Prologue
The woman in black knew she had done her homework properly.
The overcast cloud cover blotted out the moon completely, and what little breeze existed was enough to make the leaves rustle but would not move the cloud cover. The darkness would give her the time she needed. She crouched between two bushes, five or six feet from the ground floor window that opened into the storeroom. She'd carried out a reconnaissance visit twice previously, under heavy disguise both times, and was confident she knew what to do. Taking a good long look around her first, she emerged from between the bushes and approached the window.
First thing - gain access to the building. Taking a suction cup and planting it squarely on the glass, she cut a large circle around it with a diamond tipped glasscutter, before tapping the circle and knocking it out. She laid the circle of glass under the nearest bush. Then, the same process to remove the inner pane. So far, so good.
A lithe arm passed through the two holes and released the window catch. That would be enough to open the pane, and in itself would not be enough to set off the alarm. All the alarms were motion activated, which presented the tricky part. The window she had picked was almost at the corner of the modern red-bricked building, and if she had her geography right she would be almost directly underneath the sensor. The sensor's field would be set to view outwards into the room, not almost directly below it, as she would be. If she was careful, and moved slowly, she would succeed. Agonisingly, unbearably slowly, she raised the window one millimetre at a time until it was fully raised. The whole process took fifteen minutes and at the end, the muscles in her arms screamed with a searing pain.
She clambered onto the window ledge, and turned so that her back was to the interior of the room. That way, she could inch along the ledge and stretch her arm out along the wall, and under the sensor. One snip with the wire cutters, and the sensor cable that the security firm had made only the most perfunctory attempt to hide was severed.
She jumped silently down into the room, and waited, crouched in the darkness, for a full three minutes, just listening for any sign that her plan had gone wrong and her entry had been detected. With no sign forthcoming, she unclipped the tiny pen torch from her belt. The narrow beam darted around the room, up and down shelves, over packages and boxes until it stopped over one flat, rectangular package. She looked at the return address, which matched the address in Holland that she had been told of. She found the FedEx packing number, and that too matched perfectly. This was the parcel she was looking for. Gently, she lifted it from the shelf, careful not to dislodge any of the haphazardly stacked boxes around it.
She didn't know much of what was in the parcel, other than it was a painting and she was to treat it with the utmost care. She'd been shown a small print of the picture in case the parcel had been opened, but her Intelligence had been good and the parcel had still been wrapped as she'd been told. She briefly remembered a picture of a preaching Jesus, surrounded by worshippers, but the picture meant nothing. 'Whatever floats your boat' was her attitude.
In truth, 'The Adoration of the Masses' by Rene de Vigie-St.Amorry was not a well-known piece, although beautifully painted. Almost nothing was known of the painter, and no other works of his were known of. The painting was only remarkable because it had been painted as a Royal commission, but historians could not agree which King of France had requested it because the age of the painting had never been definitively settled on. Central to the picture, Jesus stood with his right forefinger raised, left hand cupped in front of his belly as though holding something, right foot forward as though taking a bold step. Around him, a throng of people were massed. To the left of the picture, a number of penitent women stood with their heads bowed in respect. To the right of the picture, a number of elderly seated shepherds with their staffs pointed at him in wonder.
The woman in black marvelled at how simple the job had been. The bulk of the work had been in reconnaissance, checking the position of the storeroom, finding the sensors etc. Once inside, she'd been barely five minutes and she thought of it as easy money. Well above her usual rates, which she assumed was meant to buy her silence. The tall woman with the posh accent who had engaged her services would have the other half of her money ready at the meeting place tomorrow night, and she looked forward to receiving it. She'd already spent most of it anyway.
1
The theft was reported at around nine fifteen, when someone investigated the cause of the draught in the stockroom. Lord Gallagher, the owner of the museum, was informed some ten minutes later and was not amused, although his notorious temper was itself tempered by the small scale of the crime. The most perplexed amongst his staff was the buyer, who had successfully bid on the painting at auction only the previous week. The painting itself had only just been delivered, and indeed had not even been opened, and yet the warehouse supervisor was absolutely adamant that that was only thing missing.
When questioned by police, the buyer remembered that despite the relative obscurity of the painting (combined with the fact that on a technical level, the painting wasn't even that good) there was another bidder who had seemed indecently keen to get hold of the drawing, who constantly referred to a mobile phone before raising his bid. As fierce as the bidding had been, it had stopped very suddenly, and the buyer had been left unopposed in the bidding.
The buyer, Lisa, was telling the story (with embellishments) to her colleague Tara in the canteen over lunch. Tara White, a tall and leggy 24-year old with dark blonde hair and a Masters degree, was some sort of PA to Lord Gallagher and Lisa was sure that anything she said would get back to Lord Gallagher one way or another - if she didn't say anything to her boss directly, then she'd tell his daughter Eve, who was Tara's best friend. Lisa was sure to say how fierce the bidding had been, and he she knew that there was just 'something special' about that painting and that was why it had been stolen. (In fact, the truth was somewhat different. Lisa had had a long, liquid lunch with a buyer from another museum and had simply fallen asleep in the afternoon session, and woke up with three lots left to bid on. She'd not wanted to go back to work empty-handed).
Eve feigned a polite level of interest, but her keen mind was already running through the various scenarios for such a selective crime. There was obviously something special about the painting, although she doubted whether the buyer had actually seen that for herself. Someone definitely had though. She'd taken her degree in the history of art, specialising on the Renaissance period, and she'd never heard of this fellow Vigie-St.Amorry. Maybe it was a place name and his own name was something different - as in, Rene from Vigie-St.Amorry, although she could not recall hearing of such a place. Back in her office, she pulled up a shot of it from an Internet database. It wasn't a masterpiece, in truth it was a rather charmless and poorly constructed piece, more befitting of work done by a pupil rather than a master.
The phone buzzed, and she snatched it up with an impatient 'Yes?' as though annoyed to be pulled away from her thoughts. The frown turned to a smile when she recognised Eve's voice.
"Hey you, how's work?" came the chirpy voice from the other end of the phone.
"Hey you, how's slobbing around all day spending Daddy's money?" Both girls laughed.
"Well Tara, today I had lunch with Simon, you know the dark haired one from that boy band, what's their name-"
"You didn't-"
"I bloody well did!"
"Oh you cow! He's gorgeous. How did you get to meet him?"
"The normal way, his agent rang mine, blah blah blah. And do you know something?"
"More than you can possibly imagine."
"He's as thick as bloody pig shit!" They laughed again. Tara marvelled at her friend's comments - 'the normal way - his agent rang mine' - as though that was how everyone got fixed up. She knew Eve tried to live down the 'Daddy's little rich girl' tag, but most of the time she failed quite dismally, especially whenever she opened her mouth, which was often. It would help if she weren't an in-demand photo model with a reputation for being a bit of a spoilt madam, the modelling being something Tara was sure she only did to wind up her father. Physically Eve was the opposite of Tara - natural brunette with a lusty sheen, five and a half feet tall, proud cheekbones and bee-stung lips. In spite of it all, they were true friends and loved each other dearly. "So what are you up to today then, honey?"
