Page 16

Finn pulled into the industrial estate in his red Corvette just after lunch, the Spring sun glinting off the car's hood as he turned down a lane flanked by wide warehouse buildings. The sky above was gray, and a light chill crept through the air. Next to him, Eleanor flipped through a notebook filled with scribbles about the case.

“This is the place,” Finn murmured, bringing the Corvette to a halt in a small parking area near a chain-link fence. Beyond the fence, rows of industrial units stretched in neat lines. Forklifts beeped in the distance, and workers in high-visibility jackets moved pallets around.

Eleanor shut her notebook. “All right. So we’re looking for the Globe Secure Transport warehouse? That’s the name Leopold gave us?”

Finn nodded. “It should be here somewhere, according to the address.” He pointed to a large building down the row, a simple gray rectangle with a white sign stenciled on the metal siding. “I figure the forgeries might be made or swapped in there, if Leopold’s tip was correct.”

Eleanor drew a breath. “And your plan is to walk up to the warehouse manager, show him your consultant badge, and say ‘Let us in because we suspect you’re trafficking forged paintings’?”

Finn grinned, unbuckling his seat belt. “Plan A, yes. But I’ve got a Plan B in mind if that fails.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Which is…?”

He opened the car door, stepping out into the crisp air. “Sneaking around, of course.”

Eleanor followed, shutting the door behind her. “That sounds like a terrible idea.”

Finn shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Bad ideas are often where good ideas start.”

“That’s not how ideas work,” she muttered, casting an exasperated look.

Finn let out a short laugh. “Maybe not in the rational world, but it’s how they work in my head.”

They walked across the asphalt toward the main loading bay of Globe Secure Transport, passing a few parked lorries and a forklift humming near the side. A high fence ringed the property, and signs warned of restricted access, authorized personnel only.

After showing IDs at a small booth by the entrance, they found themselves directed to a warehouse supervisor standing near a pair of large steel doors. The supervisor—an imposing figure in a security uniform—eyed them warily as they approached.

"Afternoon," Finn said, flashing his Home Office consultant badge. "I'm Finn Wright, and this is Dr. Matthews. We're working for the Home Office, assisting the Police on a murder investigation connected to forged paintings. We'd like to talk to whoever is in charge and have a look around, if possible."

The supervisor kept his stance broad, crossing his arms. “Forged paintings? We handle legitimate shipping and storage of high-value art, nothing forged here.”

Eleanor stepped in. “We believe some items in your care may be connected to multiple murders. It’s crucial we have a look.”

The supervisor’s expression hardened. “I’m sorry, but you can’t just walk in. Our clients pay us to maintain the strictest security. Unless you have a warrant from a judge, you’re not getting anywhere near the inventory.”

Finn exchanged a glance with Eleanor. Plan A was clearly hitting a wall. “We can get a warrant,” he said, meeting the supervisor’s gaze.

“Fine,” the supervisor said, “come back with one. Until then, I can’t let you in. Gerard would kill me.” He turned on his heel, walking away.

Eleanor sighed under her breath, stepping back to Finn’s side. “That went well.”

“Nothing we didn’t expect,” Finn replied with a shrug. “I wonder who Gerard is? Shall we move to Plan B?”

She folded her arms. “I’m not thrilled about sneaking around a high-security warehouse. You realize we could land in serious legal trouble.”

A faint grin touched Finn’s lips. “We also could discover who’s forging paintings and killing people, or at least how they’re swapping them. Worth a little risk, don’t you think?”

Eleanor huffed. “I suppose it’s your call. Lead the way.”

They retreated across the asphalt, away from the supervisor’s line of sight, watching the warehouse from behind a stack of wooden pallets. Two large loading dock doors stood open, and a truck rumbled up to one of them, reversing into position. Workers bustled around with trolleys, loading or unloading crates.

Finn studied the scene, noticing a white truck pulling in from the gate. Its rear was covered by a canvas tarp. It inched toward the second loading dock. “See that truck? Perfect. Let’s hop on. It’ll drive right in, and we can slip off inside.”

