Page 26 of The Collector
“You’re not thinking about doing something stupid, are you?”
“Like what?”
“Attempting to sweeten your end of the deal.”
“It never entered my mind. But now that you mention it...”
“Forget it, Ingrid. My client is angry enough as it is.”
“About what?”
“The needless bloodshed.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Was there really no other way to get the painting?”
Ingrid raised her coffee to her lips. “I didn’t kill Van Damme,” she said quietly. “Someone entered the villa after I left. I was wondering whether you or your client might know who it was.”
“I can assure you, my client had nothing to do with it.”
“Who is he?”
“You know the rules, Ingrid. You don’t know the identity of the client, and the client doesn’t know you.” He peered out the window toward Ingrid’s Volvo. “The damn thing is locked, I hope.”
“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure.”
“What kind of shape is it in?”
“Remarkably good.”
“Maybe I should have a look at it.”
Ingrid glanced at the attaché case. “First things first.”
She unpluggedthe charging cable from the Volvo and slid behind the wheel. Peter lowered himself into the passenger seat. With the attaché case balanced on his thighs, he worked the combination locks, then popped the latches.
Ingrid removed two bundles of newly printed five-hundred-euro banknotes and examined them by the overhead light. “Five million, right, Peter?”
“Have I ever shortchanged you?”
He hadn’t, but they had never done a deal of this scale. Besides, this was likely to be the last money Ingrid would earn for some time.
She returned the bundles of cash to the attaché case, and Peter closed the lid. “Are we good?” he asked.
Ingrid started the engine and pressed the release for the forward trunk.
“You might want to keep some of that for yourself,” advised Peter, and climbed out. A moment later he was carrying the leather document tube across the car park toward his Mercedes, unaware of the fact he was no longer in possession of his mobile phone. Ingrid switched off the device and slipped it into the Faraday pouch she carried habitually in her handbag. So much for losing my touch, she thought, and set out for Kandestederne.
Peter Nielsen was halfway across the Storebæltsbroen, the eighteen-kilometer bridge linking the islands of Funen and Zealand, before he realized that Ingrid had once again taken his phone. He supposed he had it coming. The remark about her skills decaying had been out of line; his friend was as sharp as ever. The painting resting on the floor of the backseat was proof of that.
It was too late to go chasing after her now. He would drive to Skagen in the morning after delivering the painting to the client. He only hoped that Ingrid didn’t manage to unlock his phone in the interim. It contained encrypted correspondence he did not wish her to see, correspondence regarding the client’s identity and the amount of money he had paid Peter to acquire the Vermeer. Yes, Ingrid hadbeen well compensated, but the split had hardly been equitable. In a few hours’ time Peter would be a very rich man indeed.
As usual, the wind was howling through the Great Belt. Peter drove with both hands fixed to the steering wheel. Even so, he labored to keep the Mercedes within its lane as he traversed the towering suspension portion of the bridge. He never enjoyed crossing the Storebæltsbroen, especially at night, when the sensation of being airborne above the black water always made him slightly sick to his stomach. And what about that guardrail? Less than a meter high, it was. Would it really save him if a sudden blast of wind were to send his car out of control? Unlikely, he thought. He would plunge to his death and sink slowly into the abyss, undoubtedly in the deepest portion of the strait. And there he would lie for all eternity, withThe Concertby Johannes Vermeer at his side.
His mood improved as he began the long descent toward Zealand’s western shoreline. He sped through the express lane of the toll plaza and an hour later reached the fringes of Copenhagen. His bachelor’s apartment was on Nansensgade in the trendy district of Nørrebro, about a ten-minute walk from his shop. He slid the Mercedes into an empty space outside his building and switched off the engine. Then he reached a right hand toward the floorboard of the backseat and grasped the leather document tube containing the world’s most valuable missing painting.
He maneuvered the document tube carefully over the headrest of the passenger seat and opened the door and climbed out. Only then did he notice the man walking toward him along the pavement with his hands thrust into the pockets of a car-length overcoat. Peter was certain he had seen the man somewhere before—and recently.
