Yes, thank you, I said weakly. Id got it, all right. A good three to four hours driving.
Well look forward to seeing you then, Lady Ballantrae said. She sounded remarkably cheerful. It was nice to know one of us was.
9
richard didnt even stir when the alarm cut through my dreams at ten to six like a hot wire through cheese. I staggered to the shower, feeling like my eyes had closed only ten minutes before. Until I started this job, I didnt even know there were two six oclocks in the same day. Richard still doesnt. I suppose thats why he suggested a club after the latest Steven Spielberg, enough popcorn to feed Bosnia and burgers and beer at Starvin Marvins authentic American diner. Wed been having fun together, and I didnt want it to end on a sour note, so Id agreed, with the proviso that I could be a party pooper at one. It goes without saying that we were still dancing at two.
Even a ten-minute power shower couldnt convince my body and my brain that Id had more than three hours sleep. Sometimes I wish I hadnt jacked in the law degree after two years, so I could have become a nine-to-five crown prosecutor. I put a pot of strong coffee on to brew while I dressed. Just what do you wear for a Scottish baron that wont look like a limp dishrag after four hours behind the wheel? I ended up with navy leggings, a cream cotton Aran jumper and a military-style navy wool blouson that I inherited from Alexis. Id told her in the shop that it made her look too heavy in the hips, but would she listen?
By the third cup of coffee, I felt like I could be trusted to drive without causing a major pileup. Not that there was a lot of traffic round to test my conviction. For once, it was sheer pleasure to motor down the East Lanes, road. No boy racers wanting to get into a traffic-lights grand prix with my coupe, no little old men with porkpie hats and pipes dithering between lanes, no macho reps waving their mobile phones like battle honors. Just blissful open road spread out before me and Deacon Blues greatest hits. Since I was going to Scotland, I thought Id better opt for the native sound. When I left the motorway at Carlisle, it was just after eight. I promised myself breakfast at the first greasy spoon I passed, forgetting what roads in the Scottish borders are like. There was nothing for the best part of an hour, and then it was Hawick. I ended up with a bacon-and-egg roll from a bakery washed down with a carton of milky industrial effluent that they claimed was coffee.
At a quarter to ten, I spotted the gateposts. When Lady Ballantrae had said pineapples, I was expecting some discreet little stone ornaments. What I got.was two squat pillars topped with carved monstrosities the size of telephone kiosks. Shed been right when she said I couldnt miss them. I turned into a narrow corridor between two beech hedges taller than my house. The road curved round in a gentle arc. Abruptly, the trees stopped and I found myself in a grassy clearing dominated by Lord Ballantraes house. I use the term house loosely. At one end of the sprawling building was a massive square stone tower with a sharply pitched roof. Extending out from it, built in the same forbidding gray stone, was the main house. The basic shape was rectangular, but it was dotted with so many turrets, buttresses and assorted excrescences that it was hard to grasp that at first. The whole thing was surmounted by an incongruous white belvedere with a green roof.
One of Ballantraes ancestors either had a hell of a sense of humor or a few bricks short of a wall.
I pulled up on the gravel between a Range Rover and a top-of-the-range BMW. What they call in Manchester a Break My Windows. Like Henry, Lord Ballantrae clearly kept the trippers coaches well away from the house. By the time Id got out of the car, I had a spectator. At the top of a short flight of steps like a giants mounting block a tall man stood staring at me, a hand shielding his eyes from the sun. I walked toward him, taking in the tweed jacket with leather shooting patches, cavalry twills, mustard waistcoat and tattersall check shirt. He was even wearing a tweed cap that matched the jacket. As soon as I was in hailing distance, he called, Miss Brannigan, is it?
The same. Lord Ballantrae?
The man dropped his hand and looked amused. No, maam, Im his lordships estate manager, Barry Adamson. Come away in, hes expecting you.
I followed Adamsons burly back into a comfortable dining kitchen. Judging by the microwave and food processor on the pine worktops, this wasnt part of the castles historical tour. Beyond the kitchen, we entered a narrow passage that turned into a splendid baronial hall. I dont know much about weapons, but judging by the amount of military hardware in the room, Id stumbled upon Bonnie Prince Charlies secret armory. Through here, Adamson said, opening a heavy oak door. I followed him through the arched doorway into an office that looked nearly as high-tech as Bills.
A dark-haired man in his early forties was frowning into a PC screen. Without looking up, he said, With you in two shakes. He hit a couple of keys and the frown cleared. Then he pushed his chair back and jumped to his feet. You must be Kate Brannigan, he said, coming round the desk and thrusting his hand toward me. James Ballantrae. The handshake was cool and dry, but surprisingly limp. Pull up a seat, he said, waving at a couple of typists chairs that sat in front of a desktop that ran the length of one wall. Barry, Ellens in the tack room. Can you give her a shout and ask her to bring us some coffee? he added as he dragged his own chair round the desk. How was your journey? he asked. Bitch of a drive, isnt it? I sometimes wish I could ship this place stone by stone to somewhere approximating civilization, but theyd never let me get away with it. Its Grade Two listed, which means we couldnt even have satellite TV installed without some bod from the Department of the Environment making a meal out of it.
