by Eoghan Egan
‘Mightn’t happen. The last wedding date you set, you were visiting Barron in prison, remember?’
‘Oh, yeah.’
The art dealer couldn’t bear to listen any longer.
Wish I’d brought the stun gun. Dole bitches. Pitiful excuses for women. A perpetual strain on the country’s assets, dragging down per capita income. They’re identical. Same as Mother.
He drove out to Emo court, parked, and tramped along the curved avenue of towering redwood trees.
Whatever happens, number eight is within my grasp. Ciara or Jana. I’ll find a way. In a matter of days, one of you’ll be rotting in clay.
The art dealer relished that image.
Either will be much easier than Isobel Stewart. Do you want to know about Isobel Stewart, Jana? Ciara? She’ll be remembered as number five.
You see, I got obsessed by Isobel Stewart the moment I saw her posed photo on the front cover of a Trinity magazine, with a child perched on her knee. In a Q&A interview, she’d answered questions on a day in the life of a final year law student. Parents and childminder babysat her two-year-old son at home in Waterford during the week, while she attended college. The piece gave me the area Isobel stayed in. Facebook narrowed the search further. Bus routes and patient tracking brought me through Ranelagh’s leafy apartment land. The hunt is easy once you’ve got a starting point. On and off, I spent eleven days on old-fashioned footwork, but it paid off. Then I shadowed and studied Isobel’s habits. Witnessed how she acted around friends; she was sociable, funny, reserved. I moved closer, listened to her voice. Liked her musical laugh. I deliberately bumped into her one night and inhaled her perfume. Sandalwood. I remember her smile sent shivers up my spine. Occasionally Isobel would walk, other times she travelled by bus or taxi. She’d spend days in college, then disappear to Waterford. With no set routine, the woman posed me a major challenge.
Midnight, August seventeenth last. Lovely night. I watched her leave Good World Chinese restaurant on Georges Street, and wait at a bus stop. I drove ahead, parked outside her three-story red-bricked building, listened for her heel tap, and timed my walk to the building. I stopped, dug in my pocket for keys. Isobel passed me by, stuck a key in the lock, and I stepped inside with her. I got that smile again before she’d spotted the cloth and gloves, her nose twitching at the sweet scent. I saw the panic in her eyes as she inhaled. I learned it takes chloroform a few minutes to work. That lack of knowledge could have cost me, but I was lucky. Once I got her in the car, the rest was easy. I kept her semi-conscious, and by Monday morning, she’d given up hope. Her look of resignation at the inevitability of death was a powerful drug.
Seven weeks to snag Isobel.
Seven strikes to shatter her skull.
Seven minutes to die.
I bludgeoned her in a shed, but, Jana and Ciara, the good news is, I’m getting better. It only took me one, two, three, four strikes to kill Roberta Lord. Sixty per cent improvement. Another fact I learned is that blows from a wooden mallet are more interesting to study regarding its effect on human skulls. The metal hammer makes a more … decisive impact.
Isobel was also my first observation of blood splatters and how far they travel. Not from the blows, because Jana, you probably don’t know that the brain has no major arteries, but off the metal surface as I battered Isobel’s skull. I studied the effect of each blow, how they dimmed, clouded and quenched the life in her eyes. As a final measure, I forced both her eyelids open, to make sure my face was the final image she’d see, my scent would be on her last breath. I savoured each detail of Isobel’s pulpy flesh and the seeping brain matter that resembled uncooked shrimp, floating in yellow fluid. You see, I enjoy analysing blood. I’m enthralled by its composition, but don’t like to touch it. Can I tell you a secret, ladies? The thought of blood staining my skin revolts me. I was seven. Fascination compelled me to view a neighbour stun, truss and hoist a pig onto a cantilevered girder, ready for slaughter. I can still see the man cutting the pig’s neck, and hear him laugh when the blood gush plastered my clothes and face. I couldn’t move with fear, but I opened my mouth to cry. The revulsion I felt when the pig’s warm sticky blood filled my mouth has never left.
I sat and scrutinised Isobel’s body, spent hours inhaling the coppery smell. Her skin went dirty grey, before it sagged, lost its elasticity and changed to a waxy purple colour. When I tired of the transformation, I doused the corpse with concentrated Paraquat and waited for a reaction. And waited. And waited. After three hours, the herbicide had made no noticeable effect, so when my sense of curiosity subsided, I dumped the body into a new grave close to Monica Flynn. As I was covering the tomb, I remembered a chemistry lesson: when lime—that’s calcium hydroxide—and skin come in contact, the reaction with tissue is fast and furious. Lime speeds up decomposition, destroys traceable DNA, so I sprinkled a bag of builder’s lime on the body. From my vantage point in the field, I’d a three-sixty degree vista. There was no rush.
