elsewhere in the building he pointed out to DI Jones that none of the paintings had been affected by the work the only change had been the number of people coming and going. Never the less somehow a forgery had been substituted for the original valuable painting. His conclusion was that the switch must have taken place before the interference alarms had been fitted twelve months ago.

'Before that time each room in the gallery had an attendant,' he confirmed.

'No major incidents in the past two years?' asked DS Hill. She had accompanied DI Jones to Thornton House. Eric Bradford had returned to the police station pursuing other enquiries.

'No we have lots of school visits and the occasional pensioners outing during the week and an increasing number of the public at weekends. Business has improved over the past three years. Nothing I can remember has affected it.'

'Mr Walsh I'm going to ask you to provide a written statement to DS Hill and we are going to interview the staff you have listed as employed over the past two years.' With the DI's closing comment, the police officers left the Curator to mull over his predicament.

With only eight years to go before his early retirement Robin Walsh didn't want anything to complicate his employment. He was annoyed that the Mistress had been stolen. It would bring unwanted attention to the galleries inventory and lots of bad publicity although the more he considered it he had to acknowledge people might come to see the forgery as the infamous painting, part of an unsolved crime. Perhaps he needed to arrange publicity. He was startled by the telephone bursting into its loud ringing alarm.

'Thornton House Gallery and Gardens: Walsh speaking.'

'Hello Mr Walsh, sorry to bother you, this is Detective Sergeant Bradford. I need a word with your Security Chief, Alan Bedows, can you give me his home address.'

Irritated he started to look through his card index for employee addresses. 'He worked in the police force before he came here, I would have thought you could have looked it up.'

'That's right sir, I'm just cross checking. You don't have a telephone number do you?'

He found the card and read out the details. The conversation ended abruptly leaving him to feel he had been used. Now, he thought, let me develop a plan to take advantage of any publicity.

***

Daily Herald

Mistress Deceives the Curator

Following a daring theft of three valuable paintings from Thornton Gallery and Gardens the police have discovered that another multimillion pound painting has been replaced with a forgery. The masterpiece, called the Mistress, owned by the gallery for seventy years, is now missing. The Curator of the Gallery, Robin Walsh, said that the forgery was so good that only an expert could tell the difference from the original. The mystery is: when could the painting have been replaced? Have you visited Thornton Gallery in the past two years? Did you see the Mistress taken down and replaced? If so a reward of five thousand pound is offered to any one that provides information leading to the return of the painting. In the meantime, the copy of the Mistress is on display; although a forgery the Gallery owners defy anyone to point out why it is a forgery. The Curator has looked at it every day for the past twenty four months and has been deceived on each occasion.

The reward is sponsored by Yorkshire Relish and Spangles Arcade

It looks the same but it's not the same. Buy the original

Yorkshire Relish from Spangles Arcade.

We wouldn't sell you anything other than a masterpiece.

***

Opening his early morning paper, Dave Crandle spilt his tea when he read the head line about the Mistress. He looked up at the mantelpiece where his salvaged version of the painting still rested. Looking again at the picture in the paper he confirmed his copy looked the same as the forged one on display.

'Bloody hell,' he said to himself. 'Now what are you going to do?'

He'd not said a word to anyone about the painting. No one knew he had it. Perhaps it was the real thing or maybe there were lots of copies? Five thousand pound seemed a lot of money, maybe he had the stolen original and he could exchange it for the reward. Hadn't he read the painting was worth millions? The reward said for information leading to the recovery. What would they pay for the painting? His thoughts rambled on. How could he find out if his was the original? Why had it turned up on the shore spilt from a container bound for South America? There would be two lots of people looking for it, the Gallery owners and the police. He would have to be careful, he was the innocent finder of stolen art; he didn't want to be charged with stealing the Mistress.

Chapter Four

Crandle made a poor estimate of the numbers looking for the stolen painting. He did not take into account the original thief and the organisation that had ordered its theft. Bob Fry had been called to a meeting with one of his clients. He didn't want to attend but had little choice. Wearing a pair of heavy brown spectacles as a simple disguise he walked into the Royal Horse guards Hotel looking for the bar. His contact Adam Grange had been Head of Acquisitions for a company called Fraternity Enterprises for several years. Bob had only met him on a few occasions but had been impressed by his discrete approach to business. Greeting each other with a handshake they sat down in a quiet corner with a pot of coffee.

'You have the proof that you need?' Bob asked.

'Yes the news story adequately identified the Mistress at the gallery as a copy.'

'The search for original has now started but you have held it for five months, during which time you will have moved it to somewhere safe.'

'That's correct, the strategy worked.'

'I take it that you will now pay me the rest of the fee. The deal was half on delivery and half on proof that your version is the original.'

'We have a slight problem that we hope you are going to help us with. It will mean a delay in payment. The purchaser has not received the painting as yet and until it is hanging in his private suite will not release the final million pounds.'

Bob sat back in his chair and stared at Adam Grange. In his mind he had delivered everything agreed. Payment had to be made. 'You are breaking the terms of our contract!' he said with some bitterness.

'I agree we are changing some of the terms, but we have no alternative, the painting has not been delivered to the final location. You are part of our team and that means when we don't get paid you don't.'

'I'm not part of anyone's team. I delivered it to you. What has happened?'

'It's been lost in transit.' He carried on describing how the Mistress had been packed and transported as part of a relocation package for an American executive. 'But the container fell of the ship and floated ashore. The locals stole what they wanted,' he said indignantly.

'So you know where it is but not who has it?'

'We know it is somewhere in the UK. The looters came from all around. We need someone,' he paused and looked at Bob, 'that means you, to discretely ask questions in the area of the ship wreck.'

An argument ensued where Bob Fry emphasised his skills of forgery and at a push exchanging a painting in a gallery. 'I wouldn't be much good at finding the lost painting.'

'Nonsense man you're a born mixer,' said Adam, 'given a couple of days with the locals you'll soon be up to date with all the gossip.'

'I'm also under scrutiny by the police. They will wonder why I have suddenly taken a break in Cornwall.'

'Everyone deserves a holiday Bob, including you. All we want is information about the painting nothing more, we will handle the rest. Enjoy yourself at the coast, relax and chat to the locals. You will look younger with a suntan.'

'Now I know I can't believe you, a tan is the last thing I'm likely to gain.' The conversation ended with Adam Grange answering his mobile. He stood up and shook Bob's hand, leaving the table to answer the call he didn't return.

Bob strolled out of the hotel towards the Thames, he didn't like London but most of his deals had been made there. Art forgery was a funny old game, he thought, this time he had become involved with some powerful people. Just when he had wanted to go straight with his business idea they had insisted he help them acquire the Mistress. The money would be a significant investment into his new company called Ssnap but now he had to finish the work that others had started. He knew moving stolen art around the world could be difficult, but it wasn't his speciality, that had to be for the others, now he had become entrapped. Bob shrugged his shoulders letting his discomfort with his new role dissolve. Better get on with it, he decided.

Several days later Crandle stood back in amazement, almost falling off the pavement into the road. Recovering he looked once again into the newsagents window to read the small card placed with other local advertisements.

Substantial reward offered for lost art work that may have been salvaged from MSC Nader recently stranded on the coast. A family travelling to a new life in South America have lost most of their possessions from a container used to transport their furniture. Can you help? Some of the artwork has a high sentimental value. If you have it please contact Bob Fry at the Four Seasons Hotel.

Crandle headed for the library. Taking a seat in the reference section he worked his way through the book, UK Masterpieces. Finding the Mistress by Diego Alfredo he confirmed where it should be on display. The news paper article had offered a reward and now this postcard had appeared he surmised that someone knew that the Mistress had been taken from the seashore.

Sitting down at one of the free Internet computers he typed Bob Fry into the search engine. Within seconds the programme provided a list of references. He clicked on the ones that he thought interesting but soon tired of the resume' of sportsmen and job seekers. The more he considered it he realised that he would have been lucky to find the Bob Fry interested in lost art staying at the Four Seasons Hotel. Still it was worth a try. Out of interest he typed his own name, James Crandle, into the search engine. Again the system listed a whole range of references; the BBC News headline Hero Receives Medal described the ceremony when he had been decorated for valour and the incident in Iraq. He quickly closed the programme not wanting to be reminded of the past.

Later in the privacy of his cottage he called Thornton House Gallery and Gardens.

'Walsh speaking,' a quiet respectful voice responded.

'Mr Walsh I read the article in the Herald. Is the reward still available?'

'For information leading to the return of the Mistress. Yes it is.'

'How can I claim it?'

'It depends what it is that you know. You could come to the gallery and talk to me, or you could write a letter. If you wish to remain anonymous you could contact the police, I have a number that guarantees privacy. Who is it that's speaking?'

'Just call me Dave for the time being I'm a bit nervous at giving you the information and me not receiving the reward. Does Bob Fry work for the gallery?'

Surprised by the question Robin Walsh remained silent whilst he thought of an appropriate answer. 'I know a Mr Fry, but he doesn't work for me. Why do you ask?'

'His name cropped up in a recent conversation,' lied Crandle.

'Look Dave, I can't spend a long time on the phone, give me your number and I'll phone you back.'

Crandle terminated the call. He didn't feel ready to make direct contact with the gallery. Not until he could find out why the card written by Bob Fry made him feel nervous. It seemed the only way to discover more about Bob Fry and the postcard would be to visit the hotel. With this in mind he headed for the establishment knowing that it had an excellent bar, if you could afford Hotel prices!

Breathing heavy from his fast walk he ordered a pint of beer and sat in the back corner of the almost deserted bar. He'd been there a few minutes pondering what to do next when in walked his mate Dave Sampson accompanied by an older man. They stood facing the bar after ordering drinks, chatting away as though they knew each other well. Finally the older man left and as Dave turned to wave goodbye he noticed the other occupant of the bar, sat in the corner.

'Crandle, what are you doing here?'

'Sampling the beer, as one does. How about you? It's a bit off your beaten track.'

Dave Sampson looked around the room and leaned closer to Crandle, 'you remember the clock?'

'Is it still working?'

'This guy,' Dave waved generally towards the door, 'Bob Fry, he's just left, placed an advert in the newsagents asking about lost art work.'

'You've not told him about the clock have you?'

'Of course, he's offering a reward for the return of it and other things.'

'Got a list has he?'

'Not that I've seen but he is definitely interested in the clock and is contacting his client for further instructions. He reckons he will be in touch in two days with the payout. Asked me to keep it quiet, so don't you blab to anyone, will you?'

'Why the secrecy, everyone round here knows about the salvaged goods?'

'I think it's some sort of insurance scam. Provided he delivers the cash, who cares?'

'You'll be quids in then. Your round again,' Crandle drained his glass and pointed at the bar.

Whilst Dave went for the drinks Crandle thought about what he should do with the Mistress. He liked it, no doubt about it, but if it was the original he would have to hand it back. Who to? The Thornton Gallery or Bob Fry who seemed to be some sort of middleman. Surely the middleman would expect his cut. He decided to keep his secret a little longer. Let's see how desperate they are first, he thought, the longer they have to wait the more the price will go up. Dave came back with the drinks.

'You're going to need someone to help with the handover. The clock for the money, so to speak, let me know when it's taking place and I'll pop over.'

'Thanks Crandle, I was going to ask, although it's not really that complicated. I've given him my address and phone number, Fry is going to give me a ring when he's ready. Changing the subject, are you on tonight? There's a skittle match down at Gerry's'

'Meet you there then.' The conversation ended as they walked out into the rain.

Robin Walsh had been unsettled by the phone call about the reward. Someone called Dave. Dave who? Whoever he was he had not been clever enough to hide his phone number. He could always be called back. The question about Bob Fry working for the gallery had thrown him completely. Why would anyone make that mistake? He decided to have a chat to his Security Manager Alan Bedows, bounce a few ideas about, he thought.

The phone rang but remained unanswered. After two minutes he gave up. Where had Bedows disappeared to this time? He had already given him a dressing down about being absent, time to have a serious conversation and perhaps put a warning in writing. Good grief he couldn't run a gallery with half the staff off work. He sat back and stared out of the window, mulling the robbery over in his mind. The police had made little progress in the first few days; it looked as though the three stolen paintings would be lost forever. Picking up the card left him by DI Jones he rang the contact number.

'DS Bradford speaking,' answered the now familiar voice.

'Walsh here, at Thornton Gallery, 'I thought that you should know that the name Bob Fry has cropped up in a call that I had about the reward for stolen paintings.'

'How's that?'

'Someone asked if we employ him.'

'Interesting; thanks for letting us know.'

The conversation didn't last long, the sergeant reported slow progress but he was hopeful of tracing the owner of the van used in the robbery in the near future. The police were in contact with Alan Bedows and he had been reasonably helpful with enquiries. He couldn't say when he would return to work, it was outside his remit.

'Well thanks a lot,' Robin Walsh said to his empty office, he felt decidedly out of the information loop.

Having heard one side of the telephone call Detective Inspector Jones turned to his sergeant, 'we still have the Head of Security in for questioning, don't we?'

'Yes sir, helping with our enquiries he's asked for legal representation.'

'It's not surprising given that he has stolen the identity of one of our finest. You would think that Thornton Gallery would take more care at vetting employee application forms.'

'Have you spoken to the real Alan Bedows?'

'He's just returned from an around the world cruise. Loves retirement and he's planning his next trip.'

'Finger prints have identified our man as Jack Fenton, ex con, served seven years in Manchester for armed robbery. He's still denying it, but we have all the proof we need. The charge could be misleading police in the course of their enquiries. That should hold him for a week or two whilst we find out what he's been up to.'

'He must have been involved in the robbery. It's an inside job if ever I saw one.'

Sergeant Bradford looked at his boss wondering if he could venture an idea. 'You know we have focused on Bob Fry creating a diversion. What about if it was the other party that caused the distraction. The Security man, in this case, our friend Alan Bedows or Jack Fenton as we now know him picked an argument with the photographer.'

'To allow his mates to steal the paintings? Yes, it could make sense. He didn't know it was Bob Fry taking the photos. It was a coincidence after all. That puts Fry in the clear.'

'Let's not be too hasty sir, Bob Fry's name has just cropped up from someone trying to claim the reward for the Mistress exchange. He's involved somewhere, but I can't figure it out.'

'Maybe it's time to involve our art expert, Samantha Hill; find out what she's doing, she's not pulling her weight.'

'Seems to plan her own work schedule,' said Eric enviously, 'apparently she has lots of contacts in the art world. Her reputation as an art connoisseur is unquestionable, works with HMG at the highest level, regarded as a valuable asset.'

'Well she has not done much work for us up to date,' Jones said grumpily. 'Find out more about her Eric; help her to become part of this investigation instead of a casual visitor. She could help with interviewing Jack Fenton for a start. Can't see him knowing a lot about art but let her test his knowledge, we could be in for a surprise. Meanwhile I'll concentrate on Mr Fry.'

Chapter Five

Unbeknown to DI Jones the first steps in the investigation of Bob Fry had started due to the initiative of Samantha Hill. Before joining the police force she had gained experience as an art dealer. Her contacts provided an insight into the world of the infamous art forger confirming that he had copied and sold several masterpieces. Having been found out nine years ago Fry had served five years in prison.

'Since then he's been in the clear,' she said to DS Eric Bradford as he briefed her.

'Sam, the boss is going to question him some more and is asking us to concentrate on this guy Jack Fenton who is obviously part of the gallery robbery.'

'I can do both, I'm especially interested in Bob Fry. I've seen him before at Police College, when he lectured students on a Hundred Years of Forgery.'

Eric nearly spilt his tea. They were sat at a table in the canteen, taking a mid afternoon break. 'How come?' he queried.

'He's a clever man. Gained his degree in Modern Art whilst in prison and became recognised as an expert art critic when he had served his time. The force asked him to present a one off lecture.'

'What did it cover? Is it relevant to the robbery?'

'Not to the robbery but it could be relevant to the theft and substitution of the Mistress painting. The replacement is a forgery and we have a forger in our investigation. What more do you want as an incentive. He must be involved somehow.'

'Tell me more about forging art.'

'OK, but we must persuade the boss to let me be involved with the Bob Fry investigation,' she paused to gather her thoughts, deciding where to begin, 'Let's start with a few examples and then you will see why I'm interested in this case. First of all I should say that most forgers have above average ability in the art they are working in. Take Bob Fry when you look around his work room you can see the quality of his work. He could make a living from producing commercial art, but he thrives on the challenge of reproducing work to the standard of old masters. Again you can see this from the copies he has standing against the wall. Fortunately for him none of them have a signature and he claims they are for his personal enjoyment.'

'Does it make him a typical forger?'

'In the sense that he fakes the styles of the masters and makes his own paints to copy the textures from the original period, yes, he is typical of the best. A similar forger is a guy called John Myatt who produced forgeries over a period of nine years before he was caught and imprisoned. He found he had a talent for forging masters but what set him apart from many others was his partnership with someone who knew lots about provenance.'

'Proving that the painting is genuine?'

'That's right, a con man who knew the art world well enough to sell the forgeries as authentic work from a proven source. He claimed that he sold the paintings for someone who wanted to sell off his collection. Myatt painted the masters and his colleague conned buyers into thinking they were genuine.'

Bob Fry must have a way of proving that each forgery he sells is the genuine article. I don't know how he does it. Unfortunately most buyers are not that particular, they are easily persuaded that they have discovered the lost work of a master. Provenance is often accepted at face value they are that eager to own a masterpiece.'

'How did we catch and convict Fry last time?'

'He tried to sell a painting privately but the purchaser became suspicious about the provenance. Fry had provided a list of previous owners but he slipped up with the last one. You see, it's easy to say who owned something when that person is dead but the last owner must be alive and be able to vouch for the painting on sale. Fry slipped up, he used a friend's name for the last owner but the friend had been under observation for fencing stolen property. They were both caught.'

Sam carried on lecturing Eric Bradford for the next half an hour. During which time the tea had gone cold but his enthusiasm to be involved had reached boiling point. Eventually he interrupted suggesting that he would persuade the boss to allow Sam to participate in the Bob Fry enquiry but they must get on and investigate Jack Fenton the man suspected of planning the robbery at the Thornton Gallery.

***

Crandle and Dave Sampson returned early from the skittle match. At ten o'clock that evening they intended to watch the Big Fight on the flat screen TV that Dave had recently mounted on his kitchen wall. Having polished off a few beers earlier the plan involved finishing the evening with a few whiskeys.

'I still think we should have brought fish and chips in,' Dave said unlocking the door to his apartment.

'Look mate, we've already eaten at the pub,' Crandle answered as he headed for the toilet. 'Turn the TV on; it's nearly time for the fight.'

He returned to the kitchen to find Dave sat in silence, staring around the kitchen looking for something. 'I have a funny feeling that I've been burgled,' he announced.

'Can't find the TV controller? Where've you looked?'

'No,' Dave said, 'I can find the controller, that's the problem. The last time I used it I left it in the hall on the way out. I remember almost taking it with me and at the last minute taking it out of my shirt pocket and putting it on the shelf. Now I find it on the kitchen work top.'

Laughing Crandle said, 'it's well known that nowadays Goldilocks tries all the beds and watches the TV.'

'Take it seriously,' Dave shouted, 'I've been burgled!'

Seeing his friends concern Crandle replied, 'Okay, Okay, let's look around. What is it that's been stolen?'

Dave started to look around the apartment. Quickly moving from room to room he checked that his belongings were still in their rightful place. In the meantime Crandle found the glasses and opened the bottle of whiskey kept in the cupboard by the fridge. 'Anything lost?

'Not that I can see but someone has definitely been in here. Little things convince me. Curtains not quite in the same place, drawers that are neater than I've ever packed, shoes reordered. I'm sure that someone has searched around.'

Turning the TV on to catch the start of the boxing programme Crandle asked, 'going to report it to the police?'

'No, and you could show a bit more interest.'

'I'm still waiting for you to convince me that you've had visitors. A curtains been moved? Draws tidied up? A few beers just might have clouded your memory. I see you've still got that clock in the corner, that's worth a few bob and your burglars declined to steal it.'

'Nothing's been stolen Crandle, but some ones definitely taken a look around. I'm not that comfortable with the idea that my homes had unknown visitors. First thing in the morning I'm going to fit another lock on the door.' He paused to see his favourite boxer knocked down onto the canvas. 'Help yourself to whiskey mate.'

The two friends sat on high stools and watched the fight. When the adverts came on the conversation continued about unwelcome guests and what they could have wanted. Each time the fight programme restarted they lapsed into cheering on their man who had become the underdog in a fifteen round battle. It ended in a draw. Crandle stood up to leave, swayed from side to side and sat back down.

'You make sure you lock the door behind me,' he half slurred his words.

'Don't worry mate, I'm going to bolt myself in,' replied Dave Sampson in an equally slurry voice. 'Good fight that. Do you want to stay or shall I call a taxi?'

'Taxi; no I'm going to walk it. It will help to sober me up.' Standing again he made for the door. 'See you tomorrow Dave.'

Crandle stepped out onto the pavement. A clear night met him; the damp pavement sparkled in the moonlight as he turned towards home a fifteen minute walk away. He made steady progress taking the shortcuts he knew so well. Occasionally he looked around for anyone else on their way home but he appeared to be by himself with the exception of one dark shadow of a man that seemed to keep pace for the first part of his journey. Arriving at his front door he felt the effects of the drink had worn off. Entering his beloved home he locked the door and sat down on the sofa, within a few minutes he was fast asleep dreaming of his wife and daughter.

The last time they had taken a holiday together had been by the beach at Menorca. Beautiful deep blue water, yellow sand, shaded from the sun by a large umbrella, the family were comfortable laid on sun-loungers next to the gently lapping sea. Ashley aged six enjoyed her time in the water, playing on the Lillo. Susan his wife unpacked the picnic packed so lovingly at their private villa. Great times had turned sour later in the year after his discharge from the Marines. His constantly repeating nightmares of the battles fought made living together difficult eventually they agreed on a trial separation. Crandle drifted out of sleep not opening his eyes he lay quietly thinking about the beach. Thinking he should make it to bed he started to rouse himself ready for the climb up the stairs.

A soft almost imperceptible shuffle of paper in the kitchen alerted him that he had company. Opening his eyes but not moving his head he scanned the room. Seeing no one he quietly sat up and slid off the sofa into a kneeling position in the centre of the room. Softly he crept to the dividing door, the shuffling stopped. He readied himself to fight whoever had made their way into his home, he could almost hear his heart beating, holding his breath he reached around the doorway and switched on the light. Crandle pounced into the room to find no one there! When he looked closer at the worktops he found a half open bag of sugar with one corner chewed away. Then he saw the mouse droppings. With his pulse slowing down he smiled to himself. Time for bed he thought. Mouse traps at dawn would be his next battle.

***

Bob Fry had reported the discovery of the antique clock to his so called business partner and hoped that once it had been collected he could return home. He had no luck with tracing the lost painting and no reaction to his local advertisements. Enough's enough he thought, as he entered the Hanging Man pub, I'm going to settle for half my fee and get out of the commitment with Adam Grange, after all he's the Head of Acquisitions I'm just a painter, he smiled, bloody fancy title if you ask me. There, sat in the corner was the guy, Dave Sampson who he had agreed to meet again in order to collect the clock and pay due salvage. He's already chatting to someone, he observed. Buying a drink at the bar he walked over to the table and said hello.

Having been introduced to the new man Bob said, 'Good to see you again Dave, it's an odd first name Crandle.'

'Not my first name, something that started in the army, and just carried on. Now everyone knows me by Crandle, no point in changing it.'

Bob turned to Dave and said, 'I thought we had agreed to keep our business together private.'

'It is private, Crandle is here to help, he's almost part of the family.'

'How's he going to help?'

'When you show us the money I'm going to wait here with you and he will fetch the clock.'

Sighing with the cloak and dagger approach Bob responded, 'we could have just collected it from your apartment.'

'We could but I prefer it this way, I'm not encouraging visitors at the moment.'

'That's fine then; let's get on with it.' Bob withdrew an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and discretely allowed Dave to look inside. 'Five hundred pounds is the sum we agreed part of the payment is for complete silence. I don't want the paper's to pick up on this. Okay?'

'That's correct,' Dave looked into the envelope and nodded to Crandle who left the table to fetch the clock which they had boxed up and stored in the publicans back room. At the same time Bob Fry ordered a taxi using the phone by the bar.

They all sat around the table again with the packaged clock on a chair by the side of Bob. He passed over the money envelope. 'I'm also looking for a painting that's gone missing. A small one, about eighteen inches square, in a nice frame. Any news from the people you know? It's worth a bit, maybe as much a thousand pounds.'

Dave looked at Crandle, 'we could ask around. I've not heard of one being found.'

'Me neither,' said Crandle thankful he hadn't told Dave about his find, 'its salvage again is it Bob? Sentimental value is it?'

'Look, I'm not going to be in the area for much longer, if you hear anything that leads to the paintings recovery I'll pay you for letting me know and pay the person that has found it. I can't be fairer than that.' He passed over his business card 'Ask around, you know some of the guys who were on the beach recovering lost items.'

'How will we recognise it? Dave asked.

'It's a painting of a woman, semi nude, lovely girl, reclining on a bed. You will be attracted to it. It's a very mysterious picture, sort of draws you in.

'Sounds like your girlfriend,' laughed Crandle picking up on Bob Fry's enthusiasm.

Taxi, anyone ordered a taxi,' shouted the barman.

Dave waved his arm, 'over here.' He stood up, 'nice doing business with you Bob.'

Crandle picked up the box and carried it out to the waiting car. Following a quick shake of hands Bob Fry and the salvaged clock were driven away.

Crandle looked at Dave, 'I don't know who he's working for but it all seems a bit odd to me. What about you?'

'Cash in hand, keep it quiet, wants any other items found, I think he must be a crook like all the others that came down here to make money out of the ship wreck.'

'You mean he's not buying nappies or motorbikes, he's interested in furniture and valuables.'

'Must be that. He puts an advert in the shop window, waits for items to be brought to him, buys them, and sells them again at a profit. He's nothing to do with the original owners.'

'But how does he know about the painting?'

Six

He walked into the room feeling inadequate as he always did. This was not his scene, pomp and ceremony, good fellows well met. Senior industrial celebrities laughing and joking, acting as friends when they were all major competitors. Shaking hands that were held out to welcome him Bob Fry looked for a familiar face. Out of the fifty faces in the party he only recognised Adam Grange and he didn't particularly want to talk to him, mind you, given the choice he didn't want to be there. He had been invited by Montgomery Decker, Monty to his friends, who some years ago had founded the organisation called the Fraternity. Members of the Fraternity were multi-millionaires who rarely enjoyed each others company. The annual get together called the Meeting entertained only the principal members and their first lieutenants, the following morning, after the celebration, the serious business would begin; a review of projects with individuals called to account for success or failure. Bob knew that he would have some explaining to do. Resigned to his fate he decided to make the best of the night. Suddenly in the centre of a crowd of men he saw a familiar face. He couldn't believe it but, yes he was certain, the girl he had likened to a pint of Guinness, still dressed in black, surely she had been part of the police contingent that searched his barn. What was the name, Hill, Detective Sergeant Hill? He made his way over, taking a glass of champagne from a tray; he arrived on the outside of a group of admirers. The conversation sounded banal, trivial, the weather, holidays, expectations of the day ahead. She turned her head towards him.

'Bob, Bob Fry, how wonderful to see you again.'

He hesitated, what should he call her, 'Hi,' he said lamely.

'Samantha, Sam to my friends, you must remember me, we met at Thornton Gallery recently.'

'How could I forget,' he fell into a routine familiar to a conman. Old friends meeting after a short parting, he air kissed her cheek. 'Wonderful to see you again, we must catch up.'

Somehow they drifted away from the group to stand in a corner, sipping their drinks.

'What the hell are you doing here?' asked Bob.

'You may not know it but I'm an art critic often asked to comment on masterpieces that have dubious authenticity. This group have a fabulous collection and need someone they can trust to confirm the findings of other so called experts.'

'And you have the credentials?'

'Of course, I'm not just a pretty face. My reputation is sound and referrals from past work describe me as an outstanding investigative art connoisseur.'

He looked around to make sure they could not be overheard. 'But you are in the police force!'

'I know, handy isn't it, think of the resources available to me. I don't advertise it so be discrete but my employer here knows about it and doesn't find it intimidating. This job helps me to mix in the right circles, come into contact with major league buyers around the world. It contributes to my expertise, without it I would soon be out of date.'

'Does the force know you moonlight and probably earn a fortune?' asked Bob in amazement.

'Comes under the heading of Research and Credibility, doesn't cost them a penny for training and they have a world recognised critic on the books. You could try it if you wanted.'

'Now I know you are joking. How can I fit in? You raided my home looking for stolen artwork.'

'You're an accomplished forger. Not only can you produce copies but you know the techniques used. With your help we could possibly stop some of the trade in stolen art. Presumably that's what you're doing here?' she looked at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

'Well yes, of course, you've worked it out,' agreed Bob, thanking his lucky stars he didn't have to explain his presence. 'We are on the same team, looking after the Fraternity's interests.'

Looking around the room Sam thought they had become noticeably isolated. 'Speak to me about it another time, I need to circulate. With that final comment she disappeared into a crush of waiting admirers.

Bob started to mingle. If he had to stand in front of them the following day he might as well get to know them. What a surprise to meet the Detective Sergeant here at the Fraternity meeting. Surely she couldn't be investigating Decker. Her role must be to evaluate art before purchase. Bob knew that Sir Monty had a fabulous art collection, all above board, but knew that he would also have a secret gallery? Men of his status and wealth rarely stopped collecting; when a painting of dubious origin became available they just viewed the masterpiece in private, illicit ownership added to the attraction. Bob didn't know the extent of the private collection but it must be substantial given the funding available from the Fraternity members.

Sam felt she had handled the situation well. She only had an invite for the evening party. Carriages at Midnight the invitation had said, but she had made arrangements to stop overnight. She knew about the main event the following day however she would stay well clear of it. Sam moved over to be near to Sir Monty Decker, over time they had become close, sharing many private moments, but here, during business, they both remained professional.

The next day Bob Fry waited anxiously outside the conference room door. He had slept well and eaten porridge for breakfast. The buffet had offered several versions of the morning meal, the aroma would have made most guests ravenous but he couldn't eat a lot due to his nerves. He had finally settled down, after all he reassured himself, he didn't expect to make speech, his contribution would be to support Adam Grange when he reported progress on art acquisitions, a main agenda item. The door opened and the room emptied for the coffee break. Bob walked in to find Adam setting up his presentation on the projector.

'I'm going to start with your bit Bob and then you can leave without having to listen to the rest of the show. When they come back in you will only have the chairman and the four full members, all the hangers on will be told to wait until we have finished. This session is to be confidential. No one else will be informed of the conversation and there will be no minutes taken. It's completely off the record.' Grange glared at the forger, 'Bob, they don't need to know all the details. The less they know the better, stick to the basic facts.'

'That's fine by me. I don't want to be here longer than necessary and I'm already uncomfortable with so many people knowing of my involvement.'

'Just remember how much these men have helped you. You live in a nice house, with a nest egg in the bank; make sure you stay on the right side of them because they could take it all away.'

'I'm trying to go straight. Ever since my last spell inside I have concentrated on my business. I did the last job as a favour, so called, under duress. If you can remove me off their address list, it would be a big help.'

'A big help for who? It's not a case of selecting from a long list. You are the only forger on our list, when we call, you come running. Now let me finish setting up this projector; you take a seat at the far end of the table and be ready to answer questions.'

The chairman Monty Decker came in surrounded by his colleagues, all of them busily chatting about investment opportunities. Sitting down around the table they looked at Adam Grange and an expectant silence settled in the room.

'Good morning gentlemen,' Adam smiled confidently,' this will be a short presentation and I'm joined by Bob Fry who is a key contributor to the first part. One of you, who shall remain nameless, has expressed an interest in the painting called the Mistress. It has been recovered via the contacts we have developed in the black market. Bob is on our team, he is an expert at identifying forged artwork and has confirmed that the painting hanging in a UK gallery is a good copy. We have the original, its authenticity is assured. I should say we had the original; unfortunately it has been lost in transit.

The Fraternity members quickly turned to Monty Decker, before anyone had time to ask a question Adam continued, 'we decided not to disturb the stretched canvas, given its small size, we transported it in its frame, packaged and stored in a container destined for South America, unfortunately the ship making the journey ran into trouble. To cut a long story short, the painting has disappeared, probably found salvaged on the shore in Dorset, England. Bob has been in the area trying to find out where it could be.' He paused, 'Bob, can you bring us up to date?'

All heads turned to Bob Fry, 'First of all let me say that my role has not been easy and required considerable funding on my part. I have received only half of the agreed payment because of factors outside my control.' He couldn't tell the Fraternity he was the artist who had copied the original to replace the genuine Mistress in the gallery. Only Adam knew about his involvement. Bob suspected that Decker had been defrauded but didn't know how and for his health didn't intend to try to find out. Adam Grange would be a very dangerous man to accuse of double dealing.

Monty Decker interrupted, 'Bob, you are here as a trusted friend, not an employee; forget about the money tell us about the painting. Where is it?'

'To be honest, I don't know. I have recovered part of the shipment found by locals. An antique clock, of considerable value, however, it's not what we are searching for. The contacts that I have made may lead to the discovery of the Mistress but I have drawn a blank up to now.'

'We continue to make progress and I'm hopeful of a breakthrough in the near future,' suggested Adam Grange.

The members of the Fraternity stared at their founder. Monty Decker drew himself to his tallest as he announced, 'we expect results. This is too valuable an item to sacrifice to the elements. I want someone to deliver, and deliver soon, or you will sincerely regret the mistakes up to now.' He glared at Adam Grange, 'you will use all our resources. With respect Bob you are an amateur in this field, we need Adam involved with one or two of his staff.' Turning to Adam he said, 'I don't know what you have been doing, but it's not enough. Get yourself involved. Bob thanks for attending. Now let's move on in the agenda we haven't got all day.'

Bob felt relieved to have been dismissed. He left the meeting knowing he would have to wait for Adam to discuss the outcome.

Bob could tell that Adam Grange had experienced a lot of criticism. Whether it was just about the Mistress or other things he didn't know but he had a sense of urgency about him when they met an hour later in the library.

'We have to get that painting back,' said Adam.

They whispered secretively not wanting to be overheard.

'We are trying. What else would you like to do?' Bob looked about him but the book shelves prevented him seeing who could overhear. 'Can we go for a walk in the grounds and discuss this?'

'I have taken a lot of stick at the meeting and my career is on the line, if not my life? I've been threatened before but not by a group as powerful as the Fraternity.' The admonishment that Adam had received angered him. Following the meeting he had to find a quiet corner to get himself under control. Gradually the whirlwind of revenge in his head subsided. No one knew of his actions to date. He hadn't just instructed Bob Fry to ask questions in Dorset he had actually followed him there and made sure progress had been made. Meeting Bob he held himself in check not wanting to shatter his working relationship with an ill judged word. They left the building to walk in the grounds.

'Bob; finding the clock was OK but it is worth a fraction of the cost of the Mistress. The main benefit of your trip to Dorset is the contacts that you have made. Get in touch with Dave Sampson and his mate Crandle. Find out if they have any news.'

Taken by surprise the forger asked, 'you know Crandle?' He wondered how his employer knew the name; he definitely had only mentioned Sampson.

'I always have my ear to the ground,' he pointed at the gravel path, 'finger on the pulse, as they say. It seems to me that these two characters could lead us to the Mistress. Give them a call now.'

It didn't sound like a request to Bob, more of an order. He used his mobile to call Dave Sampson, the only number that he had.

'Sampson, yes I did say Sampson, is not strong enough to take your call at the minute. Leave a message and he will call you back when he's finished with Delilah.'

The answer machine beeped and Bob responded, 'Dave this is Bob Fry, any news for me?'

Adam stared at Bob, 'all very matey that Bob. The answer machine was it? I think we might have to give him an incentive to ask around.'

'I've mentioned a reward already.'

'Maybe he needs a stick as well as a carrot.'

'That's your speciality not mine. Anything else I can do?'

With a sigh Adam sat down on a bench, Bob joined him thankful to rest his legs, 'I think that you should go home. If you have any news ring me, if not remind him of the reward, I'll try and encourage him another way. Goodbye Bob, stay near a phone.' With that final comment the conversation ended, Adam Grange stood up and walked towards the car park.

Bob sat there thinking things through; there was no doubt in his mind that trouble was brewing. He needed to find the Mistress lost on the shore at Dorset and quickly. His relationship with the Fraternity needed to remain solid to avoid a nasty break up. He started to rise only to find two hands on his shoulders pushing him back onto the bench.

'Surprise, surprise,' the familiar voice of Samantha Hill whispered in his ear. 'Taking in the fresh air Bob, admirable pass time, avoiding any criminal activity.'

'I'm just walking in the grounds, chatting to friends,he said defensively.'

'Of course, you must know Adam Grange well, probably from your holiday in prison, GBH that's his speciality when he's not posing as a body guard!' Sam wondered how much Bob Fry knew about the workings of the Fraternity. Would he discuss it? She decided to test his discretion. 'What's Grange doing here working for the Fraternity? I thought they were above board, not likely to employ someone of his background, present company accepted.'

'Sam; can I call you Sam? I'm a simple man with lots of experience in forging art, that I've paid for with a seven year prison sentence. I try to keep clear of trouble. The Fraternity ask me to help them from time to time. Spot the copy of a famous masterpiece. I don't know anyone or anything else that is happening here. OK?'

'I think that you need better friends. Someone to take care of you, we have a lot in common, how about working together? It could be to your advantage.'

'Sam, the day I need help and friendship from a police officer is the day all hope is lost. I'm about to leave. Can I offer you a lift?'

'No thanks, Monty's offered a lift to London, no offence Bob but the day I need a lift from you will be the day I quit the force.'

Bob stood up and walked away, he thought, she's trouble that one. What game is she playing? Monty Decker had better know his people or he would be risking his art collection.'

Chapter Seven

Crandle struggled from deep sleep. He knew something had disturbed him but couldn't understand the feeling of alarm that triggered his adrenalin. He listened intently, not moving, regulating his breathing to a soft almost silent whisper. Flexing his muscles one by one he prepared to get out of bed. He cursed not having any clothes to slip on. Dressed in underpants and a vest he didn't feel like the conquering hero he would like to be. He felt sure that he was alone in the bedroom. Quietly he slid the bed clothes back and stood up. The floor boards creaked, announcing his presence to anyone listening. He froze on the spot, willing the night to return to normal. The window had been left slightly open and he could hear traffic moving on the main road half a mile away. Nothing else in the cottage stirred. He had almost decided it must be the mouse again when he heard another floorboard squeak and this time he was not the cause. He moved towards the door trying to remember where the sound of the boards would give him away. Fortunately the door was open.