Eleanor blanched. “You’re insane.”

“Very possibly.” He turned to her with a wry smile. “But this is how we get results. Just… wait here, okay?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not standing alone in some industrial estate with suspicious employees gawking at me. If you’re hopping onto a moving truck, I’m coming too.”

Before he could protest, she darted forward, timing her steps so she wouldn’t be spotted by the forklift drivers or the supervisor. Finn cursed under his breath and hurried after her. The truck slowed as it neared the dock, and the driver seemed occupied with reversing. Finn grabbed the tailgate, hoisting himself up quickly, and Eleanor followed, scrambling onto the rear ledge.

They ducked under the heavy canvas flap, settling into the dim interior, whispering frantically.

“I said wait,” Finn hissed. “Now we’re both stuck in here.”

Eleanor glared, her voice low. “I’m not letting you hog the glory if this leads to cracking the case. And I’m not loitering in a shady lot by myself.”

Finn couldn’t help a small chuckle, despite his irritation. “Fine. Stay quiet.”

They crouched among wooden crates and a few strapped-down pallets, the smell of packing materials thick in the enclosed space. Through a small gap in the tarp, Finn watched as the truck trundled forward, eventually passing under the warehouse’s overhead door. Dim overhead lights gave a flickering view of the interior. He heard muffled voices outside—a foreman barking orders, a couple of workers calling out instructions. Then the engine shut off, and footsteps receded.

After a moment of tense stillness, Finn peered through the gap. “No one’s around,” he whispered. “Let’s go.”

They slipped off the tailgate, dropping onto the concrete floor. Rows of shelving units rose on all sides, stacked with crates labeled ART HANDLING—FRAGILE or displaying cryptic inventory codes. The warehouse smelled of dust, varnish, and the faint hint of chemicals.

Eleanor sidled next to him, eyes roving over the crates. “What exactly are we looking for?”

Finn paused. “I thought you would know. You’re the art expert.”

Her brow shot up. “I thought you would know—being the policeman.”

He flashed a tight grin. “ Consultant policeman... Eh, detective. Let’s check for any evidence these crates are fakes or contain suspicious items. If you spot something obviously forged, that’s our lead.”

She sighed but nodded. They crept between metal racks, trying to stay hidden whenever they heard approaching footsteps or idle chatter from workers. At one point, a forklift rumbled past, forcing them to duck behind a wooden crate until it clattered away.

Eventually, they approached a side aisle where a single guard patrolled, carrying a small tablet and a holstered baton. He turned unexpectedly, catching sight of movement. “Hey!” he barked.

Finn reacted on instinct, rushing him before he could draw his baton. He grabbed the man's wrist, twisted it, and looped an arm around the guard's neck in a swift choke hold. The guard struggled for a second, but Finn maintained the hold until the man slumped unconscious. Gently, Finn lowered him to the ground, mindful of not causing any permanent injury.

Eleanor, eyes wide, hissed, “Good God, Finn, did you kill him?”

He checked the guard’s pulse quickly. “Nah, he’s just taking a nice nap. Let’s move before someone comes.”

“They'll sue you for that!” Eleanor whispered.

“Not if I find something.”

They stepped over the fallen guard, weaving deeper into the warehouse. Their hearts pounded, every shadow or echo making them flinch. At length, they found an area cordoned off with more racks—each containing large wooden crates that read ART / BLACKTHORN GALLERY CONSIGNMENT. Several crates were open, presumably mid-inspection.

Finn leaned closer to peer into one. “Look, paintings.”

Eleanor joined him, carefully lifting the corner of protective cloth. Beneath, four or five framed canvases rested. She examined them in the fluorescent glow. Her eyes scanned the brushstrokes, the coloration.

“These are forgeries,” she announced softly, placing a hand on one frame. “I can tell by the uniform cracking pattern on the paint—too artificial, as if it’s been chemically aged. Also, the coloration is slightly off for the historical period. The technique’s close, but not quite right.”

