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“Not money, Mr. Dimbleby. A name.”
Oliver hesitated, then said, “Alessandro Calvi.”
“And where does Signore Calvi live?”
“Florence.”
“Please call Signore Calvi from your mobile phone. I’d like to have a word with him.”
It was half past eight when Oliver showed her into Bury Street. She offered him a hand in farewell. And when he refused it, she placed her mouth close to his ear and warned him of the professional humiliation he would suffer if he failed to send her the money as promised.
“Dinner at the Lanesborough?” he asked as she set off toward Jermyn Street.
“Some other time,” she said over her shoulder, and was gone.
Inside the gallery, Oliver returned to his office. The scent of orangeblossom and jasmine hung in the air. On the desk were two unfinished glasses of Johnnie Walker Blue Label whisky, a fictitious provenance for a fake painting by Paolo Veronese, and a sheet of stationery from the Lanesborough Hotel. Oliver returned the provenance to the file drawer. The sheet of stationery he photographed with his phone.
It rang a moment later. “Bravo!” said the voice at the other end of the connection. “I couldn’t have done it better myself.”
