The Jarrold Collection (“where art comes to life and life comes to the gift shop”) was based in the neighbouring town of Sprean, in the grounds of the former home of Charles Jarrold, who had made a fortune in the 1800s as an importer of textiles. The illegitimate ninth son of a strumpet and a ne’er-do-well, he had started his business in the grounds of the village church, much to the chagrin of the local vicar, who quoted John 2:16 at him: “To those who sold doves he said, ‘Get these out of here! How dare you turn my father’s house into a market!’” In response, Jarrold had quoted Charles 1:22 at the vicar, which basically went: “Fuck off, mate.” He had progressed rapidly and ruthlessly up the textile ladder, acquiring a large collection of interesting artifacts and finally building a modestly large house overlooking the river in a field he’d bought from a local farmer, but at the age of 52 had experienced his Road to Damascus moment: a small child holding a teddy bear, standing in the street and crying its eyes out because of its lack of exposure to ancient Etruscan pottery. From that moment on, Jarrold had resolved never to keep his enormously valuable collection to himself ever again, and had thrown open the doors to his estate so that anyone who wanted to and who had a spare two shillings could experience it at first hand. It was a roaring success, and he eventually sold his textile business so he could concentrate on hanging around auction rooms looking shifty, a skill which he found he was very good at, and buying more stuff to add to it. The collection grew and outgrew the house, and was moved in the 1930s into a purpose-built museum in the grounds designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, being swiftly moved back inside again – and underground – at the start of the Second World War. It now occupied an enlarged version of the original building, sold pencils, notepads, postcards, snow globes, coffee-table books, packs of cards, posters, plastic puzzles and other themed merchandise at vastly inflated prices from its gift shop, and Jarrold’s house had become a hotel run by some people in Surrey who most of the time forgot they owned it, which suited the Collection just fine.
It was getting late, and as the van pulled up in the car park Susan began to think they’d have to come back tomorrow, as the gift shop was closed and the car park was all but deserted. The only other vehicle in it – a dark silver BMW – must belong, she assumed, to the museum’s director or somebody equally important. Damien, who had had some business to attend to, had said he would follow them a few minutes behind, as the Transit van only had three seats in it, but he’d phoned ahead and the chief curator, Esther Crumplesnatchskin, had immediately agreed to meet them for a short time before she left for the day.
All was quiet: the crunch of Susan’s trainers on the gravel seemed disproportionately loud as she stepped down from the van. The other two followed her over to the visitor entrance, which looked very firmly locked. She tried opening it in case it wasn’t, but only succeeded in setting off a distant and not very loud alarm.
“Security hasn’t improved, then,” Paul commented. “Did you get this woman’s number?”
“No, Damien said he would phone ahead,” Susan replied, slightly puzzled. “He said he wouldn’t be long, anyway.”
Xavier, closer to the van than the other two, said, “Hmm. I don’t like this. Did either of you hear Pamela’s voice when he was speaking to her?”
They thought about this. “No – I don’t think I did, now you come to mention it,” Susan said. “You don’t think he’s up to something, do you? You said yourself he was trustworthy.”
“I’ve known Damien for years,” Xavier stated. “I know that you can never trust anybody, but inasmuch as you can trust anybody, he’s somebody I would trust. Up to a point.”
“That’s reassuring,” Susan said, and was just walking back in the direction of the van when a voice – a clear, level, clipped voice – said, “Good evening.”
They turned, to see someone emerging from the shadow of the BMW holding a gun. A short man. One of the two men Susan had seen in Trent’s office.
Algernon Arbuthnot.
“Arbuthnot,” Xavier snarled. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
“Protecting number one, Jameson minor,” Arbuthnot snapped. “I want that photograph, Susan.”
“What photograph?” Susan said. On the outside she seemed calm – inquisitive, even, as if Arbuthnot were holding a banana instead of a firearm – but her insides had turned to terrified sheets of ice. The only thought she had at that precise moment was keep him talking.
“The one you seem to have inherited,” Arbuthnot shot back. “Or have you not followed the instructions?”
A picture flashed into Susan’s mind of the piece of paper which said DESTROY ME. “I – I don’t understand what you mean,” she said. “I inherited a pair of cabinets. But –”
“We all know about the cabinets,” Arbuthnot said. He had moved towards them, still pointing the gun directly at Susan, but not near enough so that any of them could have run around the back of him and wrestled the gun from his grasp. “You appear to have discovered their provenance from my friend Mr Casablanca, which I had hoped you would eventually. But it seems that Thimble has thrown a spanner in the works.”
“Is that so?” Susan replied, not having a clue whether it was so or not. “And how did you find that out?”
“I have my ways. I don’t care about the cabinets, Susan, but I want that photograph.”
“Well, tough,” Susan said, with a bravado she didn’t feel. “It’s locked away, covered from every angle by CCTV cameras, and there’s a code on the door. You won’t break in, and we’re not going to let you in.”
“You matter to me,” Arbuthnot said, sifting through every syllable like a baleen whale filtering seawater for krill, “far less than the discovery of that photograph would. May I remind you: I have a gun.”
All of a sudden, there was a screech of tyres, and Susan turned for a split second to see headlights heading straight for them. “Move!” she shouted. Xavier flattened himself against the wall of the transit van, Paul scrabbled for the keys, and Susan dived to one side as Arbuthnot turned, half-blinded, and fired two shots at the oncoming car, before staggering out of its way at the last minute. Paul managed to stuff the right key in the lock, wrench the door open and leap up into the cab, closely followed by Xavier, in the same instant that Susan saw who the driver of the car was: Damien Casablanca, who screamed in slow motion as blood pumped from the hole in his forehead, and was unable to stop his car hurtling at full speed into the glass wall of the gift shop. The back wheels lifted a full two feet into the air with the force of the impact, and an avalanche of pens, erasers, teddy bears in branded boob tubes, keyrings, pottery kits and T-shirts wrapped in plastic bags cascaded down over the bonnet of his car. Susan was too shocked to move for over half a second, but then she felt Xavier’s bony hands grab her shoulders and yank her into the cab as Paul crammed the accelerator to the floor, spinning the wheels and spraying pebbles everywhere like bullets. Susan’s open door flew wide open as he screeched the van tightly to the right, hit Arbuthnot’s car, breaking one of the headlights, and earned a bullet-hole in the van’s back door. And then they were off, straight out into the road – luckily it wasn’t a busy one – and, ignoring the speed cameras, heading out of town at top speed.
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