Crandle had moved the copy of the Mistress to the spare bedroom. Stood on the dressing table it had looked out of place, it needed hanging but he didn't want to waste time and effort, he knew it must be returned. The winged mirrors provided a view from three angles. Standing on the small landing he glanced in to the room knowing that the moonlight shining through the uncovered window would provide sufficient light to see the painting. The dresser was bare. Startled by the Mistresses absence he stepped forward onto another squeaking floor board. He cursed under his breath. Shocked he heard a clattering on the steep staircase, someone descending quickly, almost jumping by the sound of it. He launched himself downwards in pursuit of his unwanted guest. There; he could see the dark shadow of a tall man passing through the open front door. Without thinking of his attire Crandle sprang over the step just a metre behind, but tripped and fell full length onto the pavement. He glanced up to see the intruder escaping with a final burst of speed towards the dark alley twenty metres away. He had lost him and maybe the Mistress although he couldn't see the art work being carried. Picking himself up Crandle turned towards the door. There on the pavement protruding above the doorsill lay the painting. He had tripped over the frame. He reverently picked it up and carried the work of art into the front room. The clatter must have been the Mistress frame being dropped as the thief escaped. Turning on the light he checked it for damage. Nothing visible, relieved he stood it back on the mantelpiece. I need to get rid of this he thought. The reward suddenly seemed more attractive than keeping the painting. I must be crazy thinking that it has a place in my life. He brushed himself down, feeling a fool standing in his underwear. A knock came to the door. He opened it slightly to look out onto his next door neighbour dressed in a heavy raincoat with striped pyjamas showing below the knee.

'Is everything alright Mr Crandle?'

'Yes thanks George, sorry if I disturbed you. You should be in bed not acting as Night Watchman at two o clock in the morning.'

'I know that, but there have been one or two funny goings on of late. Make sure you keep your door locked someone is snooping around after dark. I reckon it must be the council, trying to catch us filling the wrong bins.'

Crandle felt concerned for the older man, he couldn't ask him in dressed in his underpants, but thought George would be better off inside. 'I'm okay, time for you to be in bed. Thanks for keeping an eye out for,' he hesitated, 'snoopers. I'll see you in the morning.'

'Right you are then, don't forget; watch out theirs a thief about.'

You can say that again thought Crandle as he closed the door. Before he moved a leaflet came through the letterbox. George must have them in his pyjama's he thought. Smiling he looked at it Neighbourhood Watch – Watch Out there's a Thief About. That will come in handy next time I have a burglar. 'Bloody hell,' he whispered to himself, 'my feet are freezing.'

***

Sitting in the bar Crandle looked at the clock to see the fingers arrive at twelve noon. Bit early to be having a drink he thought but after a night like the last one he needed somewhere quiet to think. He sat by himself, the other customers stood at the bar enjoying their day. How did someone know about the painting, he asked himself the same question again? An inspection of the cottage had shown that the thief had forced his way in through the kitchen door, but nothing had been taken. He had left his wallet on the kitchen table but it hadn't been touched. The intruder had made his way through the small rooms looking for the Mistress and taken it. Crandle didn't know how long the burglar had been in the property but it must have been several minutes. I'm going to have to install better security he acknowledged to himself. He sipped his beer, intending to make it last, not wanting to cloud his judgement. The painting had now been hidden in the attic, a bit more difficult to find but not entirely safe from a determined art collector. Where could he hide it until after the negotiations for the reward? Who could the thief be? He felt sure he had told no one of his find. Not even Dave. His only communication about it had been with the gallery when enquiring about the reward. What was the name? Walsh, Robin Walsh. He couldn't see why Walsh would want to steel it back, in any case how could he know where to find the painting. No it had to be something local that had given it away.

More customers came in. Laughing and joking they made their way to the bar. Opening the local paper he had bought earlier he turned to the crossword. Taking out his pen he made out he was deeply involved in resolving a clue, anyone approaching would probably leave him alone. Nothing in the papers now about the shipwreck and the salvage taken from the beach, he thought, funny how things are quickly forgotten. He stared at the crossword but allowed his mind to drift to his problem of the Mistress. Short term he could ask Dave to store it for him, but he had believed he'd been burgled the other night. Crandle didn't really want to involve Dave. George from next door would take it in and guard it like a Chelsea Pensioner, ex-army, head of the Neighbourhood Watch. Could he ask a seventy year old man to stand up to a villain? No, he knew that he couldn't. Not many people he knew were left to choose from. He suddenly felt lonely, after years in the army with lots of mates he was now reduced to one friend and a pensioner. Susan had been his closest friend until the trial separation, he couldn't ask her to take in the Mistress. He smiled to himself thinking of the good times they had shared and his darling daughter Ashley. He read the clue for one down; eight letters, spring flower with yellow trumpet. The answer, daffodil jumped into his head. Five letters, name of artificial light source used in photography. He inserted flash as the answer. Taking a sip of beer he returned to thinking about who could have known about the Mistress. When he returned from Dave's house he had been followed part of the way. Or had he imagined it? That would mean the break-in having something to do with Bob Fry. He knew where Dave lived. Onward Christian ..... Soldiers, marching on to war, one of his favourite hymns, he printed soldiers into the crossword. Soldiers; or one particular soldier, sprang into his head. Captain R. A. Philips, retired SAS lived in Sidemouth, not far away. He now owned a small hotel maybe he would look after the Mistress for a few days. Yes, Crandle decided, he would ask the Captain to take the painting in. Satisfied he had solved one of his problems he drank most of the remaining beer from his glass. More haste less...., Speed yes that had to be the answer, this was too easy. His thoughts returned to the bar when a body suddenly sat down by the side of him.

'Crandle, what's come over you man, trying to look educated.' Dave Sampson laughed at his own joke. 'I've just popped in for a quick one, didn't expect to find you here.'

'Four letters, starts with b, made from malt, hops and water?' he asked looking down at the crossword.

'Beer,' Dave instantly replied to the question.

'Yes please, mines a bitter,' Crandle smiled as he held out his glass. They both enjoyed the trick and Dave ordered two pints at the bar. They sat together chatting about sport when Dave asked about the graze on Crandle's head.

'I'm a bit the worse for wear, surprised a burglar last night, nearly caught him but tripped over, fell on the pavement.'

'In the cottage? See, I told you that someone was creeping about. It must be the same guy who ransacked my home.'

Crandle looked at Dave in amazement, 'Ransacked your home? You are joking; you couldn't find anything out of place.'

'Same guy though,' Dave said taking a drink of his beer. 'You and me, it can't be a coincidence. Can it?'

'No I doubt it, not now you've pointed it out.' They sat in silence thinking things through.

'It's something to do with Bob Fry,' Dave said, 'got to be. He left a message for me on the phone this morning. Had I any news about the painting, obsessed by it by the sound of his voice.'

'Another pint?' asked Crandle, changing the subject.

'No thanks,' said Dave standing and making ready to leave, 'I've got to go and sort a holiday out, the money from the clock is burning a hole in my pocket and I fancy spending a few days away.'

Crandle followed Dave out into the bright afternoon sunlight. Lots to do, he thought, and now's the time to do it.

Later in the day he returned to his cottage feeling disappointed with having had to leave the Mistress at the Captain's hotel. No problem at all, had been the response to his need to store the painting. Any type of room he especially wanted? Just for the week? We have the Barrel room at the top of the house, sleeps two, only two hundred pounds, breakfast not included. He pleaded, but to no avail, he could have the room, do almost anything he liked with it, but he had to pay in advance. It had hurt his feelings more than his pocket. He had expected a favour but hadn't received one. As he unlocked the front door of the cottage he was accosted by George from next door.

'You had a visitor earlier. Didn't stop but peered through the windows. Council spy if you ask me. Dressed in a dark suit, tall he was, mousy coloured hair. Looked very serious he did. You do pay your council tax, do you?'

'Of course I do. This guy's not from the council so stay clear of him. I don't know anything about him other than he's probably dangerous. Stay away George, thanks for your help.' Crandle continued opening the door.

'Drives a German made car. Executive type, silver, lovely motor,' he looked down at a piece of torn paper, 'registration, VN08KIT, parked it two streets away.'

'George, thanks for the information,' Crandle took the piece of paper from him, 'I appreciate what you have done but I don't want to have to worry about you. Stop what you're doing for the time being.' He opened the door and stepped inside. Looking back he could see his neighbour heading home. The post lay on the mat, picking it up he made his way to the kitchen. A white envelope had the address James Crandle, nothing else, just his name. He used the fruit knife to open it. A single piece of white paper had a typed message.

Dear James,

Having recently visited your cottage I believe you have a painting that belongs to me. You appear reluctant to part with it without some incentive. A reward of five thousand pounds is available. If you agree to these terms I will collect at an appropriate time and place. This arrangement will allow us all to get on with our lives.

I assume that you want to get on with your life.

Regards

The Collector

PS When you are ready to make the exchange place the white envelope in the window by your door.

Crandle read the note over again. He didn't like it at all. The not so subtle threat at the end made it clear other incentives could be provided. Five thousand pounds equalled the amount offered by Thornton Gallery however that was for information leading to the paintings recovery, he had the original, the amount would go up if he played his cards right. I have to find out who the Collector is, he concluded. This cannot be Bob Fry, he thought, he's too old to act as a burglar, but maybe he can shed some light on who it is. He picked up the phone and rang Dave.

'Hello, what can I do for you mate?' the reply indicating caller display had identified him.

'Dave, I need that card that Bob Fry gave you, the one with his address and phone number.'

'Good job you called, I'm off to Majorca tomorrow. It's a last minute booking, a seven day break for a hundred and fifty nine pounds, a great deal. I might stop longer if I have the chance.'

'It sounds noisy and boozy, just your style. Have you got the card?'

'Sure, I'll leave it under the flower pot outside next doors apartment.'

'No need for that just read it out over the phone.'

The details were passed on and Crandle wished his friend a happy holiday before ringing off. He cradled the phone considering whether to phone Bob Fry straight away. Why not, he thought, and dialled the number given. The engaged tone sounded in his ear. When he rang again, the phone was free, but no one answered. He let it ring for a few minutes, an answering machine activated, 'this is Bob.....' the machine stopped as though full of messages. Cancelling the call he thought about his next step.

Later in the evening, he answered his phone.

'This is Bob Fry, you rang my number earlier and I have this system known as call back. How can I help?'

'This is Crandle we met in Dorset recently. You were enquiring about a painting. The Mistress I think you called it.'

'Yes that's correct Mr Crandle, have you any news?'

'I may be able to help. Where can we meet? I can't talk over the phone and need to speak to you tomorrow.'

'I'm sorry but I can't be down there tomorrow. Can it be next week?'

'I'll sort something out and ring you back.'

'Wait, wait,' Bob Fry said, 'the day after tomorrow, in Lyme Regis, I have to be at home tomorrow.'

'Like I said, I'll sort something out and ring you back.' Crandle rang off, thinking he couldn't wait, the note from the Collector had been menacing. I need to take the initiative he reminded himself.

Chapter Eight

Bob Fry slowly replaced the phone in it's cradle sensing unfinished business, but not knowing how to take the initiative. The conversation with Crandle followed a call from DI Jones preventing him from making travell arrangements in the immediate future. The policeman had insisted on seeing him at the Barn the following day to discuss the robbery at Thornton Gallery. He would be accompanied by DS Hill.

Bob felt nervous about the art expert being involved. Sam knew too much about his connections with the Fraternity and could research his previous history. He took a deep breath and walked back into the sun lounge. The panoramic views combined with the sunset often provided the perfect setting for a pleasant evening, but not this time. Sat in the most comfortable chair sipping a glass of chilled water sat Adam Grange. He had arrived an hour ago and seemed reluctant to leave.

'Nice place you have here, something to treasure.'

Bob couldn't get over the way that every time he met the head of acquisitions a threat wormed its way into the discussion. Perhaps he had become paranoid; after all he didn't want to be involved with the Fraternity man or any of the organisations projects. 'Funded entirely legitimately,' he responded, wanting to distance himself from any criminal implications. 'So what is it that you need? All of a sudden my quiet little home in the country has become a meeting room, after you I have the police tomorrow morning.'

'Ying and Yang, two opposites creating balance in your life; you must live in perfect harmony.'

'I wouldn't describe it as that, more two opposing forces pulling me apart.' He grimaced not relishing the expected inquisition. 'You know I had nothing to do with the robbery at the Gallery but I can't placate this Inspector and his Sergeants.'

'Why not help him to find the real thieves. Give him the benefit of your advice.'

'I don't know anything about them! Now let's get down to business. Why are you here?'

'I'm here because I'm about to recover the Mistress and need some technical advice. Two things; one, it may have been damaged slightly, I'm not sure how much and two, I need you to help me move it out of the country.'

'Bring it here discreetly and I can help with both,' Bob said, relieved that he could limit his involvement to providing renovation work. 'I suggest that after the repair, we cover the Mistress with another painting, and ship it as a minor work of art. It's not ideal but it's possible. Where is it now?'

'I don't know where it is but I know who has it and he will be delivering it to me shortly,' Adam Grange sounded certain, threateningly so. 'What's the risk of damaging the Mistress if we paint over it?'

'None at all, as you must be aware it's a technique often used to smuggle art. Failing that we could place it behind a mirror in a large elaborate frame; no one will see it, however there is slightly more risk of discovery.'

'I'm going to leave it up to you Bob, but no slip ups, no pressure, it's worth millions.

No matter how much he tried Bob couldn't entice Adam Grange to describe how he would recover the Mistress. He would only say that he had recently visited Dorset. At eleven o'clock Bob almost had to throw his guest out, arranging a taxi to take him back to his hotel and promising to deal with the painting on its recovery. He retired to bed worrying about the following day.

'Wait there, I'm coming,' he shouted into the door security intercom. Bob had watched on his CCTV system as the police approached the front door. Descending the stairs from his workshop he began to feel nervous. He had enough complications with his business dealings without the police arriving every other day. Opening the door he smiled at Sam Hill and almost grimaced to see the Detective Inspector with her. 'Come in, sorry about the delay, I've been in the workshop at the top of the house since early morning. It's great to have a good start to the day. Now where shall we go?' Without waiting for an answer he steered them towards his kitchen dinner, the area he liked to call the Refectory.

Sam looked into the dining room as they walked by, 'why did you go for wall to wall mirrors, it seems unnecessary.'

'Saw it in a show house one day and fell in love with the idea. Your right I don't need them to give the illusion of a bigger room but it's a nice affect when you have guests. To be honest I don't use the room very often.' He walked on and indicated they should sit around the farm house table.

'Big place for one person,' remarked DI Jones.

'I like my space, and the peace and quiet,' he looked meaningfully at his unwanted guests,' that is, when I'm not interrupted by visitors. I know you're interested in different lifestyles but your reason for coming must be more important than my home. What's this all about?'

'We want your help. A few questions about the Mistress and we will be away,' said DI Jones. 'At the Gallery you identified the painting as a forgery. Can you tell us how you knew?'

'Well, I thought it was obvious.'

'Not so obvious Bob, you see, the Gallery Curator has walked past that painting for months and he didn't spot the switch from the original to the fake,' Sam pointed out.

'Maybe it's always been a fake or perhaps he didn't pay enough attention. Does he know his art?'

'Regardless of all that, the question to you is the same. How did you know it was a forgery?' asked Sam.

He had to steer them away from this line of questioning but couldn't think of a solution. Deciding to try to bluff his way out he answered, 'It's texture, composition, the paints looked fresh, the whole effect just didn't seem right.'

'That's not good enough Bob, to make that sort of analysis you would need the two paintings side by side or be very familiar with the original.' Sam thought he was trying it on. He definitely had something to hide.

'I would need a reference point, yes, but I have one. I have a professional photograph. You've seen my collection; I have a negative of the Mistress taken two years ago in the gallery.'

DI Jones interrupted; he had become impatient with the slow response to a simple question. 'You see Bob I think the reason that you know it's a forgery is that it's your work. Isn't that the case? You are the artist and very good at what you do.' Turning to Sam he asked, 'Can we compare Bob's style with this one and prove that he copied the original?'

'Given time, yes we can probably do that. Come on Bob give us the facts. How did you steal the original and replace it with a forgery?'

He looked pleadingly at the police officers, 'I didn't do it Gov,' he joked, 'yes I knew it was copy but because of my photography. I have a negative of before and after. The first taken two years ago and the second taken recently, that's why I have been interested in the Mistress. Having spotted the differences I returned to the gallery to confirm what I had seen. The major mistake is in the signature, it's moved to the left of its position in the lower right hand corner. It looks authentic but I can see it's moved.'

'Anything else that you've noticed?' asked Sam.

'A couple of minor faults in replicating the brush work. In any case I don't need to prove it's a fake now, you know it is, the gallery has confirmed it.'

'That's true,' DI Jones decided they were making little progress, 'changing the subject. Why do you think the thieves left the Mistress hanging on the wall and only stole the first three paintings?'

Seeing an opportunity to divert attention away from him Bob answered, 'I'm not sure but maybe they left it behind because they knew it to be a fake. On the other hand may be the person that placed the order could only handle the three. They were of medium value; possibly they could be sold in the future whereas the Mistress will never be sold on the open market. You must be thinking it was an inside job. Have you checked the records of the staff?'

'We're working on it,' replied Sam. 'You think the three paintings were stolen to order?'

'A wealthy art lover?' Bob looked pensive, 'probably using local talent to steal the art to build-up a private collection. Find out who located the paintings near to the entrance. Very convenient that, I mean the ones required being the easiest to steal.'

Looking at his watch DI Jones said, 'I'm going to have to leave you to it, I've another call to make.' Turning to Sam he added, 'you stop on and finish the conversation.'

'You came in separate cars? Bit of a waste of tax payer's money!'

'We'll be the judge of that. Thanks for your help, make sure we don't have to follow anything up down at the station. Give my Sergeant here a copy of the Mistress negatives; that should help your story.' He stood up, 'don't worry I'll let myself out.'

'The Inspector has left the building,' smiled Bob as he watched the door close.

Leading the way through his converted barn Bob started up the open plan wooden stair case to his loft come workshop. Once there he opened up the large filing cabinet Sam had seen before and selected two negatives.

He handed them over, 'To prove that I had noticed the difference between the two Mistresses, the real one is dated two years ago. You can probably compare it with publicity material that the gallery has.'

'Don't worry I will do,' said Sam. 'How is your business project progressing?'

'As well as can be expected with all the time I've had to spend with you and your colleagues.'

'It didn't stop you socialising the other evening at the Fraternity do.'

'That was business. Not that I like such events, but as you pointed out, the members have a lot of money between them.'

'What can you tell me about the Fraternity?'

'Not much you don't know. Founded by Monty Decker there are five members, all of them multimillionaires, all of them interested in art. They buy major works of art for their private collection. It's all strictly legal, although their collection does contain recognised forgeries that have a unique value. Paintings that fooled National Gallery critics are occasionally acquired especially when they can display the original by the side of the forgery.'

'The Mistress would be of interest to them? The masterpiece being named in the news recently.'

'Of course, but the copy in Thornton Gallery has limited value; it doesn't have an international reputation as a forgery and to show it by the side of the original they would need to purchase stolen property. It would only be good for a secret collection viewed by the owner.'

'If they had the original and the copy they would be interested,' Sam remarked, giving the impression she knew little about the potential for profit.

'But the original is stolen, and they don't have the copy, so they wouldn't become involved.' Bob paused, 'this is all very interesting but I do have work to do,' he indicated a half finished modern picture of London showing skyscrapers in the Canary Wharf complex. The half finished canvas focused on the sunset over the new skyline, 'a commission for a customer in Holland.'

'You really are very good Bob,' Sam said admiring the half finished work, 'you must stay on the right side of the law.' With that comment she turned towards the staircase, 'I'm going to leave you in peace, I'll be in touch about the negatives. Now, can you show me the way out?'

Bob hastily made his way to the front door delighted to avoid any further questioning.

'I must stay on the right side of the law.' In his mind Bob repeated the comment several times. Chance would be a fine thing, if only I could escape the clutches of the Fraternity it would be a start. Now I've got to start planning this trip to Dorset again, to meet Crandle, another thorn in my side. It could be a long trip for nothing. What had he said on the phone? "I may be able to help." It's not that positive, I should have asked him what it's all about. He looked at the clock, twelve noon already; the trains a no, no, I'll take the car he decided. Having packed his bag, he carried it out to his parked car at the side of the house. Returning to lock the door he heard a car coming up the drive, expecting the police again he turned to greet them with a complaint but a taxi drew up by the side of him. Out stepped Crandle.

Chapter Nine

The continuous repeated knocking made George sit up. He had dozed off watching the afternoon TV. Bang, bang, bang, there it went again. What could it be? In perfect time it resonated around his front room. Somebody beating a drum, that's what it sounded like, then a different type of knock, one that he recognised this time. Rat a tat tat, followed by dat, dat a dat dat, bang, bang. He winced his way out of the chair, his knees urged him to be careful as he stood and walked to the window. Looking out he could see a young girl bouncing a ball outside of his window. Bounce, bounce, bounce, the netball seemed to have a life of its own. He knocked on the window, 'clear off,' he shouted. The girl turned away looking for support. Suddenly his door knocker started pounding, like a woodpecker drilling a hole. What the hell, he thought, as he made his way to the front door. 'Wait a minute, I'm coming,' he shouted. Opening the door he was faced by a mother and child.

Dressed for warm weather the girl wore shorts and a bright yellow tea shirt with the legend Bawtry Netball written on it in deep blue capital letters. Mum had a casual outfit of beige trousers and a fancy coloured blouse, on the pavement rested a small case with their coats draped over the top. George thought they were both very pretty and the facial likeness made their relationship obvious. He stepped out and looked up and down the street.

'Can't see any roadwork,' he remarked. 'Where's all that knocking coming from? Sounds like a pneumatic drill.' He looked down at the girl and smiled, 'must be the Bawtry Netball team practicing for the big match.'

'Sorry about that,' said mum. 'I'm looking for Jim Crandle, next door. You haven't seen him today have you?'

'Jim Crandle you say. Is that his name then? I only know him as Crandle. Jim, as in James, looks more of a John if you ask me. Then again you're not asking me. You know him?'

'He's my dad,' said the little girl, 'we know him really well.'

'Sometimes we do,' added the mother.

George listened, surprised to find out that Crandle had a family. You'll be Mrs Crandle then? He held out his hand, George Baxter, his next door neighbour, but then again you probably guessed that.'

'Susan Crandle,' mum said, shaking his hand in a strong grip. 'This is Ashley his daughter. You've not seen him today?'

'Not today, no, he's been around all week though. Maybe he's gone to the shop. Come in, you can't be standing out here on the pavement whilst we chat. Fancy a cup of tea?'

Susan Crandle hesitated she didn't want to be held in a long conversation but she did want to see her husband. He had promised to be there today to greet them. She felt her anger towards Crandle growing. They were on holiday and the one day Ashley expected to see dad he had gone somewhere else. Typical, she thought, then realised that it was unfair of her because it wasn't typical, normally he would never forget a date with his daughter.

'Let's go in mum, I want to see inside.'

'Yes, thank you, that's a very generous offer, we'd love a drink.'

George led the way into his kitchen. 'Take me as you find me,' he said.

Susan expected a mess given that introduction but everything appeared tidy and in order. The blue tiled kitchen had a small table and two chairs next to the glass door where you could look out on to a tiny lawn. She smiled in appreciation of the comfortable surroundings. 'Why it's lovely, you keep it looking very smart?'

George busied himself making tea and finding a cold drink for Ashley.

'Can I go out on the lawn Mr Baxter?'

Pleased by the use of his surname he showed his agreement by opening the back door. 'She's quick on the uptake you daughter,' he said to Susan. 'Don't go out of the back gate it leads onto the alley. Sometimes delivery vans go down there.'

'We've got a car,' Ashley announced.

'Ashley,' mum said sternly, 'there's no need to tell everybody our business.'

'No, you're right about that,' George commented. 'Your husband had a spot of bother the other night. He had to chase off a burglar. Asked me to keep an eye out for anything suspicious, good job he did, we've had one or two council snoopers around. Where did you park the car? Down by the supermarket, it should be okay there.'

Having lived alone for many years George had the ability to keep talking with or without an audience, he answered his own questions and commented on the world regardless of anyone replying. 'Crandle does go out for the whole day sometimes. Not that I watch what he does but he has to pass my window to get to the nearest pub. His mate Dave comes by occasionally. A good guy your husband always willing to lend a hand but he doesn't say much. Didn't know he had a wife and daughter. Makes a good living from engineering, he's well respected by boat owners. Can take care of himself as well, no doubt, always off running, he should enter the London marathon.'

Susan watched Ashley playing with her ball on the patch of grass out back. Too small to call a lawn she thought. She half listened to George; he seemed delighted to have company. The tea and biscuits had been served and consumed without her saying a word. 'I wonder where he can be. It's not like him to miss seeing Ashley. A pity we can't wait in his cottage, your hospitality is great but I need to freshen up and change.'

George stopped talking and the resulting silence seemed to linger on. Suddenly he started again, 'I could let you in, but would Crandle thank me?'

'Off course he would, he is expecting us. Have you a key?'

'Sort of, 'he replied, 'he might think I'm taking a bit of a liberty.'

Becoming frustrated by the conversation, Susan hissed, 'have you a key or not?'

'The previous owner gave me a key to the back door; the locks haven't been changed, so I probably have a key, yes.' Standing he said, 'come on let's go and try it.' He led the way out of his back door, collecting Ashley they passed through the gate and moved down the service lane to the next gate. Pushing it open they manoeuvred around the accumulated rubbish in Crandle's rear garden.

'Needs a bit of a clear out,' suggested George, 'I could do it for him,' he paused, 'for a reasonable price.'He noticed the repaired woodwork around the door, looks as though your husband been doing a bit of dee-i-y. Lets hope he didn't change the lock.' From his trouser pocket he pulled out a ring with several types of keys on it, carefully searching through them he found the mortise key required. Inserting it he opened the door. 'Entrée Madam, mademoiselle' he stood to one side and allowed Susan and Ashley to enter.

'Look mummy, it's just like next door but gloomier,' shouted Ashley.

Susan pulled up the roller blind, 'there you are; it's not so bad now.' She looked around with a critical eye but found the kitchen to be clean and tidy. Turning to George she smiled, 'Thanks for your help, I can see Crandle has the best of neighbours. Can you leave me the key in case we want to go out?'

George struggled to remove the key from his ring and finally placed it on the table. 'Let me know if you need anything,' he said leaving the way they had entered.

'Can we explore mum, we've only been in the kitchen.'

'Yes Ashley, let's have a look round and then we'll wait for dad.'

After the incessant chattering of the past half an hour the quietness of the empty house seemed enjoyable. Ashley found her way into every nook and cranny and Susan unashamedly followed. Eventually they ended up back in the kitchen, where they found numerous small tins of pop in the fridge, obviously mixers for more potent drinks. With glasses of lemonade the two of them sat down in the small lounge and watched afternoon TV.

Around three o'clock Susan heard the rattle of the letter box. Expecting the post she found one brown envelope, no address, no stamp. Written on the front in block capitals the message read, HALF NOW HALF ON DELIVERY. She decided to open the envelope. It had been sealed with sticky tape and she knew that Crandle would demand an explanation but she had to satisfy her curiosity. Pulling up one corner in the hope that it could be resealed she found several bank notes. Fifty pound bank notes, I've not seen many of these she thought, certainly not as many in one place, there must be two thousand pounds in here.

Ashley pushed her way under Susan's arms, 'what's in it mum?'

Hurriedly resealing the corner she replied, 'it's something for dad, we will have to ask him about it when he comes back.' Her mind drifted home, once upon a time we all lived in the same house, now we are in Bawtry and he's here in Dorset. Time we had another chat about family; Ashley needs to see dad more often than she does.

A loud knock on the backdoor made her heart jump. 'It's only me,' shouted the now familiar voice of George, 'You left your case and coats, here they are.'

Before Susan had time to do anything he was inside the kitchen; placing their belongings by the table, 'thank you that's saved us coming around for them.'

'You're staying then?'

'Until Jim comes back, yes we're staying.'

'I'll keep an eye out for you.' He smiled at Ashley, 'Take care then.' He left as quickly as he had arrived.

Susan picked the key up off the table and locked the door. No more unwanted guests she vowed.

DS Bradford felt quite pleased with himself. The Curator at the gallery had reported an enquiry about the Mistress reward connected to the name of Bob Fry. Having received the call Robin Walsh had dialled 1471 and the phone had given the caller's number. Although the caller had just given the name Dave, the number had been traceable using the normal processes established with BT. Eric Bradford now sat on a bench at the sea side enjoying a pleasant afternoon, soaking up the sunshine and eating a ninety nine ice cream. It had taken him over two hours to drive down and he now thought he could take his well earned fifteen minute break before making his planned house call at number 9 The Cove. After his phone conversation with the local police sergeant he knew that the tenant of the cottage had not been in trouble with the law. They seemed to know little of Mr Crandle however the council tax statistics had given him some information to work with. Not that the tenant needed to be the one who made the call, it could have been a member of the family. He had thought that it would be difficult to justify a visit to the sea side without a specific appointment but his boss, DI Jones, had suggested he might learn more from the neighbours than from whoever made the call. He couldn't think of any link between Lyme Regis and the Thornton Art Gallery but the caller had enquired about the Mistress painting or more specifically the five thousand pound reward. Got to make a move or I'm going to need bed and breakfast, he reprimanded himself. Sitting in the unmarked car he turned his sat-nav on to gain directions. After a short journey he pulled up at the entrance to The Cove, an attractive group of cottages.

'You have reached your destination,' the sat-nav's automated voice reported.

The area looked deserted. Very quiet area he thought agreeing with what the local police sergeant had said, virtually crime free. Walking down the narrow street he counted the numbers off, he stopped at number nine noticing the lack of any front garden the windows were practically on a level with the pavement. He knocked on the door and waited. Nothing happened. He knocked again, this time much harder. A curtain twitched and a little girls face looked out. Then a women's face appeared.

'Sorry we can't open the door,' she shouted looking dumfounded, 'no key.'

'We've no key,' emphasised the girl twisting her wrist to illustrate an unlocking movement.

Reaching into his pocket he took out his warrant card and laid it flat against the window. 'Police, can I have a few minutes of your time?'

The woman looked thoughtful. 'Meet us next door at number seven,' she pointed up the street.

'Next door at Mr Baxter's,' shouted the girl enjoying the situation.

He moved back down the street to number seven, before he had time to knock an elderly gentleman opened the door and berated him. 'Who are you then?'

'I take it your Mr Baxter,' said DS Bradford taking out his warrant card again. 'Police; your next door neighbour seems to think we can talk in your house.'

'Hold on a minute, let's take a proper look, my eyesight isn't as good as it used to be.' George held out his hand for the card'

Holding the card at arm's length the Detective Sergeant paused long enough for it to be scrutinised. 'Satisfied?'

'Cant be too careful these days, we get one or two odd balls around knocking on doors.'

Affronted that he might look like an odd ball the policeman patiently waited.

'You'd better come in then,' invited George begrudgingly, I've got to let the girls in the back door.'

Eventually they were all seated around the table, the three adults and small girl filling the kitchen to bursting point. Using his well practised friendly cooperative approach the newcomer introduced himself.

'Thanks for inviting me in Mr Baxter,' turning to the women, 'I'm Eric Bradford, DS Bradford if you want to be formal but I prefer Eric sometimes. I'm making enquiries about a phone call made from your property.'

Interrupting him Susan started the long explanation as to why she couldn't open the front door and that they were only there for the day to see her husband who had not yet returned from where ever he had gone. In another setting it would have sounded very amusing but she displayed her embarrassment by flushing from the neck up.

'If you've only just arrived Mrs Crandle you'll not be able to advise me as to who could have made the call from next door. Your husband isn't known as Dave Crandle is he?'

George laughed, 'I've only just got to know him as Jim; everybody around here knows him as Crandle, nothing else, just Crandle.' He held their attention by holding his finger in the air, 'but,' another second past, 'he has got a mate called Dave. He calls around now and then.'

The old guy seemed to know everything, 'where does he live?' asked Eric, 'local is it?'

'Sorry, I don't rightly know, somewhere in the town I think, lives in a flat.'

'Sergeant,' Susan addressed him formally, 'can you tell us what this is about? We keep answering your questions but don't know why you're asking them. If we knew, we could perhaps add something useful to your enquiries.'

'I can only explain that we are investigating a crime and that the person that made the call seemed to have information that could help us. The caller is not considered to have taken part in the crime; he has just said something that could be helpful. I need to speak to your husband. Any idea when he will be back?'

'None at all, I'm hoping at tea time but its looking doubtful. I suggest that you come back in the morning and I'll let him know you will be here. Around ten o'clock?'

Eric Bradford smiled at the attempt to dismiss him. 'I think this evening would be a better time, lets say that I will call again at seven thirty.' Reaching into his pocket he passed a business card over to Susan, 'my mobile number is on here, call me when he arrives back, otherwise I will see you later on.' He stood up, 'thanks for your help Mr Baxter. Can I let myself out? I'm hardly going to become lost on the way from here to the front door.' He left them sat around the table.

Later that day at six o'clock Susan decided that they would be staying the night and busied herself sorting out the back bedroom. It looked ready for a guest and she and Ashley could both sleep on the three quarter bed. The more she turned things over the more she felt increasingly alarmed. Crandle had always been reliable and honest. What had he become involved in? The phrase "helping the police with enquires" sprang to mind and the mystery envelope with two thousand pounds inside it. He had not been home all day. Where could he be?

Chapter Ten

Crandle's day had started with a train journey and then a taxi ride into the countryside, his arrival at the converted barn had knocked Bob Fry for six.

The forger stood aghast, surprised that a stranger had decided to arrive at his home unannounced. Shocked and angry he shouted, 'What are you doing here?'

'I did make the point that I would find away for us to meet and when you said you would be at home all day I thought I would make it easy for you. Now you don't have to travel and I get to see you today.' Realising his quarry had taken offence Crandle attacked, 'why are you so mad? I'm helping you out here.'

'My home seems to have become a meeting place. Either you could have missed me or your arrival may have been very inconvenient.'

'But I took that risk, and since you're here let's talk about the Mistress.'

Bob Fry didn't want to take Crandle into the house but he didn't know if the subject could be discussed in the local pub. He led the way back into his home. 'Take a seat,' he indicated the sofa in the centre of the room, 'I expect you could do with coffee?' Not waiting for a reply he made his way to the kitchen.

Crandle didn't sit down as requested but followed into the modern room, fitted out with all the latest gadgets. 'I've been sat down most of the morning. Where were you off to? To see me?' He leaned on the worktop watching the coffee being made.

'What news do you have about the Mistress? Would it have been worth the journey?' asked Bob as he busied himself with the refreshments.

'I've got news that I can pass on, but before that I need to make sure you're the right person to be talking to.'

'I'm the one offering the reward. Why do you ask?'

'There seems to be one or two other interested parties. Are you working with Thornton Gallery by any chance? They talk about a five thousand pound reward. I wondered if it's the same reward money, and if so, perhaps I should deal with them direct. You see, if I know where the genuine copy of the Mistress is, and if it's worth millions of pounds, the reward offered seems very small. They should be prepared to double it, or even treble it. If I hand it over to you for five thousand, you will probably sell it on for a lot more.'

'How much more is it that you want?'

'With you and me working as partners I think we can agree fifty-fifty. You could probably ask for a hundred thousand pounds. Then I would need to be able to trust you and that's not easy after you arranged for my house to be burgled.' Crandle's tone changed from amiable to threatening. 'I don't like being woken up in the night Bob, being made to think my life's in danger.' He moved closer, 'who did you send?'

'I don't know what you're talking about.' Before he had chance to continue Crandle shoved the letter he had received into his hand. He read it quickly.

'Can you remember now Bob,' Crandle moved closer and grabbed a fistful of shirt near the older man's throat, 'who is the Collector? I know it's not someone as small as you, but you sent him. After seeing me with Dave Sampson and the antique clock you are the only person that can link me to salvage from the beached ship in Devon. 'Who is the Collector?' Crandle pushed his face into the other mans and quietly repeated, 'who is it?'

Bob tried to back off, pushing against the muscled chest bearing down on him. 'I don't know what you're talking about. It's the first time I've seen this letter or heard about your burglar. I don't need tactics like that; you were there when I paid Dave for the clock. I paid up, no problems, no threats, plenty of good will between us.' He felt his opponents grip weaken and shook himself free. 'Calm down and let's try to talk this through. I assume you have a painting like the one I'm looking for. You must have told someone or Dave leaked it to one of his mates.'

'No one else knew. Who paid for the clock? They obviously knew, because you told them. Did you give them my name?'

'I didn't know your name until we met in the pub for the handover.'

'It's someone you told Bob. Start thinking because I'm not feeling very patient,' he moved menacingly nearer, implying some sort of punishment unless he started to hear a plausible explanation.

'Let me think,'with shaking hands Bob started to pour out the coffee from the percolator, adding cream and sugar without bothering to ask, lost in thought, knowing he could come to only one conclusion. Adam Grange and, or the Fraternity must have taken some action but he couldn't suggest that to Crandle, not without risking some retribution. How could he deflect attention from himself? 'Could it have been coincidence that you were burgled?' he asked without much conviction realising how wek it sounded.

'Give me a break,' responded Crandle, indicating he couldn't believe the suggestion. 'It's someone you know. There are three parties interested and offering a reward, you, the Thornton Gallery and this guy who calls himself the Collector. They all value the painting at five thousand pounds; I think that we should have an auction. The highest bidder takes the art work.'

Bob gave him a long stare; he knew that Adam Grange had no problem with using force. That's how they had first met, in prison, where he had ruled as the enforcer offering protection to those that could afford to pay. 'From what you have said at least one of the bidders is offering more than money, he's offering you your life back. What value can you put on that? If you have it, let me have the painting, take the five thousand and I will sort the rest out for you.' It was a genuine offer made in good will. Knowing that if he held the painting he could pass it onto the Fraternity and that would be the end of the affair. 'I suspect that the people that own this version of the Mistress are not going to go home without it. It's worth millions of pounds, have you thought that they may have paid millions. I'm afraid that we are out of their league when it comes to getting things done.'

Thinking of his career in the army Crandle said, 'In the past some very nasty people have threatened my life and all of them have been worse off.' He lost his patience, 'You obviously know more than your saying. How else can you offer to resolve everything if you are given the painting? I may appear a bit of a push over,' he laughed, knowing many thought him a tough competitor,' but I have a lot of experience with awkward people. I'm going to make you and any others you have contact with an offer you can't refuse. Back off with the threats or I'll respond in kind, wait for the auction details. The paintings in a safe place, I'm a reasonable man, make me a financial offer that starts at ten thousand pounds and we will see who wants the Mistress the most.'

Bob could see his unwelcome guest believed in himself. 'OK, cards on the table,' he said abruptly, 'You have the painting; I'm interested in buying it back.' He couldn't become more involved with the Fraternity he had to end the uncertainty. 'I don't want a bidding war; I'll offer you fifteen thousand on the basis that it ends here and now.'

'Twenty five and you have a deal,' Crandle knew when he had a fish on the hook.

'That amount of money is out of my league, I could just about scrape together twenty thousand but that would be my limit.'

Crandle bluffed, 'It looks as though you can't afford the product. Sorry about that, it would have been easier to end this now.'

Desperate to make a deal but cautious the reply was, 'are we agreed that if I pay the top rate there will be no contact with the Gallery and we can all forget about further consequences?'

'You can believe that on my part, but you will have to sort out the Collector. Can you do that?'