It took eighty-six minutes for the two compounds to eat through the outer layers of skin on Isobel’s stomach and thighs, and to burn and boil their way across the fatty hypodermis underneath. When I splashed more lime and corrosive liquid on her face, the nose shrank and lips peeled, exposing teeth. Once satisfied I’d destroyed the physical evidence, I closed the grave. Didn’t bother waiting to observe the effects of the Paraquat on her bones. Afterwards, I scrubbed, hosed, sluiced and burned all traces, then repeated the whole process twice more. Wonder how long it’ll take to boil off your skin Jana and Ciara. Eh?
Mid-afternoon
Eilish’s stomach churned.
She turned, twisted an arm, blinked and peered at her watch face.
1:20.
She dialled Ciara. ‘Busy?’
‘Harried. Is that a word? God, I’m catching up on emails, my phone’s hopping, and I’m supposed to relieve Malcolm at the hospital. Last week’s been a crazy muddle. Where are you? I rang you a thousand times. Why didn’t you return my calls?’
‘God,’ Eilish groaned. ‘I’m hungover. Didn’t get back ’til all hours.’
‘Back from where.’
‘Pardon? This signal’s …’
‘I said, back from where?’
‘Oh. Nowhere special. Just out.’
‘Was Hugh with you?’
‘He’s with his mum. She’s home from hospital.’
‘Didn’t know she was … Anything serious?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘Going for a shower.’
‘At home?’ Ciara asked.
‘Hmm-mm.’ Eilish felt queasy again.
‘But ye’re okay?’
‘Sure. Fancy a drink tonight? I’m meeting Tara—’
‘I’d love it, but count me out, I’ll be in Dublin with Dad. You and Hugh … It’s all good, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah. Maybe.’ Eilish switched the mobile to her other ear. ‘It’s the paradox of I love you, I’m leaving.’
‘What? Will you listen to yourself? I thought you’d got … that out of your system.’
‘So did I. It’s not that simple.’ Eilish’s free hand crumpled the duvet.
‘Chrissake, Eilish, grow up. Cop yourself on. You’re still in touch with Richard, aren’t you?’
‘I … No. We’re—’
‘Liar! You’re full of crap. I know you’ve met him. Jill’s been on the phone, bawling her eyes out. Richard isn’t answering his mobile either. Weird how you were both incommunicado last night. Jesus, why the hell do I even bother? Hah. You were with him, weren’t you? And now you want to meet Tara and me for a night out without Richard, so you can dispel rumours from any gossipmongers. I bet you’re not home. I’d stake my house you’re with him now.’
Eilish heard the shower turn off. ‘I’ve gotta go—’
‘God, Eilish, you’re so transparent. I can read you—’
‘Tara asked me—’
‘Handy alibi, and so bloody obvio
us, Eilish. You’re a great one to twist things around and put yourself in a favourable light to justify your selfish behaviour.’
‘I never … When did I ever—?’
‘Gimme a break, willya? Where do you want me to begin?’
Eilish’s voice dropped. ‘I think I’m—’
‘And I think you’re self-centred. Spoilt rotten. No consideration for anybody except yourself.’
‘You don’t appreciate the—’
‘Appreciate? Appreciate what?’
‘My pain. The stress—’
‘Aww, dear Jesus, Eilish. That’s enough. I’m up to my neck in stress too.’
‘Fine. I’ll call you.’ The hotel en suite door opened.
‘Fine. Cheers for asking ’bout Dad. He’s well improved, by the way.’
‘Oh, how’s Char—?’
Ciara hung up.
-----
Tristin Reed ushered his visitors to the National Gallery’s private viewing rooms. Distinguished, flowing silver hair parted in the middle, he wore glasses, a pin-striped suit and a polka-dot bow tie. Dorothy passed him the painting.
‘Ah, yes. Exquisite piece. 1920s.’ Tristin inspected the canvas. ‘I believe the setting was a farm that belonged to McKelvey’s in-laws, near Bessbrook in County Armagh. The two children were relatives.’
‘Well?’ Dorothy had the nervous anticipation of a child in Disney World. She coughed, exhaling eucalyptus flavoured vapour.
‘It will take a few moments to confirm its genuineness, Madam.’ Tristin laid the frame on a desk. ‘At first sight, the brushwork in the sky is … mmm, curious.’
