‘I’m well aware of that.’
Arthur sighed. ‘Have you considered something less risky than thieving? Or, if you must, seeing as how I’d lose my ten per cent, how about getting a new identity? Then, if you’re apprehended by the law, it’ll be under another name. Could make life a lot less complicated afterwards.’
John smiled. ‘Who do I see to arrange that?’
‘You’re looking at him. It’d cost about three grand.’
‘How soon?’
‘Right away.’ Arthur took a deep breath. ‘You should retain a solicitor who can deal with things if you’re ever pinched. Ernest Rubinstein is your man. He takes eight hundred and fifty a month, even if he does nothing.’
‘And I’m supposed to be the thief! Just tell me when and where I can meet him. If I’m doing this special job, I’d better be prepared for the worst.
When he was back at his office in Esher, John studied every detail of the magazine article Arthur had pointed out. It was about a private collector in Tours, France, who owned several Monets.
John was wary of the set up. With such a valuable collection there had to be a complicated alarm system. Any insurance company would surely have insisted on that.
He bought another van at auction and drove to Paris, then caught a train to Tours. He spent a week observing the house daily, making notes of visible alarms, locks, exits and entrances. By the time he returned to London his plan of action was worked out in the smallest detail.
It was the first time John used a gun, terrorising the elderly housekeeper into letting him into the house – he’d calculated that overcoming the external security, as well as whatever he encountered inside, would be too much for one man to handle. And John Forbes always worked alone. It was the best way of ensuring total security.
In the event he regretted his decision to use a firearm. Once he’d won entry, security within the house was pitiful. He tied the trembling housekeeper’s skinny wrists and ankles as loosely as he dared. He had planned to gag her too, but one glance at her blue‑edged lips and popping eyes as he gestured with the gun and he changed his mind. A grey‑haired woman, hands rough from hard work, legs knotted with veins, she reminded him strongly of his mother. No, he wouldn’t gag her either. Better to bluff this one out. Thank God he’d paid attention in French classes.
‘Soyez calme, Madame. Je veux pas tirer mais si je dois...’
She believed him and sat in abject terror while he deftly removed the four canvasses from their gold‑edged frames – an orchard scene, a charming portrait of a small boy in a sailor suit and two studies of the artist’s garden at Giverny – rolled them gently and slid them into the cylindrical artist’s carrying cases which he had brought with him.
John drove sedately away in his rented Peugeot. When he was fifty kilometres away he phoned the police and tipped them off about the housekeeper’s plight.
The operation had gone like clockwork and Cerne’s future was assured, but John promised himself he would never again use a gun.
Not personally at least. There were some things it paid to delegate.
CHAPTER SEVEN
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Vevey, Switzerland 1963
Catherine put down the phone and ran excitedly to the mirror to study herself. In less than an hour John was coming to see her on a flying visit and she wanted to be looking her very best.
Despite her reservations about leaving her beloved Cerne House, the seven months she had spent so far at the exclusive Les Alpilles Academy for Young Ladies had flown past. Her father had explained before she left that he and John had reached a private arrangement about Cerne. Quite what this entailed she wasn’t sure but at least she could leave with a clear conscience, happy that her father seemed less harried than before.
To her great surprise she found she loved Switzerland. John had teased her, saying she would find herself sharing a dormitory with a dozen other well‑bred girls, all intent on learning everything there was to know about table placements, conversational French and petit point.
Instead she found herself and two others allocated a small but cheerful shared flat in the centre of Vevey. They were expected to attend classes at the school five days a week, but only until two in the afternoon, after which they were free to ski, or hang around the many crowded café bars in the upmarket resort. Catherine made friends with her classmates and joined them on noisy nights out with a group of handsome, confident young men. French, German, Italian or Swiss. The shy English girl, with her long flowing hair and sweetly cast down blue eyes, was hotly pursued, but made it plain that she was interested only in the man she had left behind in England.