'Leave that to me. Twenty five thousand pounds then,' Bob held out his hand and they shook on the deal. Bob more vigorously than Crandle who looked as though he would have asked for more if given the time.

'When can you deliver the painting?'

'I'll hand it over to you in exchange for the money tomorrow in Sidmouth. If you need to stay the night I can organise lodgings. I assume this is going to be a cash payment. Will you have the money by then?'

'It's going to be difficult but I should be ready. Ring my mobile phone tomorrow afternoon and we can agree the meeting place.' Standing Bob implied the meeting was over and he moved towards the door. Stopping suddenly he asked, 'how are you travelling back?' Not waiting for an answer he suggested, 'I'll give you a lift to the station.' The quicker the better he thought.

Returning from the station Bob locked the door behind him and checked the alarm to make sure he would be alone. Walking into the dining room he opened one of the sideboard drawers to remove a pair of white cotton cutlery gloves. Putting them on he selected the central floor to ceiling mirror and leaned down to release a catch and gently shoved the mirror backwards. It slid on nylon tracks backwards and then with a gentle push it glided sideways behind the other mirror. A recessed display wall became visible, in the centre a picture light shone down on the Mistress. The painting had always been one of his favourites and when asked by the Fraternity to copy it he agreed although it once again involved him in criminal activity, breaking his vow never to risk a return to prison. Taking a pace backwards he admired the work of a master. He congratulated himself on his conspiracy, he had produced two copies, one to hang in the Thornton Gallery and one for the Fraternity and he now had the original masterpiece hanging in his secret alcove. The unanticipated problem of the Fraternity painting becoming lost now created a serious threat to his plan. Adam Grange wouldn't give up until he had recovered the copy that he somehow knew Crandle had in his possession. The additional attention the painting would receive could result in it being discovered as a forgery with serious repercussions for Bob. Deep in thought he considered his options. He had to let Adam Grange know that he had bought the painting back but he would keep back the amount paid, contributing twenty thousand pounds of his money to the scheme to avoid any further complications. He closed the mirror to hide the Mistress, making sure there were no finger prints or marks on the glass. Moving into the lounge area he picked up the telephone and rang his untrustworthy colleague.

'Adam Grange,' the curt response suggested any call would be brief.

'I have a deal with Crandle,' Bob announced.

'Cost and delivery agreed is it?' again a brief almost angry answer.

'Five thousand pounds and it will be handed over to me to tomorrow.'

'How did you come to this agreement?'

Bob knew he had to be careful; acknowledging that Crandle knew where he lived would make Grange nervous. 'He contacted me at home following the recovery of the clock. He wanted to know if I would be interested in any news about the Mistress. I offered him the reward and it's all OK.'

'Let me know when you are to meet and I'll try to be around. I've got to ring off.' The call finished without any further explanation.

Bob sat back into the cushions of the sofa. The arrangements seemed to suit everyone why did he feel uncomfortable?

He dialled another number.

'Thornton Gallery this is Robin Walsh speaking.'

'Mr Walsh this is Bob Fry, you will know my name from the police investigation into the robbery at your place. We've not met before but I wonder if you would consider a business proposal that would add to your recent stolen art initiative. I know that you are asking for information about the forgery of the Mistress.'

'That's correct we have not met before but I know quite a lot about you via the police. I'm not sure that I should be talking to you.'

'I have cleared my name with the police. Ask them if you have reservations about my intentions. This is a genuine approach to see if we can do business. I like the way you have promoted the Mistress forgery as something the public should come and see and I have a proposal that can build on the idea. Perhaps drawing more customers to your door than you could ever have imagined. Are you interested?'

'What's the proposal?'

'We can't discuss it over the phone; I suggest we meet as soon as possible. You can choose where.'

'Here at the Gallery?'

'If that's what you want, yes.'

'Please put your idea in writing and let me read it before we meet.'

'I'll outline the proposal for you. My company is called Ssnap Ltd. I suggest we talk within the next few days. Please ring me when you have read the documents and suggest a time.'

The conversation ended with Robin Walsh feeling there could be the glimmerings of an idea that would be to the Gallery's advantage. Bob Fry sat back satisfied that he had made the first move in a lucrative deal. He had no doubt that his idea would be the making of the Gallery and he would be on the way to creating a profitable international business. That's all I have ever needed, he thought, an honest outlet for my creative talents and a credible business partner.

Adam Grange focused his attention on dissolving his partnership with Bob Fry. He had become a liability; through him the police could follow the trail to the Fraternity. Recognising that being linked to the forger could lead to his own downfall Adam thought he would somehow have to break the link between himself and any further police investigations. His plan involved Bob Fry taking a long holiday away from the action, before that happened he had to recover the Mistress.

Chapter Eleven

Crandle was surprised when he arrived home. Standing at the bottom of the lane he could see a light on in the front room. The curtains were drawn but they were so thin that a figure could be seen moving around inside. He walked past the front door to his neighbours, thinking that seven o'clock in the evening wouldn't be too late to knock on the door, he lifted the knocker, before it could fall the door opened and George dragged him in.

'Where have you been all day? I've been keeping an eye out for you coming back for hours. You've got trouble, that's for sure, all kinds of trouble.' The older man held his arm tightly keeping him from moving back outside as he closed the door.

'OK, calm down, what's happened? Who is in my house? I can see lights on.'

George seemed excited, bursting to prove his vigilance. 'It's your wife and daughter,' he spurted out the answer spraying Crandle with saliva.

He wiped the dampness from his face, 'Susan and Ashley! When did they arrive?' Dismayed, he checked his watch for the date, 'oh hell, I've missed our day out.'

'Oh hell is the right phrase,' replied George, 'your little girl seemed upset and your big girl looked real mean the last time I saw her with the policeman.'

'What policeman?'

'Came early in the afternoon asking about you and Dave, something about a phone call, Susan knows all about it. I just wanted to let you know what's been happening, if I were you I'd go home and find out the rest, the coppers due back in thirty minutes.'

Crandle looked appealingly at George, 'make us a cup of tea first; I need to do a bit of thinking before I meet them.'

Ten minutes later he placed his key in the front door and entered his front room. Alerted by the turning of the key, Susan had already stood up ready to greet him.

'Sorry Sue, I'm in trouble,' the words tumbled out as he walked across the room to grip both her hands.

Trying to shake him off she said, 'up the creek without a paddle I would say. Where have you been, what's happening? Breaking free from his grip she produced the money envelope, 'two and a half thousand pounds, pushed through the door this afternoon,' she threw it on the table. Continuing before he could reply, 'the police are looking for you, and to top it all you forgot our day out.' Her voice had been rising throughout her description of events, finally she reached a crescendo 'we're staying here tonight and you're sleeping on that,' she pointed at the settee.

He rocked backwards, pushed by the force of words. Slumping down in the easy chair by the door he looked up at his wife, 'Sue, I'm sorry love, but something came up that I had to deal with. Sit down, let me try to explain.' In all the years of their marriage he had not seen her as mad as this. They had agreed to live separate lives for the time being, like being in the army, meeting every few months, happy to see each other for a few days before they parted once again.

'Come on love, it looks bad but have more faith in me than that.'

'I've been worried sick. What have you become involved in?'

Seeing Susan near to tears he moved to take her in his arms, 'it's a bit complicated but it's going to be sorted out soon.'

She moved away, not wanting to be consoled, needing answers not warm sentiments. Holding back the tears she said, 'I want to know it all, we have had the police here and they will be back soon.'

'Let me take my coat off and we can sit and talk about it. When did the money come?' he asked picking up the envelope and reading the short message half now half on delivery. 'I know it sounds funny but I don't know who sent it.'

'It came in the afternoon, just pushed through the letterbox.' She slumped down on the settee letting him hang his coat on the back of the door. A pounding of feet made them both look towards the staircase as Ashley clattered into the room.

'Daddy, daddy, we're stopping the night!' she announced excitedly, 'we can go out tomorrow and I've brought my netball. Do you know where the nearest park is?' Jumping into his arms she gave him a big hug, clinging to him as though he might disappear. 'You're not arguing are you? I hate it when you have words.'

He laughed, 'have words? Where did you hear that turn of phrase? No, we are not arguing, we just need to sort some things out before the morning.' He smiled and hugged her tight, 'lovely to see you, sorry for being late. Can you forgive me?'

'Of course, but it will cost you an ice cream. A very large ice cream and mummy will want one too. Mummy is he worth it? Can we forgive him? You always say he's a diamond.'

Susan couldn't disappoint her daughter, she put her emotions to one side, 'we can try Ashley but it's going to be very hard, and he will need to be very good tomorrow. Its time you were in bed. Shall daddy take you up and read a story?'

With Susan in the kitchen washing the few pots used during the day Crandle carried Ashley to bed and held back his frustration as he read from her favourite book, The Faraway Tree. As soon as he could he crept down the stairs. Reaching the bottom his nerves jangled as the doorbell rang. Looking back up to the landing he quickly opened the door hoping that Ashley had slept through the noise.

'Shhh,' he said as he peered out at the stranger who he guessed had to be the policeman. 'What can I do for you?'

DS Bradford fished his warrant card out of his pocket and showed it to the dishevelled man standing in front of him, 'I came around earlier wanting to speak to James Crandle. That's you, is it sir?'

'That's me, you had better come in.' he held the door wide to allow entry, pointing to a chair he said, 'take a seat, we've just taken our daughter to bed so I would appreciate it if you kept your voice down.'

'Hello again Mrs Crandle, sorry to come around at this time but you know it was unavoidable.' Turning he faced Crandle and explained, 'I'm making enquiries into art theft at an establishment called Thornton Galleries. A phone call, made from here, asked about a reward for the recovery of a stolen painting. Did you make that call?'

Needing time to think and taken by surprise Crandle answered by asking a question, 'are you sure it came from here?'

'I'm sure sir. Do you know a man called Bob Fry? He was mentioned in the call.'

'Did the caller leave a name?'

'I think we will both find this process a little easier and faster if you let me ask the questions and you give the answers. Can you explain how a call could have been made from here to the gallery and do you know a man called Fry, Bob Fry?'

Not wishing to directly lie, Crandle replied, 'I know a man called Fry through a friend who asked for my help.' Sighing and realising he couldn't avoid either misleading the policeman or telling the truth, he opted for the truth. 'I rang the gallery to follow up a meeting that we had where we were asked about a lost painting. This Bob Fry offered a reward but I thought it could be some sort of scam, so I checked it out.'

'The caller left the name of Dave?'

'It was an off the cuff thing, I didn't want to leave a name, my friends name is Dave, it just jumped into my head.' He looked at Susan hoping that she would wait for a better explanation and not join in with the questioning.

'Tell me more about your friend and Bob Fry.'

'Dave found a clock on the beach, Fry is working for the owners and offered a reward, I helped in the exchange of the timepiece for money. Fry asked us if we knew anything about a painting called the Mistress and offered more cash if we could find it. That's all I know really, but I thought if Fry is offering money the gallery would know about it.'

'Where's Dave got to now? What's his surname?'

'He's on holiday with the reward money; I think he will be back next week. Is any of this any help? I'm just a bloke that provided support for the exchange.'

'Do you know where the painting is?'

'It's not here Sergeant,' said Susan, 'I've looked around the house for bedding and other things, there's definitely no art work.'

'There's a copy at the gallery, I found that out on the phone.'

Sighing DS Bradford, nodded, 'yes I know that. Where is the original?'

'I'm sorry but I can't help you with that,' Crandle declared. Basically that's true, he thought, I can't help without becoming hopelessly embroiled in the enquiry and I have to avoid that.

The questions continued until Eric Bradford was satisfied that he could achieve little else, he had a long journey home and he suggested to the Crandle's that he would return when Dave Sampson came home from holiday.

When they were alone Susan turned to her husband, 'I hope you have saved a better explanation for me because we all know, including the Sergeant, that you are being evasive. Where have you been for the day? You said you were in trouble what kind is it?'

Controlling his nervousness Crandle realised just how much depended on the next few minutes. His mind had been focused on dealing with returning the painting to the extent where his already shaky relationship with Susan had become endangered.

'Sue, I had such high hopes for our day out together, I'm sorry but I have acted like a fool and become involved in something that I can only call shady dealing.'

He had never lied to her and although they lived apart he always thought that they would get back together. He wanted to live with his wife and daughter again in the very near future.

'I don't want to make things worse by telling you all about it. I'd sooner clear it up and put it behind me rather than involve you and maybe Ashley.'

'Jim, if we can't work things out together when the chips are down and we need help then we're never going to make it back to being one family. This isn't like the army, you're not in a foreign country where I haven't the expertise to help, the problems here in Dorset. We either do this together or I go home for good.'

Seeing the seriousness etched on her face, he knew there could be no doubting that Sue would leave, he had to explain how a simple adventure had turned into a potential nightmare. 'Would you give me a couple of days to sort it out?'

'That's not going to work. I want to know how we are going to get out of this mess,' she pointed at the envelope with the money, 'and I want to know what the mess is.'

'If you're like me you will not know a lot about the law of salvage, but it's fairly obscure and the locals seem to believe it's finders keepers when you recover something from the beach......

Jim carried on describing the events leading on to his involvement with the Mistress painting and where Bob Fry fitted in. Occasionally he had to stop to answer Susan's anxious questions. Half an hour later, they sat together drinking tea, the story complete.

Susan summarised the problems before them. 'The Collector, Bob Fry and the Gallery want the original back, you have it and its stored in an hotel in Sidmouth, we have the money from one interested party in the envelope, Bob Fry is offering much more and the police are involved in tracing the stolen art. Your solution is to exchange the painting for the reward and then you can wash your hands of the affair.'

'I only need forty eight hours and it will all be over,' he said more confidently than he felt.

'But it is stolen art, worth a lot of money!'

'I will only be returning events back to status quo, the thieves will have the painting back and the police will be able to pursue them, we will not be involved.'

'Jim, think about what you are saying, you will become some sort of accomplice when you don't return the painting to the rightful owners.'

'It's too complicated for that. The police will never catch the thieves. I'm prepared to help them when the exchange has taken place. I don't really know who the Collector is, he maybe the thief or someone who has paid for the Mistress and wants it back.'

'You know it's very shady, who ever these people are they are not going to all this trouble when they could have told the authorities who had the painting. The burglary proved they are criminals, and as Bob Fry said to you, they are not to be trusted. I don't like it.'

'What would you do then?'

The telephone rang. Startled by its sudden intrusion, Crandle jumped up and snatched it from the sideboard.

'Hello.'

'Crandle?' the caller didn't wait for a reply. 'This is Bob Fry, have you time to talk now or shall I call back tomorrow?'

He looked apologetically at Sue, 'I've time to talk, carry on.'

'I can be in Sidmouth tomorrow afternoon if that fits in with your plans. The painting will have to be inspected, can you organise a hotel room? If all is okay the payment will be made to you there and then. I have a slight complication in that the Collector has insisted that he is allowed to view the painting and take delivery himself. I have proposed that after we have concluded the business the Mistress is left in the room for him to take away in his own time.'

'It's a bit complicated isn't it? I can make all the arrangements but .....'

'I know but that's the deal, take it or leave it.'

'You know I have little choice. You drive down in the morning. I'll give you a call on the mobile and let you know the time and venue. Okay?'

Replacing the hand set, he looked at Sue, the disappointment showing on his face. 'Events are moving faster than we would want. I can still call a halt to it, but only have overnight to think of a solution that will allow me to escape any dangerous fall out.'

'You're a Crandle, you will do what you want anyway; your family always have. I'll give you your forty eight hours but I expect you to come out of this without being in trouble with the police or having the local mafia on your case. We will be stopping in a hotel tomorrow night and Ashley will still want her day out.'

'Sue I can't do this without your help.'

'Yes you can, it's just another game, like being in the Marines and you will love it. Conflict, fighting, deviousness; what is it you always say, by sea by boat, winning is all.'

'I need to ask a favour.'

Chapter Twelve

The Mistress looked mockingly at him seeming to know that he wanted to continue the relationship but acknowledging that it must end. He felt sad, crestfallen, his yearning for her tantalizing company had led him into troubled waters, now he would have to deal with the sordid side of her affairs and pass her on to the rich man's club. Bob had sat in a chair facing the original masterpiece for over an hour. Not wanting to take it down but realising that if he didn't return the original work to the Fraternity via Adam Grange then his subterfuge would be discovered with serious repercussions.

'I've worked hard to have you here, but things have to change,' he said out loud, his voice echoing in the empty dining room. 'The two copies have served their purpose; they've enabled us to be together for a short while, now at least one of them will be destroyed.' He thought of the copy hung in Thornton Gallery, the one that would survive as part of his business proposal and the other that Crandle had recovered from the sea shore on the fateful day the container had broken open. That's the one that will have to go, the better of the two, but the one that will come under intense scrutiny. I have to replace Crandle's copy with the original before Adam Grange starts to probe its authenticity. 'I'm sorry it came to this,' he lifted the painting down and placed it in the prepared packaging on the dining room table, 'take care,' he said passionately and closed the wrapper hiding his endearing work of art. Sliding the wall mirror closed he polished the fingerprints away with his cotton gloves, the hideaway once again invisible to prying eyes.

The following day, half way to Sidmouth he received a call from Crandle telling him where to go. The hotel in the back streets of Sidmouth had a small meeting room that had been reserved for the day. He agreed to be there for three o'clock. Following payment he would arrange for Adam Grange to collect the Mistress after four o'clock. He intended to take the copy away with him leaving the original for collection. Although he hadn't told Crandle of his plans he couldn't see any difficulty, after the money had changed hands Crandle would be implicated in the original theft of the Mistress, on the wrong side of the law.

Crandle had organised the meeting room in the hotel where the Mistress had been stored, on receipt of the money he intended to nip upstairs and collect the painting. Good riddance, he thought, ruing the day he had rescued it from the container. Susan drove him to Sidmouth with Ashley sat in the back of the Ford Focus, they would spend an hour on the beach during which time Crandle would finish his business. The heavy traffic delayed them.

Arriving a few minutes early Bob Fry entered the hotel and asked for the booked meeting room. He carried with him the original Mistress secured in bubble wrap, gently propping it against the wall he helped himself to the coffee provided. His fear of attracting attention carrying the painting from the car had been unfounded. Looking out of the window he could see the beach and blue sea. Sitting down he relaxed soaking up the quietness of the room with the sun streaming in. Occasionally he heard a trolley being wheeled past the door, cleaners or more coffee being served. He gradually became concerned as the minutes ticked past three o'clock. Where had Crandle got to? The door opened and in he walked looking unconcerned about being late.

'Sorry been delayed by traffic,' Crandle said as he marched straight to the coffee pot and helped himself, shaking the pot he looked at Bob Fry, 'ready for a top up.'

'You're lucky that there is any left.'

Crandle looked at the package standing against the wall, the same size as the art work he had upstairs. 'That's not my painting is it?'

'Well it is and it isn't. We need to discuss it and we haven't a lot of time the Collector has been told he can have it after four o'clock as we agreed.'

'Have you brought the money?'

'Yes, you will be paid as agreed.' He withdrew a large envelope from his inside pocket. 'Cash to the value of twenty five thousand pounds, it's yours but we must exchange this painting,' he pointed to the one against the wall, 'not the one you recovered from the beach.'

Crandle's expression showed both incredulity and concern, 'this involves more than we agreed. I'm a simple man and I like doing things in a simple way. Why are you proposing the swap?'

'It's a long story and you only need to know that the Mistress painting we have here is the original, the one you have is a copy. For reasons that I can't explain it's important for the Collector to receive the original. I need to take the copy away with me. This is the way it must be or both of us will be in a lot more trouble than we wish.'

'Let me guess, he paid for the original. Am I right?'

'Yes, that's part of the answer. Let me have the copy now and we can leave.'

Crandle pulled an envelope out of his pocket and placed it on the table. 'This is the two and a half thousand pounds that the Collector pushed through my letter box. Is the exchange less complicated if he has it back?'

'Leave it on the table addressed to him. Now, go and fetch the copy from wherever it is and let's get out of here.' Bob Fry looked nervously at his watch he didn't want to be around when Adam Grange arrived.

They left the original Mistress enclosed in bubble wrap on the table with the envelope readdressed taped on top of it, it read, to be collected. Crandle dashed upstairs to the room he had rented and returned with the copy. Having handed it over to Bob Fry he said, 'I won't be sorry if I never see you again.' He turned and left the hotel through the front entrance.

Bob picked up the copy that had the original packaging on it and after allowing a two minute gap followed Crandle out. He headed for the car park, realising that it would be impossible to carry the parcel discretely, he rushed to place the painting in his car boot. He didn't notice the women on the corner of the street taking a photograph of the area including the hotel.

Adam Grange stood by his car a short distance away from the hotel. Having received a call from Bob Fry saying the exchange would take place that day he had followed Crandle from his home to the rendezvous. When he received a phone call telling him of the venue he had already arrived. Just in time to see Bob Fry leave the building and run across the car park and carefully place the painting in the boot. At that point he realised that some sort of double cross had taken place. He had specifically said he wanted to collect the painting. It should have been left for him to pick up from the hotel. He couldn't believe that Fry had tried to outwit him. Furious he started his car and pulled out into the traffic four cars behind Fry, following him and at the same time thinking of how he could take his revenge.

Bob Fry drove home not noticing the car appearing repeatedly in his driving mirror. It had been a tiring two days and now with all eventualities dealt with he felt due for a rest. He was out of pocket, yes but, he had bought peace of mind. Crandle satisfied with his reward and Adam Grange with the original of the Mistress; personally he had reconciled his mind to keeping his best copy of the painting. Thinking he would hang it behind the mirrors as soon as he arrived he focused on making his way through the mid afternoon holiday traffic. Bob intended to phone Adam Grange to make sure he had picked up the original Mistress painting and the two and a half thousand pounds left for him in the envelope. He vowed never again to become involved in forgeries for the Fraternity; he would never deal with Adam Grange again, not after the next payment for the forgery. He used the hands free mobile phone to call Adam.

'Adam Grange.'

'I hope you are in Sidmouth by now and ready to pick up the painting,' he waited for a reply, none came, 'everything is going to plan, all you have to do is collect the painting, oh, and by the way there is a small surprise for you.'

'I shall look forward to that Bob. Thanks for making the arrangements. I will see you later to finalise the method of exporting the goods out of the country. Where can we meet?'

Bob paused; half way back to his home he had not anticipated a meeting so early, 'at the Barn where we last talked, tomorrow or later, if that's convenient.'

'Very convenient, especially as we are to over-paint the Mistress. I look forward to seeing you in the near future.'

The call ended abruptly. Adam thought, who does he think he is fooling; there is no painting back at the hotel it's in his car boot. I'll give him a "small surprise" when he arrives home. At the next short stretch of dual carriage way he accelerated and passed his associate knowing that at high speed he would not be recognised.

Bob relaxed, all had gone to plan, it had cost him a lot to correct his mistake with the Mistress but now everyone would be happy. The time had come to progress his business venture, he had taken the next step, his proposal had been posted to Thornton Gallery and he intended to visit Robin Walsh on his way home. In the car boot a case held samples of his negative collection with a digital photo frame to demonstrate his ideas.

Crandle looked carefully at the digital photograph that Sue had taken. She had composed a shot of the hotel with Bob Fry walking through the car park carrying the painting that had been carefully packaged in cardboard.

'Nice photo Sue, I think we could convince anyone that he has a painting in his arms. I hope that we never have to use it but I feel happier that we can prove that he was here today. We could let the police have a copy to implicate Fry in some illegal activity.'

'Don't be daft; you would have to explain why you were here. Bob Fry would tell them that you were the architect of the deal. It would take too much explaining for you to come out squeaky clean. I think we should back off for a bit, let the villains sort themselves out.'

'Good grief! You've changed your tune. I thought we had to avoid getting involved. Let me think,' he paused, 'your exact words were "these people are not to be trusted", you only gave me forty eight hours to sort things out, now you're saying lay off.' The exasperation in his voice reminded Sue that she had been putting him under pressure to sort things out quickly. 'Where is Ashley?' he asked, looking around anxiously.

'Don't worry; she's in the tennis courts over there in the park, bouncing her ball. I can see her head from here, she knows not to move.'

'Let's go and join her. We could have that very large ice cream together.'

'What did you do with the money?'

'It's hidden in the room that I've rented for a week. Top floor of the hotel with do not disturb on the door. It's safe, I know the owner from the army, Special Boats Squadron.'

They walked into the park towards the tennis courts looking for Ashley. Sue panicked when she couldn't see her. Increasing her pace she entered the court and picked up her daughters cardigan. Crandle didn't enter the court but ran around the outside towards a group of children. As he approached they dispersed, one lone figure stood facing a tree.

He heard the chant of 'coming ready or not'.

With a squeal of disappointment the first of the hidden children shouted, 'you didn't count up to ten.'

It was Ashley. Turning she saw her dad and ran over to him. 'Hi dad, where have you been?'

Sue ran over, 'I told you not to move out of the courts,' she yelled.

'I'm only just outside mum. I left my cardigan so you would know I would come if you shouted.'

Sue hugged her close. 'Never do that to me again. I thought you were in trouble.'

'Like dad you mean. You know when he forgot to buy the ice creams.'

'I'll get us out of trouble this time,' said Crandle smiling, pointing to the ice cream van, 'but don't try that again, we were very worried about you.'

Ashley looked at mum and then at dad, 'come on let's go and have a family ice cream, it's a long time since we had a big tub with all the trimmings.'

They both looked at her and then at each other, 'OK,' they said together.

'Let's take a break,' said Sue and placed her arm in Crandle's, 'I think it's time for us to be happy,' she paused looking meaningfully at Crandle, 'for today at least.'

All thoughts of the Mistress and the reward flew out of his mind. He sometimes dreamt that it would all turn out right but never dared hope it would. They all linked arms and walked away from the other children who were still playing hide and seek.

In the hotel conference room, the cleaners had taken away the coffee pots and hoovered the room. They were left with what they assumed would be a picture covered in bubble wrap and the envelope taped to it that said to be collected. At eight o'clock in the evening everything was taken to reception. Someone would call; in the meantime perhaps the packages could be stored in the office.

Chapter Thirteen

'I think he's genuine. The business idea is sound and well thought out. Ssnap as he calls it will take off if he finds the right partner and the funding.'

'That's as may be Sam, but is the theft of art work providing the funding? He seems to make a good living,' said Eric Bradford having returned from meeting the Crandle's in Lyme Regis.

DI Jones sat at his desk rocking back and forth in his executive black leather chair, his elbows rested on the arms, he held his hands studiously together in a peak in front of his chin, his finger tips touching as though in prayer. Samantha Hill had reported back on her findings at Bob Fry's barn. The two negatives of the Mistress lay on the desk in a protective clear plastic envelope.

'He is a creditable artist in his own right. Lots of buyers are interested in his work, including the multi-millionaire Monty Decker. The two of them had their heads together at a recent conference I attended. He seems to have the confidence and respect of several Fraternity members.'

'The Fraternity?' queried Eric.

'It's a sort of rich man's club,' explained his boss. 'Sam has connections with the founder, this Monty Decker. Can you find out what Bob Fry does for them?'

'I've tried already. He attended a closed meeting of the board along with a guy called Adam Grange. Nasty piece of work, that one, spent time inside for GBH, probably employed as an enforcer.'

'Why would they need an enforcer Sam?'

'I could be wrong but that's his speciality. He introduced himself as Head of Acquisitions, when money isn't enough to make someone part with property a personal threat works wonders.'

'A bit risky that. This Decker guys a well known entrepreneur; would he go as far as acquiring art by threats? No there has to be more to it.' suggested DI Jones. 'You're the art critic Sam, that's why you are on the team, dig a bit deeper, we need more information.' Turning to Eric he asked, 'What's the connection between Fry and Crandle then?'

'It's not clear, he claims he only knows Fry through his mate but I'm sure there is more to it. He is being devious, just giving plausible answers.'

'Follow it up, find out more about their relationship, you could ask Fry.'

'OK, you're the boss. Bob Fry seems to be at the centre of our enquiries perhaps we should interview him again, this time down here at the station.'

The meeting carried on for another half hour, reviewing resources, considering tactics, finally they all agreed that progress needed to made in the next few days or the chances of recovering any of the lost art would be gone.

Bob Fry felt elated. At last the chance to form a realistic partnership. Given a fair wind Ssnap would work within Thornton Gallery. He would provide the photographs of art masterpieces and Robin Walsh would display them on digital screens. Together they would make art more available to a wider audience. This was just the start. He thought of marketing compact discs for use on televisions and memory sticks for personal computers. His mind raced with ideas. Slowing down he turned through the gates and slowly manoeuvred down the drive to park by the side of his barn.

The house stood in darkness. He lifted the boot and removed the Mistress painting leaving the case full of negatives behind for later. The entry light came on as he unlocked the front door; he closed it behind him and as he reset the alarm system to secure the outside area he noticed that it had not been set last time he left the building. Chastising himself to be more careful he walked through to the dining room. Using his cotton gloves he pushed the central mirror to reveal his hideaway. Carefully he discarded the packaging from around the copy of the Mistress and lifted it into the position reserved for the original. Standing back he sighed, thinking it would have to do, at least this copy of the painting would fool everyone except an expert. It was the best he could ever hope to own. Realising he'd been a fool to think he could get away with deceiving the Fraternity he thanked his lucky stars that the affair had been sorted out.

'It looks very regal, located there with the light above it,' said Adam Grange from behind him.

Bob turned, startled and then afraid he blurted out, 'where did you come from?'

'Knowing how much you like surprises I thought I'd arrange one for you,' he looked delighted to have shocked the forger but then his expression changed, 'sorry but I had to force an entry out the back. I've taken a look around the property and waited for you to arrive. You must drive slowly, it didn't take me that long to drive back from Sidmouth, but then, I didn't have such a valuable package in the boot.'

Looking at the painting Bob pleaded, 'it's not what you think. That is not the Mistress, it's a copy.'

'Of course it is; that's what forgers are famous for, copying the original and then keeping their work. Why would you want the one worth millions of pounds when you can have one worth a few thousand? Adam walked nearer and stared menacingly, 'why did you do it? I would have found out about the double cross. You must love that painting to risk everything you have, including your life.'

'I can prove it.'

Adam struck the older man in the stomach. 'Oh yes, I think you have some explaining to do. What little surprise did you leave me at the hotel in Sidmouth? It couldn't have been an empty room, could it?'

Gasping Bob said, 'we left the original for you. It cost me all the cash I had to buy it back from Crandle. It only needs picking up. There's two and a half thousand pounds there too. Ring them up. Ask them?'

Oh, thanks for the advise, I wouldn't have thought about doing that.' He laughed, 'I've already made the call.' Punching Bob's arm in a jocular way, and then again with enough force to numb it, he continued, 'funnily enough their reply matched my expectations.' He raised his voice to a shout, 'the rooms empty, been cleaned out, not even a cup of coffee.' A harder blow struck the arm.

Bob stepped back but came up against the table. He knew there was no escape. Could Crandle have returned and taken the painting after he had left? Somehow he had to prove the painting in front of them was a fake. With his good arm he reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a ball point pen. Holding it like a knife he lunged towards Adam. As he stepped back out of range Bob turned and stepped forward to the painting stabbing the pen through the canvas and tearing downwards.

'No.....' screamed Adam, as he jumped forward to prevent the damage, but the tear started at centre top and ran to the very bottom, stopping at the edge of the frame. He elbowed Bob to one side. Ruined, the painting looked irreparable.

Bob had fallen on the floor with the force of the forearm blow. He nearly avoided the kick that came to his head but the glancing blow hit him with enough force to knock him unconscious. Blood streamed from the cut on his forehead onto the wooden floor.

Adam couldn't take his eyes of the destroyed painting. Transfixed by the loss of a world masterpiece he lifted it down from the wall and placed it reverently on the table. What had Bob been thinking of? The action had made his predicament worse. Bending over the unconscious forger he lifted his head, 'Are you crazy?' he shouted. He let the head drop down on the floor. He must have had a reason to do that, he thought, it wouldn't be if I can't have it you can't either. Adam looked closer at the painting. The torn edge of the canvas didn't have the same colouring as the back surface. Could it be true? Is the painting a forgery? He wasn't an expert but surely the canvas would be harder and more tightly stretched on the frame after a hundred years, this looked tight but had elasticity. Using his strength he bent over and picked Bob up from the floor and sat him in a chair.

The water thrown in his face brought Bob around. Dazed, he struggled to gather his wits. 'It's a copy,' he whispered.

'When did you make it?'

'After the switch at the Gallery, they had the first forgery mounted for display and I had the original here for three days.'

'You copied it again?'

'I had the time to perfect it.' He struggled to keep his thoughts in order, 'you couldn't tell the difference,' the pride in his voice reinforced what he said.

'Why? You were being paid a fortune for the original. Why risk it all?'

Shaking his head to clear his mind he preened, 'I'm an artist, I love art, I wanted to own a masterpiece, the Mistress entranced me.'

'Where is the original?'

Bob passed out again leaving the question unanswered.

Adam picked the limp body up and threw it over his shoulder. Easily carrying Bob he walked up the staircase to the buildings loft. Sitting him in what looked to be a white plastic garden chair, he used strong tape to bind Bob's ankles to the legs of the chair and his wrists to the arms. Filling a jug from the sink in the corner he again threw water into Bob's face. It had no effect. Grasping the unconscious man by his wet hair, he lifted the head and tilted it back; gently he slapped the cheeks, moving the head from side to side. Bob's coat and shirt were covered with blood from the head wound. He persisted, coaxing his victim awake. Filling the jug with cold water Adam allowed Bob to drink from it before slowly pouring it down the back of his neck. Gradually the injured man recovered. Looking around the loft and then at Adam.

'Bob, Bob, Bob,' Adam repeated the name in a brotherly way, 'we were friends, no that's wrong we are friends Bob. Can you remember when we first met,' he paused to allow another drink from the jug, 'your first time in prison, when you needed someone to care for you. Of course you remember it. Don't you?' He held Bob's head by the hair and made him nod in agreement. 'Yes you remember when I provided the muscle to make sure you didn't come to any harm with any of those bad boys.'

'I remember,' a weak voice replied.

'And when you came out of prison, I looked after you. You could have gone straight Bob, been poor and like forty percent of your fellow prisoners reoffended. I found you work, introduced you to that nice Mr Decker and made you wealthy Bob. Do you remember that?'

'Yes,' a whisper voiced agreement.

'Sorry Bob, I must be going deaf. What did you say?' Adam finished with a yell and shook his victim by the shoulders. 'Speak up man; I want to hear the words. Yes Adam thanks for being a friend.'

'Yes, thank you for being my friend.' Bob said making the effort to speak louder.

'You've let me down Bob. You've let me down badly. You see, I'm like you. I love art, I'm,' he stopped to think, 'what word did you use, yes, that's it, I'm entranced by the Mistress but I'm different from you.' He leaned forward till their noses where almost touching, 'you see I don't want to own the masterpiece, I do own it and you've stolen it from me.' Adam walked over to the wall where four oil paintings were leaning against each other, without warning he put his foot through all of them. 'Sorry for that Bob, just a bit of an accident. Must have been three months work there. Good work too, probably irreplaceable.' He moved down the wall to another three. Seeing the horror in Bob's eyes he asked, 'are these rather special Bob, taken a liking to them have you?' He raised his foot but then returned it to the ground. 'Perhaps you can help me Bob?'

'Anything, just tell me what you want.'

'It doesn't work like that. You guess what I want and I tell you if you're right.'

'You want to know about the Mistress?'

The silence said you are on the right track.

'Where she is, who has her, how can you recover her?'

'Bob you're asking questions.' Adam raised his foot and smashed it through the paintings. 'I need information.'

He couldn't help it Bob sobbed and started to cry. The work destroyed had been the sum of his achievements since starting to oil paint twenty years ago. 'The original of the Mistress was left at the hotel for you to collect. We honoured our agreement. If it's not there now then either someone else collected it or Crandle returned and took it away. That's all I know. Please.........'

'That's good, I like your manners,' he picked up the painting of the London skyline and crashed it over Bob's head. 'Nice job, I hope someone didn't pay you for it. The colour, the texture, the perspective, they all seemed spot on, a work you could be proud of.'

'I've told you all I know.'

'That's OK, I trust you. I'm going to check it all out Bob and whilst I'm away you're going to wait to see if I come back with the painting. If I'm not back in the next few days assume that it didn't work out.' Adam systematically set about destroying all the paintings he could see. A pile of broken frames and canvas soon collected in the centre of the room. 'I think that about pays you back for the double cross. As you know Bob I'm not a vindictive person,' Adam breathed deep controlling his temper, 'they tell me that oil paints flare up quickly in a fire, but I'm not going to start a blaze, not yet, but if I come back unhappy Bob, you are going to pay for it. Is that understood?'

Silence.

'If I don't come back at all, you have about fourteen days to starve to death or make a getaway,' he laughed and then with a release of tension started to giggle. Stopping to catch his breath, 'I'll just check the binding before I leave you.' Adding more tape he whispered in Bob's ear, 'good bye old friend, it was great whilst it lasted.'

Bob heard him laughing as he clattered down the stairs. In a fit of glee Adam shouted, 'don't worry I'll set the alarm.'

Chapter Fourteen

'To me, to me, pass it now,' shouted Ashley. When the ball eventually bounced over to her she yelled, 'dad, that's much too late. Don't you know how to play netball?'

Laughing Crandle tried to snatch the ball out of her hands but she turned away and started to run down one side of the court towards where the net should be.

'Pass it back,' he shouted, as he ran towards the centre.

'No way, I'm in a scoring position.' She avoided his grasping hands again and bounced towards the temporary goal made from their coats. With a deft well practiced throw she landed the ball on top of his dark blue wind jacket. 'Goal.............'

They both stopped and laughed, Crandle pretending to gasp for air, 'you're fitter than I am,' he panted.

Delighted to score again Ashley ran over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. 'Practice dad, that's what you need if you're going to beat me. Mum,' she shouted to Susan who had sat on a bench to watch them, 'can we have a drink now?'

'Let's retire to the pavilion, over there, the Café in the Park, they probably have cream buns too.'

'Race you there,' shouted Ashley as she started her run, leaving mum and dad stalled at the start.

Two minutes later they collapsed into the chairs outside the small café. Susan took the orders leaving Crandle and his daughter chatting and enjoying time together.

On her return he asked, 'can I borrow your mobile? I just want to check up on a couple of things.'

'It's time you had your own then we could talk to you when ever we want. Or is that what you're avoiding?' she laughed at her joke knowing he just wanted to save the money.

Taking the phone held out to him he stood up and walked away from the table to gain some privacy. He could see Susan and Ashley talking to the old couple sat at the next table. He pulled out the card that Detective Sergeant Bradford had left and gazed at the contact number before turning it over to see where he had written Bob Fry's home number.

He punched in the code. The phone rang, and rang until the answer machine kicked in. 'This is Bob Fry, I'm not available at the moment please leave a message after the tone and I will ring you back.'

'This is Crandle, just ringing to make sure all went OK and the Collector is now happy. If I don't hear from you I will assume all has gone to plan. By.....' he rang off.