Whatever Id been expecting, it wasnt this. Lord Bal-lantrae was wearing faded jeans and a Scottish rugby shirt that matched sparkling navy blue eyes. His wavy hair fell over his collar at the back, its coal black a startling contrast to his milky skin. There was an air of suppressed energy about him. He looked more like a computer-game writer than a major landowner. He sat down, stretching long legs in front of him, and lit a cigarette. So, Henry Naismith tells me youre looking for his Monet, he said.
I tried to hide my surprise. You know Henry? I asked. Lets face it, they both spoke the same language. Their voices were virtually indistinguishable. How in Gods name do Sloanes know whos calling when they pick up the phone?
He grinned. We met once on a friends boat. When my wife told me about your call yesterday, I put two and two together. Id already spoken to a reporter on the Manchester evening paper about these art robberies and when she mentioned a Monet going missing in Cheshire, I could only think of the Naismith collection. So I gave Henry a ring.
The reporter you spoke to is a friend of mine, I said. She passed your number on to me.
Old girls network. I like it, he exclaimed with delight. She did the right thing. God, listen to me. My wife tells me that arrogance runs in the family. All I mean is that Im probably the only person who has an overview of the situation. The downside of having locally accountable police forces is that crime gets compartmentalized. Sussex dont talk to Strathclyde, Derbyshire dont talk to Devon. It was us who brought to the polices attention the fact that there had been something of a spate of these robberies, all with the same pattern of forced entry, complete disregard of the alarm system and single targets.
How did you find out about the connections? I asked.
A group of us who open our places to the public get together informally I heard the door open behind me and turned to see a thirty-something redhead with matching freckles stick her head through the gap.
Coffee all round? she said.
My wife, Ellen, Ballantrae said. Ellen, this is Kate Brannigan, the private eye from Manchester.
The redhead grinned. Pleased to meet you. Be right back, she said, disappearing from sight, leaving the door ajar.
Where was I? Oh yes, we get together a couple of times a year for a few sherbets, swap ideas and tips, that sort of thing. Last time we met was a couple of weeks after Id had a Rae-burn portrait lifted, so of course it was uppermost in my mind. Three others immediately chipped in with identical tales-a Gainsborough, a Canaletto and a Ruisdael. In every case, it was one of the two or three best pieces they had, he added ruefully.
And thats when you realized there was something organized going on? I asked.
Correct.
Im amazed you managed to keep these thefts out of the papers, I said.
Its not the sort of thing you boast about, he said dryly. Weve all become dependent on the income that comes through the doors from the heritage junkies. The police were happy to go along with that, since they never like high-profile cases where they dont catch anyone.
What did you do then?
Well, I offered to act as coordinator, and I spoke to all the police forces concerned. I also wrote to as many other stately-home owners as I could track down and asked if theyd had similar experiences.
How many? I asked.
Including Henry Naismiths Monet, thirteen in the last nine months.
I took a deep breath. At this rate, the stately homes of Britain would soon have nothing left but the seven hundred and thirty-six beds Good Queen Bess slept in. Thats a lot of art, I said. Has anything been recovered?
Coffee, Ellen Ballantrae announced, walking in a with a tray. She was wearing baggy khaki cords and a shapeless bottle green chenille sweater. When she moved, it was obvious she was hiding a slim figure underneath, but on first sight Id have taken her for the cleaner.
I fell on the mug like a deprived waif. Youve probably saved my life, I told her. My systems still recovering from what they call coffee in Hawick.
Both Ballantraes grinned. Dont tell me, Ellen said. Warm milk, globules floating on top and all the flavor of rainwater.
It wasnt that good, I said with feeling.
Dont let me interrupt you, she said, giving her husbands hair an affectionate tousle as she perched on the table. He was about to tell you about the Canaletto they got back.
Ballantrae reached out absently and laid his hand on her thigh. Absolutely right. Nothing to do with the diligence of the police, however. There was a multiple pileup on a German autobahn about a fortnight after Gerald Brockleston-Camber lost his Canaletto. One of the dead was an antique dealer from Leyden in Holland, Kees van der Rohe. His car was shunted at both ends; the boot flew open, throwing a suitcase clear of the wreckage. The case burst open, revealing the Canaletto behind a false lid. Luckily the painting was undamaged.
Not so lucky for Mr. van der Rohe, I remarked. What leads did they come up with?