Before she left John had taken her out on a deliciously grown‑up date. They dined in a smart country hotel and then he’d asked if she would like a nightcap in his house in Salisbury. Catherine was so nervous she could hardly speak, convinced that when they reached the house he would make a move on her. Not that the thought was unwelcome. Far from it. To date he had held her hand and kissed her gently at the end of the few dates they’d had together, but with no more passion than he would have shown a sister. And Catherine’s feelings for him were far from sisterly. Some of her dreams about him made her blush to remember them in the morning. But, inexperienced with men, she did not know how to show this.
When they reached the house she was bowled over by its tranquil setting in the Cathedral close and impressed by the tastefully furnished drawing room complete with baby grand piano. On a low table before the sofa John had left two glasses and a bottle of champagne in a silver cooler. So he had been planning this, she thought. It was not a spontaneous invitation.
He opened the bottle and filled their glasses. Then, without speaking, walked over to her and took her face between his hands, kissing her until she felt weak and breathless. At first she did not know how to respond, show him how much she wanted him. Then John startled her by sliding the tip of his tongue into her mouth. She opened her mouth wider and her tongue instinctively met his. He groaned and gently pushed her down on the sofa, opening her blouse and schoolgirl white bra and freeing her round rosy‑tipped breasts.
‘My bust is too heavy,’ she found herself stammering, barely able to believe this was her, half naked on a sofa with the man she adored.
‘You have beautiful breasts, Catherine. I knew you would.’
She buried her head in his shoulder as he gently caressed them. She was not a kid any more and this was all she had dreamed of since she was sixteen. Still she panicked when his hand stole up her skirt.
‘My thighs are too fat,’ she apologised, unable to stop herself.
‘They’re perfect.’
His hand continued slowly on its way. She knew she ought to stop him. Nice girls didn’t do this. But not yet... She felt his fingertips brush her through her lacy white pants and tensed with embarrassment. She was so moist, liquid even, and her breathing was harsh and urgent. For a moment his hand stayed still, pressing against her slightly, then slid under the elastic and pulled it aside. Catherine gasped as one of his fingers entered her a tiny bit, feeling gently, then started to go deeper inside her.
She tensed and pushed him away. ‘No! We mustn’t. I ... I can’t. I’ve always loved you, there’s never been anyone else. But I can’t. Not like this.’
John took his hand away immediately and sat up, courteously turning his back while she fumbled with clasps and buttons, her fingers clumsy and shaking. When she had dressed herself he turned to face her and calmly pressed a glass of champagne into her hand.
‘It’s all right, Catherine. I’m not angry with you for saying no. In fact, I respect you for it. And some things are worth waiting for after all.’
A week later Catherine was in Vevey, unable to forget him, willing him to stay in touch.
To her delight John proved very attentive, phoning regularly and sending a bouquet of spring flowers on Valentine’s Day. She would have preferred an armful of roses so cr
imson they were almost black, but was pleased to be marked out from the other girls in this way.
He had visited her twice before, each time at very short notice. John explained that business had unexpectedly brought him to Switzerland but she preferred to believe that this was merely an excuse. He could not go on any longer without seeing her. Her flatmates were impressed.
‘Mmmmm, he’s dishy. Those deep black eyes!’ said her best friend Monique. ‘But watch out, Catherine. You know what they say about men with black eyes.’
‘That they’re insatiable, exciting, passionate lovers?’
‘Well, maybe. But my mother always told me: ‘Black eyes, good disguise,’ warned her friend.
‘Oh, you’re just jealous,’ Catherine had said, laughing. ‘Besides John’s been around all my life. There’s nothing about him I don’t know.’
He arrived at the flat just over an hour after his phone call. Catherine was flushed and breathless from hurrying to wash her hair and track down a favourite pink angora sweater that she finally found buried beneath a heap of Monique’s clothes on the bedroom floor.