Looking again at the police sergeant's number he thought about how he could inform him the Mistress was now in circulation. He credited Susan with being right, he couldn't claim his innocence now he had taken money for the exchange of the painting but maybe he could inform them about the Collector. If he now told how he had been burgled and received a threatening letter but didn't mention Bob Fry they could start to track the Collector down. It would be risky, if it lead to an arrest the whole story might come out and he would be implicated. He couldn't see how he could get away with it. He would like to help see the Mistress returned to Gallery but he had condemned it to being viewed by a private owner, behind closed doors.

The ball bounced over to his feet.

'Throw it back,' Ashley shouted from her chair in the café.

His train of thought broken he threw it back. Walking back slowly he resolved to sort something out in the next two days.

Susan asked, 'What's the great thinker got on his mind? You look as though you've lost a fiver and found a pound, as they say.'

'I'm not happy Sue. It's all got out of hand. I feel guilty as hell about taking the money and giving the painting to a crook. I've betrayed everyone; it's a masterpiece and should be on display to the public.'

She smiled knowingly, 'I thought that you would come around to thinking like that. Jim, you've spent your whole adult life doing the right thing, even risking your life for it in the marines; it's about time you started sorting yourself out. I can help but you are going to have to pay the price of making the wrong decisions. There are too many people involved to keep them all happy.'

'I know; that's the problem.'

'Come on mum, come on dad, what are you two talking about? It's our day out.'

'We are just talking about what we will be doing tomorrow,' said Sue. Would you like to stop another few days?'

Ashley looked at her dad and simultaneously their faces started to beam with pleasure.

'Can we stop at dad's cottage or will it be the hotel.'

'The hotel tonight and then we'll see what we think.'

'Great,' Ashley threw the ball at Crandle's body, he missed the catch and it bounced of him. Laughing she ran after it shouting, 'butterfingers.'

Sue and Crandle smiled at each other and for the first time in many months she took his hand, giving it a squeeze, 'we can sort it out Jim. That's if you want to.'

'I want to,' he replied, acknowledging that maybe he had a chance of saving his marriage. He stood up and chased Ashley after the ball but they were both beaten to it by a business man carrying sandwiches who kicked it back.

Later, not wanting everyone to overhear his conversation he found some privacy to settle his hotel bill; the room for a week to store the painting and the conference room for the afternoon.

'That will be three hundred and twenty pounds sir. Are you paying by credit card?'

'Credit card,' he answered and they exchanged the necessary details. 'Thanks for helping with that. Can you confirm that the package in the room has been collected?'

'Not as yet sir, it's still in the reception area awaiting collection.' She paused to read what it said on the side. 'The one with: Mr Crandle to Be Collected written on it?' The receptionist sounded less friendly and more professional, as though she had other things to do.

'Well, it just said, to be collected.'

'Probably the staff added your name because you made the room booking.'

'It's still there then?' The tone of his voice expressed his doubts. It didn't make sense. Surely the Mistress had been collected. What had gone wrong?

'As I said it is in reception waiting for you. Is there anything else I can help you with?'

'No thanks, I'll call around shortly.'

Something has, gone terribly wrong, he thought to himself. I now have the original painting and the money. Is it feasible to return the painting to the Gallery? Not and keep the Collector happy, he answered his own question. What about the police? Could he talk to them and handover the Mistress? Not without implicating himself in the sale and exchange of the painting. He rang Bob again. The answering machine started but then malfunctioned. Hoping he did not have to visit Bob's home again he resolved to talk to Susan about the options. Sue and Ashley were now playing ball with another family near the café; it would have to wait until they left the park. Somehow I have to talk to Bob Fry, he decided, either later today or tomorrow.

***

Parked outside the Barn, Samantha Hill could see Eric testing the windows as he walked around the building. There had been no reply to their phone calls and having arrived on speck no one had answered the door. She climbed out of the car and walked over to meet Eric at the front door. They could hear a muffled alarm inside the building suggesting something or someone had triggered a security device.

'I suppose technically we still have a search warrant for the building,' said Sam. Thinking they could stretch a point.

'We had a look around a few days ago?'

'But it's still applicable. We could force an entry on the basis that the alarm is sounding. Don't you agree?' It seemed obvious to her that they should take a look inside. Bob Fry had been told to keep himself available for interview in theory he had not done so.

Eric Bradford argued with himself, he didn't mind the risk of being caught out of procedure but couldn't see the advantage of breaking in? 'Why force an entry? We have already searched the place and found nothing.'

'What if he's harmed himself because of our enquiries?'

Eric laughed, 'you think he's swinging from the rafters?' He smiled at the thought, 'he's a nice guy Bob, not a hardened villain, more of a misguided artist; I don't see him topping himself.'

'That's the same as saying a financial fraudster accidently mixed the numbers up. Come on, you must agree he's a criminal! Anyway we can't continue to hang about here. Are you game or not?'

'Let's take a look around the other side.' Eric led the way, following the block paved path past locked windows until he came to a stop at the back door. 'If we kick the lower panel in we will have to pay for any repairs.'

Pointing to marks around a small window that she assumed would be a toilet or pantry she said, 'looks like someone has beaten us to it.' Taking a pen out of her pocket she used it to gently lever the window back. 'Don't want to interfere with a potential crime scene do we?'

He nodded in agreement. Taking of his jacket he threw it over the window sill, 'up you go then,' forming a cup with his hands and motioning to her that he could give her a lift up. 'Good job you're wearing that trouser suit,' he smiled at the thought of the alternative and then realising the sexist nature of his comment, he quickly added, 'a short skirt could snag on the catch.'

With no more thought, Sam put her foot in his hands and clambered into the building. Walking to the backdoor she looked for a key to let her colleague in. 'There's no key,' she shouted.

'That's OK,' he said from behind her.

Shocked, she whirled round and thumped him in the chest, 'don't ever do that again.'

He staggered backwards knocking a pile of clean plates off the worktop. Falling to the quarry tiled floor they shattered spreading broken china across the floor. 'Bloody hell; that should wake everybody up,' said Eric. Stepping around the debris he walked into the open plan ground floor thinking his first task had to be to shut off the alarm.

Silence descended and Eric almost whispered, 'the security system was set to identify intruders in the grounds. An early warning for the occupants in case a break in followed.'

They quietly walked through the lounge area, stopping at the dining room doorway. The central mirror had been left open and behind it the hidden display area could be seen, with an empty frame hanging on the wall.

'Same sort of frame that the Mistress is mounted in,' said Sam moving over to take a closer look, 'the painting has been cut out.' The frayed remnants of canvas remained attached to the wooden frame the canvas had stretched over. 'It's been cut with a knife by someone in a hurry by the look of the jagged edges.'

'Maybe a thief, it's an odd arrangement that, the wall mirror hiding a display alcove.' suggested Eric. 'Look at the blood on the floor,' he knelt down, 'it's dry but looks fresh.'

'It must be Bob's secret gallery but surely he can't have had the Mistress hanging in there? Shall we take a quick look upstairs?'

They climbed the staircase. Sam felt familiar with the layout of the barn having visited it twice recently. Pointing further along the balcony she said, 'the art workshop is over there, it's a loft with large windows.' They walked over and entered, stopping just inside the doorway. Before them, in the centre of the room lay a pile of destroyed paintings, frames and canvases that had been ripped and snapped to small pieces. 'I hope the Mistress is not in this lot.'

Eric moved further into the room. 'It looks as though every piece of artwork has been torn apart.' He stooped down and picked up part of a frame with canvas attached. 'There must be a lot of work here; valuable work I would think.'

'The last time I came in here there were paintings mounted on every wall,' she looked around, 'he had so many that lots were just stood on the floor leaning against the walls. Some forgeries others original, all painted by Bob Fry. Where is he? He must be gutted.' Sam walked over to an upturned chair. Inspecting the broken arm, she pointed to bits of tape still adhering to the legs, 'someone has been tied to this, look at the tape.'

'But where are they now?'

Pulling open the drawers in the photographic cabinet Sam could see many of the negatives she had looked at before were missing. 'We need to call this in to the station, designate it as a crime scene, the blood, the destroyed property and the broken chair all seem to indicate Bob Fry is in trouble. You make the call Eric and I'll search the bedrooms.'

Eric walked back down the stairs to the lounge where he could see a telephone. The answering machine light blinked to indicate messages. Ignoring them for the time being he picked up the phone and used it to make his report.

Sam joined him as he finished his conversation. 'The DI is on his way with forensics. We've got to hang on until they arrive. Did you find anything else?'

'I think he's packed a case, clothes appear to be missing. The wardrobe doors were left open,' she explained. 'I'm not sure but my guess is that he's done a runner.'

Chapter Fifteen

Bob looked around the small room the estate manager had allocated to him. His meagre belongings were piled on the bed. Casual clothing of limited value gathered together before running from the Barn. The small window looked out onto the lake. Swans congregated in a corner where the gamekeeper fed them, in the fields sheep looked comfortable keeping the grass down, a couple strolled hand in hand around the perimeter following the public footpath. He knew the estate stretched over fifteen hundred acres, had a grade two listed fourteen bedroom manor house, seven smaller rented properties and the boat house. It sprawled across the open countryside; he loved it here, always had. Below his first floor room if he listened carefully he could hear the water lapping. In the past there had been a yacht, now sadly the moorings were empty. Feeling grateful for the no-questions asked response of the estate manager Bob started to formulate his appeal for sanctuary to Monty Decker. Fortunately his camera and many of the art negatives had been in the car following his demonstration at Thornton Gallery.

***

The grounds looked superb from the manor house front office. The semi circular window allowed sight of the garden that the designer had planned for his paymaster. The fence hidden in a dip in the land to keep out the cattle, the trees aesthetically placed to create a view of natural beauty all suggested a foundation of wealth and centuries of breeding. Bob felt at home, he couldn't really pinpoint why but it seemed as though he had found a land that an artist had created.

'You suggested that I could make a photographic record of your art collection Mr Decker,' Bob never knew how to address the chief executive of the Fraternity. He had been knighted earlier in the year but to call him Sir seemed over the top.

'Bob how long have you been working for me? Must be over two years now, on and off, I think we can dispense with the Mister, just call me Monty when we are by ourselves or if you need to be formal Sir Monty.'

Bob nodded his agreement.

Monty carried on, 'yes I did suggest that you could record my collection. It's an interesting idea your Ssnap business. Copying the digital photos onto a disc and then selling them to the masses. Trouble is one of the reasons that I like my collection is because it is exclusively for me and my guests. My idea is that you will photograph the collection and that I will own the copywrite, agreeing who can be given a copy of the images. That way I can keep the circulation to a limited few, for example, the rest of the Fraternity board members. If it's a success then they could undertake a similar process and we could all share in each other's artwork. It's more expensive this way but cost would not be a great hurdle for us,' he smiled, acknowledging that the millionaires didn't need to worry about the relatively minor amounts of money. 'I want you to start straight away Bob, now you have suggested it I'm very enthusiastic.'

'Of course, it will be my pleasure.'

'At the same time I want you to work with my personal collection, my very private gallery.'

'Private?' queried Bob.

'You know a little about the contents having been involved with the acquisition of the Mistress painting.'

Bob feigned ignorance. He had always suspected that there would be a large private collection of art from questionable sources but had not wished to become too close to the Fraternity's business. 'I merely helped Adam Strange; he never told me much about your affairs.'

'It's very simple Bob; throughout the world major pieces of art are frequently stolen, when these become available on the black market the Fraternity buys them, as many as it can afford. They are then stored for future posterity.'

Bob suggested 'and your personal viewing?'

'Of course but only until the art is returned to the rightful owners. It's a charitable cause the members of the Fraternity are devoted to. This way stolen masterpieces are recovered rather than remain hidden or lost for decades.'

'It must cost a fortune.'

'Only a millionaires club could afford it. Not even governments would want to become involved or wish to be seen negotiating with thieves.'

'How long do you keep the art?'

Monty Decker smiled, 'well, this is a relatively new venture we can't return the art as quickly as we would like otherwise the thieves will realise they have a buyer and thefts would increase. It all has to be done on the quiet.'

'You've never returned any art then?' laughed Bob.

'We are holding it until we agree a date. Until then it is kept in five centres around the world. That's why the Mistress became lost in transit. We always return the art to the centre nearest the masterpieces origin. In the case of the Mistress that would be South America and one of our members lives in Rio.'

Bob didn't believe the explanation but couldn't express his doubts without offending his employer. 'How very philanthropic of you and your friends, it's a bit risky though. How do you know you are buying the genuine article?'

'We have an expert that is prepared to authenticate the work, someone very familiar with stolen art and the criminal world. But we could always do with more help if you're interested.'

How many times had he been asked to take on consultancy work in past weeks? The first invitation had come from Sam Hill acting in her role of police officer and then she had repeated it as an advisor to Sir Monty and now Monty himself. Bob wondered who currently helped the Fraternity to authenticate the art. Could it be Sam Hill? Surely not! Perhaps Adam Grange but he didn't really know a lot about the art work other than how to acquire it through his criminal friends. Monty Decker probably had experts at his beck and call. 'I hope your man knows what he's doing. It's a difficult task proving paintings are genuine. Who is he?'

'Now that I can't tell you, it's one of my secrets, agreed with the man or woman involved. Enough of this chatter, it's not what we are about, let me show you the way to the gallery's. I've rather unimaginatively called them G-One and G-Two,' Monty chuckled as he set of out of the room and into one of the majestic corridors running the full length of the house each window looked out onto the gardens.

'Sir Monty,' shouted Bob, 'before we do that can I draw your attention to Adam Grange and his integrity.'

Stopping in his tracks Monty turned to face Bob, 'our friend Adam? What about his integrity? You know I employ him because of his criminal contacts, I don't expect integrity but I demand loyalty. Don't you ever forget that!'

'You mentioned yourself the possible increase in levels of stolen art if it became known that it could be sold on easily. I think that Adam is arranging for masterpieces to be stolen and then selling them to you under the guise of recovered art. He then pockets the money you believed would go to the thieves, the payment for the Mistress could be a million pounds.'

'These are serious allegations Bob.' Monty grimaced, 'what the hell are you talking about?' His demeanour changed in an instant from affable to angry. Leaning into Bob's face until there was barely an inch between them he threatened, 'I don't suffer fools gladly; you should know that before you make sweeping accusations.'

Taken aback Bob spluttered his innocence, 'it's true, let me explain.' Taking a deep breath he continued, 'Adam claims to be recovering the Mistress from an international crime syndicate but he hired me to steal the painting and paid me to keep quiet. That's why he invited me to your meeting to implicate myself in his scheme. He knew that I wouldn't dare tell the Fraternity of his double cross.'

'If that's true how is it that you are informing on him now?'

'He's out of control. Blames me for the loss of the painting and has threatened to take his revenge. I escaped from him yesterday, taking refuge in the boat house. If he finds out where I am and what I'm doing he will,' Bob stopped talking suddenly realising how serious his predicament had become, 'he will kill me. I'm sure of it. Sir Monty I need your help.' He started shivering with fear. Having thrown himself on the mercy of a powerful man, he risked being rejected; a negative answer would mean he would have to run again.

'I'm listening but I don't believe a word of it. Adam Grange has worked for me for four years. He has pulled off some tremendous deals. Recovered masterpieces that the art world thought would be lost forever.' Shaking his head Monty tried to think of a reason that Bob would spin him a tale. 'Adam's very well paid for what he does,' he stated. 'Why would he turn against me?'

'I don't know why, but he has.'

'We'll see Bob, we will see,' he said thoughtfully. 'I shall find a way of testing him. In the mean time I want you to go ahead with the photography. Smiling again he continued, 'stay on the estate in the boat house for a few days. Adam Grange won't bother you, we will keep him in the dark until you are either proved right or wrong. Don't worry you will be looked after. Now, enough of this nonsense let me show you G-One, where we keep the legitimately owned art.'

Later, having left Bob to start his work, Monty rang Adam Grange's mobile number.

'Adam Grange.'

'Adam, you know who this is?'

'Of course but it's unusual for you to call me personally. It must be serious.'

'Oh it is serious Adam. You've been a naughty boy. Things are getting out of control; I might need to see you urgently. Where are you? What are you doing?'

'I've just been enjoying a game of ball in the park, haven't done that for years. Now I'm in the car following a guy called Crandle who has the Mistress hidden away somewhere, he and Bob Fry have tried to double cross us. Fry because he wanted to keep the painting for himself and I think Crandle wants more money. I haven't figured him out yet.'

'You haven't got a lot of time, I have it on good authority that the police are beginning to show interest in the painting.'

'That must be your art critic Samantha Hill.'

'You are perceptive, she does keep me informed but on this occasion the confident is your tame forger.'

'Bob Fry, when did he talk to you?' Adam showed his anger by banging the dash board. Seeing a bus stop he pulled over and parked.

'About an hour ago here at the Estate, he's very concerned about you, it seems you have been taking money on false pretences. He's made a number of accusations that lead me to think that drastic action has to be taken.'

'Do you want me to come over?'

'No, he can wait, I've found something to occupy him and at the same time he is hiding from you and the police. When you have recovered the Mistress perhaps then we could all get together for a little chat. I sense that one or two things are coming to an end, a quick, sharp, end. Don't dally, I need results and I need them fast.'

The phone went dead. The call terminated without a goodbye. Monty stood by the drinks cabinet. He thoughtfully poured himself a malt whisky. A little early in the evening for this he acknowledged to himself but the end of a successful venture should be celebrated and he had no doubt that things were about to change. He decided to take pleasure from his illicit art collection in G-Two. Carrying his drink he opened the oak door leading from the snug. Walking down the carpeted staircase to below ground level he passed his collection of black and white photographs of people who had changed the world. Occasionally he paused to absorb the features of an individual. He believed that he had a unique collection; it had taken several years to obtain the originals. Some were professional photos and others taken by family, they differed in size, were mounted behind glass in mahogany frames, influential people with special qualities. The Dali Llama, Nelson Mandela, Mahatma Gandhi, Hitler, Margaret Thatcher, John Kennedy, these and several more provided inspiration.

He had always been a collector, starting with stamps, cigarette cards, old records; he had progressed as he became wealthy to sports cars, property in fantastic locations until he had finally given it all up for his love of original art. As he approached the door of G-Two he preened with anticipation. The masterpieces stored in the optimum environment for their safety were hung around the walls of a large rectangular room. Negotiating the electronic locks he entered, he could hear the slight hum of the air conditioning, the lights came on automatically providing low level illumination, as he stood in front of each of the paintings additional lights shone in the area until he moved on to the next.

The stolen art in the room had an estimated public value of nearly five hundred million pounds although only a fraction of that sum had been paid. Monty walked from one masterpiece to another the lights seeming to follow him around the room. One place on the wall remained empty, it could have been filled by the Mistress but he had agreed with another member of the Fraternity to return it to Brazil. One day he thought, I will have something similar to complete the collection. Could he trust Bob Fry to photograph this collection? It seemed doubtful that he had been taken in by the story of recovering art for a charitable return. Without any further change in the situation action would have to be taken to terminate his employment, permanently. For the time being he could be allowed to carry on recording the collections by camera, the idea of having digital collection was a good one. I might suggest having a digital display screen in G-One showing all the legitimate art work the Fraternity owns. Bob would need to travel to finish the job, his work coming to an end in Brazil.

Chapter Sixteen

The muted conversations emphasised the discretion expected in the cocktail bar at the Dorchester Hotel. Lunch time customers looked after their own business and ignored others. Adam Grange always enjoyed the quiet service provided in the crowded bar that gave the anonymity he required. His guest sat opposite with his back to the room.

Alan Bedows looked around at the décor made up of luxurious panels and hundreds of red glass tubes. 'I always feel comfortable stopping here,' he said.

'I'm sure you feel at home,' Adam replied. He looked up and caught the waiter's eye.

'What would you like to drink? Anything to eat?' he asked.

'No food thanks, a plate of nibbles and a small beer are fine.'

Adam placed the order, adding his favourite martini cocktail, a Gibson, to the list.

'Now that we are comfortable can we get on with business? I have a train to catch.'

'Of course,' Adam replied. The corner table guaranteed no one could overhear them. 'First on the agenda is ....'

'Just a minute, how long have we worked together?' Not waiting for an answer Alan carried on, 'five years, maybe six, and you are still referring to the agenda. Loosen up, we are not a business, be less formal. We are partners. You know, good guy, bad guy.

Adam laughed, 'okay, we know which one you are; ex-copper and world traveller.' He paused to gather his thoughts, 'I think we should talk seriously about the pressure the police are putting on the whole project. It's a pity that Bob Fry happened to be there on the day of the robbery. Fry, the Mistress and the theft of the three paintings from Thornton gallery has proved to be too much of a coincidence. They are still chasing Fry for the Mistress. We need to reduce the level of interest. Do you agree?'

'I agree. From my point of view, we somehow need to lead them away from my connection with our friend Fenton. It proved to be too much of a risk stealing three paintings from the same gallery that held the Mistress.'

'Jack Fenton is going to have to go down. He is an out and out villain and knows not to talk. In any case we will be looking after him and his family for a few years. You made a big mistake letting him use your real name to get the security job.' Adam sipped his cocktail whilst looking around, making sure they could not be overheard.

'I think the solution is to let him take the rap for the theft, and unfortunately, we have to allow the stolen paintings to be recovered. That way the police will have solved the original crime, and may not be able to resource the Mistress investigation.'

Alan Bedows spilt his beer as he listened to this proposal. 'I know you are not joking, but this will mean we lose the three paintings valued at about two million and have wasted the money used on hiring the robbery team. It's a big loss.'

'But it's a necessary one.' Adam let the thought linger. The waiter came over to check if they needed more drinks. They both declined.

With a sigh Alan replied, 'okay, I will arrange for the paintings to be recovered. I'll fix it for all three to be found somewhere in Europe, somehow linked to Fenton.'

'We could use Sam Hill to make the discovery, it could add to her reputation; with her working at Decker's place, maybe it can be used to our advantage. If you take care of that in the next couple of days. I will recover the Mistress unless we are prepared to make a loss on that as well.'

'No way, we would lose too much money. Decker paid three million for it on the black market. He doesn't know that you engineered the theft and the money is in our bank account, but he will expect it back from someone if he doesn't have the painting.'

'This guy called Crandle has it. I'm thinking of using his family as leverage. Some sort of threat.'

'Don't tell me about it. I don't need to know. Just get on with it, but don't go too far outside the law, remember we are trying to calm things down and it's costing us a fortune.'

'I hope this can be our last job for a while. You can continue with your travels and maybe I can take time off in Brazil. Decker is becoming a pain in the neck. Do this, do that and no thank you.'

'Okay, we can talk about that later. The contact with Decker has made us both millions but as you say maybe we should plan for a short break.' Looking at his watch, he signalled the waiter for the bill.

'I'll get the drinks,' said Adam.

'Nonsense, I stopped here last night, they can be paid for when I check out. The two of them stood up and made for the exit.

***

Bob Fry had not responded to his messages and despite two more calls Crandle couldn't contact him. He decided not to wait. After paying the bill at his friend's hotel he collected the Mistress and carefully placed it in the tidy boot of Susan's car.

'You're confident about the packaging?' Susan asked. 'I could move our cases onto the back seat, by the side of Ashley.'

'What is it dad? Why all the secrecy? Is it a present for someone special?' excited at moving from the hotel to stop at the fisherman's cottage Ashley bubbled with energy, eyes shone bright with enthusiasm.

'It's something that I'm storing for a friend.' Crandle played down the event his voice expressed boredom, his body language suggesting a chore he didn't want to take on. Turning to Susan he gave her an anxious smile, 'I know it's wrapped professionally, Bob Fry knows his work and how to transport it around. It won't come to any harm in the boot. In any case it won't be in there long.'

'Thank goodness for that, given its value I don't want it leaving in there. Where are we off to now?'

'Whilst he's away on holiday Dave has had new locks fitted to his apartment. He asked me to pick up the keys from a company called Lock-U-up; it's on the industrial estate on the way to his place. If we collect them now we could store the painting in his backroom until I decide what to do with it.'

'When does he come back? Did you say another week?'

'Can someone sit in the back with me? I can't hear what you're talking about. Will it be long before we are home? I'm hungry.' Ashley normally had mum all to herself and chatted incessantly, she didn't mind having to share with dad but they talked about grown up things.

'We've just a small job to do first and then it's off to the beach.' said Crandle.

By the seaside, children and adults walk up and down the promenade. Parading, some walk slowly, taking in the view, a few appear to exercise by briskly dodging in between others making fast progress to an unknown destination. The occasional dog owner tries to restrain the happy pet from pulling onto the small sandy patches that exist. It's a happy mid day scene in warm sunshine.

On the beach more children play at the water's edge with parents anxiously watching on to ensure their safety. The tide is high up the shingle beach at this time of day. As each wave rushes in and then turns it creates a strong undercurrent. Three teenagers with high flying stunt kites entertain the crowds with their aerobatic antics. The beach road runs alongside the promenade and drivers slowly pass by looking for parking spaces. A turning point at the end is constrained by an ice cream van. A line of parents and children chatter happily, patiently waiting their turn to order at the serving window.

Ashley climbed the steps from the beach to the promenade. Crandle and Sue watched from the blanket they had spread out to sunbathe. Sue leaned back and rested her head on Crandle's shoulder.

'This is the life, if only we could forget our troubles for an hour. It's so relaxing here. Ashley loves us being together.'

'I know,' he agreed. 'We should do this more often, it's nice to be with you again. I miss you. I miss both of you.'

'Maybe we should start to think about you coming home,' Sue suggested. She turned her head and looked for Ashley.

'She's over there.' He pointed as their daughter made her way to the ice cream van.

Ashley waved and then was out of sight, in amongst the strolling throng. A car pulled up almost by her side. The driver dressed in a clowns suit clambered out to walk around the back and open the boot. Helium filled balloons of all shapes and sizes thrust their way to freedom. The clown restrained them, holding on to the long strings attached to them. They floated above everyone's head, tethered and ready for sale to the ogling group gathering to watch. Like the others, Ashley stared at the balloons enjoying the carnival atmosphere. One of them, shaped like a shark, escaped and floated skywards. The crowd laughed. The clown made rapid grasps to catch it but failed. They all looked upwards as it drifted over the ice cream van away from the beach, caught in the wind. Turning towards the clown Ashley saw him stumble; his clumsy attempt to catch the escaped balloon made him overbalance. Crying out he regained everyone's attention. They laughed as he sat heavily on the ground by the side of the car. Screams of delight erupted as one by one the balloons escaped. Some adults tried to catch them as they floated away. In a short space of time the sky seemed filled with odd shaped highly colourful floating objects. All eyes were turned upwards.

Eventually, one by one the crowd returned attention to the clown. Sitting on the floor he seemed to cry. His makeup already making a sad figure he now looked miserably at the gathering audience. He sighed, stood up and started to brush himself down, only then did he appear to notice one balloon had not escaped. It floated two metres above his head, tethered to a box in the boot of the car. He looked around him at the faces of the sympathetic, but happy children. He returned their smile. Standing tall, he stretched his body and beamed at the girl nearest to him. Making a sweeping bow he scooped up the string holding the balloon and with exaggerated ceremony presented it to Ashley who accepted it with a delighted squeal. 'For me?' she said.

'It's especially for you. Take it to mum and dad.' The clown turned, waved at everyone, closed the boot and drove off. Everyone had loved the entertainment, with his departure all returned to normal, with the exception of Ashley, who abandoned her quest for ice cream and excitedly ran back to the beach.

Watching the balloons drift up and away Crandle and Sue were surprised to see Ashley appear with one in tow.

'Mum! Dad! Look at this, the clown gave it to me.' The balloon bobbed about above their heads. Bright gold, in the shape of a star, it was the only one on the beach. Crandle noticed that above Ashley's hand, a party envelope had been tied on to the string.

'What's this then? An invitation,' he suggested, taking the envelope down and opening it. On the first side facing him the message read, Have fun, have a great day, you have been entertained by Horace the clown, a phone number was added promoting a business. Crandle turned the paper over to read a message written with a black marker pen, this precious little girl has been returned in good faith, now give back the Mistress. It was signed the Collector.

Chapter Seventeen

Crandle dropped the note. Standing up he turned and looked towards the promenade. The ice cream van still had a long orderly queue. There were lots of people walking, some taking a rest on the benches and others were looking over the wall towards the sea.

'I'm just going to take a walk to the roadside. See if I can meet the clown and thank him,' he said, keeping the anxiety out of his voice. The soft sand reminded him of the desert on the border of Iraq. It clung to his every footstep. He started walking casually but finished at a run. The clown had gone. Asking pensioners sat on a bench he confirmed that the black car had driven off immediately, the last balloon had been handed to Ashley. They couldn't give the registration or the make of car. They all agreed it had been great entertainment.

Sue chatted to Ashley waiting for Crandle. Panic had set in. She urgently wanted to leave the beach but didn't want to alert her daughter to the danger they could be in. Her mind raced with the possibilities. It would have been just as easy to kidnap Ashley as give her the balloon or do something more evil, perhaps injure her. The Collector obviously knew enough about the Crandle family to threaten each one of them. She carefully started packing things away into the beach bag. At the same time she watched Ashley play with the balloon.

'I wonder why he picked me mummy. Why did he give me the balloon? It's great. How long will it last?'

'You must have been the best looking girl, that's all I can think of. Can you remember? The last one stayed afloat for two weeks.'

'Your voice is strange!'

Sue tried to calm herself down. Thankfully Crandle arrived back. Together they packed away the last of the beach towels.

'It's time for something to eat. I fancy a take-away back at the cottage.' He looked at Sue, 'somewhere quiet where we can talk about tomorrow. Maybe we should go away for a few days. Would you like that Ashley?'

'But dad, I am away. I'm here with you. It's the best place we've been for ages.' She ran ahead of them. Crandle shouted her back. 'Walk with us for now. Help mummy with the bags.'

Sue asked, 'if we have something to return,' she stared meaningfully at Crandle, 'how do we know where to leave it? The last arrangements didn't work out. Have you any ideas?'

'Not at the moment. I could ring Fry again. He was supposed to clear this mess up. He must know where to contact our friend. Either that, or place the white envelope in the window, as we were told before.' They arrived at the car.

Crandle slowly accelerated heading away from the beach, the balloon bounced about in the rear of the car, a reminder of the threat to their daughter.

Sat on the back seat Ashley gained their attention. 'Look over there. That's where the clown stopped.' She pointed towards the ice cream van. 'I can't tell what you are talking about again. What have we got to take back?'

***

Sam Hill slowly meandered past the jewellery shops on the Ponte Vecchio Bridge in Florence. She loved the city and given the opportunity to address an art conference she had taken the weekend off. Art work of any kind gained her attention including handmade gold rings. She followed her favourite route back to the Duomo turning right to where the artists sat on stools surrounded by fascinated tourists. Passing row after row of paintings on display she finally reached the Palazzo del Signoria. As she came out of the narrow passage into the square an artist uncovered his artwork for the public. She stopped in her tracks. Ten paintings stood against the wall, all of outstanding quality. Caught in the sunlight, at just the right angle, the oils were lit up as if in a gallery. The one in the centre seemed familiar. Sam walked over to make a closer inspection.

'Yes,' she knelt down feeling excited, 'it's got to be a copy!'

Lots of the artists studied great art and sold the resulting replicas. Sam turned towards the artist who had been standing by the work on the corner of the square. He had moved. She looked around her, seeking his unshaven face. Not having taken much notice of him, she recalled him being tall, dressed as all the others in a poor quality, dark blue, shirt. No, she couldn't pick him out from the crowd. Tourists were admiring the paintings, but no one seemed to own them. She picked the centre one up and waited to be challenged. It definitely was a good copy of one of the three stolen from Thornton Galleries. Her heart skipped a beat. Could it be the original? Staring at the other paintings, one by one she slowly realised they were familiar. No one challenged her. She lifted each one and stacked them leaning against the wall. Taking a silk scarf out of her bag she wrapped it loosely around the paintings.

'Hey Lady, what's happening. Don't you like them?'

Sam whirled round at the question. The young women asking it appeared to be in the audience. Taking an assertive stance Sam replied, 'I need to keep them out of the sun for awhile. I'll be moving them soon. She acted as though she owned the paintings. No one queried her statement. People moved on, there was plenty of art to admire. With limited expertise in the Italian language she didn't have much confidence to make the necessary phone calls, but she knew she had to try.

***

Sue walked into the cottage carrying a bag full of fish and chips. Stepping over the large envelope on the floor she made her way to the kitchen table. Ashley followed on, tugging the large balloon into the low beamed room.

'Look mum, its bouncing on the ceiling. I'm starving. Can I help to set the table? How do we warm the plates up?' she stopped, seeing her mum looking at Crandle stood in the doorway. 'What's in the post dad? Ooh, it's a new mobile. You said you wanted one. Is it a surprise?'

Crandle smiled at his daughter, not wishing to show his concern, 'Yes it is a surprise. It's second hand, not very expensive, something to help us keep in touch.' He looked at Sue, 'I'll give you the number when we've eaten. Come on, let's tuck in. I'll make the tea.' He pushed the mobile back into the bubble wrap envelope, read the note that had come with it and placed it on the mantel piece, out of Ashley's reach.

After they had eaten, Ashley asked if she could show George her new balloon. Sue agreed to let her pop next door for five minutes.

'Right, whilst Ashley is out, 'said Crandle, 'we need to talk about the Mistress.'

'What's the story behind the mobile phone?'

'It's a gift from the Collector, who also sent us a note. It says we are to call him when we are ready to handover the painting. There is a text message that says he is waiting and reminding me that I have the money I asked for, now it's time for me to deliver. Then it simply says, "or else".'

'You do have the painting and we do appear to be defaulting on the agreement. Why not just hand it over and have done with it? We can't keep aggravating the situation.'

'I'm aware of that, but he is now threatening us. If we hand the Mistress over what's to stop him continuing. He could fear that we will turn him in. I want to somehow make sure that he leaves all of us alone.'

'I can't see how you will do that. We don't know who he is.'

'Bob Fry does!'

'And he's gone missing! It could be a coincidence, but I doubt it. We've become mixed up in something very dangerous. Give him the painting we don't have any options.'

'We do have options.' Crandle moved to sit by her side. He held her hand. 'I'm sorry love; I didn't mean to get us into this mess. You wanted to go to the police a long time ago, perhaps it's time to ring Detective Sergeant Bradford he seemed a nice guy.'

'Where will that get us,' she replied angrily, taking her hand away. 'We are in too deep.' Sue held back the tears. 'How could we explain our involvement? We are not innocent, we will be charged and have to prove we haven't been part of the crime from the beginning.'

'We have the photograph of Bob Fry bringing the painting for the exchange with Grange. They must know I couldn't have taken part in the theft of the Mistress from the gallery.'

'You stole it from the container ship. You lied to the police when they asked about it. You accepted twenty five thousand pounds to hand it over to a bunch of crooks. How do you think all that looks?'

'I don't know love. I'll just have to figure something out. If I could get in touch with Bob Fry it would help,' he paused, looking at the trim phone on the window sill, he said, 'Bob did once ring me here. He returned my call to his home.'

'With no answering machine you don't know if he called whilst we were out. Try ringing 1471 for a record of the last caller's number.' Without waiting for a response from Crandle she stood up from the table and used the phone.

'You were called yesterday at 11.00 the caller's number is .............' Sue jotted the number down, but realised it matched the number given by Eric Bradford. 'The police called.'

Ashley burst through the back door. 'Mummy, mummy, can I go to the park with Uncle George? It's not far. He's coming round to ask you in ten minutes.'

'Uncle George!' Crandle and Sue laughed and nodded their agreement to each other. 'Of course you can, but stay with him, he may not be able to run as fast as you.'

Eric Bradford used his backside to push the door open. Carrying a mug of tea in each hand, newspaper under his arm and an envelope between his lips he had the appearance of a circus act that at any moment would start juggling the four items. He allowed the door to slam shut and placed the tea on the Inspectors desk. He removed the envelope from his mouth and opening the newspaper drew Jones attention to a photograph of Sam Hill, dressed casually, talking to a man in uniform.

'That's our girl spending time with the Italian police. The newspaper, Corriere della Sera, one of the most prestigious, had the headline,

Europol recupera l'opera d'arte rubata

L'agente inglese fa il ritrovamento

'Very funny,' said DI Jones. He waited for an explanation from his Sergeant.

'It's the Italian equivalent of the New York Times. Sam Hill found the lost paintings in Florence on her holidays.'

'I know that, what does the paper say?'

Eric looked at his boss, 'you can't read Italian?' Shaking his head he spread the paper wide. Basically it's a report that the European Police Office have worked with our Serious Organised Crime Agency and recovered several stolen paintings. Three of which were taken from Thornton Gallery a few weeks ago. Sam Hill is praised as finding them in Florence.'

'Is there anything else of interest to us in the article?'

'Well if you are that interested I'd better let you have the full translation,' Eric smiled as he passed the envelope over to his boss. 'It's all in there, had it typed up, but I thought you would appreciate the personal touch.'

'Well Eric as a matter of fact I do. That's why, whilst you were off duty pursuing your hobby last night, I was on the phone receiving a run-down of events from Sam Hill herself. It seems a great coincidence has occurred. The very officer who is on the case makes the discovery. What do you make of that? Can I have the answer in English please?'

'It's a bit odd, I must say. She is in touch with the art world though.' He paused, trying to find some explanation, 'Sam seems to know everyone involved with the case. Bob Fry and this so called philanthropist, Sir Monty Decker, she even associates with Adam Grange who we think works for Decker. Yes, she has her finger on the pulse that's for sure.

'Perhaps she's too close to them all. Sam must have to draw a fine line occasionally between police work and being an art consultant, otherwise she may not appear as a credible critic. Find out how well she knows Decker.'

'Okay you're the boss, but I can't believe she would two time us. Mind you, Decker is worth an absolute fortune.'

Chapter Eighteen

The room looked more like a library than an office. Racks full of books lined the walls where a step ladder gave access to the top shelves. A reading table provided a home for six chairs at one end of the room, at the other Monty Decker sat behind his desk. Sun light shone in through the enormouse bay window. Standing opposite him, Adam Grange listened to the story of Bob Fry's arrival at the Grange.

'For now he will be living in the boathouse documenting the Fraternity's artwork. I don't want him disturbed or inhibited. Is that clear Adam?'

'You know that he tried to steal the Mistress from us with his two forgeries? I am still working to recover the original from Crandle. It's all down to Fry's double cross that we have this problem.'

'I know all of that, but leave him alone: until I tell you otherwise.'

Adam paced up and down, like a frustrated tiger, waiting for release. 'One day he is going to receive his just reward for all the hassle he has caused me, but I hear what you are saying.'

'Stop walking about and sit down. I have asked Bob to call to see me.'

A polite knock on the door interrupted the conversation. A fighting fit and muscular member of staff gently ushered Bob Fry into the room.

'Thank you Douglas, that will be all for now,' Sir Monty always appreciated the skilful way his trusted butler quietly but firmly conducted his affairs.

Looking subservient Bob approached the desk. 'You asked to see me Sir Monty.' He didn't notice Adam Grange sat to the side in a high backed chair until level with him in the centre of the room. Taking a step backwards, his eyes moved from one to the other. Nervous, twitchy, like an anxious pet rabbit, he stood motionless, anticipating trouble.

