for tests which I’ll do this afternoon. But he did mention something else.’
‘What?’
‘Well, it’s probably nothing…’
Jennifer noticed Corbett’s forehead creasing. Although he probably had many qualities, she suspected that patience was very definitely not one of them.
‘It’s just that Baxter said that all nine of the coins recovered by the Secret Services in the 1940s were destroyed. But I spoke to someone I know over at the Treasury on the way out here who owed me a favour. He told me, off the record, that although four of the nine coins recovered by the Secret Services in the 1940s were destroyed, the other five were put into storage back at the Philadelphia Mint before being moved to Fort Knox about ten years ago when they re-inventoried the place. As far as he knows, they’re still there.’
Corbett nodded slowly and settled back into the bench, the sunlight seeping under the branches of the overhanging tree. Jennifer studied his face and noticed the total lack of surprise at this latest piece of information. Her eyes widened in realisation.
‘But then, you already knew all that, didn’t you?’ she said slowly.
‘The French doctor who performed the autopsy on Ranieri happened to be a bit of a coin freak,’ Corbett admitted, his eyes fixed on the river, the occasional splash and glittering ripple showing where a fish had risen to the surface and then powered its way back down to the river bed, bending the water with a flick of its tail. ‘He recognised the coin. That’s why we got it back so quickly. I pulled the file. You just pretty much confirmed everything in it.’
‘So what’s this all been about, sir?’ Jennifer fought to control the anger in her voice. She’d thought she was being given a clear run, but Corbett was treating her with the same suspicion as everyone else. ‘Is this some sort of test? Because if it is, I resent…’
Corbett cut her off, his eyes boring into her.
‘You know, there’s a lot of people who think you’re damaged goods. That you’re a liability. That you should have been retired three years ago after the shooting.’
She paused before answering and returned his stare, trying not to let her voice sound too defensive.
‘I can’t help that.’
‘No. But it bugs you.’ He shrugged and turned to face the river again. ‘Me, I think that everyone makes mistakes. It’s how they deal with them that sets them apart. Some just go to pieces and never recover. Others move on and come back twice as strong.’
‘Which do you think I am, sir?’
He paused.
‘It took me two days to get the Treasury to confirm what happened to those other coins. You did it in one phone call. Let’s just say that you don’t strike me as a quitter.’ The hint of a smile crossed his face for the first time that afternoon. ‘The case is yours.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Jennifer stood up, a slight tremor in her voice. This was the sort of chance she had been hoping for. Praying for. ‘I’ll get right on it.’
‘Good.’ He flicked his eyes back round to hers. ‘I want you down in Kentucky first thing in the morning, checking on those coins. I’ll get a plane booked for you.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Jennifer got up and turned to leave, but Corbett called after her.
‘By the way, who bought that Farouk coin in the end? We’re probably going to need to talk to them too.’
Jennifer reached for her notebook and flicked through the first few pages until she found the right entry.
‘According to my Treasury contact several people bid for it. But it went to a Dutch property developer, a private collector.’ She found the name she was looking for and looked up as she said it to see if Corbett recognised it.
‘Darius Van Simson.’
The Marais, 4th Arrondissement, Paris19th July – 6:00pm
‘Vous savez pourquoi on appele ce quartier le Marais?’
His French faultless, Darius Van Simson was sitting behind the large mahogany desk that dominated the right hand side of his office. Circumflex eyebrows over a chopped angular face, his sandy hair and the firm arrow of his goatee were flickering slightly in the stiff breeze from the overhead air conditioning unit. He was sipping whisky from a heavy crystal glass.
‘Presumably because it used to be a swamp.’
The man sitting opposite him was short and round, with a puffy red face and small brown eyes. He had long since outgrown his suit and the fabric creased violently around his shoulders and across his arched back. His cracked black leather belt could not hide the fact that he wore his trousers with the top button undone.
‘Bravo, Monsieur Reinaud!’ Van Simson slapped the table in appreciation. ‘Quite so. The Knights Templar drained it in the 11th Century. Who would have thought then, that in the Middle Ages it would emerge at the epicentre of French political life? That aristocratic families would build their houses on its narrow streets so as to be near their King?’
Reinaud nodded awkwardly, as if unsure if he should say something. Van Simson put his glass down, stood up and crossed to the other side of the room so that Reinaud had to shuffle around in his chair to see him. He was wearing a blazer over dark grey flannel trousers, his white shirt open at the neck. He wore no socks, his bare feet clad in a pair of brown suede moccasins.
Four large windows had been set into the wall and in between each one was a different Chagall painting, each illuminated by a single recessed spotlight that made the colours glow as if the image had been projected onto the space, rather than merely hung there.
‘Of course, over the years, most of those grand houses were carved up into apartments or shops or offices or simply knocked down.’ Van Simson continued, gazing out the window at the courtyard below. ‘Why, this very house was a ramshackle assortment of restaurants, craft shops and dance studios before I bought them all out and had the place reconverted.’
‘Monsieur Van Simson, this is all very interesting, but I fail to understand how this is relevant to…’
‘Have you seen this?’ Van Simson walked over to the white architectural model that stood in a glass display case in the middle of the room. Reinaud heaved himself to his feet with a sigh and walked over.
‘What is it?’
‘Surely you recognise it?’
Reinaud frowned as he studied the layout of the streets. A shopping mall, a car park, office buildings, luxury apartments around an artificial lake. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed.
‘Never! I’ve told you, I’ll never allow it!’
Van Simson smiled.
‘Things change, Monsieur Reinaud. A swamp can grow to become the site of a royal