‘John!’ she cried, opening the door to him. ‘It’s great to see you. Why are you in Switzerland – business or pleasure?’
‘Pleasure, of course. And what greater pleasure is there than seeing you.’
He found it was true. He was pleased to see her – even if had fitted in this visit after a profitable delivery to a Lichtenstein banker known to Arthur who paid good money for new additions to his very private collection of stolen artwork. Catherine looked tanned and healthy, he saw, but seemed to have put on a little weight since the last time he’d visited.
She took hold of his hand and pulled him into the flat. On seeing him after time spent apart she was always surprised to notice how small he was – only five feet eight when she was two inches taller. But he was not vain and didn’t seem to notice the difference in their height, nor that she was built on a bigger scale than him.
She offered to make him some coffee or hot chocolate but he grinned and said, ‘No time for that.’
‘Oh, John, what do you mean? You can’t be going yet, you’ve only just got here!’
‘Catherine, calm down. I’m not going anywhere. Or not without you anyway. Get your things packed, I’ve booked us into a little hotel I know in Venice.’
‘But I can’t!’ she said in dismay. ‘I mean school ... we’re not supposed to leave town without letting the headmistress know.’
‘Taken care of,’ he said, eyes twinkling. ‘I phoned her and Madame Chavot has agreed to let your godfather take you on an educational trip to Italy.’
‘My godfather! Oh, John, how could you lie like that?’
‘Very easily, I’m afraid.’ He pulled her into his arms and said, very close to her mouth, ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you want to come with me?’
Her doubt melted away instantly. ‘You know I do.’
He looked at her, an oddly intent expression in those dark eyes.
‘And this trip will certainly be educational, I can promise you that.’
A shiver ran through her. She returned his kisses before he gently disengaged himself and sent her off to pack. The last thing she put into her case was a wisp of a nightdress in coffee‑coloured chiffon and dark shadow lace. It was worldly and sophisticated, she thought. As perhaps, by the time she returned from Venice, she would be too.
* * *
To her dismay John had booked separate rooms in the pretty Hotel d’Piscinia overlooking the tiny Rio del Fuseri canal. Catherine swallowed her disappointment. He was just being a gentleman. She should be grateful he respected her enough to do this for her. And Venice was a dream: mist‑hazed in the mornings; unbelievably splendid in the diamond sharp light reflecting off the canals and lagoon at midday. In the day they walked until her legs ached, seeing the sights or shopping for expensive little presents all for her – a silk scarf, a glass horse, a tooled leather jewellery case and delicate gold filigree bracelet to put inside it.
They ate dinner on the flower‑edged terrace of a nearby restaurant and afterwards sat on the balcony to John’s room, she sipping coffee and he a Grappa, watching the spring evening fade into soft velvet darkness.
On the last night he was unusually quiet and reflective. Her heart ached at the thought that tomorrow she would be back at school among the shrill laughter and constant chatter of her friends, not knowing when she would see him again.
He took her hand and studied her face for a long time. She found she was afraid of what he would say next. Was he tiring of her, perhaps? Annoyed by having to be a gentleman and observe the proprieties, when secretly she longed for him to ignore them and make her his? When he spoke, he took her completely by surprise.
‘Will you marry me?’
For a moment Catherine could not speak, and then it was as if someone had switched on a big burning light inside her. Full of love and tenderness and relief she threw her arms around him.
‘Of course I will, John. Oh, I thought you’d never ask.’
He kissed her for a long time and she could feel her heart beating even faster than his. She smiled to herself. John was always so cool and in control, but proposing to her had obviously been an ordeal for him.
He pushed her away, got up from the chair and said seriously, ‘I think you’d better keep sitting down. There’s something I have to tell you and there’s no easy way of putting it.’
She sat obediently, raising her puzzled, still smiling face to his.
‘What is it?’ Although aware that he was deadly serious, she decided to handle this lightly. ‘Are you going to tell me you’ve got five children?’
‘No. Try again.’