'Relax Bob; we just want to sort a few things out. Now then, tell me again about how you think Adam is swindling the Fraternity. You know, the story about our recovered paintings having been stolen to order.'

The accusation, made openly, surprised Adam, he had not been aware that it would be discussed.

It completely shocked Bob who looked for an escape route. He mumbled, 'I can't remember.'

Adam's demeanour changed. Normally threatening it suddenly looked volatile. He started to stand. Monty Decker waved him back. Holding his hand up, like King Canute stopping the tide, he turned and said, 'Sorry Bob, I didn't catch that. You remember suggesting that Adam here had overstepped his job description.' He slid a draw open in his desk. 'It's his role to recover stolen artwork from the villains at a reasonable price before we eventually return it to the authorities.' He smiled, 'that's correct isn't it Adam?'

'Of course, and if I might say so Sir Monty I've always been a loyal servant to the cause.'

'Bob?' they waited for any comment but none came.

'You see Adam; I'm told that instead of waiting for some villain to steal a painting you take the initiative, arranging the theft. Instead of paying some crook you put the money into your pocket. Millions of pounds of our money, you must be very wealthy.' Decker withdrew his hand from the drawer and waved a small automatic pistol in the direction of Adam's chair. 'Don't be tempted to stand up, I feel distinctly nervous accusing you of this hideous crime against our charity.'

Grange laughed, 'okay, I can take a joke, and calling the Fraternity a charity, is a good one. However, I can't believe that you have listened to Bob and believed him. He is the one that double crossed us with the Mistress. Because of him it's still out there, lost, but recoverable. I can't provide receipts from the type of people that I have to deal with. You know that without me you would not have the superb collection that all of the Fraternity drool over. Think about it, we have worked together for a long time.'

'That's true, you are very persuasive. You see Bob, even if you are correct I still have an art collection that most people dream of. If Adam is putting the money in his pocket why should I care? We still acquire the artwork we want.'

Bob stirred himself from being the silent witness. He blurted out, 'that argument is only good if you are buying the paintings for yourself. A painting is stolen and you have it for a knock down price. The thief is happy and so are you.' He paused to take a breath, 'however if it's true that the Fraternity is a charity and will one day return the paintings in its collection, then the whole process is a waste of time. Why steal something, pay for it and give it back. Just leave it where it hangs and concentrate on the real crooks.'

'He has a point.' Monty Decker looked at his Manager of Acquisitions, 'I'm going to have to find a solution to this. In the meantime Bob you work on Ssnap and the photographs of my collection. Adam you concentrate on getting the Mistress back.' He pushed the button to release the cartridge magazine from the gun. It dropped out into his palm. Clicking a switch he demonstrated how the cigar lighter worked. 'Clever job this, it is a real Berretta, but the slide is custom made for me.' He laughed, a heavy guttural noise, 'don't make any mistakes either of you, or I will have to use the real thing.'

Adam relaxed, smiled, and nonchalantly said, 'you had me worried there Sir Monty.'

'I'm glad that it had some effect.' With sincere menace in his calm voice Monty quietly said, 'Adam, I want you to remember that you work for me. If I ever find out that you are taking money under false pretences you will pay the ultimate price. Bob leave us and get on with the job, you don't need to worry about Adam he will stay clear.'

Bob Fry quickly exited the room, the smell of his sweat and fear lingered behind him.

'Adam, when Bob has finished his work, perhaps you will be asked to take care of him. Don't forget what I said. I employ others who can take care of you. Now go and sort this fellow Crandle out.'

Sue picked up Crandle's house phone on the second ring expecting to hear Eric Bradford's voice. She realised the police would want to arrange an interview and hoped to persuade them to come to the cottage.

'This is Bob Fry I need to speak to Crandle urgently.'

'Mr Fry! We've been trying to get in touch with you.'

'Urgently, I said. Please put me through, or I will ring off.'

'Jim, come quick, it's Bob Fry,' Sue shouted.

'This is Crandle. Where the hell are you?'

'Listen, I can't stay on long. A guy called Adam Grange is the Collector. He is a very dangerous man. You will know by now that he expects the Mistress immediately. Don't mess him around. Give it to him. You have your money.'

'He said he would contact me. Can I stop him from threatening my family?'

Give him the painting. He and I have been told what to do by the boss. Grange will toe the line and leave you alone. He's only interested in one thing. Give it him.'

'But ... .'

'Times up!' the call ended with the sound of the handset being crashed down on the cradle.

'Short and sweet,' said Sue. 'What did he say?'

'Hand over the painting and watch out for a guy called Grange. He sounded scared stiff.' Crandle dialled 1471 and listened to the recorded message, the caller withheld their number.

The phone rang again.

'Must be ringing back,' said Crandle.

'Mr Crandle caught you in at last. This is Eric Bradford. I'm sure you've not forgotten me.'

With a heavy sigh Crandle replied, 'not at all Sergeant. What can I do for you?'

I'm about thirty minutes away by car and wanted to talk to you about that call you made to Thornton Gallery. You recall the one that mentioned a Bob Fry.'

'I do recall the question and the answer was I didn't make the call, I said that I don't know him.'

'Funny that, you see, we've recently listened to Mr Fry's answer phone and you appear to have left two messages on it. I'll be there shortly Mr Crandle, please don't go out, this is a serious enquiry, we believe that someone's life may be in danger.'

Resigning himself to the interview Crandle replied, 'I'll be here,' and rang off.

Turning to Sue he said, 'the games up, the police are on their way to talk to me.'

'Not yet it isn't! Take that mobile, collect the painting and wait for the Collector to call. When he does, give it to him.' Sue had already gathered Crandles coat and pushed it into his hands. 'I'm more worried about the Collector than the police. You sort him out and I'll look after Sergeant Bradford?'Her small hands pushed him in the back ejecting him out of the front door.

'Take care of Ashley,' he shouted and turned away. Realising he would have to go to Dave's apartment to recover the painting Crandle set off at a steady jog, intending to wait there until he received the expected call.

Chapter Nineteen

Alan Bedows stacked his bags in the hall ready for the taxi to take him to Southampton where he intended to join a cruise to New York. Unfortunately an unwelcome caller arrived at the door an hour before he was due to leave.

'Sam, what are you doing here? Come in. Is this official or are you in art critic mode?'

'I'm in very angry person mode.' She pushed the door closed behind her. 'I've just returned from what I thought would be a quiet holiday having been made a celebrity in the Italian newspapers. My style is to work in the background. To be credible with everyone I associate with I need to look the tireless hardworking person that I claim to be.'

He showed her into the nearest room from the hall and sat down at the dining table. 'Whoa, slow down a bit, I had nothing to do with the newspapers.'

'No but you did arrange for me to stumble across the paintings that we had put away for a rainy day. Whatever made you let them go after all the trouble we had acquiring them? Why didn't you warn me? More importantly, why didn't you consult me?'

'We are in trouble. We still haven't recovered the Mistress, Bob Fry has accused Adam Grange of taking money from Decker under false pretences and the police seem more and more interested in the theft.'

'I am the police. That's what I'm there for, to steer them away from our activities. Good God man, there are only three of us involved in this venture and you do things your way. Talk to me when we need to make decisions, not Grange, he can't see further than the money in his pocket.'

'The idea is, now the police have recovered the three paintings they will wind down the investigation and hopefully leave you to find the Mistress in due time.'

'What about the missing Bob Fry? Do you think they will just let that slip?'

'He's at Decker's place and will probably be found innocently working away on the latest project.'

'And Grange?'

'Will recover the Mistress and disappear. He wants out, claims he needs to retire.'

'So with a bit of luck all will be cleared up and we can take a break until we feed Decker another recovered painting that we have stolen. Or we could just disappear never to work again, happy to live off our previous earnings. Which do you prefer? I feel that it would be better to back out now whilst we are in front.'

'Yes, I agree, Sam. Maybe we should retire as Grange is suggesting. I could extend the cruise holiday I'm about to start and be away for the best part of a year.'

Sam stood up and walked around the room, admiring the ornaments on the sideboard. Alan Bedows sat at the dining table sorting his passport and tickets out, preparing for his journey. She watched him through the large gilt framed mirror. Picking up the small replica of Venus made from marble Sam appreciated the craftsmanship taken to produce the carving. Bedows looked up.

'Good quality that. Bought it in Rome twelve years ago, it will be worth a few grand by now.' He looked down at his watch, giving the impression that they didn't have much time.

Sam gripped the statuette around the chest and crashed the square base down into the back of Alan Bedows head. He slumped forward banging his face on the table top.

'It's time for you to go missing Alan.' Sam grimaced as she lifted his arm to check for a pulse. 'It seems you have already left us. No more waiting on the dock side for you old friend. Bon voyage and good luck,' she laughed, a sour angry noise.

Sam gave the body a shove sideways and he slid to the floor. Calmly walking to the downstairs toilet she collected a towel and wrapped it around the shattered head to stop any more blood oozing onto the wooden floor. Kneeling down she unfastened the laces of Alan's brogue shoes. Gripping his warm hands she pulled him along the floor towards the cellar door. Opening it, she sat Alan against the wall, bent his legs to form as tight a ball as possible and rolled him sideways through the opening. The body bounced down the stone staircase, landing with a crash on the paved floor.

'Oops, you really must be more careful.' Sam smiled as she looked around her for blood stains. Returning to the dining room she picked up the marble statue and carried it to the toilet to wash the blood away. Inspecting the smooth surface she marvelled at the lack of any damage, due either to, its long history or from the more recent murder.

A car horn sounded in the street. The taxi driver used his horn again to indicate I'm here waiting for you; ready to go when you are.

Keeping out of sight Sam dropped the latch to lock the outside door. She pushed the cases close into the corner of the wall to avoid anyone seeing them. Making sure all the internal doors were closed she sat with her back to the wall. Closing her eyes as though it would prevent her from being found, she waited.

The taxi driver rang the doorbell. Waiting a few seconds he knocked on the door. A minute passed and he tried the door.

'It's no good knocking on the door mate, he's gone away.' The next door neighbour appeared over the garden fence.

'Not yet he hasn't, that's why I'm here. This is exactly the time he wanted picking up.'

'Well he told me yesterday to keep an eye on the house and that he wouldn't see me again for some time. Are you sure you've got the right day?'

'Of course I am.'

'Well he's not in there is he?'

Silence descended. Someone looked through the letter box. 'No, he's not going to answer the door.'

Sam heard the taxi start up and drive away. She breathed out. Her car was parked a few streets away. Although she had visited Alan Bedows house before they had managed to keep their association a secret. Now that secrecy had paid off.

Chapter Twenty

Crandle managed to hold his temper whilst making the arrangements for the rendezvous. The caller on the mobile made reasonable demands for the handover although it seemed unnecessarily complicated. He had to find a parked car on the sea front, open the boot and place the painting inside. The Collector would not be present during the process.

'All a bit over the top if you ask me,' he said to himself as he placed the Mistress onto the back seat of Sue's car. He had discussed the arrangements with her. She thought it a good idea to avoid seeing the Collector; it avoided an aggressive clash between them. She knew her husband well enough to anticipate his anger at the threat to their daughter. He picked up her car twenty minutes before the allotted time. She came out of the cottage to give him the keys. The visit from Eric Bradford had been delayed and she told Crandle to stay away for the time being. She had the mobile number to give him the all clear. His first question had been about Ashley, but she was out with Uncle George, this time at the cinema. They were both surprised at the way she had adopted him.

Driving along the promenade road at Sidemouth Crandle reached the end and could see a small number of disabled spaces. The car he looked for held the registration VN51DPZ; a silver Vauxhall Omega, it had been parked in the last bay. He could see a small gap where the boot had been sprung open. It posed a small risk, open to the opportunity thief, but the Collector probably had it in his sight.

Crandle pulled into a gap beside the Omega and looked around for signs of the Collector. He must be near-by, he thought as he climbed out of Sue's car. Taking the Mistress from the boot of his own vehicle he walked over to the other car, lifted the boot lid and laid it carefully inside. He slammed the lid shut. That's that, he sighed, as he walked back to the car. Using the mobile he rang the number given and stated the few words agreed as a recorded message.

'You now have the Mistress,' he paused his feelings simmering below his outwardly calm appearance, 'I'm leaving it in your care, I don't want to see it again.' He hesitated, 'no more threats to my family or else there will be serious trouble. I hope this message is clear. I do not want to see or hear from you again Mr Grange.' He hoped the use of the surname given him by Bob Fry would suggest he knew enough about the Collector to keep him away.

Adam Grange enjoyed his double vanilla and strawberry cone. Sitting on the promenade wall in the middle of a crowd of holiday makers, three hundred metres away from the car, he watched Crandle make the call but resisted the temptation to answer. Better to have no personal contact he thought. Crandle looked fit and mean. He didn't want to invite any further trouble. Turning away from the scene he watched the kite flying on the beach, passing time until Crandle had left. The massive kites dragged their owners across the sea on surf boards. He admired the display of physical strength applied to controlling the elements. Great fun, he thought, beginning to dream that perhaps he would have the time to indulge in leisure pursuits soon. I just need to deliver the Mistress to that fool Decker and I can retire. Alan Bedows seemed to have accepted the proposal that this would be the last job for the foreseeable future. He turned his mobile phone on to listen to the message from Crandle. Threatening, that's what it sounded like, yes, he had been right to keep him at arm's length.

Knowing that Crandle would not loiter he decided to move the silver Omega. It had been stolen for the purpose of collecting the painting; now all I have to do is drive away and make the switch to my car, in his mind he congratulated himself. Standing, he stretched his muscles before walking towards the disabled parking area. The phone rang again.

***

Eric Bradford picked Sam Hill up from her ultra-modern apartment in Taunton. On his way to interview Crandle he had decided to call on Alan Bedows to check any links that he may have with the petty criminal Fenton who had impersonated him at the gallery. Driving down the leafy road of semi detached houses he was surprised at Sam's map reading skills she steered them directly to the door.

'Looks deserted,' said Sam. 'Shall I knock on the door? You wait here and we can be off to the seaside in a jiffy.'

'You can't say that! Have you lost your sense of adventure? You're the one that insisted on breaking into Bob Fry's place, now you want us to shoot off to the sun. Let's have a sniff around. He could be out back.'

'Okay, but we haven't a lot of time to waste.'

They walked up to the front door and Sam rang the bell. Having been there a few hours earlier she knew no one would answer, but went through the process of trying to be natural, she peered through the glass. Her nerves jingled at the same high pitch as the bell. How could she divert Eric away from the cellar? The body needed to be left much longer. The plan required it to putrefy; making the coroners work much more difficult with the likely conclusion a fatal accident had occurred.

'There's no one in,' came a voice from over the fence.

They turned to see the head of an elderly man peering at them. 'How do you know?' asked Eric.

'Mr Bedows asked me to keep an eye on the place. Who are you then? Not selling double glazing are you?'

They both produced warrant cards, waving them in the air to introduce themselves. 'Routine enquiry, just wanted a quick word. You're sure he's out?'

'I wouldn't be telling everyone that comes to the door, but he's gone away for a few weeks. Loves his cruises does Alan. South America I think he said. I'm sort of a house keeper.'

'Got a key then? Have you? Mister ... ?' Eric left the question unfinished.

'I might have for the right occasion. Some sort of emergency for example, but for a routine enquiry it wouldn't be appropriate.' Seeing Sam take out her notebook he added, 'Mr Cooke,' he paused, 'that's Harry Cooke: Cooke with an e.'

During the conversation Eric had been inspecting the outside of the property. Nice house he thought, well looked after, secured by an alarm system he noted. He tested the front door, to find it locked as expected. 'Take a look around the back Sam; whilst we are here we may as well make sure our ex-colleague is looked after.' He waved his arm in the general direction of the gate by the side of the house.

Shrugging her shoulders Sam set off along the gravel path. 'If he's not here there's not much point in looking around. We should get on with the next call.'

'Been gone long has he Mr Cooke?'

'Well it could be two days, or may be one day,' he replied vaguely. 'Had a taxi call yesterday, but he had the wrong date, I'm fairly sure.'

'Take his details did you?'

Looking proudly at Eric the neighbour said, 'Of course, I made a note of his registration, I'll get it for you.' He could see Eric looking for Sam. 'Don't worry; your mate knows her way around, she's been here before.'

'Seen her have you?' Eric asked, masking his surprise.

'Not for some time, but I expect being fellow officers you all know each other. Thought she was a relation until you flashed your cards. Can I leave you to get on with it? I'm having a cuppa.'

'Yes sir thanks for your help.'

Sam came strolling back from the rear garden. 'All locked up and secure. Let's move on.'

Eric noticed again how eager she was to leave. 'Been here before?'

Taken by surprise she looked away to gather her thoughts. Why had he asked? Had the neighbour seen her yesterday? No, she reassured herself, I would have known. 'Just the once,' she responded, 'when we made enquiries about Thornton Gallery, you remember, the curator said his head of security was Alan Bedows. Turned out to be Fenton in the end, but I had to follow it up. It will all be logged down in the files.' She smiled and casually started walking towards the car.

Makes sense thought Eric. Not sure why he had doubted her. Must have been the boss and his suspicious mind, suggesting she was too involved with the infamous of the art world. He followed her to the car. 'Time to see what this guy Crandles up to, he knows more than he's saying, that's for sure.'

Chapter Twenty-one

Sitting in the bar where it had all started Crandle sipped his beer and stared disconsolately at the crossword open before him. Only three weeks since that bloody container ship stuck on the coast and his whole world had shifted. He missed chatting to Dave. The latest text from his friend told him the holiday had been extended. Best bloody six hundred quid he'd ever earned selling that clock back to Bob Fry. Why did I have to be so greedy? Five thousand for the Mistress no questions asked should have been a good deal. Instead I've pressed for twenty five thousand and found that it comes with a heap of trouble. Bloody hell!

He sipped his beer. Reminding himself that he normally avoided swearing he gave himself a reprimand. Next time you're out on a run lad do an extra two hundred press ups. I can't believe that Sue and Ashley have been dragged into it. He reminisced, nice to have them back at my side; Sue will probably expect me to go back up North when this is over. If it's ever over! Remembering the threats to Ashley he sipped his beer to prevent his anger forming a mental block. Grange is sorted out now he has the painting, but what about Bob Fry? Will he keep quiet? I need to speak to him. Would it help to give the money back? Rejoin the family with a clear conscience, well almost clear, there would still be one or two indiscretions. He couldn't wipe out what he had done, but he could start again. Allow the memories to fade and concentrate on what lies ahead.

The crossword puzzle remained empty. I'm stuck. Who would know where Bob Fry is? He phoned to warn me about Grange. Where from? What did he say? He and Grange had been told what to do by the boss. Who could be the boss?

A shadow fell across his paper. 'What do you think Sam? Should we ask Mister Crandle to join us for lunch?' Eric Bradford placed his large hands on the table and leaned into his victims face.

'How did you ... ?'

'Oh we didn't Crandle, but sometimes a police mans lunch is better than a hunch. Today it just happens to be at the pub nearest your home before we come to interview you. Don't mind if we join you, do you?' Both of them sat down. Eric looked at his colleague and said, 'Sam, I'm sorry to trouble you, but would you mind getting the drinks? Mr Crandle won't need another one. It's a small beer for me and a sandwich.'

'Now Crandle let me and you have a little chat. Off the record, you understand. Later I'm going to ask you to go down to the local nick to make a statement to DS Hill. She will help you with the wording.'

'What's this all about?' asked Crandle as innocently as he could.

'I wouldn't want you to incriminate yourself, but you are one of the last people to try to contact Bob Fry on his answer machine. It's obvious that you had some business dealings with him. We are concerned about him. He's missing and we believe could be in danger. What do you know about it?'

Crandle thought carefully about what he could tell the policeman. 'Is there any chance of a deal? I have some information, but ...

'I can't make deals, but I am prepared to say that you helped the police with their enquiries. It depends what you are going to disclose. There's only you and me here at the moment, so before Sam returns, maybe we could keep it between us.'

Sam stood at the bar, impatiently waiting for the sandwiches to be made. Freshly made for you, the sign said, but it involved a five minute wait. She could see Eric and Crandle talking like good mates. The barman brought the drinks to the counter, 'is he a regular in here?' she nodded towards the table.

'Never seen him before,' tired eyes looked at the table again. 'Looks like a copper to me.'

'Not him, the other one.' He's pulling my leg thought Sam.

'Well the other guy may have been in before. He's a good man, normally sits quiet, has a pint and finishes his crossword.' The sandwiches arrived, 'anything else we can help you with? We like to stay on the right side of the law. Brown sauce, vinegar, a complete breakdown of our clientele, it all comes at a reasonable price.'

Sam picked the tray up and turned away. 'Very funny,' she whispered to herself.

Eric looked up as she placed the sandwiches and drinks on the table. Crandle stared away through the bar towards the door. Giving the impression he would try to escape at any minute.

'Sam. Crandle here has been very helpful; I'll give you the full story later. Basically he found a painting called the Mistress, sold it to Bob Fry and the whole thing has turned sour. A man called Adam Grange is threatening his family. I think that you mentioned him before. Do you know him?'

'I have come across him in dealing with art for a client, yes; I know of him, he's not a personal contact. Did he mention any names Mr Crandle?'

'No, I only know the name from Bob Fry. He said to steer clear of Grange. That's what I've done as best I can.'

'No mention of a gentleman called Decker? Sir Monty Decker.'

'I've explained what I can,' said Crandle, becoming irritated by an interrogation in the pub. Turning to Eric Bradford, he asked, 'what's next? I've been open with you, told you all I know. Can I just get back to the wife and see my daughter?'

'I think that you will have to make a statement down at the local station. We need some corroboration that Fry was involved with taking the painting.'

Crandle interrupted the policeman, 'I have a photograph taken with Fry carrying the Mistress from the hotel. Would that do?'

'It could do. Where is it?'

'It's with Sue back at the cottage, five minutes' walk away. Shall we go?'

Chapter Twenty-two

DI Jones drummed his fingers on the desk. A few minutes earlier he had stopped pacing up and down his small office. Like a prisoner in a small cell he focused on escape. Not from the environment but from the muddle he had found himself in. How had he and Eric Bradford missed looking at Fenton's record? He would have to explain that basic policing had lapsed as his subordinates chased anyone associated with Bob Fry. Why had they been so single minded and avoided looking at the obvious. Robin Walsh the Curator at Thornton Gallery had told them his security man was an ex policeman, Alan Bedows. Yes, it had been followed up and the investigation had resulted in the arrest of Jack Fenton but no one had looked for a connection between Fenton and Bedows. Now he had read the arrest report of Fenton for previous convictions it became clear where his inside knowledge of the gallery and police procedures came from.

With a loud knock on the door, Eric Bradford strode into the office. 'You wanted to see me boss.'

'Sit down,' Jones instructed as he waved his Sergeant to a chair across the desk from him.

Eric knew something was wrong by the choice of chair. Normally he would be invited to sit by the side of the desk. A position he always found confidential and clandestine when the two of them reviewed progress drinking mugs of tea.

'Have you read the file on Jack Fenton?'

'Of course I have. Once we found his finger prints all over Thornton gallery it proved easy to link him to the theft of the three paintings. You remember we held him here for the interviews. Didn't take long for him to confess he impersonated Alan Bedows to become the Head of Security. What's it say in the file? I take it that it's the one open in front of you.'

Not answering the question, Jones enquired, 'did you talk to Bedows? Find out how Fenton knew so much about him?'

'Well, I would normally have done so, but you asked me to get Sam Hill involved. Her being our art expert, I think that's what you called her. I know she did follow it up. We were just out at the Bedows home and she recalled making a previous visit. She says it's all logged into the case files.' Eric sighed, 'I guess from your line of questioning that we've missed something.'

'Fenton served time in Manchester for armed robbery. The arresting officer asked for a lenient sentence because the gang had been caught using information from his informant, one Jack Fenton. He received seven years the others are still inside. Fenton was released after three years, having been an exemplary prisoner.'

'I'm still missing something. Is it the arresting officer?'

'His name is Alan Bedows.'

'Hell fire!' Eric fell forward and placing his hands flat on the desk stared into the dark brooding eyes of his boss. 'They worked together? Is that what you're suggesting? Fenton and Bedows steal art as a team.'

'The very artwork that Sam Hill, our investigating officer, finds in Florence as she attends a conference,' Jones said accusingly.

'No! That's a red herring. Sam's one of us and has proved it during this investigation. But Fenton and Bedows, now that's a possibility. No wonder Bedows is always travelling the world. He must act as a fence, selling the booty to rich art lovers. This puts Bob Fry in the clear then. We wasted a lot of time on him.'

Jones stood up and gazed out of the office window. It looked cold; the wind blew litter around the car park. He liked this pose, it allowed him time to mull over the implications of their conversation. 'I've not yet made the mental leap that puts Fry in the clear. You really must stop jumping to conclusions.' He noted the low number of marked cars in the compound, must be some sort of alert on, he thought. 'Let's assume Fenton and Bedows arrange to steal the three paintings, it all goes wrong and Fenton agrees to serve time with her majesty. Bedows consolidates their earnings and promises to look after Fenton when he comes out.'

'Fry isn't involved as far as I can see. He's a forger with a business idea, Ssnap, they call it, and now he's gone missing.'

'No he doesn't fit in with Fenton and Bedows.'

'But he does fit in with the forgery of the Mistress painting also stolen from the gallery. I interviewed this guy Crandle recently and he admits handing over the Mistress to Bob Fry. He's offered a photograph as proof of the handover.' Removing it from his pocket he passed it over the desk. 'There's another man involved, Adam Grange, a tough guy in the art collection business. He's stood in the background not knowing he is on camera. Surely it's not a coincidence that two art crimes are discovered at the same time in the same location? There must be a link between the two crimes. What is it?'

'The only link we have at the moment is our colleague Sam Hill. We need to pick her brains. Find out the possibilities. Where is she today?'

'Took the day off, needed a break. She has been working all the angles for us,' said Eric sheepishly.

'Well she seems to have missed at least one of them. I've warned you before about her seeming to know all the right people. You know that she's mentioned Grange before at one of her art soirées with Sir Monty Decker. Somehow all this fits together.' He looked at the photograph Eric had handed him. Time to document the events, read all the case files, get a grip he thought. 'We need a story board setting up in one of the incident rooms. You do that Eric and I'll arrange for Sam to join us for a team meeting tomorrow morning.'

'We have arrested Fenton and recovered the stolen paintings. The only outstanding crime revolves around the Mistress, its theft and forgery.'

'I met the Super' on the stairs coming into work today, he's suggesting that we will have to scale things down. Pass on the theft to Sam Hill and her colleagues, they're the experts.' Jones waved his hand towards the stack of files resting in his inbox. 'That allows us to return to our normal duties.'

'Doesn't sound like us, leaving unfinished business?'

'That's the way it will be if we don't make progress in the next few days.' Jones walked to the door and opened it indicating the meeting was over. 'Let's get on with it.'

Eric stood up, 'shall I take the Fenton file?' It was thrust into his hands before he had finished the question.

'Take it, read it and tell me what else we've missed by tomorrow morning,' the threat, or else there will be trouble, didn't need adding. 'And bring me your notes on Crandle; he's someone else I need to get to know better.'

Chapter Twenty-three

Using his micro-zoom binoculars Crandle looked down into the valley below. Parked in a lay-by designated as a sightseeing point he could see much of the Decker estate in the Cheshire area of Bereton.

The manor house nestled in its centre, the sweeping drive finished in a circular area at its front. At its side, enclosed in a shield of laurel bushes a swimming pool reflected the afternoon sun. A variety of professionally set out gardens displayed lawns and flowerbeds. At the back of the property a small wood provided privacy. Crandle guessed there would be a number of security features in the trees. The front windows faced fields with sheep helping to keep the grass trimmed.

The village of small cottages with long term tenants remained part of the estate. Originally owned by a steel industry consortium the 2000 acres now belonged to Sir Monty Decker. Crandle could see the lake water shimmering in the late afternoon sun. Having researched his target at the local library he now knew the extent of the estate. Made up of public and private areas he had devised a route to approach the boat house. It had been the women detective that had given him the clue as to where Bob Fry might be. She had mentioned Decker during the interview and associated him with the art world. He knew that Bob worked with a very wealthy backer, but doubted that he would have voluntarily dropped from sight. He was obviously in hiding from Grange that's why he had warned Crandle to give the painting back. He feared for his safety.

Looking at the map of the estate Crandle had decided the most obvious place for Bob Fry to be in hiding would be the boat house. Isolated and separated from the manor house it provided the perfect place to keep out of the way of his enemies; however it would need the support of Decker. Somehow Fry must have persuaded his backer to help him. Having discussed his options with Sue it became obvious to Crandle that he must prove his innocence of the theft of the Mistress. He intended to provide evidence that he had only been involved on the periphery of the art crimes the police were investigating. Confident that Bob Fry could be persuaded to help he would find him and make him share the information that he held.

Dressed in black track suit bottoms a bottle green tea shirt and wearing his cushioned running shoes Crandle carried a small back pack that contained a dark windcheater jacket for later in the evening. The backpack contained equipment he thought would come in useful. He parked Sue's car at the end of the lay-by almost hidden from view of the road and started his decent towards the Decker estate by following a footpath through open woodland. He estimated the two miles to the edge of the lake would take twenty minutes if he jogged as conditions allowed.

Evening closed in as he progressed towards his goal. Thinking a running man would draw attention, he started to walk as he neared the lakeside. Breathing easily he slowed and gradually moved off the path into the bushes. He stopped and listened: nothing. The wind rustling leaves in nearby trees, the gentle lapping of water on the lake shore. Despite his recent exertion he felt colder here. No human sounds and no lights in the boat house. He crouched down to approach the rear of the building. A narrow drive meandered its way through the bushes. Grass grew in the centre of it indicating how little it had been used to launch boats or approach the lake. Keeping clear of the gravel Crandle rounded the corner of the building and found a car covered by a tarpaulin. Moving a stone that held a corner down he dragged the cover back to find Bob Fry's Volvo. The last time he had seen it was outside the Barn. He recovered the car and moved onto the dark windows of the boathouse. At the rear the door and windows were at ground level, as the ground fell away to the shore the living accommodation became the first floor above a garage for boats.

Crandle peered through the black windows. No curtains could be seen but shutters on the inside hid the layout and contents of the room. He applied pressure to the lower window trying to lift it but failing. Moving to the door he pressed the handle down, more hopeful than anything else, but it moved. Carefully, quietly, he pressed it fully down and pushed the door forward a few inches. Amazed to find it open he pushed further and with the smallest gap he could manage slipped through into the darkened room.

The floorboards creaked as he stepped in. Holding his breath he listened. His heart seemed to beat with the sound of kettle drums. I'm out of practice he thought. Bwong, bwong, it rang out. Calming his nerves to focus on the room he could hear a clock ticking. All this, but still he could not see a thing. Pitch black the room hid its secrets. Sliding his hand along the wall he searched for a light switch. Found it: should he light up the room or not? He decided he had no option and flicked the light on.

Temporarily blinded by the light he blinked rapidly. A familiar voice from the far corner of the room said, 'well it's about time! Shut the door before everyone knows you have arrived.' Bob Fry laughed at the expression on Crandles face. Crandle had dropped to a fighting crouch, ready to launch an attack on his host.

Orienting himself to the room, he could see Fry sat in an arm chair facing the door. A large table lay between them. He dived at its surface; landing on his back he rolled across it landing upright by the side of the arm chair with his hands ready to gorge into Bob Fry's throat. He knew how to disable, even kill without a weapon. Years of military training in the hardest school in the world put him in a position of power when hand to hand fighting. Bob's smile faded as he looked into the slate grey eyes of Crandle. Tense, like a coiled spring, Crandle held himself in check and looked around the room for other opponents. His left hand moved with a blur towards Fry's Adams apple his right moved in behind it to act as a hammer driving the blow that would permanently fracture the wind pipe. The strike stopped two centimetres short.

'Anyone else here?' the question demanded an answer. No anger showed in his voice, direct, pragmatic, the unspoken words 'answer or die' hung in the air.

'No one,' Bob whispered.

'Doors?' Crandle didn't look at Bob. He remained alert to an attack.

'Bedroom and down to boat deck,' came the strangled reply.

Crandle relaxed and stood back, amazed at how suddenly his fighting skills had returned. 'Gave me quite a shock there Bob. I don't like to be surprised,' he smiled and brushed a speck of dust from his shoulder, 'the marines tend to drive the thrill of the unexpected out of your sole.' Walking to the bedroom door he opened it and scanned the interior. 'Comfy Bob, just the place for a weekend break, although I believe you have been here a little longer.' He found the other door locked with the key facing him, 'no one down below?'

Bob's whole body shuddered before he finally answered. 'Please sit down, there's no one else here or within a mile of the building. I watched you come down the trail to the lake side. I could hardly shout hello to you.' As Crandle sat down on a stool he drew into the corner of the room Bob stood up and locked the door. 'You were very careful not to be seen and I'm glad about that, presumably you are here because of the Mistress. Did you hand it over to Grange?'

'I left it where he told me, but that's not the real reason I came. I'm in trouble with the police who think that I've been involved with the theft of the Mistress and other paintings. I need you to tell them I had nothing to do with it. They are searching for you.'

'I've no doubt they will catch up with me eventually however I'm more concerned about Grange.' With a huge sigh, Bob indicated a drawer in an ancient sideboard, 'Any chance of a drink? I've some glasses in the drawer and a bottle of scotch.' Seeing Crandle nod his agreement, he opened the drawer. Removed the drink and poured two small glass full's of whiskey.

'Not for me,' said Crandle. 'What's this about Grange? He should be happy now. As yet he doesn't know the police may be closing in.'

'I'm going to tell you a long story. Not that I want to, but we may be able to help each other to sort things out. Before I do remember Grange is a very dangerous man.' Bob held his hands up to stop Crandle asserting that he didn't care. 'Yes I can see you are a soldier, and probably good at using force, but unlike Grange you probably have some decency left in you. Grange has already almost killed me, taking a great deal of pleasure from the act. You see, he has no morals, his only driving force is to become wealthy and the ends justify any means in his book.' Nervous about his next proposal he drank the whiskey he had poured out for Crandle. 'I will help you in return for your support and protection. Do you agree?'

'I just need to take you to the police. They will realise that I'm innocent of any involvement with stealing the paintings. Inspector Jones will give you protection.'

'Not from Grange or his backers. You don't realise how big this art scandal is. We are talking about millions of pounds. Grange knows the prison system like the back of his hands, I would never be safe. No, we need a much better plan than talking to the police. Are you with me?

Crandle found himself agreeing with the older man. He had to acknowledge he knew little of the art crimes. Bob seemed to have an insider's knowledge but could he be trusted? Still, if he agreed to help create a plan of action, he would gain more knowledge about what he had been drawn into. 'Let's talk about it, see if we can agree a common cause. I'll defend both of us if need be.'

'Good,' Bob smiled, 'although for us to be free of any further trouble, we need to think beyond defence,' he smashed his glass into the fire place; we need to think of attack.'

Chapter Twenty-four

In the semi darkness of his private gallery Sir Monty Decker stared at his very first acquisition. Stolen in Paris, valued at twenty million pounds, he had paid a fraction of its true cost on the black market. He had nothing to do with the theft but when the painting had been offered to him he had checked the insurance company wouldn't be paying. Without his patronage the portrait would have been destroyed. He believed that the Fraternity provided a service to the art world by purchasing stolen masterpieces; coincidently he had the pleasure of viewing the work of world renowned artists.

He loved the feel of the gallery, quiet, reserved, the whispering air conditioning preserving the quality work of several generations. His thoughts wandered to how it had all started. Completely unexpectedly eleven years after his wife's death he fell in love. Like many others he couldn't explain the chemistry that bound them together. It wasn't sordid, he just found himself by the side of a partner he couldn't live without. Disproving all the rumours about his sexuality he had secretly met the woman he now shared his feelings with. She isn't strikingly beautiful he thought, but she has a presence. When she enters the room heads turn to listen to her every word. They had come to agree that when in company they would be professional avoiding disclosing their relationship. In private they were completely uninhibited. It shouldn't work, he being thirty years older. Sometimes he doubted that it would last, but he enjoyed their time together, he wanted it to be forever and would do anything to prolong the romance.

With complete trust in each other they had dreamed of creating a world class art collection. His innate desire to collect started in childhood and increased as he became wealthy. The household collection had expanded to the stage where a new gallery had to be built, the first public level attached to the manor house and below it the private one for his personal possessions. In the secret underground gallery they had planned for the future. Already an expert in the art world his partner had all the contacts and he had the funding. It wasn't easy. With millions of pounds came responsibility and he found himself having to account to fund managers. He found a way around it, for every million pounds spent on above board art purchases he siphoned off money for the secret collection. It became a game, an exciting game; especially when they decided to create the Fraternity. The organisation, involving millionaires who wanted to possess masterpieces, had the funds to purchase whatever they desired.

The lights dimmed and then lit up a new painting as Decker moved on. Bought to celebrate the foundation of the Fraternity and their first year together it evoked fond memories. Flowers, large sun flowers, similar to the Vincent van Gogh sunflower paintings and equal in value. They had dreamt of seeing this stolen piece that disappeared from a private gallery in Vienna. It glowed in the light, some flowers bright yellow and in full bloom others dying, showing the passing of time, but compatible together, and sharing the mystery of mortality. New born, young and strong, old and frail, the flowers shared the same space and time. Just like us he thought. Why had he taken the risk of acquiring the collection? He acknowledged the answer was that he could. His wealth continued to grow with investments in hedge funds, the once great industries, high technology and now the environmental revolution. Money just rolled in. Until he had met Sam there had been little to strive for, no purpose in life, now they shared one.

None of the paintings had labels; he knew the name, history and artist of each one. Walking across the gallery he selected the Rain Forest and stood admiring how different it was to the others. In a black frame the principle colours of the paintings were very dark. A stretch of the Amazon river bank ran across its centre. The edges and tree canopy caught the sun singling out the deep green foliage and black brown bark. Beyond the river bank, inside the tree line, foreboding darkness, where few people had dared to tread. Only adventurers, explorers, risk takers would take the gamble to enter.

With the river deep blue and a dark grey sky with black clouds he could sense a storm brewing. The hint of a rainbow in the sky suggested water vapour present and a humid atmosphere. Sir Monty looked deep into the scene, embracing the danger of a pending storm, knowing a deluge could not be avoided. Animals would take cover and men would ready their homes for a period of inactivity. Absorbed by the artists work he realised that his own situation would soon be similar. The storm clouds could be seen gathering in his life. Perhaps he should start to batten down the hatches, make everything safe for the time being, and remove the impending dangers.

Grange had provided good service as the Acquisitions Manager but now it appeared that he had been deceiving the Fraternity. Stealing art to sell it back had never been one of the aims. The organisation had never set out to encourage theft. If the accusations were true everything had gone disastrously wrong. He stepped back and shivered with disappointment as he disengaged with the painting.

