“Yes it is,” one of them confirmed.
When Tina heard her door open, she quickly flicked off the screen. She didn’t look up, as only one person never bothered to knock before entering her office.
“I presume you know that Petrescu is back in New York?”
“I’d heard,” said Tina, as she continued typing.
“But had you also heard,” said Leapman, placing both hands on her desk, “that she tried to steal the Van Gogh?”
“The one in the chairman’s office?” said Tina innocently.
“Don’t play games with me,” said Leapman. “You think I don’t know that you listen in on every phone conversation the chairman has?” Tina stopped typing and looked up at him. “Perhaps the time has come,” Leapman continued, “to let Mr. Fenston know about the switch under your desk that allows you to spy on him whenever he’s having a private meeting.”
“Are you threatening me, Mr. Leapman?” asked Tina. “Because if you are, I might find it necessary to have a word with the chairman myself.”
“And what could you possibly tell him that I would care about?” demanded Leapman.
“About the weekly calls you receive from a Mr. Pickford, and then perhaps we’ll discover who’s playing games.”
Leapman took his hands off the table and stood up straight.
“I feel sure your probation officer will be interested to learn that you’ve been harassing staff at a bank you don’t work for, don’t have an office in, and don’t receive a salary from.”
Leapman took a pace backward.
“When you come to see me next time, Mr. Leapman, make sure you knock, like any other visitor to the bank.”
Leapman took another pace backward, hesitated, then left without another word.
When the door closed, Tina was shaking so much she had to grip the armrests of her chair.
41
WHEN THE POLICE car arrived at the station, Jack was bundled out. Once he’d been checked in by the desk sergeant, the two detectives accompanied him downstairs to an interview room. Detective Sergeant Frankham asked him to take a seat on the other side of the table. Something else Jack hadn’t experienced before. Detective Constable Ross stood quietly in one corner.
Jack could only wonder which one of them was going to play the good cop.
Detective Sergeant Frankham sat down, placed a file on the table, and extracted a long form.
“Name?” began Frankham.
“Jack Fitzgerald Delaney,” Jack replied.
“Date of birth?”
“Twenty-second November, “sixty-three.”
“Occupation?”
“Senior investigating officer with the FBI, attached to the New York field office.”
The detective sergeant dropped his pen, looked up, and said, “Do you have some ID?”
Jack produced his FBI badge and identity card.
“Thank you, sir,” said Frankham after he’d checked them. “Can you wait here for a moment?” He stood and turned to his colleague. “Would you see that Agent Delaney is offered a coffee? This may take some time.” When he reached the door he added, “And make sure he gets his tie, belt, and laces back.”
DS Frankham turned out to be right, because it was another hour before the heavy door was opened again and an older man with a weathered, lined face entered the room. He was dressed in a well-tailored uniform, with silver braid on his sleeve, epaulette, and the peak of his cap, which he removed to reveal a head of gray hair. He took the seat opposite Jack.