‘You’ve got three months to live?’
‘I hope not!’ He sighed. ‘No, I’m not ill. There’s something you have a right to know.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It’s my job.’
‘What’s wrong with importing toys? It sounds like something done by a nice, respectable man who likes children.’
‘Good. That’s why I chose it. But I don’t do it. Or not for a living anyway.’
Catherine frowned. ‘I know. You’re a spy!’
‘No. I’m no spy.’
‘An undercover policeman?’
He laughed. ‘Nearly.’
‘Tell me.’ She was suddenly cold, shivering.
‘I’m twenty‑four,’ he said slowly. ‘I own a house in one of the best locations in England and a nice car. I have a lot of money in the bank. Do you think all that comes from importing children’s toys?’
‘Then how...’ She was suddenly afraid of what she was going to hear.
He kept his voice light but spoke clearly so that there was no possibility she could misunderstand.
‘Everything I own has come from the proceeds of crime.’
It was a shock to hear him say it, but Catherine realised that somehow she had always known that there was something odd about his meteoric rise to riches.
‘I work by myself, although I have a few associates.’ He was still looking steadily at her. ‘There, I’ve been totally honest with you. I’m sorry if I’ve ruined my proposal.’
She returned his gaze. ‘I’ve always known you were different. Will you ever change? Could I change you?’
‘Probably not.’ He shrugged his shoulders and smiled disarmingly. ‘Think about it for a week or two before you decide.’
‘Could you go to prison?’ she asked, hardly able to believe she could discuss this so calmly.
‘I’ll try not to.’ He smiled his lazy smile.
‘I’m glad you told me.’ Catherine got up and moved about the room. ‘I still want you. I will marry you. I want your children. Let’s decide a date.’
‘There’s another matter.’ He came in behind her and now his hands were on her shoulders.
‘I don’t think I can cope with any more just now,’ she said faintly.
‘I’ve bought the Cerne Estate.’
‘What?’ She spun round to face him. ‘But I don’t understand. I thought you were loaning Daddy money. I never thought he’d keep something like that from me. Does my father know where your money comes from?’
‘Of course not.’
Catherine sat down abruptly on the bed, then looked up at him. ‘I shan’t tell him. It would break his heart. And I’ll still marry you, John. So long as we need never discuss the way you make your money.’
‘Catherine.’ He knelt beside her and took her hands in his. ‘You’re amazing. I knew I’d made the right choice.’
‘But have I?’ She smiled and kissed him. ‘I suppose we shall see, one day.’
‘Our wedding will be on the last Saturday in July,’ he said. ‘I’ve already booked the church. Your parents have insisted that the reception be held on the Estate. I consulted them of course before proposing.’
Well, he’d told them he intended to, John reflected. But consulted sounded better. Catherine shook her head still trying to take it all in. He was assuming control, hurrying things along. Part of her was excited by her feeling of powerlessness.
As if reading the doubt she felt, John pulled her slowly down on the bed. ‘That’s enough talking,’ he murmured against her throat as one by one undid the row of buttons on the front of her dress. ‘I’ve been very patient, haven’t I? Let’s make tonight our honeymoon.’
Overcome with fear and longing, she gave in and let him undress her. He took his time, as if he was savouring every moment.
Laying naked, she saw him get up from the bed, undress and close the balcony doors. Unclothed he was standing for a short moment looking at her. She closed her eyes.
Back with her John was in no hurry but brought her to climax after climax using his hand, while not taking his eyes away from her flushed face. He made her rest and brought her Champagne. She held him tight, trying shyly to touch him, but he moved round and his tongue touched her sex, then fluttered around the sides of her clitoris. She gasped like she could not breath and almost fainted.
Then finally he pushed himself into her.
Afterwards she realised for the first time how little she knew about the man she adored.
CHAPTER EIGHT
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Copenhagen, Denmark, 1965
When Erick was twenty both his parents died in the same year.