Archie lied. “But you never know. Someone else
might.”
C H A P T E R S I X
CLERKENWELL, LONDON
18th April— 8:59 p.m.
Tom was finishing a call when Archie let himself in, the
chatter of the refrigeration unit on a passing lorry gush-
ing through the open door before draining away the instant
it was shut behind him. Removing his coat, Archie tossed it
over the back of one of the Georgian dining chairs arranged
in the shop’s two large arched windows.
Tom had bought this building just over a year ago now,
transferring the stock from his father’s antique business in
Geneva after he’d died. As well as the dimly lit showroom
area they were in now, the ground floor consisted of a large
ware house to the rear and an office that Tom and Archie
shared as a base for their art recovery work. Tom himself
lived on the top fl oor.
He killed the call and threw the phone down on the green
baize card table he was sitting at, his right hand deftly ma-
nipulating a small mother-of-pearl casino chip through his
slender fingers. Behind him, a grandfather clock lazily boomed
the hour, triggering a sympathetic chorus of subtle chiming
and gently pinging bells from the other clocks positioned
around the room.
4 4 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
“All right?” Archie asked, leaning against the back of one
of a pair of matching Chesterfi eld armchairs.
Tom caught a flash of cerise pink lining as Archie’s jacket
fell open and smiled. Subtlety had never been Archie’s stron-
gest point and even in a suit, a uniform Tom had rarely seen
him out of, his forceful character seemed to find a way to
flaunt itself. He had at least recently shed one of the two
phones that he used to juggle from ear to ear like a com-
modities trader, although from the occasional involuntary
twitch of his fingers, like a gunfighter stripped of his .45,
Tom knew that he still missed the buzz of his old life.
“Good. You?”
“Not bad, not bad,” Archie sniffed.
Tom nodded, struck by how, the better you knew someone,
the less you often needed to say.
“Dominique in?” Archie glanced hopefully toward the
rear.
“Not seen her.” Tom shrugged. “Why, are you going to ask
her out?”
“What are you talking about?” Archie laughed the ques-
tion away.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. What are you
waiting for?”
“Leave it out, will you?” Archie snorted.
“If you don’t make your move, someone else will.”
“If I wanted to make a move, I would have done,” Archie
insisted.
“Well, it’s probably just as well,” Tom sniffed, his eyes
twinkling at Archie’s discomfort. “She’d only have said no.
Better to avoid the rejection.”
“Very funny.” Archie smiled tightly. Tom decided to
change the subject before he completely lost his sense of hu-
mor.
“That was Dorling, by the way.” Tom nodded toward the
phone.
“What the hell did he want?” Archie bristled. While Tom
had understood the need to forgive his one- time pursuers if
he was to move on, Archie was less sanguine. His scars ran
deep, and he was suspicious of Dorling’s Machiavellian prag-
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
4 5
matism, sensing the seeds of a further about-turn should the
circumstances require it.
“He just got the initial results of the forensic tests back.”
“And?”
“And basically they’ve got nothing. No prints at the scene.
The getaway car torched. Zip.” In truth, he’d have been more
surprised if they had found something. From what he’d seen,
this crew weren’t the sort to make mistakes.
“Any idea who pulled it?”
Tom flicked the chip down on to the card table, enjoying
the expression registering on Archie’s face as he stepped for-
ward for a closer look.
“Milo?” he exclaimed. “Pull the other one! He was down
for a ten-year stretch, minimum.”
“According to Dorling, he got out six months ago. They
found one of these at the scene.” He nodded toward the
might.”
C H A P T E R S I X
CLERKENWELL, LONDON
18th April— 8:59 p.m.
Tom was finishing a call when Archie let himself in, the
chatter of the refrigeration unit on a passing lorry gush-
ing through the open door before draining away the instant
it was shut behind him. Removing his coat, Archie tossed it
over the back of one of the Georgian dining chairs arranged
in the shop’s two large arched windows.
Tom had bought this building just over a year ago now,
transferring the stock from his father’s antique business in
Geneva after he’d died. As well as the dimly lit showroom
area they were in now, the ground floor consisted of a large
ware house to the rear and an office that Tom and Archie
shared as a base for their art recovery work. Tom himself
lived on the top fl oor.
He killed the call and threw the phone down on the green
baize card table he was sitting at, his right hand deftly ma-
nipulating a small mother-of-pearl casino chip through his
slender fingers. Behind him, a grandfather clock lazily boomed
the hour, triggering a sympathetic chorus of subtle chiming
and gently pinging bells from the other clocks positioned
around the room.
4 4 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
“All right?” Archie asked, leaning against the back of one
of a pair of matching Chesterfi eld armchairs.
Tom caught a flash of cerise pink lining as Archie’s jacket
fell open and smiled. Subtlety had never been Archie’s stron-
gest point and even in a suit, a uniform Tom had rarely seen
him out of, his forceful character seemed to find a way to
flaunt itself. He had at least recently shed one of the two
phones that he used to juggle from ear to ear like a com-
modities trader, although from the occasional involuntary
twitch of his fingers, like a gunfighter stripped of his .45,
Tom knew that he still missed the buzz of his old life.
“Good. You?”
“Not bad, not bad,” Archie sniffed.
Tom nodded, struck by how, the better you knew someone,
the less you often needed to say.
“Dominique in?” Archie glanced hopefully toward the
rear.
“Not seen her.” Tom shrugged. “Why, are you going to ask
her out?”
“What are you talking about?” Archie laughed the ques-
tion away.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. What are you
waiting for?”
“Leave it out, will you?” Archie snorted.
“If you don’t make your move, someone else will.”
“If I wanted to make a move, I would have done,” Archie
insisted.
“Well, it’s probably just as well,” Tom sniffed, his eyes
twinkling at Archie’s discomfort. “She’d only have said no.
Better to avoid the rejection.”
“Very funny.” Archie smiled tightly. Tom decided to
change the subject before he completely lost his sense of hu-
mor.
“That was Dorling, by the way.” Tom nodded toward the
phone.
“What the hell did he want?” Archie bristled. While Tom
had understood the need to forgive his one- time pursuers if
he was to move on, Archie was less sanguine. His scars ran
deep, and he was suspicious of Dorling’s Machiavellian prag-
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
4 5
matism, sensing the seeds of a further about-turn should the
circumstances require it.
“He just got the initial results of the forensic tests back.”
“And?”
“And basically they’ve got nothing. No prints at the scene.
The getaway car torched. Zip.” In truth, he’d have been more
surprised if they had found something. From what he’d seen,
this crew weren’t the sort to make mistakes.
“Any idea who pulled it?”
Tom flicked the chip down on to the card table, enjoying
the expression registering on Archie’s face as he stepped for-
ward for a closer look.
“Milo?” he exclaimed. “Pull the other one! He was down
for a ten-year stretch, minimum.”
“According to Dorling, he got out six months ago. They
found one of these at the scene.” He nodded toward the
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