Sam had first introduced him to Adam Grange. She had several contacts with the criminal world through police work. Grange had provided the interface between the Fraternity and art thieves, but now the time had come to curtail his activities. He had been paid handsomely and presumably could be persuaded to retire, perhaps with a termination sum. Yes, he would ask Sam to progress it. That left the forger, Bob Fry, to deal with, but he would be happy to see his business proposal Ssnap receive funding. The secret galleries around the world could remain available to the backers of the Fraternity, but there would be no further acquisitions until things had quietened down. It all seemed fairly simple and the heat would be off.

The dream had not ended, it had become reality. The galleries existed. They had succeeded, now they could find another project to work on. Sam would stay with him and turn her attention to other art, perhaps antiquity, Rome, Egypt, Greece, the possibilities excited him. Lost and stolen religious items recovered for their personal viewing. He must discuss it with Sam and the other Fraternity members.

Sir Monty looked back through the doorway, with a sense of achievement and regret, he closed the door knowing his life was about to change again. Sam, Samantha, we must find another dream. His heart and mind yearned for future happiness with his mistress.

Chapter Twenty-five

He stood inside by the kitchen door. Listening, but the house was quiet. Breaking and entering had been his introduction to a life of crime and the rear door had offered little resistance. He'd chosen to enter during the day because he wouldn't need a torch or to turn the lights on. It appeared to be a very quiet neighbourhood and he had simply walked down the drive and around the back of the house. No one had challenged him. He could never understand why people with alarms didn't set them.

Nerves on edge, each breath came in a quick shallow intake, thinking he needed to calm down he moved one of the breakfast stools and sat with his back to the wall. Sam seemed to know everything, when he had gently pushed her for information about the house she hadn't stop talking for five minutes. If he didn't know better he would have thought she actually encouraged him to break in. Bedows owed him. Giving up the recent stolen paintings had lost all of them a lot of money and now the Mistress was lost. Thinking back to his conversation with Sam he again smothered his anger at the waste of time and effort, what had she said?

'Adam we have to keep clear of the Mistress, the police have now taken too much interest.'

'But, as you always remind me, you are the police. That's your job. Keep them away from our door.'

'I'm telling you it's too late for that. Just drop it. Where is the painting anyway?'

'Well the last time I saw it, it was in the boot of a car that I had left for its collection.'

'You left a multi-million pound painting in a car boot!'

'I had no choice. Your text message read, Stay away from Crandle police are closing in.'

And that's when the argument started. He and Sam rarely fell out over business but this time he knew she was at fault. Quoting Bedows at him didn't help. He knew that the two of them treated him as a junior partner. Do this, do that, but never really trusting him with decisions. Well now he'd made one. He was retiring and before he left the country he intended to take anything of value from Bedows house. He knew it was empty; Bedows off on one of his world cruises again.

Moving through the modern kitchen he opened the door into the hall. The carpeted passageway led directly to the front door and in the entrance he could see two suitcases. Post lay on the floor under the letter box suggesting no one had attended to it for a couple of days. Surprised, he walked over to inspect the luggage. Pushed near to the wall the expensive cases wouldn't be visible from the outside. Looking at the luggage tags he quickly asserted that the contents should be at sea with their owner. Perhaps they had not been picked up by the travel company and Bedows was even now buying new underwear from the ships supermarket. Moving quickly he entered the dining room, his eyes picked out the few valuables on display, he selected the ones he wanted and placed them by the door ready for his departure. Now for the other rooms, he thought the bedrooms to be the most likely to have valuables and made his way upstairs.

A few minutes later having thrown the few pieces of jewellery and watches found into a pillow case, he came down the stairs disappointed, realising that as a bachelor, Bedows had few things of value and probably spent his money on travel or banked it. The man must be worth a fortune but he didn't keep much on the property. Thinking of his own situation Grange recognised that the same could be said of him. He had money in several bank accounts including Switzerland. Time to leave, he thought. Picking up the items from the dining room he looked around again. A glance into the lounge showed a modern sound system and large flat screen TV, but he wasn't interested in them. Opening the last door he found himself looking down the steps to the cellar. He flicked the light switch but, the cellar remained black. At the bottom he could vaguely see a large bundle of clothes, taking a few steps down, he changed his mind. The fusty smell of rotting material made him gag. Nothing likely to be down there he thought and turned back.

He looked at the suitcases again asking: If I was packing for a long journey which one would I put valuables in? Deciding it would be the smaller, black leather one, he picked it up. He pushed the pillow case into a carrier bag found on the hall table. With a furtive glance outside through the kitchen window he opened the back door and walked down the drive and away. Nice area, friendly, mature gardens, beautiful at this time of year, were his last thoughts as he made his way back to the car parked around the corner.

Walking back from the shops Harry Cooke watched the well dressed man carrying a suitcase walk away from his neighbour's house. Some distance away he could not shout, but he didn't recognise him. Hurrying to his front door, he left his shopping in the porch and rushed next door to see if anything had been tampered with. A few minutes later he dialled 999.

Later, Mr Cooke decided to ring the Detective Sergeant who had left his card. A nice bloke, he would be interested in this new turn of events. Blimey, who would have thought all this could have happened next door to him. Was it Bedows they had found or someone else who had broken in? When he had found the back door unlocked he called the police straight away, having watched lots of crime thrillers on TV he knew not to disturb a thing. Anyway he didn't want to be attacked. If he had to defend himself who knows what could have happened. The dialling tone changed to a steady purr, purr, before the phone was picked up.

'Sergeant Bradford?'

'Speaking,' Eric replied knowing that someone had used his direct dial number.

'This is Harry Cooke, you remember, Cooke with an e.'

'I remember. What can I do for you?'

'You probably know, but your lads have just been around to my neighbour's house, Mr Bedows. I think they've found a body.'

Calmly Eric Bradford replied, 'Are they still there Mr Cooke?'

'I should say so. Lots of them, they've cordoned off the street.'

'Thanks for the call Mr Cooke, that's very helpful, I'll be there as quick as I can.' Normally he expected to be accompanied by a detective constable or on this case Sam Hill. Given the doubts expressed about her impartiality, her taking the day off could have saved him an awkward conversation. He thought he would invite the boss. It would do DI Jones good to get away from his desk and he had shown an interest in ex-policeman Alan Bedows. Yes, do him good to follow up some of his own leads. Eric picked up the phone and rang the internal number.

Chapter Twenty-six

The rain fell gently on his screen. The worn wipers drew dust stained arcs in front of him. Eric Bradford drove up to the incident tape and flashed his card to the constable on duty. He wasn't in the best of spirits; DI Jones had declined his invitation to come out to the Bedows house until the case had been assigned to a detective, but had insisted that he be kept well informed. 'Make your way out there and dig up the latest' had been his instruction.

'How's it going Terry? Fancy a cuppa?' He held out a takeaway coffee from Starbucks, 'You look as though you need warming up. Any press around?'

'None that I've seen; park behind the patrol car please,' he pulled the incident tape aside, 'thanks for the drink,' he took the cardboard cup and waved his old friend through. He had to control entry to the general area; even residents had to be questioned before being allowed to progress directly to their property. Taking the top off the coffee he found it to be half full. Still it was warm and in this weather he didn't mind drinking a colleague's unfinished drink. 'It's the thought that counts,' he said to himself.

A well known figure in the Division, Eric new most of the officers on the force, he spotted the Duty Sergeant leaving the Bedows house and intercepted him at the gate.

As normal, he decided to be formal at the scene of a crime, 'what's happening Sergeant?'

The unflappable, experienced face of one of the oldest officers in the local force smiled as he recognised who it was underneath the worn out grey raincoat, 'is it Columbo?' he joked, then thinking better of it he carried on, 'you're a bit early, we've not finished the preliminaries yet. How did you find us so quickly?'

'Next door neighbour, Mr Cooke called me, I've been out here before, the owner of the house is ex-police, Alan Bedows, and we've been talking to him about another incident. Jones is expecting this to be handed over to him as part of a continuing investigation. Finger on the pulse etcetera he's sent me to make a start.'

'Well, you can tell him he'll have to wait. The Paramedics have just left having confirmed that a body we found at the bottom of the cellar steps is dead, you know the process as well as me; the Coroner is now expected before we can confirm it's a suspicious death. Forensics are on the way from another case and we've secured the site to avoid contaminating evidence. I've yet to talk to the Superintendent and so he hasn't handed the case to anyone.'

'Can I have a word with the neighbour?'

'We've interviewed him and asked him to stay at home until we take a formal statement,' he paused thinking about adverse implications. 'I can't see why you shouldn't have a chat to him. He's the one that reported the break in. Saw a man walking away from the house but couldn't recognise him. He didn't enter the premises, found the door broken and phoned nine, nine, nine. That's about it Eric, now, I've got work to do. I'll tell the Super' that Jones is involved, but if I know DI Jones he's already had a word.'

***

'So why was he going down into the cellar?' Jones expressed his surprise at the theory that Alan Bedows had tripped and fell to his death. 'It seems strange, here he is ready to go on holiday, cases packed, and he falls over his shoe laces at the top of the steps. The light bulb had blown down there; forensics had to rig temporary lighting.'

'No spare bulb found? No torch! There must be a reason, it doesn't make sense. The break-in must have occurred after Sam Hill and I visited the premises on the first occasion or she would have reported the damaged door jam.'

'We need to think about the time line of events. The Coroners estimate of time of death is noon on the very day Bedows should have been setting off on holiday.'

Eric nestled down into his favoured chair. Sat by the side of his boss's desk he knew that he was back in favour. 'Forensics found little at the scene. Looks like the duty sergeant did a good job. The only thing out of place is a shoe print in the hall from someone who had been down the cellar steps. Looks like an everyday shoe, could have been one of our lot or the paramedics. We are matching it with the log of who we had on site.'

'Tickets, passport, American dollars, all found on the body. Whoever did the break-in didn't bother with the cellar, but it seems other items were taken from the house. No finger prints as yet?' DI Jones stood up and gazed out of his office window. Clouds scurried across the sky. The weather forecast predicted storms; he hoped the forensic team had completed their work on the outside of Bedows house. The case had moved quickly, thanks to the neighbour's phone call police had been on the scene within an hour of the burglary. In the early evening the case had been assigned to him because of its possible connection to the art robberies. 'At least this gives us more time to look into Crandle and Fry. Is there any news of their whereabouts?'

'No, I can't see them being involved with this though.'

'Can't rule anything out at the moment, Fenton is the only one in the clear because we have him in custody. What about this guy Adam Grange? What do we know about him? It seems to me that all of this is connected. When Sam comes in tomorrow morning we have to brief the squad. You will be working over tonight Eric, better ring your club and cancel any engagements you have for the next few days.'

Eric sighed, his love of motorcycles and the speedway needed more time. He had already given up riding for the sake of his job now he found it difficult to attend team meetings. 'Let's just go back to the possible scenarios. The first is the most obvious. A person breaks in; most likely a man, interrupts Bedows as he is about to leave on holiday, pushes him down the stairs, and then takes what he wants from the house. Harry Cooke the neighbour witnesses him leaving the house carrying a small case and carrier.'

'The thief may not know he has killed Bedows.'

The second is that Bedows, prepared for his holidays, opens the cellar door for some reason, trips over his shoe laces and ends up fracturing his skull. As he falls he conveniently closes the door behind him.' Eric laughed at his own joke.

'Why do you say that?'

'Sam Hill and I visited the house and looked around the day he was supposed to leave. I looked through the glass front door. I can't be sure but if the cellar door had been open it would have registered as unusual. Everything looked normal.'

'You would have seen the travel cases, if he'd not gone.'

'No, there again, someone must have pushed them against the wall, under the window.'

'I think we already have enough doubt to escalate this to a murder enquiry. Of course, if what you say is true and the break-in occurred after the death then the thief may have seen the body.'

'Or the murderer decided to make it look like a break-in after the event.'

The desk phone rang. Jones answered it and looked at his Detective Sergeant. 'It seems we have a gentleman at the desk trying to make an appointment to see you tomorrow.' He handed the phone over.

Jones listened to the Desk Sergeant explain that he knew he was still in the building and would he like to see the man now. Having asked who it was he replied, 'Show him into the interview room. Don't let him go.' He turned to DI Jones, 'must be my lucky day! Bob Fry is asking to see me, urgently.'

'See what it's all about. You've had a long day, invite him to stay the night. Sam will be back tomorrow, the two of you could listen to his story.'

Chapte Twenty-seven

Making his way from the boathouse Crandle reflected on the plan that he and Fry had concocted. He would approach Sir Monty Decker to persuade him that Grange had defrauded the Fraternity and Bob Fry would explain to the police that Grange had been the villain in the theft of the Mistress. The planned outcome would leave Crandle free of criminal charges and Grange the subject of a police investigation. Unexpectedly Fry had been held at the police station overnight. Crandle didn't know why but he guessed they would not want an important witness to disappear without serious interrogation.

He arrived at the front door of the Manor House. Having attended many army briefings and training courses at old houses sited as national treasures, Crandle was not inhibited by the grandeur he expected to see inside the building. He wore a beige jacket found in the boat house locker room and carried a role of maps intended to look like architects drawings. Bob Fry had explained the layout of the building and Crandle timed his arrival for eight o'clock in the morning expecting to meet only the cleaning and serving staff.

Opening the door he marched in with the apparent permission of the owner. In the centre of the elegant entrance hall worked a cleaner with a Hoover, the sound drowned out his entrance, when she looked up she gave him a cursory glance before she returned to her work. Crandle marched across the hall to the carpeted staircase that led to the first floor balcony that overlooked the great hall. Looking over the wooden carved hand rail he admired the layout of the hall below him, especially the large open fire place and brick chimney that climbed upwards to the floor above. It was the historical equivalent of a modern day atrium. Every piece of furniture looked like an antique. He made his way down the balcony to the door Bob Fry had described as the entry to Decker's office, he walked in and closed it softly behind him.

At precisely nine o'clock Sir Monty pushed the door open and walked in carrying a cup of coffee. Following his early morning routine he planned to deal with the days post and then contact members of the Fraternity warning them of his decision to call a halt to the art collection and suggesting the alternative use of a unique photo library based on Ssnap. Sitting down at the desk that faced outwards providing a panoramic view of the grounds he booted up his computer. A polite cough from a corner of the room behind him attracted his attention and he swivelled around in his executive chair to see Crandle sat in a chair half hidden by the water machine.

Both men stood up. Decker reached for the phone. Crandle moved to the centre of the room.

'I'm not a threat to you Sir Decker; please don't phone security until you hear a proposal that could save you a great deal of trouble and money.'

Indignant and shocked to see an intruder Decker continued to pick the phone up.

'I promise to leave quietly and apologise for the intrusion if the deal is not to your liking.' Seeing that Decker intended to continue with his call for help, Crandle added, 'it's to do with stolen art and a man called Grange.'

He hesitated, 'I know Adam Grange. Is he a friend of yours?'

'He's a mutual acquaintance.'

'And you are?'

'Crandle, you may have heard of me from Bob Fry or possibly at one the Fraternity meetings.'

Struggling to keep his composure, Sir Monty sat down and indicated a chair for Crandle. From his few comments it had become clear that this man knew a lot more than he should do. 'What is it that you want?'

'Adam Grange stole a painting called the Mistress from Thornton House.' Seeing Decker was about to protest he knew nothing about it Crandle quickly continued, 'don't deny it, I know it for a fact and have been involved in its recovery. I'm the person who found it on the beech after a container ship sank of the South Coast.' He paused to reflect that it was only a few weeks ago but it seemed like years, so much had happened. 'You sent Bob Fry to recover it and when he was unsuccessful Grange followed with the intention of stealing it from my cottage.When that failed he made threats to me and my family.' Crandle spoke quietly but his voice adopted a more menacing tone, 'I want it to stop; to stop now. You have the painting back, give me your word there will be no more threats and we will forget about the recent past.'

Monty Decker laughed, 'You break in to my house, make these unfounded accusations and then suggest all will be well if I, that is me, the innocent one, stop threatening you. You are the intruder, the villain of the piece.' He picked up the phone and before Crandle could stop him said, 'I have a surprise guest, 'he looked Crandle straight in the eyes, 'bring coffee for two,' again he thought for a moment, 'and biscuits. Thank you.'

'You are correct. I did have an employee called Grange but he recently left, made redundant as a result of a few misunderstandings. I don't recall anything being said about a painting called the Mistress. It could be a Fraternity matter and may have been dealt with by staff, or maybe one of the evaluators. We certainly would not know of any attempt to steal a masterpiece. We collect them. We, that is, the Fraternity, are a charity.'

'One of your evaluators is Bob Fry. He worked for Grange and bought the painting back from me. He is also threatened.' Crandle was becoming increasingly exasperated by Decker's low key approach to his problem. 'You can't deny that Grange is trying to recover the painting for you.'

'I can and I do.' He chuckled, as though he found the whole story amusing. 'I don't deal with all the everyday activities of my businesses. It sounds to me that Grange and Bob Fry have been involved in some shady dealings which need to be followed up, but I am not the instigator. We will have to get the police involved, this sounds like grand theft and fraud. I'm very concerned.'

'Bob Fry is already with the police. This is the deal. We will keep your name out of it if you call Grange off. No more threats to us and you can sort your own problems out. Do you agree?'

A knock on the door announced the butler with coffee. Sir Monty smiled at Douglas, his faithful servant, 'thank you, that's most kind. Could you ask my other house guest to join us in five minutes?' He didn't wait for an answer, returning his attention to Crandle, 'no need for concern, just someone I want you to meet.'

Crandle had been on his guard when the butler entered, he noticed how his dark eyes quickly assess the situation, the steady stare of a man capable of dealing with danger. He recognised an ex-soldier who had seen combat many times.

The door closed as Douglas left the room, 'great guy that, he's been with me for years, wouldn't hurt a fly. Now where were we?'

'We agree to keep you out of it and you call Grange off,' said Crandle.

'Of course, what an interesting proposal, especially when I've just told you I know nothing about the threats from Grange. I can definitely sort my problems out as I've just demonstrated, Grange is redundant, and he doesn't work for me. I could use my influence and phone him but not as part of a deal.' He shook his head, 'how unbecoming, a Knight of the realm involved in a deal to save his own skin, makes me shudder to think of it. No, I look after my employees and if Bob needs help he only has to ask. He is residing with me in the grounds already.'

'He is hiding from Grange. His life is threatened. My family are at risk. I'm sorry you feel this way but if you can't help the whole story will have to come out, with the police and the national press.'

Sir Monty sighed, 'look if it makes you happy I will have a word with Grange however all these threats about the police are completely wasted. I'm not involved in anything criminal.'

'You deal with stolen art. You are a fence on the international black market. The Fraternity is a gang of art dealers.'

Sir Monty started to laugh, and then became so amused he couldn't stop for a minute. 'You are serious I know, and, I can understand where you are coming from, but you have misconstrued what we do. Oh dear, I hope others don't think the same as you. All will become clear eventually. No, forget the deal; let Bob sing his heart out, but for your sake and his peace of mind I promise to speak to Grange. Okay?

The door opened and in walked Detective Sergeant Sam Hill. Dressed casually, she smiled at Decker and turned to Crandle. 'Have we met before?

Agog at seeing her at home with Decker he gave a choked reply, 'yes, in the pub with your colleague Eric Bradford. You remember I told you about Adam Grange.'

'Yes that's true; you did make a statement I believe.' She faced Decker and smiled, 'you remember it prompted you to reconsider the employment terms of Grange. What happened?'

Decker faced Crandle, 'you see I am already co-operating with the police. DS Hill is my liaison officer and helps with the recovery of stolen paintings. After a tip off I got rid of Grange. Bob Fry himself told me that Grange had been fiddling the books and selling me overpriced black market masterpieces. We couldn't have that. It's sorted. He is gone. I don't make deals when threatened Mister Crandle, but because Bob is a friend of mine I will contact Grange and make sure he knows he has to keep away. The message will include keeping your family safe. Now if you will excuse us I will ask Douglas to show you out.'

Crandle left the building feeling deflated. He had thought they had a good bargaining position but it seemed Sir Monty Decker had covered all the angles. He had no doubt Sue and Ashley would be safe because he had helped them board a train back home to Bawtry. For the time being he only needed to be concerned about himself and Bob Fry.

Sir Monty walked over and hugged Sam. 'I'm sorry you had to become involved but this guy Crandle is becoming difficult to handle. On the face of it the solution to the problem is simple. Bob Fry and Crandle together may know too much. Crandle is nothing without Fry especially if he has limited hassle from the police regarding the Mistress. Lay off him and he will go away. It's Bob that is the real problem.'

Sam sat down, 'Crandle is almost in the clear. He provided my boss with a photo of Grange watching Fry pack a painting into the back of his car. If Fry corroborates the statement then there will be no charges against Crandle.' She smiled sympathetically, 'I'm concerned about Bob. All this pressure may affect his health; he's not a young man. Perhaps we should take greater care of him. He's living in the boathouse from what you said. Let's hope Grange doesn't want to tie up all the loose ends before he goes.'

Decker picked up the phone. 'I must keep my promise to Crandle and have a word with Adam.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Bob looked around for Crandle as he walked away from the police station. The original plan would have allowed them to travel back to the boathouse together however they didn't anticipate an overnight stay in the cells.

During the interview with Eric Bradford he had confessed to copying the Mistress because of threats from Adam Grange. Bob explained that Grange had a simple scam; steal the original and replace it with a copy, making millions on the sale of the masterpiece. Missing out the detail of how he had made two copies he described how the original had been recovered from the beach, innocently involving Crandle in a larger criminal scheme.

He recalled breaking down in tears as he told how Grange had forced his way into the converted barn; smashed his art collection, beaten him to submission leaving him to die as he pursued Crandle who held the genuine painting. Bob claimed that the actions of Grange proved he had little choice but to do as ordered. He asked if he could do-a-deal, giving evidence to escape criminal charges. After all, he had not sold the painting, he was the victim of the plot.

He had not understood the detailed questioning about the break in. Why had Eric Bradford insisted on knowing who else had been in the barn just before his escape to the safety of the boathouse. His mind ranged over the questions and his answers; confused and feeling all alone he now wanted a steaming mug of tea and time to talk things over with Crandle. He flagged a taxi down for the ten mile journey back to Decker's estate; luckily he had enough money in his wallet.

He felt nervous, anxious about what he had said, but satisfied he had managed to keep Sir Monty Decker's name out of it as agreed with Crandle.

The taxi dropped him off at the Gate and he walked the last mile to the lake side following the drive to the boathouse. Nothing seemed disturbed or amiss as he unlocked the door. Not expecting Crandle to be there. He guessed that he must still be at the Manor House negotiating the deal they had agreed on. He found it difficult to anticipate Sir Monty's response although he expected agreement it seemed such a simple request for him to call of Grange in payment for keeping his name out of the police investigation.

Making his way to the kitchen area he put the kettle on and sat down at the breakfast bar to wait for it to boil. Crandle had turned out to be a gentleman'. Not that he was gentile in any way but he had principles and integrity. Bob thought he could be trusted and felt safer with him around. After all the hassle he had put up with no doubt he would keep the twenty five thousand pounds that he had been given for the Mistress. Somehow I'm going to have to recover that from Decker or via Thornton Hall, he thought to himself, otherwise I'm going to be seriously out of pocket. If he considered the money as payment for his protection then it could be well spent but he would not give it up without trying to recover at least some of it. The kettle boiled.

He made the tea and added sandwiches for his lunch. Looking at the clock he started to think where Crandle could be. Surely he'd not gone back to the police station. His first call should have been at the boathouse. What if the deal had not been accepted? What would Crandle do then? Would Decker have set Grange onto Crandle? If he had Bob could expect a visit from Grange himself. All of a sudden things didn't seem so clear cut. He walked quickly to the wooden door and inspected it as he turned the key to lock it. Testing its strength he realised it wouldn't hold out against a serious assault. Checking the windows one by one he looked out at the trees surrounding the Boathouse at the back and at the water's edge either side of the boat entrance. He started to shake, his nerves had not been steady during recent events, sweat formed on his brow. Finding the corner of the room least likely to be seen from the windows he sat down with his back to the wall. Quiet descended; he could hear every creak of the buildings wooden construction and the water lapping in the boat bay below him. He didn't move. Couldn't move, his nervous system seemed to have shut down his body. Staring at the locked door he waited for Crandle to knock and shout to be let in.

After ten minutes of nervous paralysis, Bob started to think he could be overreacting. After all, his recent statement to the police about the break-in at the Barn and the bodily harm and damage to property that Grange had caused, the police would be looking to bring charges against him. They may have already apprehended him, thought Bob. Gaining in confidence he stood up and once again stared through the windows, down the narrow drive, wishing for Crandle to appear.

He thought of a possible confrontation with Grange, maybe he should protect himself. Looking around he couldn't see anything remotely like a weapon. Surely in a boathouse there would be ropes, or knifes? What about a boat hook or a short oar? Seeing a key the door leading down to the lower level he cautiously unlocked it. Knowing that there were no boats and the entrance to the lake would be blocked by a barrier, he'd not explored the water access level before. Bob hesitantly ventured down the wooden stair case onto the walkway set around the outer part of the square water harbour. No boats, as he had expected, a long boat hook rested in the corner. He lifted it, testing its weight; I suppose I could poke someone's eye out with this, he thought, that is if I could lift it fast enough. The walls were painted white allowing the light from the water entrance to bounce into the back of the dock. At the rear stood a wooden locker, he opened it and found a solitary bottle of beer. Unopened perhaps for years it stood covered in dust at the back of the top shelf. He picked it up and weighed it in his hand, maybe a club or maybe something to soothe his nerves? He turned and surveyed the watery scene spread out before him. Over the barrier the lake glowed in the midday sunshine, the greens of the trees, bushes, and grass around the water's edge perfectly enhanced the beauty of the water. In a far corner of the lake waterlilies flowered adding a touch of yellow to the canvas. The sound of ducks mating, swans gliding side by side all perfected a picture of peace and tranquillity. What had spooked him? Relax it's all under control. Deep breathing that's what they say, he slowly excelled air realising he had been almost holding his breath.

Bob returned to the upper room locking the door behind him he sat at the table looking at the bottle of beer he had placed in its centre. No glass to drink from presented a slight problem but a bottle opener seemed essential. He searched the drawers of the sideboard and found plastic knives and forks, paper picnic plates and napkins. From his own stay over the last few days were boxes of cereal, cartons of soup,but nothing fresh, he'd eaten at the manor in the kitchen most days. Remembering his pliers in the car toolbox he decided to venture outside. Steeling himself he slowly unlocked the wooden door.

Adam Grange had been studying the boathouse for about fifteen minutes. Thinking no one could be inside he sat on a fallen tree, behind a bush, deciding whether to force an entry or wait until Bob Fry appeared. He could see the car partially hidden under the tarpaulin, confirming this to be the temporary home of the master forger.

His thoughts drifted to Decker's earlier phone call. Had he deliberately mentioned where Bob would be? He tried to remember the words, "I'm ordering you to stay away from Fry, I want him out of the picture, don't go anywhere near the boathouse." Mixed messages from Sir Monty, hadn't he originally been told the Fry problem had to be resolved?

The real issue continued to be Sam, could she be relied on? She seemed to have a foot in two camps. Not that it was a bad thing,but maybe it was becoming too complicated. She had the police sergeant role to fulfil, the art expert image to maintain and her role of advisor to Sir Monty's Fraternity group, all of these were demanding time and effort. The Fraternity work had helped to make her name as an art critic and working with her had been profitable. Sir Monty had no idea that they had stolen and recovered art for him under the guise of a personal collection. He had paid out millions.

Later they had formed a trio, Grange stealing or acquiring masterpieces, Sam confirming they were genuine and Bedows fencing the art on the world black market. For a time they couldn't lose, money poured in, but now he had to get out. His exit plan depended upon the ferry to Ireland and then flights to Rio. Sam had organised it all and he would meet her later. If he had not become greedy and tried to sell the Mistress he wouldn't now be in danger of being arrested.

Feeling angry at the loss of his income, Grange focused on Bob Fry the cause of his troubles. All he had been asked to do was copy the Mistress. Now because of Fry's ambition to keep the original and produce two copies he was in deep trouble. Well first things first, he would repay Fry for his double cross and then get out. He looked down the drive waiting for someone to appear. Another five minutes and he would break into the boathouse and wait in comfort.

The front door opened with a creek. A small gap appeared at first, then Bob slowly poked his head out. After looking around he pushed the door wider before stepping out. Grange watched him dash to the car. After unlocking the boot he removed a toolbox and quickly returned to the door. He stopped and looked around. Grange stayed very still not wanting to announce his presence. The door closed as Bob re entered the boathouse. The key turned in the lock, outside silence descended.

Inside Bob carried his toolbox to the table. Selecting a pair of pliers he started to remove the bottle top. He gently coaxed the top off, twisting and lifting until it came away. With a huge sigh of relief he sat at the table and smelled the brown stuff inside. He put his feet up on the chair by his side and took a tentative sip. 'Just the ticket,' he said to himself.

Grange picked up the tow rope he'd brought with him and placed it over his neck and shoulder as a climber would. Calming himself ready for action he stood up. Seeing no one else around the area he ran from his hiding place to the front door. Banging with his fist he shouted, 'open up it's the police.'

Bob almost screamed at the sudden racket of beating fists. The door rattled in its frame. Quickly moving to one of the side windows he looked out to see Grange getting ready to kick the door in. Moving to the centre of the room he shouted, 'okay, okay, keep your hair on, I'm getting the key.' At the same time he moved over to the door leading down to the lower level.

Grange smashed the door down with a single kick. Forcing the damaged woodwork to one side he ran into the room in time to see another door closing and the sound of a key rattling in the lock. The notice on the door said, Water Deck. Surprisingly this internal door looked stronger. He kicked at the lock but failed to knock it open. Seeing the open toolbox he selected a large screwdriver as a wedge and drove it between the door and the frame, forcing it to break open.

At the bottom of the steps Bob looked around for a means of escape. He couldn't swim, never had been able to, diving under the barrier was a complete no, no. Some instinct had made him bring the bottle of beer down with him. He ran to the far end of the deck, near the water, perhaps he could climb around and escape up the banking. Without looking behind him he could hear Grange begin to descend the steps downward. Turning he flung the bottle at him before he stepped out to balance on the dock barrier. Gripping the entrance frame he swung himself outwards looking for his next foothold.

Chapter Twenty-nine

From the bottom of the drive Crandle spotted the smoke drifting through the open window. He started to run. Seeing the door open with the shattered frame he slowed. 'Bob,' he shouted, 'Bob are you in there?' With no answer he entered cautiously looking for the fire. Can't be that bad he thought, only smoke, few flames. The old fool must have set the stove on fire, blocked chimney no doubt. He stepped further into the room, turning at a sound behind him he had little chance to dodge the blow that landed on the side of his head and then smashed into his shoulder. Falling to the floor he grabbed out at a chair but landed awkwardly.

Grange watched Crandle pass out. He returned to building wood around the wood burning stove that had its door open. Smoke had started to fill the room. He had no doubt that given a few untended minutes the whole building would be ablaze. He knelt down and dragged Crandle nearer the centre of the room. Two for the price of one he thought, knowing that Bob Fry would not be leaving the building and adding Crandle to his list for revenge. Realising the flames were spreading fast he made for the exit took one last look inside, stepped over the entrance and closed the door.

Crandle spluttered, coughed with the smoke. He quickly withdrew his arm nearest the heat. Rolling away from it he sat up dazed but able to think clearly. The fire had spread; the wooden building was tinder dry. Standing clumsily he moved to the sink. Turning the taps on full he looked around for a bucket. Looking down he could see the bowl filling with clear water. Unable to wait for it to fill he threw the water onto the fire. Clouds of steam erupted. Waiting for the bowl to top up again he realised he would have to increase the speed of the dowsing process. Seeing the fire blanket he opened it and threw it over the outer edges of the flames. The smoke became unbearable. One last bowl of water was thrown onto the fire. He closed the wood burner's door by pushing with an unburnt log, left the taps running and made for the door. He couldn't stay inside any longer. The smoke continued to billow out of the open doorway as he wretched and tried to breathe normally.

Looking back from the bottom of the drive Grange was disappointed to see Crandle emerge from the smoking building. Should he go back? He decided against it having wasted more time than he intended on destroying the building. He turned and started to jog towards his car, parked half a mile away.

Luckily Crandle had taken Bob's mobile phone off him before he entered the police station the day before. He dialled 999, when prompted he asked for fire and then added ambulance. He didn't know if Bob remained in the building. Seeing Grange start to run away he began to follow him. Slowly at first, then he managed a faster walk.

Grange headed away from the lake towards the manor house drive and country road that ran through the estate. He started to jog making it difficult for Crandle to keep up.

Crandle increased his pace, along the way he looked out for anything he could use as a weapon. Even up the odds a little he thought to himself. Shaking his head to clear it he fell into the step pattern he used when out running. Breathing became easier. He could catch Grange who didn't show any interest in looking back to see if anyone had followed. Bending over he picked up a broken tree branch about the length of a short roman sword. Dried with age it would act as club if needed.

Having turned a bend in the road Grange could see the car parked in a disused field entrance. Spurred on by the promise of completing his escape he increased his pace. With fifty metres to go he became aware of footsteps behind him. Alarmed to see Crandle approaching he sprinted, at the same time he began to fumble for the keys. He had them in his hand when he turned to face his opponent, held in his fist with the key pointed outwards through his fingers similar to a knuckleduster he prepared for battle. Crandle came to a halt, two metres separated them. Breathing heavily each of them surveyed the other, judging how much the short run had taken out of their strength.

'You should have cleared off with the money Crandle. What do you want here?'

'You've made this personal. I want you to report to the police. Clear my name. Stop your threats.' Crandle swept the club in the space between them. Grange looked as fit as himself. They were evenly matched. Balanced on the balls of his feet he felt that he had the advantage.

Grange laughed, 'you have to be joking. Go home, take care of your family, and leave now before it's too late.' Almost before the sentence had finished he started his attack. Stepping inside Crandles swing he punched towards his face with the keyed hand.

Taken by surprise Crandle dodged to one side. The blow missed his eyes but tore down the side of his head above the ear. Enraged he jumped forward jabbing with the stick. It struck Grange under the ribs but he had twisted away reducing the impact.

Circling in the centre of the road they glared at each other. Instinctively Crandle threw the club. As Grange ducked down Crandle moved forward and delivered a blow to the side of his neck. He fell to the ground and without thought Crandle delivered a kick to the ribs. Rolling away Grange tried to avoid the second kick and the third, he grabbed Crandles leg jabbing the keys to the shin and dragging them down from knee to ankle. Crandle quickly stepped away. Grange rolled into a crouch. Jumping upwards with the power of a coiled spring he hurtled into Crandles stomach and then stood straight up his head colliding with the solid bone of the jaw.

Crandle fell on his back in the centre of the road. Instead of following up his advantage Grange turned and sprinted for the car. He inserted the key, partially opened the door before Crandle arrived jumping forwards to grab him by the neck. Grange opened the door as his adversary's weight descended. The pointed top corner jabbed under Crandle's arm into the pit. The pain made him pull back leaving space for Grange to leap into the driving seat, slamming and locking the door.

Crandle pulled at the locked door as the engine started. He looked for a stone to smash the windscreen. The car skidded away as he hurled the only one to be found at the rear window. It bounced off. Blood was pouring down his face and neck from the keying, he wiped it aside to see the registration. Taking note for the first time the BMW series three logo and the last three numbers on the plate, six, six, six. The black car sped away, quickly disappearing round the next bend. He leaned over, hands on knees, taking deep breathes evaluating the damage to his body.

A car drew up behind him. He turned to face it realising that he looked a disastrous sight, stood in the middle of the road his face covered in blood, clothes ripped open at the shoulder.

Aghast at what must have been an accident the lady driver, jumped out of her Land Rover, 'what's happened?' not waiting for an answer, 'Just a minute I've got a first aid box. Sit down you need cleaning up. Then we'll call an ambulance.' She rushed to the rear door and swung it open.

Crandle stumbled to the driver's door, climbed in and drove away with the rear door open. Looking back, he felt guilty seeing the Good Samaritan standing in the road with a green box in her hands. He could see her shouting but couldn't hear the words, her voice being drowned out by the sound of the powerful engine. An automatic gearbox with the choice of manual made the large vehicle easy to drive. Lots of fuel he noted. The dog in the back started to bark. He stopped and the sheepdog leapt out of the still open rear door. He quickly cleaned the blood off his head, making himself look decent. Starting again he accelerated down the narrow road as best he could in the hope of catching sight of the BMW. The road would lead to the A6 and unless he could catch up he would have to guess which direction Grange had taken, Manchester and Liverpool were not far away, once there he would lose his quarry. A long straight stretch appeared before him and at the end junction he could just see Grange indicating his intention to turn right.

Heavy traffic on the A6 moved slowly enabling Crandle to catch up. He could see Grange about fifteen vehicles in front. Keeping pace he began to think about what he was doing. Up to now he had just reacted to the situation. Bob Fry may be in the smouldering boathouse but equally he could still be at the police station. If he caught up with Grange what did he intend to do. He could not force him to stop. Is there any point in following him to his destination? Only to continue the fight he had just lost. But Crandle felt determined not to let Grange get away. The police should be looking for him by now if Bob had described how he had been attacked and nearly murdered at the Barn.

The speed of the traffic increased. He could see a motorway roundabout. M60 Manchester, he followed the BMW and joined the network. The BMW immediately made its way across the inner lanes and joined the fast moving traffic. Crandle had to wait for a gap in the traffic to move out. He could still see Grange but the distance between them widened as the outer lane seemed to travel at ninety miles per hour. Pressing his foot down on the accelerator Crandle pushed his way into the fast lane. His Land Rover could hold the speed however he had doubts about for how long. The whole frame seemed to be shaking to bits. The M56 connection came and they took it. Maybe he's heading for Liverpool airport, he thought, perhaps, the ferry terminal at Birkenhead, accepting it could be any of these or other destinations he became even more resolute to keep up.

Chapter Thirty

'DI Jones and Eric Bradford,' announced Douglas as he stood aside to allow them to enter the office suite.

Sir Monty moved from surveying the grounds through the window and welcomed them into the room. 'Pleased to meet you,' he shook hands with his guests. 'Thank you for coming out here to see me, it's more convenient than the police station, for business reasons you understand.' He smiled in appreciation.

Wanting to keep the meeting as formal as possible Jones pulled out his warrant card; almost in a mirrored sequence Eric Bradford did the same.

'Good of you to see us at short notice Sir Monty, but as I said on the phone the matter is urgent and of the upmost importance.' DI Jones took the lead. Taking out his note book Eric stepped back and stood by the door.

'Let's sit down at the table.' Suggested Sir Monty, both he and Jones sat, Eric remained standing. 'Now what can I do for you?'

Jones felt at ease having prepared his approach to questioning earlier. 'Sir, we are investigating crimes that may have included some of your employees. Your Acquisitions Manager, Adam Grange has been accused of grievous bodily harm, breaking and entry and theft of a painting called the Mistress. We want to question him. Do you know where we can contact him? He seems to be avoiding us.'

Carefully considering his options Decker answered, 'Mr Grange keeps cropping up on my agenda. From reliable sources I recently found out that his loyalty was in question. Only yesterday we agreed a termination package. He has now left my employment. I must say though that I did not know of these accusations. It's a complete surprise; I've known him for three or maybe four years. Never been any bother, always delivered, but now?' He looked crestfallen appearing that the news was a shock, 'it looks as though we parted company just in time.'

