The Gilded Seal Read Free Page B

con-
    jure up around themselves.
    “I thought you said you were in Milan?” he continued,
    sweeping a quiff of thinning blond hair back off his fore-
    head, a large gold signet ring gleaming on the little fi nger of
    his left hand.
    “I was,” said Tom. “I got the early flight. It sounded im-
    portant.”
    “It is,” Dorling confirmed, his pale green eyes narrowing
    momentarily, his jaw stiffening. “It’s the Leonardo.” A pause.
    “I’m glad you’re here Tom.”
    Dorling gripped his hand unnecessarily hard, as if trying
    to compensate for his earlier brusqueness, his skin soft and
    firm. Tom said nothing, allowing this new piece of informa-
    tion to sink in for a few seconds before answering. The Ma-
    donna of the Yarnwinder . One of only fifteen paintings in the
    world thought to have been substantially painted by da Vinci.
    Conservatively worth $150 million. Probably more. In his
    business, it didn’t get much more important than that.
    “When?”
    “This morning.”
    “Anyone hurt?”
    “They overpowered a tour guide. She’s bruised but fi ne.
    More shocked than anything.”
    “Security?”
    “Rudimentary,” Dorling gave an exasperated shrug. “It
    takes the police thirty minutes to get out here on a good day.
    These chaps were in and out in ten.”
    “Sounds like they knew what they were doing.”
    1 6 j a m e s
    t w i n i n g
    “Professionals,” Dorling agreed.
    “Just as well it’s insured, then, isn’t it?” Tom grinned. “Or
    aren’t Lloyd’s planning to pay up on this one?”
    “Why do you think you’re here?” Dorling replied with a
    faint smile, the lines around his eyes and tanned cheeks
    deepening as his face creased, his eyes darkening momen-
    tarily.
    “The old poacher- turned-gamekeeper routine?”
    “Something like that.”
    “What does that make you, I wonder?”
    Dorling paused to reflect before answering, the pulse in
    his temple fractionally increasing its tempo.
    “A businessman. Same as always.”
    There were other words dancing on the edge of Tom’s
    tongue, but he took a deep breath and let the moment pass.
    He had his reasons. Dorling’s firm of chartered loss adjusters
    was the first port of call for Lloyd’s underwriters whenever
    they had a big-ticket insurance claim to investigate. And dur-
    ing the ten years that Tom had operated as an art thief—the
    best in the business, many said—Dorling’s company had co-
    operated with the police on countless jobs which they sus-
    pected him of being behind.
    All that had changed, however, when word had got out a
    year or so back that Tom and his old fence, Archie Connelly,
    had set themselves up on the other side of the law, advising
    on museum security and helping recover lost or stolen art.
    Now the very people who had spent years trying to put them
    both away were queuing up for their help. The irony still bit
    deep.
    Tom didn’t blame Dorling. If anything he found his shame-
    less opportunism rather endearing. The truth was that the art
    world was full of people like him—crocodile-skinned and
    conveniently forgetful as soon as they understood there was a
    profit to be made. It was just that the memories didn’t fade
    quite so fast when you’d been the one staring down the wrong
    end of a twenty-year stretch.
    “Who’s inside?” Tom asked, nodding toward the castle
    entrance.
    “Who isn’t?” Dorling replied mournfully. “The own
    er,
    t h e g i l d e d s e a l
    1 7
    forensic team, local filth.” The slang seemed forced and sat
    uneasily with Dorling’s clipped sentences and sharp vowels.
    Tom wondered if he too felt awkward about their past history
    and whether this was therefore a deliberate attempt to bridge
    or otherwise heal the gap between them. If so, it was a rather
    ham- fisted attempt, although Tom appreciated him making
    the effort at least. “Oh, and that annoying little shit from the
    Yard’s Art Crime Squad just showed up.”
    “Annoying little shit? You mean Clarke?” Tom