Sleeping With Ghosts. Lynne Pemberton

to me. I understand your position, but I’m begging you as a patron and a good friend to bend the rules for me just a little.’

      The two men faced each other. Adam, although not unusually tall at five foot ten, towered above the diminutive Mark – who now relented. ‘If it is him, and we make a formal arrest, I’ll see what I can do.’

      Adam smiled, then quickly composed himself, but not before the other man had seen a hint of triumph in his face. Mark rubbed the tip of his long nose saying cautiously, ‘I make no formal promises. Who knows, this man may not even be Von Trellenberg.’

      ‘How many other eighty-two-year-old Europeans with a severed finger can there be living in obscurity in the West Indies?’

      Mark shrugged, his face impassive. ‘You know me, Adam, ever sceptical, it goes with the job.’

      ‘Yeah, I appreciate that. I know you’ve had your fair share of false alarms.’

      ‘Who doesn’t …’ Mark looked resigned, then added on a brighter note, ‘I’ll keep you up to date with developments as and when they occur, and now you really will have to excuse me. I’ve got to fly down to Washington and be back in time for dinner with the family. That is if I still have a wife and kids, I’ve forgotten what Victoria looks like.’

      Adam gripped his hand firmly in farewell. ‘I feel very confident, Mark. Good vibes, you know what I mean? I really think that this time we’ve got the son-of-a-bitch!’

      Adam left Mark’s office five minutes later, stepping on to First Ave and into glorious June sunshine. The light, blindingly bright, danced across acres of Manhattan glass, soaring into the china blue sky. A light breeze ruffled his dark hair as he hailed a taxi, asking for 76th and Madison.

      Upper eastside was gridlocked, so he got out at the corner of 74th, strolling the two blocks to his art gallery. ‘Morning, Lenny,’ he waved to the street vendor, on the corner of 76th.

      Lenny waved back. ‘It’s going to be a hot one, Mr Krantz, they say in the high eighties.’

      ‘You’ll sell more Cokes then.’

      ‘I wish I was selling on the beach in Bermuda!’

      ‘And I wish I was there with you,’ Adam smiled before walking on.

      He stopped outside his shop, admiring the recently completed sign above the door: ‘Krantz Fine Art’. The gilded calligraphy had taken over a week to paint by hand and in Adam’s opinion looked much better than the previous ‘Krantz Gallery’ sign his father had designed in the early fifties. Benjamin had stubbornly refused to change it – insisting that his clients came to him not because of a fancy shop-front, but because he had a fine reputation as a dealer of the utmost integrity.

      The gallery was cool, and there was a sense of calm in the hushed surroundings. At the sound of the doorbell, Joanne, Adam’s PA, peered from behind a pile of canvases.

      ‘Morning, Mr Krantz,’ she greeted him with a warm smile.

      ‘Morning, Joanne,’ he returned, walking past her into a small office at the rear of the gallery. ‘Any mail?’

      ‘Tell me a time when there isn’t any mail!’ Joanne said, joining him. ‘The usual circulars, bills, invitations, etc. And this.’ She picked up a letter from the top of the pile and handed it to him.

      Adam’s eyes flicked briefly over the correspondence; a small nerve at the corner of his mouth twitched as he protested, ‘Some people never give up! How many more times do I have to tell this schmuck that I do not want to sell the Renoir.’ He screwed the letter into a tight ball and dropped it into the bin. ‘Write to this creep, tell him if he doesn’t stop bothering me I intend to take legal action for harassment.’

      Joanne fished the offending letter out of the bin, and began to unfold it. ‘We may need this as evidence,’ she said practically.

      ‘Did Lynda Hamilton get back to you on the Degas etchings?’ Adam asked.

      Joanne nodded. ‘Yep, she promised to call with a decision before close of play today and, before I forget, she invited you to a party next weekend at her house in Southampton. Sounds like a very smart bash.’ The last sentence was accompanied by a high-pitched whistle.

      Adam leaned against the side of a desk. The expression on his face said it all. ‘Make sure you tell her I’m busy next weekend.’

      Joanne chuckled. ‘Ms Hamilton is going to be mighty pissed, I think she wants more than your etchings.’

      ‘That’s the trouble, so do I. Lynda’s too old for me.’

      ‘Come on, Adam, she’s only a couple of years older than me, and that ain’t too old.’ The retort was hotly defensive.

      ‘Lynda Hamilton is at least ten years older than you, Joanne; she’s in her mid-fifties. She’s been under the knife several times.’

      ‘You sure?’ Joanne looked surprised, then before waiting for a reply said, ‘Well, she looks great for over fifty. Listen, if that’s what cosmetic surgery does for you, I’m going to start saving right now for my first lift.’

      ‘Don’t ever do it! All you’ll look like is an older woman who’s had surgery; it’s grotesque. Besides all that, Lynda Hamilton isn’t my type.’

      ‘Too rich, or just too available? Which is it?’

      Adam’s warm eyes twinkled with amusement. ‘You, Joanne, are just too nosey.’ He emphasized the ‘too’ while touching the end of her nose.

      Joanne blushed, dropping her eyes, raising them a moment later to watch Adam walk to his own office. He left the interconnecting door ajar and she sat down behind her desk, thinking that if she had wanted to be really pushy, she would have asked him just who was his type. Jennifer, his estranged wife? Elegant, cold, and more interested in money, and acquisitions than him. Or a certain Miss Daryl Harper, with her baby-face? Shit-face more like, Joanne thought as she pictured the archetypal spoilt playgirl, hell-bent on spending Daddy’s hard-earned cash in as short a time as possible and who, in Joanne’s opinion, was far too young, and not good enough for her boss.

      Joanne’s mind wandered back to 29th January 1985: her first day working for Adam Krantz. It had been bitterly cold, with temperatures way below zero. She would never forget the cute way he had helped her out of her coat, warming her frozen hands in his own. Nor would she, or could she, ever forget the day a year later when she had bought a valuable Cézanne that Adam had previously rejected as a fake. Wildly excited he had swept her out to the Four Seasons Restaurant, for a celebratory supper. That night outside her apartment, Adam had held her very tight and thanked her, then to her astonishment he had kissed her full on the mouth before saying goodnight. With her heart fluttering, she had stood very still watching him walk to the end of her street, where he hailed a cab. Her eyes did not move until the tail-lights were out of sight. Later with her heart still fluttering, she had fantasized about making love to Adam Krantz. And she still did, though not as often now, by shutting her eyes tightly, opening her legs, and allowing her husband to slip silently into her body.

      Adam sat down behind his desk; his palms spread flat, he moved them slowly across the smooth maple wood surface, thinking how much he loved fine things. The early nineteenth-century English antique desk gave him great pleasure, as did the breakfront bookcase – English again, but slightly earlier than the desk – and a pair of eighteenth-century French chairs. A set of Lautrec etchings and a large Pissarro landscape filled one wall and the remaining space was painted with a blue wash. When he had decorated his office two years previously Joanne had described the colour as ‘Wedgwood’, but it looked paler to Adam, more like the colour of very faded denim. The large room, pristine and sparingly furnished, was a testament to his dislike of clutter.

      Joanne jotted something down on her notepad and, without looking up, called through the open door. ‘Remember you’ve got to call Martin Beck at Sotheby’s, and Alain Turquin in Paris about the Manet.’

      Adam