'Not quite Sir, you see the crimes were committed whilst in your employment which implies some liability on your part. Do you know where he is?'

'Not a clue. He was always a freelance; my contact with him was by mobile phone, one that we provided and he returned yesterday. What's all this about the Mistress? It's very well known; I hope it's not damaged.'

Eric Bradford replied, 'No sir, we have recovered it in good condition and it's currently held at the station.' He continued to think about this as his boss and Decker carried on talking. Funny how things turn out he mused, the painting had been found in the boot of a car that had been taken to a police compound because of illegal parking. Now who would have guessed that? Lost from Thornton Gallery in some sort of forgery racket and found by accident a few weeks later. Looking up he realised that he had missed taking notes for almost five minutes.

'....the Fraternity has always co operated with the police as you will know from Sam Hill. I believe she is a member of your team Inspector.'

'She is seconded to this investigation, yes, that's correct, but she has other duties. I believe she acts as a critic for your good self. Have you seen her recently?'

'I'm sorry but I seem unable to help you with the whereabouts of everyone you mention.'

'What about Bob Fry?' Jones knew full well that Decker had helped him after the Grange assault.

'Ahh, there I can help, he's been photographing my art collection. We have provided temporary accommodation down by the lake in the boathouse.' He tentatively asked, 'I'm sorry but whilst I'm always ready to help and I can see one of my staff is in trouble, what is it that you urgently needed to talk to me about?'

'It's your art collection Sir Monty, your very private collection,' Jones emphasised the word private, 'we believe it may contain one or two stolen masterpieces.'

A broad smile creased Sir Monty's face, then he started to chuckle, and finally he laughed out loud. 'Of course it does, that's what the Fraternity is all about.' He could see Jones didn't see the funny side of his remark. 'We are working with you,'

Jones looked astonished, lost for words.

'Yes, you, the police and Government. Surely you know this from Sam Hill, she's your contact.'

'Perhaps you could explain.'

'I'm sorry, but I can't do that,' he tapped the side of his nose, 'need to know old boy. Perhaps you need to ask your Chief Inspector. The best I can do is show you around the place. Out of a sense of duty you understand. If you need more than this I'm sure a search warrant would be appropriate or a call from your Senior Management.' He stood up, leading Jones towards the door. Passing through it with DI Jones and Eric Bradford in tow he headed for the gallery. Thank god that he and Sam had agreed to place three stolen pieces of art in the upper gallery and made senior police officers aware of the charitable nature of the Fraternities work. This had always been the fall back strategy. The lower gallery full of the private collection would remain secret. Police officials believed that Sir Monty did in fact recover stolen art work from the black market on their behalf.

Keeping pace Jones asked, 'Is this the work Grange has been helping you with?'

Eric Bradford's mobile phone rang, 'sorry,' he mumbled and turned away to answer it.

Walking on a little further Sir Monty and Jones stopped to wait for him.

'Where did the accusation come from?' asked Sir Monty. 'I have lots of contacts in the art world that will vouch for my good name. The Fraternity has existed for several years and during that time we have recovered many paintings before returning them to the original owner.'

There had not been any accusations that DI Jones could disclose, even from Bob Fry, however he felt sure that the people that Decker employed would not be working for the minimum wage or for charitable reasons. Grange the Acquisitions Manager must have been on the make, a life time criminal, involved in charity work, returning stolen art to its rightful owner! Bob Fry an accomplished forger involved in the theft of a multimillion pound painting. Not to mention Bedows travelling the world whilst his stand in owned up to stealing three works of art. There was a definite connection to Decker. Fry had admitted photographing a substantial private collection at the manor house. 'I can't name the source of the accusation at this time Sir Monty but, like you we have connections with the art world via our art expert Sam Hill.'

Monty knew the information didn't come from his dear friend Sam however he nodded his appreciation of the resources available to the police. 'I'm an open book Inspector don't be ....'

His reply was interrupted by the return of Eric Bradford. 'Emergency services called out to the boathouse,' he looked at Jones, 'with your agreement I think we should join them. It may be relevant to our enquiry.'

Sir Monty raised his shoulders, adding to his stature, he looked about to explode, 'what is it a fire? Which emergency services? Come on man what do you know.'

'All three services are on their way.'

Jones responded, 'you go sergeant, I'm sure there will be enough officers there without our involvement. Report back by phone if you feel we must join you.' He turned his back and said; 'now Sir Monty perhaps you and I can take a look at this collection of yours.'

Not to be put off Sir Monty had already started to march in another direction. 'Follow me; we can take a short cut. This is my property and I want to know what's going on.'

They careered down carpeted corridors until they reached a door that hid a stone staircase down to the kitchen. In the depths of the building Sir Monty opened another door and they stepped out on to a gravel path. The sirens could be heard in the distance. Walking across the lawn and through gardens they quickly came to an over grown path that led them to the boathouse. A police car stood in front of the building blue lights flashing; by its side stood a paramedics bike. The smell of burning wood hung in the air.

Jones turned to Sir Monty, 'you stay here with the sergeant. This is police business and you can't enter the site until I give you the all clear.' He turned to Eric, 'is that understood sergeant, Sir Monty cannot enter the building until I say so.' He walked off leaving the two of them stood at the wood side, one person fuming the other getting ready to physically detain him.

Jones walked into the boathouse and followed the noise of voices through a door that led down to the water deck. Half way down the staircase he stopped, taking in the view of an emergency in progress. Swinging out over the water, hung from a beam with a stout rope around his neck swung Bob Fry. His body slowly rotated until Jones could see his face distorted in agony. On the deck a police man tried to catch the body with a boat hook. Each time he snagged hold of the clothing the weight of the body dragged it free and the ghastly spinning seemed to increase.

Chapter Thirty-one

Sam slipped away from the manor house having secretly listened to the first part of the conversation between DI Jones and Monty her dearest of friends. Sitting in a hotel room she tried to figure out where the plot had gone wrong.

Five years ago her boss suggested that she had all the right qualifications to infiltrate the Fraternity. At the time she already had contact with Monty Decker through the art world. Police suspected him of buying stolen art for private collections. She agreed to try to become one of his trusted associates. It had taken time to weave herself into the fabric of the organisation. The Fraternity members were suspicious of new arrivals. She had to prove herself as a specialist in art evaluation. Only after demonstrating her skills by identifying forgeries and preventing serious loss of money had they started to trust her. Helping Monty to set up his private collection had been a personal triumph. Her idea of establishing his name as a benefactor in the stolen art market and a small number of high profile recoveries led to Monty being knighted for his charity work. The whole thing had been hush-hush otherwise thieves would steal knowing they had a recognised dealer who would buy the stolen paintings back. Initially they had become close because of working together, over time she had fallen in love with him. Silly thing, she thought, now she had to keep the police and the criminals away from the door. There were no misunderstandings between them, Monty worked with his first love every day, admired it, caressed it, and dreamt of it. He was married to his collections; his stolen masterpieces provided his reason for living. She would have been happy with the arrangement but temptation had reared its ugly head.

The first mistake had been agreeing to work with Grange on a money making venture. He in turn had introduced her to Alan Bedows. Things began to unravel after Grange had taken it into his own hands to steal and copy the Mistress. She had done her best to contain the problem but it had all become complicated. The second mistake had been expecting Bedows, a quiet man, to keep Grange in check. Alan had been a good man, shown her kindness and she regretted abruptly ending his life, but the priority had to be the protection of both Monty and herself from any criminal connections. Never intending to disband the gang of three so early, she felt sad, believing they could have gone on to make millions of pounds more. Grange remained a problem. Although they had worked well together he had always been too ambitious, she hoped that if he left the UK for a quieter life, he would stay hidden. She doubted it would happen but yearned for it to be so.

The mobile by her side gave its familiar ring. Looking at the caller display she identified Eric Bradford. Should she answer it? Allowing it to ring she stood and opened her small travel case. At the top she had placed a large brown envelope containing what she laughing thought of as the escape documents. Her mobile stopped ringing. She didn't bother unpacking, planning to stay only one night in the hotel. The mobile rang again. This time the messaging service; pressing buttons to connect she listened.

'This is a message for Detective Sergeant Hill.' Eric's voice sounded strained. 'You have been out of touch for some time and we are becoming concerned. Please phone Eric or DI Jones as soon as possible.'

She rang off not bothering with the other messages she could see waiting for a response. What could she do? Whilst she wanted to keep clear of the investigation for at least another day she didn't want colleagues to think she had been harmed and start a search. For several years she had reported to her supervisor in SOCA. I'm only loaned to DI Jones, she thought, maybe it's possible to send him a message that I'm undercover for a couple of days.

A knock on the door distracted her.

'Room service.'

'Leave it outside the door,' she ordered, knowing her sandwiches and fruit juice could wait.

On balance she thought it would be easier to inform Eric that she had a tummy bug and would not be able to make it into work tomorrow. Ringing his number she prepared to lie.

'Hello,' he said, 'about time you called back.'

'Sorry, I've been working on another case. Now I've come down with some type of stomach bug. It will probably be okay by tomorrow.'

'It won't be okay if you give it to me and DI Jones. You stay away until it's gone. Where are you anyway?'

Being careful not to begin too many lies, Sam replied, 'I'm on my way back from North Wales. I've had to stop off at a small hotel, can't travel likes this,' she made herself belch, 'don't know how long I can stay on the phone. Sorry if I have to dash.' Anxious to change the subject she asked, 'what's happening with the Mistress case?'

'There's too much happening to brief you over the phone. The best bit is that we have recovered the painting.'

'That's great news, where did you find it?'

'You wouldn't believe it possible but it turned up in the boot of a car found double parked. Forensics are checking it over for prints etcetera. We are looking for Adam Grange after Bob Fry came into the station and named him for the break in at his barn. You remember how we discovered the place all broken up.'

'I remember.'

'The bad news is that we found Bob Fry hanged earlier today in the grounds of ...'

A knock on the door caused Sam to interrupt, 'hold on.' Angry at room service being so persistent she marched over to the door and opened it, 'Sorry Eric I've got to ring off,' she gasped, 'can't resist the toilet any longer. I'll call you back tomorrow.' She immediately ended the call.

'Sounds bad,' smiled Adam Grange as he stood at the door holding the tray. 'Room service?' he added almost pushing his way into the room.

Sam stepped back and waited for him to put the coffee down on the dressing table before she let fly, 'what do you think you are doing? The very least I expect is privacy; I definitely do not want you walking into my room uninvited. When did you arrive? How did you find my room number? Couldn't you have waited to see me later?'

'Hold on, slow down,' he laughed summoning all his charm despite his instinctive reaction to shout back. 'I came because we agreed to meet here. Your room number was easy seeing as we are registered as brother and sister. I'm across the hall by the way and no I couldn't wait to see you.' He sat on the bed willing her to relax. 'Sit down and drink your coffee, please.'

Stunned by his sudden appearance Sam took a deep breath before she replied. 'We can meet later in the restaurant,' she said, keeping her voice lower than before, conscious of how sound carried between rooms in modern hotels.

'We can't talk about our future so openly downstairs, let's get the business over first then we can eat.'

Calming down from the intrusion, Sam considered that her call to Eric ended without sending the wrong signals. He expected her to have to dash. Now he has arrived perhaps Adam is right, business should take prioity, she thought. She passed the brown envelope to Adam. 'Documents that support the belief that we are related,' she said. 'Not passports as yet, we don't need them for another few weeks. Driving licence, credit cards, letters and other useful documents. All genuine, they cost a fortune but we needed them for car hire and to rent the cottage in Wicklow.'

'Why choose Wicklow?'

'It's not far from Dublin and the airport.'

'When will we have the passports?'

'Delivered next week, in time for our flight out to Rio' we can book flights later.'

'Sounds good,' said Adam. 'Where are the cars?'

'They will be out front, one each, hired for two weeks. We leave at seven in the morning.' She sat down at the table to take a sip of coffee.

Adam turned his body to lay full length on the bed. Making himself comfortable, he asked, 'any news from Alan Bedows?'

'None,' not wanting to linger on the subject Sam hurried her reply, 'but you know he insists on not communicating when he is on one of his selling tours. Perhaps next time they pull into port he will contact us.'

'All the same, it's unusual for him not to want to hear about the latest enquiries from the police. I hope he's not going to hide from us.'

'Stop worrying, we have our money in the bank and just like us he can hide if he wants. The difference is the police are not actively searching for him. Unlike you, I hear that you are one of their most wanted. Why bother with Bob Fry?' Sam wondered what Adam had done. She tempted him to explain. 'He's a little man in this business. Leave him alone.'

'Your right of course, I will not be pursuing him again, it's pointless.' He smiled to himself remembering the last time he had talked to Fry. Just before he swung him out over the water to hang from the car tow rope. He had been vindictive, taking great joy in telling Bob he wouldn't be taking the long drop that would break his neck. "Not for you Bob, that's too easy after all the trouble you've caused me." He gently pushed him off the deck and allowed him to swing, watching the rope gradually strangle the life out of the forger. 'Should give you some sexual pleasure, by all accounts,' he had laughed as he left. 'You know Sam I don't like leaving loose ends, but Bob Fry is not worth worrying about.'

Sam stood up, put her arms under Adam's legs and pushed them off the bed. 'Time for you to find your own room, we'll meet for a drink later, in the mean time get to know all about the new you.' She placed the envelope in his hands and pushed him towards the door.

He pushed back to make fun of the situation. 'I expect you will be having words with your benefactor, Sir Monty, before we eat.'

'None of your business,' she replied and angrily closed the door behind him. The meeting left her with a feeling of uncertainty. She recalled Adams words about not leaving loose ends. Maybe she would be a loose end? If so, what would he do about it? She considered changing her plans for the next day? Dismissing the idea because they already catered for the worst, she picked up the phone to have a few minutes with Monty.

Chapter Thirty-two

Outside the hotel Crandle decided to sleep in the Land Rover. After following Grange off the M56 he'd watched him park and carry his bags into reception, obviously going to stop the night. Concious of driving a stolen vehicle he gathered sludge together from the hotel garden and threw it onto the registration plates hoping to obscure the numbers in a natural way. In a space at the back of the car park, he settled down to watch the BMW.

Lonely, clothing covered in dried blood, the only thing he found of comfort was the dog blanket from the back seat. Knowing that the police would be searching for Grange, he had called the only number he had, Eric Bradford's. He made himself comfortable expecting a long wait. He had endured worse in the army but at that time it had seemed for a cause, now he realised revenge was not a good enough reason to suffer such hardship. He thought of Ashley, the fun they had shared at the beach, the ball game in the park and how much he needed Sue to be a permanent part of his life. What a mess it had all turned out. Vowing to put his affairs in order he was overcome with exhaustion and gradually drifted into a fitful sleep.

Eric received the call at nine o'clock in the evening just as he returned home. It seemed that he would have to work into the evening and make an early start the next day. Too late to arrange for the North Wales force to take action he agreed with DI Jones that they would travel to the hotel and take Grange into custody the following morning. The low level of traffic at five a.m. made travelling across country from Sheffield easy. Jones must have drunk several mugs of coffee thought Eric. As the junior officer he had been given the task of driving, his boss seemed wide awake, ready to ramble on about the case. Eric wished he'd shut up and sleep for a couple of hours.

'I feel sorry for Bob Fry, I know he's a villain but he did serve his time, whatever made him get involved with Grange. He must have known it would end in tears.'

'Didn't have a choice did he? Spent some time in prison, had the skills needed, obliged to pay Grange to protect him from prison extremes. He was bound to owe a debt of gratitude. We know Grange has no conscience, he would not have thought twice about asking Fry to copy a masterpiece. What are contacts for if you don't use them?'

Jones fell silent, thinking about the evidence. 'It's Fry's statement that fully implicates Grange in the murder of Alan Bedows. Could it be for revenge?'

'How could Fry have known that the murder happened? As far as we know he didn't have contact with Bedows.'

'It just seems an odd co-incidence that when Grange broke into the Barn he left a footprint, and when he murdered Bedows the same footprint was found at the top of the cellar stairs. Surely he would have been more careful, he is a career criminal, knows all about forensics.'

Eric was about to interrupt his boss's train of thought when he had to pull in for a car overtaking at well over the speed limit.

Jones continued, 'At the scene of the murder it looked as though someone had burgled the premises. Maybe, just maybe,' he paused, thinking his idea through, 'someone killed Bedows and then another person lifted the valuables.'

'Yes, I see what you mean, Grange kills Bedows, later someone breaks in, but doesn't see the body. It's a bit way out sir,' suggested Eric, 'surely it's much easier to say Grange breaks in, murders Bedows and then steals what he can. It's a more likely scenario and fits the facts.'

'Why didn't you and Sam Hill spot that the back door had been broken into when you made your first visit?'

'Because it happened afterwards, when Cooke the neighbour, spotted Grange leaving with the swag?'

'But it didn't; forensics and pathology put the killing at least twenty four hours before Cooke witnessed Grange running away.' Thinking about the time line, he added, 'that's before you and Sam visited the premises. They occasionally make mistakes but they are never a whole day out in their estimates.'

'In that case Sam must have missed the broken back door. Perhaps she didn't even look I remember she was in a state, wanted to get away to our next call.' Eric thought for a few minutes, 'Mister Cooke did say that he had seen Sam before. At the house, I think he was mistaken, but it does suggest that someone with blond hair visited Bedows.'

Jones sat silent mulling over their discussion. The purr of the car engine and the warmth of the heating lulled him into sleep. Eric didn't notice and continued speaking.

'It was pure luck that when Sam and I entered the Barn I smashed a load of plates that protected the footprint left by Grange.' He didn't expect a reply. Jumping to another aspect of the case he tentatively suggested, 'let's assume that Cooke had seen Sam at the Bedows premises before. What would it mean?'

Jones didn't reply but moved his legs trying to find comfort in the hard backed sports seat.

'It could mean that Sam knew Bedows and also had a lot of contact with Grange. Just like you are always telling me, she seems to know too much and all the wrong people.' Having come to a conclusion, Eric concentrated on driving, thinking about what he had just said.

Much later, after realising that Jones was asleep, Eric began to whistle, happy to drive in the early morning sun. He'd been to North Wales on holiday, Conway Castle and all that. Where had Sam been lodging he wondered?

After a continental breakfast in the room Sam made her way to reception and settled the bill. She paid cash for both of the rooms, noting that Grange did not have a breakfast delivered. Using the phone in reception she called his room.

'Hello.'

'I'm in reception ready to go. Seven a.m. remember? Are you ready?'

'On my way,' he replied cheerfully.

They walked out of the building together. Into a fresh breeze with a dark sky that suggested rain later in the day. Sam wondered if it would affect their travel plans.

'I like the new look,' he said admiring her hair, now dyed darker and lifted into a youthful ponytail. He gave it a gentle tug.

She turned and thumped him hard on his shoulder. 'That's for being such a pest as a brother,' she laughed as she dodged the playful return tap.

The hire cars were parked side by side at the front of the hotel. Grange took the lead as agreed. Sam would follow in a few minutes. They both knew the destination, it seemed sensible to keep separated until they arrived. Sam pointed out that they didn't need to use the sister, brother act unless they were challenged.

Watching the exit she noticed a Land Rover follow Grange out of the car park. The sludge spattered rear door gave it the appearance of a farm vehicle.

Following a few minutes later she turned onto the A55 heading west away from Liverpool. Within a few miles she found herself behind the Land Rover. Deciding that she would keep behind it to maintain a suitable distance from Grange she reduced speed. All seemed to be okay. The dual carriage way allowed an increase in speed.

Looking in her rear view mirror Sam watched a police patrol car come down the slip way and fall in behind, about four cars back. Checking her speed, she thought of and then discounted phoning a warning to Grange up ahead. There was no way she could think of that the police knew they had switched cars. The patrol car pulled out into the fast lane and the blue lights came on.

'Shit,' she said out loud. Holding her speed she watched the police pull alongside before speeding up, adding the siren to make sure of being seen. It passed her quickly, five cars further down it pulled into the inside lane in front of the grotty Land Rover. Both the Land Rover and patrol car stopped in the next lay-by. Glancing as she passed Sam could see the officer walking to the Land Rover driver's door, clipboard in hand.

Chapter Thirty-three

He had one free phone call, offered him as a courtesy. The ring tone carried on a long time before she picked it up. 'Sue, it's me, Jim, I'm ringing to let you know that I'm okay.'

'Well shock and horror,' she responded cynically, 'this is a surprise, a phone call from my lost husband at eight o'clock in the morning, asking for help I presume.'

Knowing that Sue could carry on like this for several minutes Crandle interrupted, 'Sue I don't have much time and the police only allow one call. I just wanted to make sure you and Ashley were safe at home. I'm okay here in Liverpool and someone will be in touch to let you know what's happening.'

'Liverpool! You live in Dorset what are you doing there?'

'It's a long story Sue; if you don't hear from me shortly give Detective Sergeant Bradford a ring. You remember him?'

'I remember him.'

'I've got to go. Sue, I'm sorry things haven't worked out. Love you.....'

'Love you too,' she replied before realising the call had ended.

Crandle thanked the desk sergeant knowing he would now have to make a statement regarding the theft of the Land Rover. The duty solicitor had been called. On being detained he had tried to explain that DS Bradford knew all about his circumstances, but no one listened seriously. In the cell, time passed slowly, he knew that Adam Grange must be miles away.

They were drinking coffee in the hotel, pursuing enquiries where Grange had reportedly stopped overnight when Eric received the call from Sue. He thanked her for not waiting. It had been clever of Crandle to suggest that she should ring him for news. They now knew where he was and could call at the police station to find out what had happened. Hopefully Crandle could tell them where Grange had gone. Liverpool airport would be an obvious departure point but Manchester airport and Leeds/Bradford were within a short travelling distance on the motorway network. Airport security had been alerted. The ferry terminal at Hull provided a link to Europe and the Liverpool ferry to Dublin crossed several times a day. DI Jones became more belligerent by the minute. To top it all rain fell heavily and Eric didn't have a raincoat. Things could only get better.

Grange arrived first at Holyhead terminal. He booked in using the ticket Sam had provided; his new name of Alan Gardener amused him, where did she think these things up. One of the last cars on, he was directed up the ramp to the back of the queue of parked cars, he looked back at the empty car park on shore. Sam would literally miss the boat if she delayed much longer. The Swift ferry to Dublin would be leaving at twelve noon; two hours later cars would drive off, no passports required, all that they needed to eat or drink. Grange relaxed and made his way to the club class reserved seat at the rear of the deck. Located in the furthest corner of the lounge, no one would take much notice of them here. He intended to wait for Sam to join him.

The high backed travel seats hid a fellow passenger until he sat down.

'You took your time,' Sam squealed with pleasure at the look on his face.

He looked at her in genuine surprise, 'how?' he couldn't finish the question.

'Better driver, that's how,' she laughed. 'Of course I just might know the traffic lanes a little better than you. Take a seat; don't stand there with your mouth open.' In fact she had made a determined effort to pass him and be first on board. 'First on, first off,' she said. Where are you?

'Almost at the back, I looked out for you.'

'Passed you when you slowed down for that police patrol car, you are much too careful,' she wagged her finger in admonishment, 'sixty five in a seventy mile an hour limit. They both smiled at the joke. 'Fancy a drink? I'm having a coffee.'

'A coffee? Yes that would be nice, any chance of a short in it?'

'Can't see why not at this time of day, a brandy okay? She stood up to go to the bar.

'I think they serve it, you don't need to go and order it.'

'It's not a problem; I need to stretch my legs anyway. I've been sitting here waiting for you half an hour. Take the seat near the window it will save me climbing over.'

He changed seats. Sam's was warm, she had been here early. He cursed himself for slowing down to wait for her. Very resourceful lady he acknowledged, but could he trust her? All that rubbish about Alan Bedows being out of touch on a cruise ship. He knew from his visit to Bedows house that wherever he was he would be desperate for his belongings. The small case that he had taken from the hall would have been essential for his peace of mind. No, with Bedows missing he intended to keep a careful eye on Sam.

When Sam returned Adam held the daily newspaper reading the headlines. She passed the coffee over and yawned. 'Early starts catch up on me during the day. I might take a nap.'

'Fine, I might join you later,' he yawned, 'must be catching. Wake me up when we get there,' he joked, sipping his coffee. 'Good grief, 'he exclaimed, 'how much brandy is there in here?' He looked at Sam for a reply.

'Damn,' she leapt up, 'sorry, left it at the counter,' before he could say it didn't matter Sam had disappeared down the aisle.

Grange studied the two coffees. They looked the same, both of them small cappuccinos, nice and milky, he started to take another sip then on impulse swopped the two cups. Can't be too careful he thought. He smiled at her as she walked back carrying the drink.

'What's in the bag?' she pointed at his minuscule back pack.

'My smalls,' he said, embarrassed at having to answer, 'plus some fruit from the hotel breakfast table. I didn't know if we needed a picnic later on. Fancy an apple?'

She laughed, 'no thank you, the last thing I want is an apple that's been rolling about in your underwear.'

Sam snuggled down and closed her eyes. He read for a while then his eyes drifted to Sam. She looked vulnerable. Needs looking after he said to himself. Pity she had fallen for Monty, must be his title and wealth, can't be his looks. He drank the brandy in one gulp, don't splash out on a double he thought. Who wouldn't want to live on a country estate in a manor house with private boating lake? He finished his coffee, he could have another brandy but then again he had to drive in two hours time. He sighed; if things had been different he could have fallen for Sam. Unfortunately he now had to think of how to be rid of her before he flew to his next destination. He had to make sure that she would not betray him. To live the life he wanted no one could know where he intended to settle. Least of all Sam, who knew he had made his money from crime. He had lied to her, had plans to take care of her future; she would never know his final resting place. The paper he held gradually lowered onto his lap, his eyes closed and he fell asleep.

Ten minutes later Sam stirred, taking a sideways look at Adam she confirmed he was asleep. Bloody well should be, she grimaced, given the price of Nembutal derivatives on the internet. Nudging his foot to make sure he was fast on she looked at her watch. He had taken the brandy ten minutes ago, according to all she had read, Adam should now be slipping into a coma, the process would end in thirty minutes with respiratory arrest. At first inspection this would appear to coincide with cardiac arrest. She sighed thinking it's a pity that such a young man's life should end without a friend by his side. Reaching over she swapped her ticket for his.

Having left her car in one of the side streets near the terminal she had rushed to board on foot. The sisters name Gardener was preceded by the initial A for Angela; with a smudge where the ticket should have read Mr it now looked as though a Mister A Gardener had boarded as a foot passenger. Sam now had Adams ticket and car keys. When the ferry arrived she would drive the car off and head for Wicklow. She expected the crew to find Adam's body shortly before docking but because he was a foot passenger the unloading process would not stop whilst he received medical help. She picked up his back pack and rummaged round in it making sure he had nothing to identify him. She pushed aside three bananas and two apples thinking the cheek of the man putting all that in his bag. That would do, she thought with a shudder, quickly passing over his dirty washing and shaving bag.

Nervous at having to sit by Adams side whilst he died, she stopped her foot tapping, picked up the paper and forced herself to read. His head slowly slid down the seat and rested on her shoulder. She felt a body spasm. Adam started to fall forward. Gently she pushed him back into the seat as though to make a friend more comfortable. With trembling hands she lifted the cold cup of coffee to wet her dry mouth.

The whole event passed silently, no one noticed the sad demise of a fellow traveller at the rear of the lounge. An hour later the call came for passengers to return to their car. She waited until everyone else moved and then casually placed the paper in Adams hands as though he had just read the last page.

Cars streamed off the ramp onto the dock side. Eventually it came to Sam's turn and she followed on. Relieved to be free from any possibility of a hold up, she started to relax. She now planned to return to the UK in time for work the following morning. Having found the M11 she headed for the rented cottage, where she parked the car on the drive. She phoned Monty on her mobile. The answer machine responded. She left a message.

'Hi Monty, its Sam, just to let you know that I've recently talked to Adam, he seemed quite happy with the termination package. He didn't explain his plans in detail but I think he intended to stay a few days in Geneva before flying further afield. She felt ashamed; the lie tripped off her tongue so easily, deceiving someone who trusted her completely.

Sam had to rush to catch the connecting train from Wicklow town to Rosslare arriving in time to purchase a one way foot passenger ticket to Fishguard, South Wales. The whole trip from North Wales to Ireland and return to South Wales had taken a day. Confident that Adam Grange had disappeared for ever she expected to be talking to DI Jones and Eric Bradford the following morning.

Chapter Thirty-four

Jones expected his sergeants to be there at eight o'clock. He started work early to prepare for the morning meeting by reading the reports from the previous day. When Sam walked in he and Eric looked at her with sympathy, she looked ill, tired out.

'Are you sure you should have come in today,' asked Eric. 'You look terrible.'

Sam felt terrible; the previous day's intense activities, washing the dye out of her hair, added to almost no sleep affected her normal good demeanour. 'I'm fine, didn't think I could leave you for another day. I never seem to be here. What with holidays, other cases and sick leave.'

My thoughts entirely, passed through DI Jones head. 'Okay let's get on with it.' He shuffled the pile of papers in front of him.

'Eric, good work in connecting Grange to the death of Bedows, Forensics are ninety percent sure it's the same shoe print in both instances. The first attack on Bob Fry is now down to him and the attempted murder at the boathouse at the Decker estate.'

'I'm sorry,' interrupted Sam, 'attempted murder, I understood Fry had been hanged.'

'You're out of the loop, your absence etcetera,' suggested Eric, 'he didn't die. Grange did hang him but tried to strangle him to death. Almost did but the paramedics arrived in time for him to be resuscitated. He's in hospital. We have a statement implicating Grange.'

Sam wrestled with the implications for herself. Not a problem she thought. Grange is still a wanted man that can't be found.

Jones continued with his review, 'The bonus for us yesterday was Crandle followed Grange to a hotel near Liverpool. Reported it late at night but by the time we arrived he had left.

This was much more serious thought Sam, 'Where did he go?'

Eric looked at her as though to say that's a stupid question.

'If we knew that we wouldn't be sat here talking about it. All we know is that he checked in for the night. There are vague reports he had dinner with a lady.'

'Anyone provide a description?' Sam held her breath waiting for a reply from Eric.

'Not really; young, dark hair, left a small tip,' that's about it.

'Crandles now in the process of being released on bail, charged with stealing a Land Rover. We could question him about Grange's companion.'

'You do that Eric,' suggested DI Jones, 'best be quick whilst he is still in Liverpool nick.' He looked at Sam, 'you and I could go and take a look at where Grange lives. We found his home address from his recent employer, Sir Monty Decker.'

'That's good work; I thought he would have kept it quiet.'

'Needed to send employment documents apparently, I think he rented it, he doesn't own the apartment. We will have a search warrant by mid day. Just you and me to go, we know he won't be there, he's on the run.'

'I could do it myself, if it saves your time,' offered Sam, thinking she didn't know what they would find.

'There's no way that could happen. You know the procedures as well as the rest of us. Eric you have a chat to Crandle. Preferably on the phone, then check on security at some of the travel points we identified, see if they have any suspicious events. We know they haven't seen Grange but maybe we will be lucky. You're good at that sort of thing. Sniff around see what turns up.'

Eric stood up to leave.

'Sam, before we go to look at this apartment, I would like a word. Hang on here while I order more coffee. DI Jones walked out with Eric leaving her sat looking out of the window.'

'Eric, whilst you're talking to Crandle about this lady friend Grange had dinner with, take some time to check out our colleague will you. It was you that said she had to stop off in North Wales yesterday. That places her near Grange. I don't like all theses coincidences.'

'I'm not sure how I can do that boss. She's going to be with you.'

'I know your hearts not in it, but try anyway. Okay?'

He ordered more coffee and returned to the office.

'Sorry Sam, we need to wait a while for the warrant to be delivered. You know Grange don't you? I seem to remember you saying you met him through this Fraternity that Decker runs.'

She couldn't deny it. Did she need to? 'We had met briefly at some of the Fraternity meetings. I had to check on some of his acquisitions.'

'According to Sir Monty Decker you are our contact with regard to the recovery of stolen art that his organisation is involved with. Who is in charge of the scheme from our end? I think I'd like a word about it.'

Having covered all the possible angles she knew she was on safe ground with this line of questioning. 'It's the Deputy Commander,' pausing to consider the way the meeting had been staged, she added, 'sir.'

Noting her change in attitude DI Jones backed off a little, 'how long do you think, Grange knew Bedows? I can't see what the motivation would be for the murder.'

'Well sir, we know that Alan Bedows was involved in stealing art masterpieces perhaps he had dealings with Grange that went wrong. This Mistress painting seems to have started it all. Stolen from Thornton Gallery, the one that Bedows had dealing s with, copied by Fry for Grange by the look of it. Perhaps that's the motivation, it fell apart and they lost a lot of money.'

'If that's true, why steal from the house? To make it look like a burglary I presume,' he answered his own question. 'Did you ever go to the Bedows house other than when you and Eric visited together?'

'No sir', the question shook her, why would he ask?

'I might need you to interview the neighbour again. You met him last time I believe. He's really keen on the Neighbourhood Watch scheme. Maybe we can find out who else visited Bedows. Remind me to follow it up will you?

If accused she would deny it outright. The old fool couldn't have seen her close up. He is obviously confusing me with my justifiable visits during the enquiry. That would be her defence. However Sam realise that she suddenly needed a defence. DI Jones seemed to be asking the wrong questions.

Di Jones glanced at his watch,'it looks like the coffees not going to arrive in time, shall we make a move? I can collect the warrant at the desk and we can go and take a look around Grange's apartment.

The apartment in Leeds city centre overlooked the river and canal basin. On the seventh floor it provided a panoramic view of the city centre through ceiling to floor glass walls. The two bed roomed flat included a modern kitchen diner and lounge. Black leather seating allowed comfortable viewing of the wall mounted flat screen TV. Everything seemed to be in place. DI Jones led the way into all the rooms. One by one they both searched through draws and cupboards. Sam never found herself alone, she didn't discover anything incriminating, however, it seemed she would not be given the opportunity to hide anything that reflected on her own status. In the second bedroom they found a cardboard box under the bed. It contained a variety of small items including a small marble statue and several watches. Sam picked the statue of Venus up ensuring her prints would be on it from the flat search. She had immediately recognised it as the one that she felled Bedows with.

'Interesting piece,' she said.

DI Jones chose one of the watches with engraving on the back. He read out, "Alan Bedows, thirty five years in the force, from all of us at Group HQ." 'Seems little doubt that this lot came from Alan Bedows house, but was it stolen or did Grange offer to get rid of it?'

'This statuette is worth a few thousand. Even if Bedows had intended to sell he would have protected it. Wrapped it in bubble wrap or something, it's just been thrown in the box. It must be stolen.'

'I agree,' he smiled, 'just speculating. It looks as though at a minimum we can do Grange for robbery. Maybe Bedows did fall down the staircase. The thing that concerns me is, if he was going into the cellar what did he hope to collect or leave there. You can see from the house that Bedows was very neat; just one look at his house hold accounts qualified him as obsessive. There is no clutter in the cellar.'

Not wanting to lose momentum Sam helpfully suggested, 'is it feasible that both his shoe laces would be untied when he was about to leave the house? What did the post mortem say?'

'Inconclusive,' replied DI Jones. 'Let's keep searching.' He continued to look around. 'The death could have been caused by hitting his head against the corner of one of the stone steps or it could have been a heavy blow with a square object, problem is we didn't find one.

'Perhaps the statuette is the murder weapon. You didn't find it in the house because Grange stole it.'

'If he knew that to be the case surely he would have disposed of it.' He picked it up using a paper tissue. 'If we eliminate your prints now you've handled it we can see what else forensics can come up with.'

Under the bed he found a small travel case. They opened it together, inside they could see the paraphernalia of travel; wash bag, underwear, dressing gown and spare shirt. At the bottom was a writing case with blank envelopes, paper and pen. 'Only half zipped up, it looks as though our friend Grange removed something. Could be spare travel money,' Jones suggested.

Feeling she had to look effective Sam pointed out, 'Grange didn't take much clothing with him, maybe he's intending to come back.'

'I don't think we will be that lucky. He knows we are after him. He didn't take the clothing because he has prepared for this day. I believe that he may have gone for good, already be out of the country. If the airports don't come up with something soon we may never be able to question him.'

Inwardly Sam smiled.

Chapter Thirty-five

Bob shared a ward with three other patients. He had a drip in his arm to rehydrate him. That morning he had eaten soft bread and a boiled egg.

Speaking in a whisper, Bob said, 'good to see you, thanks for the orange juice.'

'I had to come. Sorry about not being there when Grange attacked you.'

'You saved my life by all accounts. If the paramedic had not arrived so quickly it could have finished differently.'

Crandle felt embarrassed. He didn't want to correct Bob but he knew that saving the burning building and anyone in it had been his secondary concern. He phoned emergency services by the same reflex any passerby would have done. 'He got away. I couldn't stop him. The police are now searching for him'

Bob looked in pain, 'forget about it. I have. He is finished and will not be coming back.'

Crandle asked, 'how are you? When can you get out of here?'

'The nurse suggested the Doctor may allow me home following the afternoon rounds,' he said hoarsely, 'I need someone to look after me for two days before I'm allowed out.'

'Where are you going, back to the Barn?

Bob nodded, finding it difficult to speak with his damaged throat.

'If it's just for a day or two I could help. We have things to sort out between us.'

'Good of you to offer, don't need to, but, ...'

'You need help. I've let you down once. It's the least I can do.'

Eric eventually traced Crandle to Bob Fry's bedside in Macclesfield General Hospital. He acknowledged both of them. 'Hello, how's it going?' Holding his hands up he continued, 'don't answer that, I can see it's not so good. Just popped into see if you are improving Mister Fry, they tell me you will be going home soon.'

'Today I hope.'

'I wonder if I can have a quiet word with Mister Crandle,' he looked enquiringly at said person.

'Don't see why not, but its visiting time.' One or two other patients had guests by their bedside.

'I've cleared it with the Ward Sister, we can use a private room reserved for relatives. We'll be back in five minutes, Bob,' Eric apologised for the intrusion of work to his injured witness.

They walked down the corridor, entering a private waiting room Eric indicated Crandle could sit anywhere by waving his hands in a grand sweep around the room. 'What's your first name Crandle? I can't keep calling you by your surname.' He already knew but thought he would let Crandle introduce a less formal atmosphere.'

'Crandle will do,' he replied.

'James isn't it? Do you prefer Jim? You know mines Eric.'

Sighing Crandle said, 'okay if you prefer to use first names its Jim, but don't make a habit of it, after years in the army I kind of like my surname.'

With both of them sat side by side, Eric said, 'I need to follow up a line of enquiry with you, but before I do, I just wanted to say well done for acting to save Bob Fry, without your call he would have died. He's been in trouble with the law before but this time I think he will get away with it. Forging, or copying, a masterpiece only becomes a crime when you fraudulently try to sell it. Bob didn't do that. Adam Grange stole it and tried to sell it on.'

Crandle listened carefully.