Finn exhaled. “So real paintings were supposed to be in this consignment, but the ones inside are fake. That means at some point, the genuine articles get swapped out.”

Eleanor nodded, her face grim. “Yes. If these are the fakes, that means the real paintings were probably taken out. The forger or someone here sells them on the black market for a huge profit.”

Finn tapped his phone screen. “We need to call this in. This is exactly what we needed—proof the warehouse is part of the forgery pipeline. Let’s take some photographs for evidence.” He began to take some photographs, Eleanor doing the same.

A sudden sharp blow crashed across the back of his head. Pain exploded in his skull, and his vision blurred. He caught a glimpse of Eleanor’s startled scream, her hands flying to her mouth, before darkness pulsed at the edges of his vision. The floor rushed up to meet him, and he felt rough hands dragging him across concrete. Consciousness slipped in and out, the pounding ache in his head overwhelming all sense of time or place.

When Finn’s mind finally cleared, he was upright, arms strapped behind him, ankles bound to the legs of a chair. A dull overhead bulb cast harsh light across a small, windowless room. A throbbing pain radiated from the back of his skull, making him wince. Then he noticed Eleanor, tied in a similar chair beside him, her face taut with fear.

“Eleanor,” he croaked, throat dry. “Are you okay?”

She tugged at the ropes on her wrists. “Apart from being tied up in a warehouse, I’m peachy,” she whispered, voice laced with sarcasm.

The door creaked open. A stocky, thickset man strode in, accompanied by two henchmen. He wore a cheap suit, shaved head glistening in the overhead glare. His movements exuded confidence as he stood before Finn and Eleanor, hands on his hips.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, eyes flicking between them.

Finn’s head still swam, but he forced a steady tone. “Finn Wright, Police— sort of.”

The man stepped closer, snorting. “Sort of?” He snatched the ID badge from Finn’s jacket pocket, scanning it. “Consultant detective with the Home Office, I see. Not a real cop, then.” He tossed the badge aside. “I know when someone’s lying. Did you come alone? Did you alert your buddies?”

Eleanor opened her mouth to speak, but Finn cut in. “Plenty of people know we’re here.”

The man’s lip curled. “I doubt that. I can tell when someone's lying to me. And if they don’t know, it makes my job easier.” He turned to his henchmen. “Lock them up, then take them for a long walk off a short pier or something. I don’t want to see these two again.”

Finn’s stomach clenched. “Wait—”

The man ignored him, glancing at Eleanor. “Your friend here stuck his nose where it doesn’t belong. That’s going to cost him. And you.”

One henchman smirked, cracking knuckles. “Yes, boss.”

“Actually, call Frankie Govan, he'll take care of this so nothing can be traced,” the stocky man said.

He then glared at Finn. “Enjoy your last moments, detective.” With that, he spun on his heel and marched out, the henchmen following. The door slammed shut, leaving Finn and Eleanor in the oppressive silence.

Eleanor stared at Finn, her eyes wide. “He said… we’re not going to be seen again. That means—”

“That we might end up sleeping with the fishes,” Finn finished grimly. “I’d guess they plan to do it quietly. Maybe load us in a crate and dump us, or—”

Eleanor closed her eyes, fighting panic. “What do we do?”

He tested the ropes binding his wrists. They were thick, but maybe not unbreakable. “We improvise,” he murmured, adopting a determined glint in his eyes. “We’re not done yet. I might be able to get my hand out.”

Outside, footsteps echoed. They had precious little time. Finn wriggled against the ropes, heart hammering. If they couldn’t escape soon, they would never see daylight again, never solve the forging ring, never stop the killer. He clenched his jaw, willing to do whatever it took to get free.

With a strained grin to Eleanor, he muttered, “Don’t worry. We’ll find a way. Bad ideas lead to good ideas, remember?”

She gave a shaky laugh. “You’re insane, Finn.”

He nodded. “Absolutely. Let’s hope that works in our favor.”

And as the dim overhead light flickered, Finn knew that whoever Frankie was, when he arrived, it would mean the end for Eleanor and him.