LITMIR.BIZ

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all you need to know. The Yanks trained him. Industrial espionage. That is until he decided to go into business for himself.’ Clarke turned to Tom, a confident smirk curling across his face. ‘How am I doing so far?’

      ‘Agency?’ Ritchie guessed, his tone suggesting that, far from scaring him off, Clarke had only succeeded in further arousing his interest.

      ‘That’s right,’ Tom nodded, realising now that Ritchie’s stiff-shouldered demeanour and calculating gaze probably betrayed a military background. Possibly special forces. ‘You?’

      ‘Army intelligence,’ he said with a grin. ‘Back when we didn’t just do what the Yanks told us.’

      Clarke looked on unsmilingly as the other three men laughed.

      ‘So you don’t agree that this was opportunistic?’ asked Ritchie.

      Tom shook his head. ‘The people who did this knew exactly what they were here for.’

      ‘You don’t know that,’ Clarke objected.

      ‘Opportunistic is settling for the Rembrandt or the Holbein nearer the entrance, not deliberately targeting the da Vinci,’ Tom retorted, sensing Clarke flinch every time he moved too suddenly.

      ‘Do you think they’ll try and sell it?’ Ritchie pressed.

      ‘Not on the open market. It’s too hot. But then that was never the plan. Best case they’ll lie low for a few months before making contact and asking for a ransom. That way your insurers avoid paying out full value and you get your painting back. It’s what some people say the National Gallery in London had to do to get their two Turners returned, although they called it a finder’s fee.’

      ‘And worst case?’ Ritchie asked with a glum frown.

      ‘If you don’t hear from them in the next twelve months, then chances are it’s been taken as collateral for a drugs or arms deal. It’ll take seven years for it to work its way through the system to a point where someone will be willing to make contact again. The timings run like clockwork. But I don’t think that’s what’s happened here.’

      ‘You’re just making this up,’ Clarke snorted with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘You don’t know anything about this job or who pulled it.’

      Tom shrugged.

      ‘Four man team, right?’

      ‘Maybe.’ Clarke gave an uncertain nod.

      ‘I’d guess two on the inside and two on the outside – a lookout and a driver. The getaway car was probably stolen last night. Something small and fast. Most likely white or red so it wouldn’t stand out.’

      ‘A white VW,’ Ritchie confirmed, his obvious surprise giving way to an irritated frown as he turned to Clarke. ‘I thought we’d agreed not to release any details yet?’

      ‘We haven’t,’ Clarke spluttered.

      ‘I know because it’s his usual MO,’ Tom reassured him.

      ‘Whose?’

      ‘His name is Ludovic Royal,’ Tom explained. He’s known in the business as Milo. French, although he would argue he’s Corsican. Turned to art theft after five years in the Foreign Legion and another ten fighting in West Africa for whoever could afford him. He’s ruthless and he’s one of the best.’

      ‘Why’s he called Milo?’

      ‘Back when he first got started a client, some Syrian dealer, stiffed him on a deal. Milo hacked both the guy’s arms off, one at the elbow, the other at the shoulder, and left him to bleed to death. When the photos leaked to the local press in Damascus they dubbed it the Venus de Milo killing. The name stuck.’

      ‘And that’s who you think did this?’ Ritchie sounded sceptical.

      ‘It’s too early to say,’ Clarke intervened.

      ‘Have you found the gambling chip yet?’ Tom asked. ‘It’s a small mother-of-pearl disc about this big, with the letter M inlaid in ebony.’

      Clarke glared furiously at Dorling. ‘What else have you told him?’

      ‘Nothing,’ Dorling insisted.

      ‘I don’t care who’s told who what,’ Ritchie said firmly. ‘I just want to know what it means.’

      ‘Milo likes to autograph his scores,’ Tom explained. ‘It lets the rest of us know how good he is.’

      ‘The gambling chip is his symbol,’ Dorling confirmed. ‘They’re pretty common in the art underworld,’ he paused, deliberately avoiding Tom’s gaze. ‘Tom’s was a black cat, you know, like the cartoon character. That’s why they used to call him Felix.’

      Ritchie nodded slowly, as if this last piece of information had somehow confirmed a decision that had been forming in his mind.

      ‘What do you know about the painting?’ he asked.

      ‘I know it’s small, about nineteen inches long and fifteen wide, so it won’t be hard to smuggle out of the country,’ Tom began. ‘I know it was painted between 1500 and 1510 and that a total of eleven copies were produced by da Vinci’s workshop. Yours was the original.’

      ‘What about its subject matter?’ Ritchie pressed.

      ‘Who cares?’ Clarke huffed impatiently.

      ‘It shows the Madonna pulling the infant Jesus away from a yarnwinder, a wooden tool used for winding wool,’ Tom replied, ignoring him. ‘It’s meant to symbolise the cross and the fact that even her love cannot save him from the Passion.’

      ‘Some of the copies even have a small cross bar on the yarnwinder to make the reference to the crucifixion more explicit,’ Ritchie confirmed with a nod. Then he paused, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to continue.

      ‘Is there something else?’ Tom ventured.

      ‘You tell me,’ Ritchie said with a shrug, pointing to his right.

      The forensic team had shifted to one side and Tom could now see the panelled wall where the painting had hung between two other works. But instead of an empty space, something seemed to have been fixed there. Something small and black.

      ‘They found the gambling chip you described in its mouth,’ Ritchie explained, earning himself a reproachful glare from Clarke.

      ‘In what’s mouth?’ Tom breathed.

      He stepped closer, his heart beating apprehensively as the shape slowly came into focus.

      He could see a head, legs and a long black tail. He could see a small pink tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth. He could see trails of dried blood where it had been nailed to the wall and a pool of sticky dark liquid on the top of the display case beneath it rendered a translucent pink by the light shining through the glass.

      It was a cat. A crucified cat.

      He glanced sharply at Dorling who gave him a telling nod.

      ‘I told you he’d left you something, Felix.’

       FOUR

       Claremont Riding Academy, New York

       18th April – 7.55 a.m.

      As a precaution against being seen in Hudson’s company, Cole had allowed five minutes to elapse before following the older man down the ramp and out of the stables, leaving Jennifer and Green standing in an awkward silence.

      ‘Any questions?’ Green asked as Cole’s footsteps faded away, only to be replaced by the muffled thump of hooves from the floor below.

      ‘What

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