'I'm telling you this because you have become embroiled in a serious crime. For the best of reasons you did not run away from trouble, but now I want to give you some advice. Go home. Grange is a very dangerous man, one that we hope to apprehend soon. There's nothing left for you to do. Your family is safe, you are safe and Bob is safe. Do you understand?'

'I've promised to look after Bob for a couple of days at the Barn.'

'That's okay, it will give you time to sort yourself out. When you go home, where will you go?'

The question stung, it left an ache in his heart and Crandle looked forlornly at Eric, 'I don't know.' Lyme Regis or Bawtry, would he be welcome back with Sue and Ashley? 'I don't know,' he repeated softly.

'Jim, I'm not into marriage guidance, but you do have a lovely daughter, think it through carefully. What's important in life?' Eric stood up and prowled around the small room whilst Crandle sat silent. He sat down facing him across the small coffee table, taking out his note book he said, 'now then, I want to ask you a couple of questions. Is that okay?

Gathering himself together Crandle said, 'fire away.'

'At any time, when you watched Adam Grange at the hotel, did you see him with anyone?'

'No, he got out of the car and went inside that was it. In the morning I nearly missed him, he was already in the new car when I spotted him.'

'What new car?'

'He changed his BMW for a Vectra. Didn't I say? His Beema must still be in the hotel car park. Your lads pulled me up on the A55 as I followed the Vectra. Dark blue it was, brand new, clean as a new pin.'

'Registration?'

'The BMW ends six, six, six; I didn't have time to take the Vectra registration.'

'Think again, it's important, did anything make it stand out?'

Crandle thought of his ordeal. He was uncomfortable during the night, no food, only a half bottle of water, sat waiting for the police to arrive. He watched cars come and go in the early morning. 'The only thing I remember is three cars arriving together. The drivers got out of the first two and left in the third. The Vectra must have been one of the two they left behind.'

'It must have been a hire car?' said Eric. He made a note to check on deliveries that morning. 'Where do you think he was headed?'

'I don't know, you lot are the experts. The only time I've been on the A55 I've been going on holiday.'

'To North Wales?'

Crandle smiled at Eric, 'You need to get out more. Why North Wales when there's a ferry terminal at Holyhead.' It brought back many happy memories, thinking of holidays in his youth, 'Mum and dad used to love Ireland when I was a kid.'

On his way back from the flat in Leeds DI Jones diverted to Alan Bedows property. Sam hadn't taken any notice of the route taken. When the car pulled up she looked alarmed.

'I remember we wanted to visit the house again,' said Jones. 'I've got the keys for the back door.' They climbed out and walked through the gate and down the drive.

Entering the house via the repaired back door Jones strode through the kitchen and out into the hall. He pointed at the front door and the window, 'that's where the large case was found, ready to take out to the taxi. The small case that Grange took must have been by its side. Why didn't you or Eric Bradford see them?'

'Because the cases had been pushed by someone unknown under the window out of sight or that's where Bedows placed them.' We can't tell.'

'But we do know that's where they must have been when you and Eric came to visit, because Grange was seen taking the small one away twenty four hours later. Either Bedows was in the house all that time keeping out of sight, including not answering the door to the taxi driver, or he was already dead. The odds favour the latter; therefore, Grange didn't kill Bedows. Who did?'

'I can see your logic sir, but we have no one else in the frame at this point in time.'

'Let's assume that Grange burgled the house, stole the case and other items we have found, the only other person or persons that would have a motive would be his partners in crime. The only one that we know at this point is Sir Monty Decker,' he paused for a moment and then grinned, 'and you Sam.'

Shocked by the allegation she thought carefully before she replied, 'I assume you are joking sir.'

'Not at all, Bedows steals art, Grange buys stolen art and you are involved in approving it for the Fraternity. Decker is a fence for stolen goods. You say with police approval but unless we search Decker's place thoroughly we don't know how many paintings he has bought on the black market. He claims it's a small number but from what we know about Grange he would not be working for peanuts. He would be into the scam big time, maybe for millions of pounds. What do you think?'

Stunned at the way the accusation had been made Sam took her time to answer, 'I think Sir Monty's charitable Fraternity organisation should be transparent. Maybe we should take a look at the books.' Knowing this would take some time to approve she felt it would provide the space needed to make sure they balanced. Why don't we just ask him to show us around?'

'Done that, but we were interrupted with the boathouse fire. Let's take a look in the cellar.' Jones opened the door and turned the light on. 'The light didn't work down here when the first officer arrived. The fuse had blown. Not the sort of thing you would try to repair ten minutes before your taxi arrived.'

'But you found a print of Grange's shoe on the top step,' prompted Sam.

'Yes we did, but he may not have gone down to discover the body, because the light didn't work.' Descending the stone steps he commented, 'I think we should have forensics back to look at all the house not just the hall and cellar,' he looked around, 'there's nothing in here. Why would he come down? He must have either been pushed down and a terrible accident occurred or he was already dead when he was thrown down. It needs further investigation. Come on let's leave as little contamination of the scene as possible.'

Sam thought the best policy would be to keep quiet and not to contribute to Jones's new theory; maybe he would let it pass. They left the house by the back door. Walking down the drive a voice said, 'hello again.'

DI Jones found the neighbour waiting at the bottom of the drive. 'Hello Mister Cooke. Thanks for your help with our enquiry; you've met DS Hill before.

'Well I've spoken to DS Bradford a few times but never had the chance to meet,' he paused, 'DS Hill.' They shook hands. 'I said to Eric it was good of you to keep in touch with Alan after he retired. He was a lonely man and must have appreciated your visits.' He said this looking at Sam; he fondly tapped her arm, 'especially someone as good looking as you.'

Sam turned to DI Jones appearing astounded.

Chapter Thirty-six

He couldn't help himself, he wanted justice, every minute he thought of putting things right. He'd tried to forget, he knew it would destroy him, this feeling that demanded action, but he could not dampen his emotions. Sitting in the terminal rest room he had made a choice. He would not walk away from someone who held human life at such low value. You didn't have to kill someone to destroy their existence; you could do it by intimidation. That's what Grange had done and he couldn't be allowed to get away with it. Crandle laughed at Eric Bradford. How little he knew of his commitment to seeing things through. He did not need the law, he had been in Iraq. Right is right, nothing else mattered.

Given that Bob could not leave hospital for another day it seemed good use of time to see if Grange could be traced. He looked at his foot passenger ticket for the twelve noon Swift Ferry; the low cost fair required his return in twenty four hours. By his calculation two days earlier Grange had boarded the same ferry. He had a copy of the photograph taken when Grange passed the Mistress over to Bob Fry, his quarry stood in the background. He would show it around, if he could find a clue towards the whereabouts of Grange's he would pass the information on to DS Bradford. Once in Dublin he intended to catch the return ferry, with his meagre resources it would not be possible to follow Grange into Ireland.

The journey seemed to be a wasted one, other than he had enjoyed the experience of travelling at such speed. Having visited one bar he had now progressed to the Club Class lounge. The passage to Dublin almost over the staff relaxed before the final clean up. Crandle leaned against the counter and appealed to the young man ready to serve him.

'I hope you don't mind, but I'm looking for someone and thought you might be able to help.'

Looking bemused the waiter said, 'are they in Club Class?'

'Sorry, I'll start again,' smiled Crandle. 'I'm looking for someone who travelled a few days ago. My sister has met someone on the internet. Rather foolishly she agreed to meet him. Now mum and I have lost touch with her,' he lied so easily.

'You're not with the police are you?'

'No,' he half turned away, as though he had given up, but turned back, 'it's a family matter. I have a photograph.'

'Okay let's take a look,' he sighed and held his hand out.

Crandle didn't pass it over but held it up, only showing the portion with Grange on.

'I thought you said it was your sister.'

'It is this is the guy I'm looking for.'

'Sorry mate, but I can't help. Are you a private detective?'

'Why do you ask?'

He laughed,' because it's the fishiest story I've ever heard.' Picking up used glasses from the counter he moved away.

Crandle sat down at the nearest table. He could see the shore line. Nearly time to leave.

A shadow stood over him. 'Can I see your ticket sir,' Crandle looked up to see a uniformed member of staff. 'Security, sir,' the man said as though it explained everything.

He passed the ticket over.

'It's not Club Class.'

'Sorry am I in the wrong place,' Crandle said lamely.

'Perhaps I can escort you to where you should be. Would you mind?'

Crandle stood up and they walked together. When he reached the end of the lounge, his escort pointed to an empty table. 'We're nearly there. Sit here for the last few minutes.' Instead of walking away he sat down. 'Young Tom over there, behind the bar, is a good lad, he tells me you're looking for someone.'

Crandle looked crestfallen, 'sorry, I've caused a fuss. Did he complain?'

Without answering directly the man said, 'show me the photo.'

Crandle tried to cover Bob Fry by folding it in two but in the end had to pass the photograph over.

'Who's the other man?'

'Does it matter?'

'It probably does, yes. You see this man,' he pointed at Grange, 'the one you're looking for,' he paused choosing his words carefully, 'passed away on board two days ago.'

Astounded Crandle said, 'passed away? You mean he died!'

'Exactly,' sensing he didn't need to be sensitive, he confirmed his statement, 'I mean he's dead.'

***

Eric Bradford had a moment's pleasure when Crandle phoned; he recalled the telephone conversation as he reported it to DI Jones. "Hello Sergeant Bradford, it's me, Jim," there had been a brief lull, "Jim Crandle."

'You're on first name terms now are you,' queried DI Jones.

'It's nice to speak to him as a person not a soldier, just as though he is like everyone else,' said Eric defensively.

'Well he isn't like everyone else is he. Released from custody, on bail for stealing a Land Rover, told to go home, and he takes off after the man we are pursuing for attempted murder. He wants locking up.'

'That's what the Garda told me. I eventually persuaded them to allow him to return on this afternoon's ferry. I intended to have another word with him, this time he will listen.'

'What have we found out about Grange?'

'Through Crandle we know he died on the ferry, initially it was thought to be a heart attack. Due to our intervention the case is now being treated as a suspicious death. The autopsy report will be available shortly.'

'Crandle did help it appears.'

'I had already traced the name of the car hire company through the hotel. The registration has been recorded as boarding and leaving the ferry. Someone had to drive it off having given Grange a fictitious name for his send off. I'm trying to find CCTV recordings from that day to establish who sat in the driving seat.'

'So if Crandle had not discovered Grange had been on board we would think he had successfully skipped the country and disappeared for good?'

'I suppose that's true, but now we have another suspicious death to resolve.'

'One connected to our colleague who just happened to have taken a few days off. Did you check on her whereabouts?'

'Without openly accusing her of being a suspect I can't question her alibi. She was with you when you searched Grange's flat. What did you discover?'

'Your friend Mr Cooke knew her from previous visits to Bedows place. Oh, and she failed the shoe lace test. I'm correct that only you and I know about that?'

'Yes, unless she made a mistake, she couldn't have read about them in any of the reports from the scene of crime.'

'Sam definitely said that both shoe laces were undone. I think it's time for us to have a serious chat with her.'

***

Sam reported to DI Jones in the conference room thinking there had been a fresh development in the case. She did not expect the Chief Superintendant to be present. Eric Bradford was missing.

'Sit down DS Hill,' the Chief Super pointed to a chair inviting her to take a place opposite both of them.

The meeting started. A brief opening statement from DI Jones explained that informal disciplinary procedures required the Chief Executive to be present. He continued, 'Sam, you are too close to many of the individuals in the Mistress case and the murder of Alan Bedows,' he withheld the information received about the death of Grange, 'I've requested that you should be suspended on full pay from now whilst an investigation takes place.'

'Sir it's been my role, as part of an undercover operation to become involved in the black market for stolen art. I'm close to people like Bedows and Fry to further investigate their criminal activities.'

'I understand that and it will be taken into consideration. The investigation into your activities will take approximately two weeks. We will provide the name of the investigating officer tomorrow. It will be someone from another Force.'

Sam tried to gather her thoughts. Why now? She had probably made minor mistakes but she couldn't identify any one of them. 'Will you be detailing the nature of the allegations made about me?'

The Chief Superintendant passed her a letter. 'A copy has been sent to Director of HR and the Association of Police Officers. Sam I want to make it clear that today is not a disciplinary hearing. That will come later, if and only if what has been alleged is correct.'

'I hope you don't mind me saying sir,' she looked at DI Jones and then the Chief Superintendant, 'you claim this is an informal meeting however you seem to be very precise about the procedure.' She looked at the alleged offences listed in the letter. 'I shall await your further investigation.' Without asking, she stood up, and marched to the door. 'Thank you sir, I trust there will be a fair and properly conducted hearing.' Sam opened the door and walked out.

Chapter Thirty-seven

'How did it go?' asked Eric after waiting in DI Jones' office for his return.

'Not so well,' Jones answered. 'She more or less stormed out of the room before we could discuss any of the points of contention.' He passed a copy of the suspension letter over. 'I think she will fight the charges claiming she followed orders. At least two of the items are to do with her undercover role.'

Eric sat and read it carefully. 'I'm not surprised she didn't take it well. You have accused her of going native to use the well worn phrase. Starts of in a police role, told to build contacts with career criminals, she is then charged with committing the very crimes she is supposed to be investigating. She has been leading a double life under orders, the stress must be enormous. Eric pointed to items on the list.

Collaborating with criminals to steal major works of art

'She had orders to do that; to infiltrate Decker's organisation establishing the part that he played in the theft of art masterpieces.'

Enabling the illegal purchase of stolen paintings

'How else could she have become part of Decker's team? She had to win the trust of members of the Fraternity.'

DI Jones replied, 'Eric, she more than infiltrated she became part of it.' Sam wouldn't be the first undercover operator to commit crimes. It's still not acceptable; she can't hide behind her warrant card. I suspect her of helping Grange and maybe having a relationship with him. Who is to say they were not lovers. She slept over at the Decker estate at the same time Grange was a guest.'

Shocked by the suggestion Eric replied, 'Sam and Grange, I can't believe it. Why would she?'

'Why do any of us fall in love? She worked closely with him for years, perhaps the thrill of crime and the rewards made her change loyalties. She probably has more money in the bank than you can earn in twenty years. Who is to say it's all legally acquired?'

Eric pointed at the letter.

Gaining monetary wealth by coordinating black market activities

'She has helped us to recover stolen art. The three paintings recovered in Florence for example. She identified Bob Fry as the forger in the Mistress case.'

'I can see you are trying to be fair to your colleague, but consider this, she failed the shoe lace test when talking about the murder of Alan Bedows. You know that at the crime scene, in the cellar, at Bedows house, we tied one of the shoe laces and reported the other undone. Only you and I and the murderer would have known both shoe laces were not tied.'

'Eric paused, taking a deep breath, 'we need to interview her. These are just unsubstantiated allegations. It could have been just a simple slip of the tongue.' He knew his argument differed from his boss but believed Sam innocent.

'That's true, and as soon as we have searched the Decker residence we will start formal proceedings. Until then we can't accept a word she says as being acceptable evidence. We don't know who she is protecting. We certainly don't know why. Look at this.'

Knowingly concealing information about the subjects of an enquiry

'She must have worked with Bedows and Grange in the theft of the Mistress. Someone warned Grange that we were near to recovering the painting. He also went on to take his revenge on Bob Fry. Mister Cooke claims Sam is a regular visitor to the Bedows house.'

Eric considered his point of view. 'She has been missing when some of these incidents took place.'

'Exactly, 'she took the day off when Bedows was murdered. 'His finger rested on the next heading in the letter.

AWOL, claiming to be incapable of work when in good health

'Falls ill and is away from work when Grange mysteriously goes missing. Yes there does seem to be a weight of circumstantial evidence against her. But we don't have any proof.'

'It's good to see at least a little doubt in your mind,' said DI Jones. 'What if,' he gazed at the ceiling for inspiration, 'what if?' He suddenly recalled a report he had read. 'Did she claim to be in North Wales when she fell ill?'

'Does seem a bit odd, her being in the same region as Grange on that day,' noted Eric picking up on his boss's logic. 'It could either be a curious coincidence or she did make a mistake.'

'You're going to meet Jim Crandle off the ferry to read him the riot act. Why not call in at the hotel Grange stayed in on the way back. Try to find out the name of the mystery women who had dinner with him. Check the hotel register.'

'I suppose I could take a photo of Sam Hill with me, just to confirm that it wasn't her.' He pictured Sam's distinctive blonde hair, 'the women had dark hair.'

'Do that Eric, if she spent the night with him it suggests she has gone over to his side. Maybe even his bedside. If she proves to be a rogue officer we have a lot to talk about,' said DI Jones.

'If she's on the level, she will be devastated; if she has eaten the forbidden fruit she will either run or fight.' Eric stood his ground, 'I still think we are reading too much into this.'

***

Sam rushed around her bedroom selecting a few casual items of clothing, throwing them untidily into a small suit case.

She asked herself again, how could it all have gone wrong? The undercover investigation had started well. She didn't really have to be undercover in the true sense, only the purpose of her assignment had been undisclosed. Having established a reputation as an art evaluator it had been easy to keep her normal role as a police investigator and work for Monty. He had been thrilled to have someone he regarded as on the inside, "fingers on the pulse" he used to say.

I've got several options, she reasoned, but I need to speak to Monty. He had been involved in her most important decisions during the last two years with the exception of the art thefts co ordinated by Bedows. Monty knew nothing of that side of her life, some would say she had led a double life however she considered it to be a triple life. A highly stressful venture sharing her time with Monty, the police force and Bedows syndicate. God, how she would love to leave it behind, lead a simple life with Monty somewhere in the Caribbean. Now that Bedows and Grange are out of the way maybe I can persuade Monty to take an extended holiday. A year or two would be nice. Yes, that would be the best option but she would have to clear her name first. Would that be possible? DI Jones seemed to be thinking of criminal charges. Would he be able to prove anything that was the question?

She had to find out what evidence they had. She phoned a friend.

A business like reply announced, 'Eric Bradford.'

'Eric, do you know what's happened to me? Jones has accused me of terrible things. Can you help? We've worked together okay, haven't we? He seems to have it in for me. What does he know about my involvement with the art world?'

Thoughtfully Eric answered, 'he doesn't know enough. That's why you need to explain what's happened to your investigation.' Knowing not to disclose valuable information he said, 'relax and let us work out where Grange has gone. Maybe it all will become clear. Now your connections to the Fraternity are in the open they can be discussed.'

'But will he believe my version of events?'

'He knows that you were told to infiltrate, he can't accuse you of being involved in events that you had a duty to investigate.' Eric opened another one of the envelopes on his pile of post. He hadn't had the chance to read most of it during the week.

'I don't know where Grange is,' she answered honestly, thinking he's probably in a chapel of rest somewhere.'

'Jones thinks you are involved somehow. Can you help?'

She could hear the rustle of paper, 'have I called at a bad time?'

'No, it's just that we've been busy the last few days. I'm catching up on one or two thinks. By the way where did you stop in North Wales the other day? I'm thinking of taking a short break. Can you recommend a hotel or lodgings?' He opened another large envelope.

'I can, I have stopped in the region before, several times.'

Inconclusive he thought, 'Where did you stop this week?' He pulled a note book from the envelope; it had an elastic band round it and a post-it-note on the front.

'I'm sorry there's someone at my door, I've got to go. I'll talk to you later.' Not wanting to answer anymore of Eric's questions Sam rang off unconvinced she had learnt anything new.

'Okay, and thanks for helping.' Eric joked speaking into a silent phone. She certainly had not given much away. She must have made the call fishing for information, he assumed grumpily. Have I misplaced my trust? He looked at the contents of the envelope.

The post-it-note read,

Sergeant Bradford,

By the time you read this note I will be long gone. My friend Alan Bedows seems to have disappeared. This little book came into my possession recently. Perhaps you could look after it.

Regards,

Adam Grange.

Eric opened the note book cautiously; reading the first page he couldn't help shouting, 'bloody hell!'

Chapter Thirty-eight

DI Jones flicked through the pages of the small accounts book. Each page seemed to be devoted to a painting. They had confirmed that at least four were stolen in the UK. A reference number had been allocated followed by the details of payments made to officials who had been bribed, the thief, Adam Grange and Sam Hill. Alan Bedows acted as a banker, meticulously recording the vast sums of money that had changed hands, right down to the final payment from the purchaser.

'Bedows must have undisclosed bank accounts around the world,' said DI Jones. 'This amount of money could not be accounted for in his normal transactions. The interesting point is that after selling a piece of stolen art to the buyer, Bedows would then be in a position to blackmail that person for years to come. The monthly income worked as a personal pension scheme.'

'Not only that, but the book records payments made to his syndicate. Sam Hill along with Grange is a leading member. They are both involved up to their necks.' Eric humbly acknowledged, 'you were right boss, Sam has gone over, this is much more that infiltration of a criminal gang, she is a key participant. But why did Grange send the book to me?'

'Because he wanted to implicate Sam in the crimes listed. He obviously expected to have fled the country and be untraceable. The last thing he wanted was Sam and Bedows following him. Crafty man is Grange. With both of them in custody and maybe sentenced he could forget about them. He didn't mind being implicated because no one would find him.'

'It seems as though he didn't know Bedows had been murdered. In a way that rules him off the list of suspects and the book possibly places Sam Hill on it. I wonder where he found the book. Could that be why he broke into Bedows house, to steal it?'

'We will never know unless Sam can shed some light on his motives. I think he may have found the book in Bedows small suitcase. We found a writing case partially open. It was obvious something had been removed.'

'What is our priority going to be,' asked Eric. 'Do we go for Sam Hill or try to recover the stolen art? The buyers are in for a mighty shock.'

'I feel that our first task is to stop the crimes being committed. Whilst we might suspect that with Bedows and Grange dead the thefts will stop we still need to make sure they cease. That means we arrest Sam Hill. But first we have to find her.'

'It looks as though Sir Monty may have bought some of this art work. There's a reference here to MD and I don't think it's the doctor.'

'Okay,' said Jones, 'first we gather more evidence about Sam, you collect Crandle from the ferry, second we search Decker's place and finally we arrest DS Hill.'

'Can I suggest we start searching for Sam now, whilst I meet Crandle, we can do more than one thing at a time?'

'That's good thinking sergeant, you do all of that, I'll organise a search warrant.'

***

Most of the cars had left the car park. Feeling deflated Crandle looked around for what he had suspiciously thought of as his police escort. His brief visit to Ireland with the close attention of the Garda left him desolate. Knowing that Grange had died gave him some closure to the threats and intimidation however it worried him that Eric Bradford would be coming to pick him up. There would be a very good reason for his personal interest, Crandle wasn't sure he would like it. He had phoned the hospital immediately on leaving the ferry, not knowing where the policeman would take him or drop him off had been one of his concerns. He had little experience of bail conditions. He tried to recall how often he had to report to the police station.

A steady drizzle of rain started, he pulled his coat collar up. The wind seemed to be strengthening, his thoughts drifted as he started to look around for shelter. Bob Fry could come out in the afternoon provided there was someone to look after him for twenty four hours. He had suffered the most from Grange's vengeful antics. Crandle hoped he would make a full recovery. Thinking back he realised that before he knew Bob well he had taken advantage of him. Insisting on twenty five thousand pounds for the return of the Mistress, the money sat in his current account. He'd taken a liking to the older man; he thought Sue would think Bob a loveable ruffian. Sheltering against the wall of the terminal he watched a silver Vectra enter the car park. It stopped near the entrance as someone ran to it. He wondered if he was waiting in the right place.

Decker had let them both down. He had agreed to call Grange off in return for their silence. Crandle questioned whether Bob or he had fared well given the promise received. He now felt no obligation to Decker. Bob knew all about the secret art gallery, no doubt he would be passing the information on to the police. I know about the Mistress; how the fraternity tried to buy and then steal it back. He acknowledged the whole story would come out with the death of the enforcer, Grange. The police woman is involved somehow he surmised. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes had passed, no one else waited.

A dark blue Vectra entered the car park, slowed down, and then came straight over. Crandle stooped to identify the driver. Opening the door he climbed in beside the Detective Sergeant.

'Hello Jim, sorry I'm late, held up in traffic, still no rush eh?'

He couldn't make his mind up about the use of Christian names, but it sort of sounded friendly. 'Eric thanks for the lift, although I suspect there is an ulterior motive behind the offer. Where are we off to, the hospital?'

'All in good time Jim, I'll explain on the way.' They left the car park, taking the route back towards Liverpool. 'Did you enjoy yourself in Ireland?

'Very funny, I suppose you know all about it.'

'Yes, as a matter of fact I do. I have read the various Garda reports about you, and Grange. I hope that you are now satisfied.'

'No, I'm not very happy, but I will have to live with the result.'

'Perhaps you can tell me why it was so important to you. Bob Fry's already talked a little about Decker. Why not start at the beginning. It will pass the time whilst we're travelling.'

Crandle thought about where to start. He began with the shipwreck and the salvaged painting. An hour later they pulled up in front of the hotel.

'One more time Jim. We recovered the BMW that Grange drove. Where did you park the night you followed him here?'

Crandle pointed out the location.

'Where were the hire cars?'

'Over there. I didn't take any notice until Grange opened one up.'

'Did you see anyone else?' enquired Eric as he opened the car door.'

'No, I'm sorry.'

'Wait here,' Eric told him. He marched off to the hotel entrance.

Crandle did as he had been told. Thinking over the events of the morning he followed Grange from the hotel. He recalled another car following him out on to the main road but he couldn't remember anything about it.

Eric exited the hotel talking furiously on his mobile. Agitated he seemed to be passing on an urgent message. Opening his door, he jumped in as the call ended.

'Right Jim, I'm going to take you to the hospital. Bob Fry will be allowed home this afternoon. You have agreed to look after him I believe?'

'Only for the next two days.'

'That's fine. I know where to find you if need be. Try to sort yourself out whilst you have a bit of peace and quiet. Then go home and abide by the bail conditions.'

'What's the flap? Why the sudden rush?'

The photograph of Sam Hill had been recognised. She had been identified without doubt. 'My boss is an impatient man. He doesn't appreciate me running you around. I've got to get back to a briefing. Sorry Jim but the hospitals the best I can do. By the way your wife's car turned up parked in lay-by near the Decker estate. You might like to recover it from the local police compound.'

'Will it cost me?'

'Course it will. We don't provide secure parking for free.' Eric concentrated on driving. He accelerated onto the dual carriage way. Considering whether his haste justified blue lights he decided to wait for the inevitable traffic jam before turning them on.

***

The press conference included local and national newspapers with the two TV crews filming at the back of the room. The Chief Superintendent would be chairing the event but DI Jones expected to do most of the talking. They waited outside the conference room peeping in through a side door, watching the press assemble.

'Sam Hill is untraceable at this point in time?' the Chief Superintendent confirmed.

'Completely sir, we have tried all known contacts to no avail.'

'She has done some extremely valuable work with Sir Monty Decker. I'm assuming that you have talked to him.'

Di Jones patiently explained, 'yes we have questioned him. We will be paying him another visit in the near future to continue our enquiries.'

The press liaison officer checked the information they intended to announce and what they hoped to keep to themselves for the time being. Finally he directed them into the main room. Fully prepared they walked in and sat down at the top table. A hush descended in what had previously sounded like a crowded bar.

'Gentlemen,' the Chief Super drew attention to himself. 'We are going to make a short announcement, following that there will be the opportunity to ask a few questions. Let us start by allowing DI Jones to explain why we are all here.

Jones began reading from his prepared script. 'During the last few days we have started two murder enquiries. The first victim, retired police officer, Mister Alan Bedows was found with fatal head injuries in the cellar of his home. The second, Mister Adam Grange, died from poisoning as he travelled to Ireland on the ferry from Holyhead to Dublin. Both men are believed to be involved in the antiquities black market. It is believed their deaths are connected.'

'We are appealing for the public's help in identifying anyone who has contacted either of the two men, more details are listed in the handout.' He paused to allow the audience to briefly read the handout. 'We are also extremely concerned for the safety of an undercover police officer who is investigating the theft and recovery of art masterpieces.'

Taking a breath he continued, 'Samantha Hill may be anywhere in the country and I would ask any member of the public who may have seen her or anyone who knows where she is to contact our incident room directly. Photograph and phone numbers are included in the handout. If you have had any previous contact with DS Hill during the past month, we would also like to hear from you.

'Questions?' invited the Press Officer.

Two Months Later

Chapter Thirty-nine

Robin Walsh walked on air as he left the board meeting of Thornton House Gallery and Trust. Never in the last ten years as Curator had he been praised so highly. Business is booming the chairman applauded. Families from all over the United Kingdom rush to see our latest exhibits. With the support of board members Robin had reopened one of the Gallery's empty rooms. Naming it the Mistress Wing it drew crowds to try the challenge. Hung side by side was the original masterpiece and a forgery. National newspapers had carried the story of how the painting had been stolen, copied and recovered, the free advertising worked phenomenally. Visitors were invited to identify the real painting. A range of materials had sold at the shop were in high demand, none more so than the hologram fridge magnet that appeared to have two images as one.

The Curators next meeting would clinch a deal to provide new opportunities for art lovers all over the world. Robin sat at his desk in his newly renovated office and waited for his guest. The scheme had been on trial for a month. Now with the approval of the originator it would be marketed internationally. The door opened, his friend and colleague, Bob Fry walked in.

'Bob,' the customary greeting and shake of hands lasted a few minutes. Robin wanted to dispense with the small talk but he knew better than to rush his star. Quickly both of them started to talk about the trial of Ssnap. Photographs of art masterpieces had been displayed in the Gallery. The unique feature of using three D techniques featured the display as almost as good as the originals.

After recovering from the injuries caused by hanging Bob had agreed with Jim Crandle that they should form a new enterprise. Using the twenty five thousand pounds available they had formed Ssnap Limited. The two directors had worked day and night to buy-in the technology required to display the photographs that Bob had taken. Now with the success of the venture at Thornton Gallery they would be expanding the business. Initially selling software and art impressions at international airports, the customers would be able to upload the images from a memory stick to their own media. Market research suggested that lap tops and ipads would be used to view the masterpieces. Mood music would accompany the images to relax travellers on their journeys around the world.

'Robin, the trial is a major success,' reported Bob, 'feedback is amazing. We have many ideas to develop the product, but we will always want to use the 3D images in the Gallery.We've had a lot of interest from other galleries perhaps you would allow us to showcase the idea for you, maybe as a partner organisation.'

Bob seemed to consider the proposal, 'I would need to consult my ...

The discussions carried on for the best part of an hour.

***

Why didn't he come? He'd promised. It was part of their dream.

***

Nervous excitement made him feel queasy. Through his contacts in government he knew that a life peerage hung in the balance. The contribution to charity that the Fraternity had made had been recognised at the highest levels. Fine art, some rare masterpieces, had been recovered by the pretence of being a major player in the international black market.

'Lord Decker of Bereton,' there he had said it out loud. Sat at his desk he beamed with anticipation. With the return of the art collection his private gallery was now devoted to antiques, his new passion. It had been sad to lose the great works but at least he had the Ssnap collection to remind him of his former display. He had easily dismissed DI Jones accusation that there was some type of fraud, making it clear to the authorities that the Fraternity had been the joint idea of himself and the police force at the highest level. He and his fellow members had contributed money the police had provided an art connoisseur. It had been his duty to recommend Sam Hill receive an award for her tireless work as an undercover negotiator. Of course with her being missing in action a question mark hung over her involvement. It had been suggested by the Chief Superintendent that she may have been a victim of a gangland revenge killing.

The door opened; 'time for your call to the Virgin Islands sir,' they used Skype, the internet phone, to avoid the call being trace.

'I'll be along in a minute Douglas.' He found it incredibly comforting that his butler knew almost his every wish. I will be sorry to see him leave but after ten years service he deserves a better life. Just one or two more major tasks then he can be allowed to retire gracefully.

'I'll set up the call to take place in five minutes.'

'Douglas,' he paused to beckon attention, 'I want to thank you for the service you have given over the years. I'm planning a small event for your retirement, but until then I would appreciate it if you would personally take care of my guest in the Caribbean.' Yes he would find it difficult to find the equal of Douglas, his skill set remained unique, with twenty years service in the army he could undertake any task from bodyguard to master chef.

'Of course sir, leave it to me, your every wish will be carried out with the usual speed and efficiency.'

'Thank you Douglas, now just give me a few minutes to prepare.'

The door closed behind the butler. Monty carefully planned his next conversation. He had made a promise that he couldn't keep. Loving Sam so deeply he consented to help her escape from the accusations made by the police. He had been shocked to the core when she confessed to knowing how Grange had died. However she had refused to explain how she had become involved with his demise. After a massive argument he had provided the help needed. False papers, private jets, secret islands were all possible with his wealth, but he could not join her no matter how much she implored him. For a time he had been prepared to give her everything she wanted but now he wasn't sure he could trust her. Could love be so blind?

***

She couldn't stay in the Virgin Islands. Questions were being asked about the recluse. It could never be enough to only talk to the one you loved. To only see them occasionally. There had to be a more permanent solution. She felt sure their love knew no boundaries.

***

'Can we keep the cottage?' asked Ashley. 'We could ask Uncle George to take care of it whilst we are not there.'

'We'll see,' said Sue not feeling any permanence in the present arrangements. Yes, Jim had come home to Bawtry with her blessing, but could he contain his sense of adventure. After being apart some times as much as six months during his tours overseas they had become distant. Of course he loved her, so he said, but what sort of family life could they now lead. In the past two years he had searched for a new beginning. Only now had he realised that he craved to be closer to his family.

Jim suddenly liked being Jim, he couldn't explain it. The soldier called Crandle seemed to have existed in the distant past. Having returned home the problem was finding work. He had two main choices, engineering or security, his marine skills, put to good use on the coast, seemed to have little relevance in South Yorkshire. The last thing he wanted was to become a night club bouncer or a prison officer. Wanting to live in Bawtry limited his choices, catch twenty-two he thought. Live with the family with no work or work further away with limited family contact.

'Would you like to live at the sea side?' Jim asked.

Sue immediately shook her head at him indicating the subject could not be discussed with Ashley present. 'We have friends near here, the school, and Ashley is in the netball team. We like holidays at the sea side but that's it, we can't move away.'

His work with Bob Fry had been interesting. Now they were both friends and partners in Ssnap maybe he could find a role in the new business.

Sue interrupted his thinking, 'you know quite a bit about the Mistress at Thornton Gallery, plus you are big mates with Bob Fry can't you persuade him to find you work.'

Jim didn't know how to reply. The one thing to celebrate about the Mistress affair was the reuniting of his family. He had found the Jim Crandle he left behind when he joined the army. He would not live by himself again. 'I could try to join the security team at the Thornton Gallery. Put my name down. Wait for a vacancy. What do you think?'

'You could help with my homework whilst you're waiting,' shouted Ashley.

Jim looked at Sue. They started to laugh. Ashley joined in. They shared the joy of being together at last.

***

'I'm isolated, lonely and a long way from home. I've taken to talking to myself. Everyone knows that's the first sign of madness.' The radio provided some comfort but the news of Monty's peerage had made her realise that he would not be joining her. If she couldn't persuade him to come perhaps she should consider returning to face her punishment. Lots of criminals had gone back to a fair trial. They served their sentence before being released back into society. 'Why not me?' she asked herself.

Chapter Forty

Eric sat in his favourite chair by the side of DI Jones. Together they intended to develop an up todate press release for the two suspicious deaths still on their books. The only suspect remained Sam Hill although insufficient evidence had been found to directly link her to the acts of murder. The previous appeal to the public for help produced a nil return. No one knew where to find her. Sam's exit from the meeting with the Chief Superintendent present was the last known sighting. She had literally walked out, never to be seen again.

'Sam must have had an escape package planned for some time,' suggested Eric. 'I doubt whether anyone could have reacted that fast without preparation.'

'You're assuming that she did run and that she has not been dealt with by some vengeful art thief. The Chief Super is convinced she is a victim given the recommendations made by Decker.'

'But we know there is more to it than that. If we could interview her maybe she would let something slip.'

'You don't really believe that. She has proven herself to be above making a simple mistake. We need hard evidence. She has been identified as being with Grange on the ferry when he died, that's a start. We will build a convincing case against her, I'm sure about it, however she will claim to be the victim of her undercover work and possibley receive a light sentence.' Jones sighed knowing the case would drag on. 'Anyway, I'm, more satisfied that we have achieved our first priority of reducing art thefts, now let's try to find her. If she steps back into this country we will arrest her on the grounds of the Bedows account book that specifically names her as a recipient of large sums of money.'

He looked down at the documents on his desk. Procedures for extradition, typed case reports, guidance for a press release, 'there are times when I could walk away from this lot,' he grumbled. 'Whatever we want to do involves red tape we're supposed to be concentrating on catching criminals not drowning in bureaucracy.'

Eric could see his boss was disappointed. No matter how they had described the Decker private gallery their superiors thought the return of stolen art was a wonderful coupe. No matter what DI Jones said about Sam Hill, she was accepted as a brilliant undercover officer.

They looked at the first draft of the press release.

Police today report little progress in finding DS Samantha Hill. Her disappearance remains a mystery. The suspicious deaths of ex police officer Alan Bedows and a known criminal Adam Grange are connected with her investigation. It is feared DS Hill's life is threatened by criminals seeking revenge for disclosures made during her undercover work.

Data is coming from a variety of sources. Police officers appreciate the efforts of the public in providing information relevant to the case. If you can help please contact ...

'No that's not good enough, let's start again,' said DI Jones picking up his pen.

'This has become a cold case,' said Eric, resigned to failing to solve the murders. 'All we can do is wait until someone spots her elsewhere in the world or she comes back,'

'She has no need to come back. She has pulled off the same trick as Lord Lucan, and he has never been found.'

'True, whether he is dead or not is still a mystery after thirty five years.'

***

It's agreed. We will work something out. I can go back and Monty will take care of me. Douglas is organising the chartered jet and will pick me up at Stanstead. It's all very hush-hush.

Chapter Forty-one

He stood relaxed, absorbing the landscape. Monty loved this place. The highest point for several miles it provided a view of all he owned and beyond. Early in the evening, high clouds in the dusky red sky; an artist's dream, a picture of perfection. Looking from above, he could see the traditional cottages two miles away, the narrow lanes occasionally hidden by trees in full leaf, the vibrant colours of the countryside. Sheep on the hillside could be heard for miles around in the otherwise peaceful silence. A gentle breeze provided relief at the end of a hot day.

Before him, he admired a new oak bench. Set on a solid concrete plinth, clad in traditional stone, it would survive for decades. The materials had been brought to this point with difficulty. Stonemasons and carpenters had worked to create a lasting memorial of great achievement. Douglas had made this his final gift to his master, proclaiming the end of an era, a new beginning. A small brass plaque fixed on the bench read,

Celebrating the peerage of Lord Decker of Bereton 2011

Monty rarely shared places like this. Priceless moments in a very busy life had to be enjoyed to the full. He sat down on the bench. Taking a hip flask from his tweed jacket he sipped. Standing he toasted the view. He had invited only one other person to be with him.

'Sam,' he respectfully murmured her name, 'we shared a great moment in time.' He admired the quality finish achieved by the craftsmen, ran his hand along the smooth woodwork, he whispered, 'this place is ours now.' With the little brandy left in his flask, he toasted the sky, 'to Samantha Hill, dearly loved, recently departed.'

John Headford February 2012
