stepped tentatively inside. There wasn’t much light coming in through the high windows. A mass of fragile-looking boats were stacked on metal shelves. He walked stealthily between them towards the back of the boathouse. As he’d been told.
He thought about shouting a friendly ‘hello’, but decided against it. It really wasn’t the right way to announce your arrival at a clandestine meeting. Although he was a bit out of practice on that front. These days he spent more time poking around for a scrap of phonetically transcribed Flemish.
Max smelt the unmistakable aroma of pipe tobacco. Again, he was relieved. Not that he had any need to be. He was on home turf this time, after all.
‘You’re late, Ward,’ barked a voice from behind a stack of boats.
‘And wet,’ replied Max with a deliberate lack of subservience. There was no point in producing an excuse, because there never was one. Never had been, in fact.
‘What the hell were you doing at the bottom of the alley?’
‘Just checking. How did …?’
‘CCTV. There’s only one way into this place when it’s locked up. And I like to see who’s dropping by.’
Tryon was sitting on an old wooden folding chair. He was digging away at his pipe with a look of focused intensity.
‘Anyone follow you?’
‘No. Couldn’t we have met in Amsterdam again? Would have been a lot drier.’ He looked down at his feet to reinforce the point.
‘Very funny. The op’s now live, and one never runs an off-books op from inside the theatre.’ Tryon finally looked up from his pipe. ‘So how did you get on in Monaco?’
Max looked around for something to sit on. There was a workbench just to Tryon’s right. It was the bench of a very tidy craftsman, Max noted. He picked up a tin of varnish and sniffed it.
‘Didn’t know they still used this stuff.’
‘They don’t. Must be for an old boat. All carbon fibre now. How did it go?’
‘Pretty good,’ he replied airily. He studied Tryon for a moment. He was thin and gaunt, but on closer inspection as hard as nails. Still sporting the same scruffy brown raincoat and battered green trilby he had worn a week before. The same rustic tie and heavy cotton shirt. But today he looked tired, something employees of the Racket spent years cultivating the ability to hide.
‘Jacques seemed happy with the canvas I took him. And Cornelissen’s had sent the paint they asked for. All good.’
‘Gemma enjoy herself ?’ Tryon asked flippantly, as if to pass the time while he fiddled with his pipe again.
‘I think so. No hassle in her jet. Nice hotel.’
‘Ask much? About what you were up to?’
‘Not really. Told her I had a wee mission. Chance to get my feet out from under the desk. She didn’t seem that interested.’
‘Did she mention anything she might have been up to herself ?’
‘No. Up to what? Forget about her. Look, we’re dealing with a bloody traitor. A murderer. And I have to walk into an office every day and pretend he’s a valued colleague. It’s pretty pathetic that all we’re going to do is nail him for some sort of art theft.’
‘It goes a bit deeper than that – quite a lot deeper, in fact.’ Tryon lit his pipe. ‘While you were having lunch with Jacques in Monaco, do you know who Gemma was meeting?’
Max could literally feel his blood defying gravity and flowing to his head. ‘What are you talking about? She didn’t meet anyone.’
‘I know people down there, Ward. It’s how Jacques found me in the first place. Through them,’ Tryon said evenly. ‘Gemma met someone behind your back. Someone we’re really not sure about.’
‘She probably just ran into them. She knows people everywhere.’
‘She ran into him on his yacht in the harbour.’
Max had learnt to appreciate the old hand’s desert-dry wit, though not so much when he was the intended target.
‘She did say she was going down to the harbour for a walk. Who did she meet?’ asked Max, conceding defeat.
‘Alessandro Marchant.’
‘Rich?’
‘Rich! Either Marchant has psychic powers that enable him to see how currencies and stock are going to move – or he’s one of the biggest financial insider dealers in the world. And guess who he deals through?’
‘Go on.’
‘Casper Rankin. Whose wife you happen to be sleeping with. We’ve been intercepting their emails, and listening to their phone conversations. But we can’t nail them. They’re careful how they pass information around.’
‘Are you suggesting …?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything, Ward.’
‘Look,’ Max said intensely, ‘if I can’t trust Gemma, I can’t trust anyone. Not even you. Gemma is—’
‘I know,’ Tryon interrupted. ‘You told me. It’s just that I’m not entirely sure whether I sign up to your version.’
Tryon had made it plain that he suspected Max might have been targeted by Gemma. Which amused Max no end – or at least it had until now – as it couldn’t have been further from the truth.
Max had first clocked Gemma at the opening of some dull art exhibition at a gallery in St James’s. He’d then persuaded a mate of his, who also happened to know her husband, to have her to stay in the country for the weekend. Thankfully, her husband had been away.
It was a typical, wild Gloucestershire weekend party. Everyone drank far too much and a few people ended up doing things they shouldn’t. Max remembered flirting with her and having no idea whether she was responding to him. One minute she seemed to be fascinated by him – the next, totally oblivious. Max had followed her upstairs to bed. By the time he knocked on her door, she was wearing the skimpiest of nighties. She’d let him in, and then resisted – to start with. But then she’d cracked. Once she had, Max remembered being taken aback by her urgency. She’d literally ripped the buttons off his shirt. His back had scratch marks for days.
‘Well, if we’re lucky, this relationship of yours could be very useful to us. Or you’re being set up. Because guess who Casper Rankin’s best mucker was at Cambridge?’
‘Go on.’
‘Surprise, surprise. Your old pal, Pallesson. Gemma tell you that?’
‘This is all a bit tenuous. She might not know.’
‘So she hasn’t told you.’
‘No. How do you—’
‘You can be certain that Casper Rankin
