Read Online A Night on the Orient Express by Veronica Henry - Free Book Online Page B

the intervening years once he’d been released, roaring up the high street on his bike that was even bigger and better than the one she’d been given a lift on. No doubt purchased through ill-gotten gains.
    ‘Was there something particular you wanted help with?’ she asked him as politely as she could.
    ‘I like that painting in the window,’ he told her. ‘How much is it?’
    She swallowed. She didn’t want to tell him. It was one of the most valuable pieces they had. She had agonised over putting it in the window, and now she wished she hadn’t.
    ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid it’s sold. We sold it at the weekend.’
    He frowned. ‘Oh. All right if I have a look round at the rest?’
    She could hardly say no. ‘Of course. Let me know if you have any questions.’
    He nodded, and began to walk around, the heels of his boots loud on the oak floorboards. Imogen began to feel nervous. He must be casing the joint. She imagined him and a bevy of his brothers sitting in some seedy pub making a plan to do the gallery over. They’d never get what the paintings were worth, unless they had contacts with some dodgy art dealer. Of course these existed, and she supposed it wouldn’t be beyond the wit of the McVeighs to find one. Or maybe they’d been commissioned to steal to order?
    Her eyes flicked up to the camera in the corner of the gallery. She prayed it was working. She didn’t always check it every day. She felt sweat trickling down her neck. Could she sneak away and call the police? What would she say?
    Maybe she should pick up the phone and call her grandmother? The gallery adjoined Bridge House. Adele was probably at home: if Imogen could drop a hint, she could get the police around. Why hadn’t they figured out some sort of code word for when they were in trouble?
    Imogen flicked a glance over to Danny again. Age hadn’t troubled him in the least – if anything he was better-looking than when he was eighteen. More . . . manly. But still pretty. It was a devastating combination. He was staring at a still life of a wine bottle on a table.
    ‘I like this.’ His voice made her jump.
    Imogen dragged her eyes away from his shoulders under the black leather of his jacket. It looked more expensive than the one she had pressed herself against on that treacherous journey home. Softer, more supple . . .
    ‘It’s by Mary Fedden,’ she managed. ‘It’s very collectable. It’s one of my favourites, actually.’
    He glanced at her and for a moment she felt complicity between them. He seemed pleased by the fact that she liked it too.
    ‘How much?’
    Imogen had no idea if he knew what ballpark they were in price-wise. He would either throw up his hands in horror and walk out, or prove something by buying it. Or come back later tonight and nick it.
    ‘It’s four thousand pounds,’ she told him.
    ‘Will you do a deal for cash?’
    ‘We don’t do cash .’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone does cash.’
    His eyes crinkled in amusement as he looked at her. Imogen felt a little bit warm under his scrutiny. She smiled sweetly.
    ‘If we do cash then I won’t be able to give you a proper receipt and you might have trouble selling it on.’
    ‘I don’t want to sell it on. I just want to buy it. Come on – they’re not exactly queuing up. You need a sale. You must have overheads.’
    All this was certainly true. One of the many reasons Adele and she had agreed that selling up was the best option. ‘I can do you a little bit of a discount.’
    ‘Ten per cent?’
    ‘Five.’
    ‘Five?’ He didn’t seem impressed with this offer.
    ‘Your money’s safe in that painting. Mary Fedden’s very popular. And she died quite recently, sadly. Which will make her more collectable.’ Imogen reached out and touched the frame, adjusting it slightly so the picture was straight. ‘She taught David Hockney.’
    He looked at her, raising a sardonic eyebrow. She wasn’t sure what it meant. Whether he