‘So, doctor.’ Jennifer Ingels leaned back, arms folded, in the black leather chair. ‘You have information about some stolen paintings.’
‘Possibly, yes.’
‘Tell me again, how did you learn about them?’
‘A friend of mine who used to live in Paris made the acquaintance of a French art dealer immediately after the war. He seems to think that the dealer, a man by the name of Girard—I don’t know his first name—could have gone into business with another person, an Englishman. I’m trying to find out who that person was and locate him. It has to do with an estate in the West Country that was recently inherited by an associate of mine.’
‘Do you have reason to believe that either of them was dealing in stolen art?’
‘I really can’t say. But if I can find this man, he might be able to answer that question for you.’ Kingston then gave her the bait. ‘If you want an educated guess, I believe he could, at the very least, provide valuable information on a number of art transactions that took place in the months and years right after the war. Whether these were all above board, who knows.’
‘So, what is it specifically that you’re asking me to do?’
‘Two things. One, to provide all the information you might have on the French dealer, Girard. And two, I’d like to get a list—if one exists, that is—of all the people in Paris, the dealers, the galleries, and anyone else who was buying and selling art from 1945 on.’
‘Just Paris.’
‘That’s right.’
She unfolded her arms and pulled herself close to her desk, picking up a pen. Ready to write, she eyed Kingston momentarily, then said, ‘I’ll see what I can do. First, why don’t you give me your full name and an address where you can be reached, fax number, e-mail—all that stuff.’
Kingston complied, as Jennifer Ingels wrote the information on the blue-lined notepad in front of her.
At six thirty the next morning, Kingston locked the door to his flat with the shiny new key and walked to the garage. The drive back to Somerset would give him plenty of time to think about the string of things that had happened since he had first joined Jamie at Wickersham. It would be the first time in quite a while that he would have the luxury of several hours’ quiet uninterrupted thought.
He was still convinced that most, if not all, of the events were in some way connected. It would defy all odds if they weren’t. The burglaries in particular perplexed him. It seemed to be just too much of a coincidence that his flat and the cottage had been broken into within the span of a few weeks. But if the two were connected, perpetrated by the same person or persons, what on earth were they looking for at the flat? Certainly not missing French paintings.
As the traffic started to back up approaching the exits to Heathrow he gave up thinking about it. Andrew was probably right, he concluded. It was just one of those bizarre coincidences.
Pulling into the courtyard at Wickersham, Kingston saw Dot standing on the doorstep wringing her hands, the door open behind her. It was as if she had been watching and waiting for him. He pulled up and got out of the car, legs a little unsteady. As she approached he could see that she looked even grimmer than her customary stone-faced demeanour.
‘Mr Kingston. I’m so glad you’re back. Jamie’s been in an accident.’
Chapter Seventeen
With an economy of words—this was one time when Kingston appreciated her laconicism—Dot told him that Jamie’s car had run off the road into a ditch. She wasn’t seriously hurt and was being kept in the hospital in Taunton for X-rays and observation. Anticipating his reaction she handed him a note that gave the hospital address and precise directions.
Twenty-five minutes later, at three o’clock, Kingston was at Jamie’s bedside.
With the exception of a gash on her forehead and an ugly bruise on the cheekbone, she didn’t look too much the worse for wear. Her wincing at the slightest movement told him that she was in pain in spite of her reassurances of feeling all right. ‘Mostly aches and bruises, according to the nurse,’ she said, forcing a smile.
Jamie told him what had happened. The good news, she said, was that she wasn’t going very fast. Three or four miles after leaving the house she started to notice that the steering didn’t seem right. Her immediate thought was that one of the front tyres was going flat. She slowed down with the idea of limping to the nearest turnoff where she could pull over and take a look. Approaching a sharp curve she had to correct the steering. As she did so she heard a loud metallic noise, as if something had sheared or broken. The steering wheel now spun freely in her hands and the car was out of control. Seeing that the car was heading straight for the verge and a shallow dip in the grass beyond, she curled up into a ball, scrunching as far below the windshield as the seatbelt would allow. When the car finally bounced to a rest and she saw blood on her hands and on the dashboard her heart was beating a mile to the minute, she said.