‘Curious how?’
‘These even strokes in a pattern?’ Tristin pointed out an area. ‘And here? There’s evidence someone touched up the canvas. The pattern of the strokes doesn’t follow the image of the painting. Typical of a reproduction. I’m looking for the confident marks, the swoops, if you will, of an artist with the picture in mind before committing it to canvas, and, I’m afraid they’re not here. Arthur Conan Doyle called it “the sweep of a master’s brush.” May I have your permission to remove the frame?’
‘Yes.’
Tristin levered out the brads lose and examined them. ‘Hmm. These aren’t original—’
‘Is the painting original? I’ve got William Rodman’s receipt.’ Dorothy delved into a shoulder bag and showed an envelope to the art historian. ‘What else do you need?’
Tristin smiled. ‘My experience, Madam. Just my experience. Art owners, who acquaint themselves only with artists’ names, often get fooled. It’s imperative that buyers consider the artist’s brush strokes, their favourite subject matters, location of signatures, the sizes and formats they work in, and so on. Likewise, mediums and materials should get due consideration, plus, how it’s mounted, titled, numbered, framed and displayed. Also, what gallery the artist uses, supplier tags and labels the painting is liable to include.’
The women crowded closer.
Tristin put the frame aside. ‘Once we examine any piece in this comprehensive manner, they’re unique, similar to fingerprints. For forgers, there’s an unfeasible amount to duplicate. It’s not conceivable to deceive experts with experience of art analysis. Doesn’t stop the crooks trying though. Nowadays, with photography advances …’ He shrugged, opened a drawer, produced a portable ultraviolet fluorescent cylinder, and studied the canvas. ‘McKelvey painted this piece between 1916 and 1920.’ The art historian frowned, touched the painting, hummed and murmured to himself, absorbed in his world. ‘The original would contain a network of spider-web surface cracks … Hmm.’ He straightened, expression resigned. ‘I’m sorry, Madam, this is a photo. Printed on tea-stained canvas to give it an aged appearance.’
‘Sharona said that too.’
‘Sharona must have had an excellent tutor.’ Tristin winked at Sharona, then turned back to the painting. ‘Somebody daubed paint on the photo to give the surface depth. The paint has a rubbery texture, consistent with acrylic, which only came onto the market in the 1940s. Popular nowadays because it’s quick drying. This area,’ Tristin gestured at the children in the painting, ‘almost faultless. And here?’ He rubbed a thumb across the top of the canvas. ‘There’s hesitation in the paint application; not the confident sweep I mentioned.’ Tristin picked up a lighted magnifying glass and inspected the picture once more. ‘Madam, I’m certain it’s a photograph, with traces of paint applied to make it appear genuine. Commissioned, I'd say, within the last few days. Acrylic influences the appearance of paintings and makes it easier to achieve an exact cleanness, but it doesn’t have the same richness that McKelvey … Yes, it’s a fake. A complete and utter banger.’
Dorothy turned to Sharona. ‘Shouldn’t have doubted you.’ She stood in a boxer’s stance; shoulders tucked in, fists clenched. ‘My beautiful McKelvey … stolen. Robbed. They’ve defrauded me. Burgled by those—’
Tristin removed his spectacles. ‘I can give you a written assessment.’
‘Yes, please. I’ll pass it onto the PSNI. Then I’ll sue Hattinger’s. I’ll tell you this: they won’t know what hit them.’
‘In that case, Madam, may I suggest you take my letter to the PSNI Art and Antique section? I’ll give you names. Now, I need background information. Where you stored it, who handled it, who found it …’
Dorothy dictated. Tristin wrote in longhand and signed the letter with a flourish.
‘I can’t believe this happened right under my nose,’ Dorothy said. ‘If it weren’t for Sharona, I’d be none the wiser.’
‘Oh, no doubt Madam, you’d have found—’
‘Yes, but by then I mightn’t remember who was … Does this occur often?’
‘Genuine art and fakes have coexisted for a thousand years,’ Tristin said. ‘Impeccable duplications get uncovered every week. Allegedly even Michelangelo had a dark past as a forger before becoming one of our greatest artists. So, yes, for centuries, replicas have hung in galleries, either by ignorance or in full awareness of them being forgeries.’
Sharona said: ‘You called it “infecting the market,” I remember.’
Tristin smiled. ‘Art fascinates me. Auctioned pieces can sell from a few euro to a few hundred million, or get bought in charity shops for fifty cent. At times, the charity shop unveils a priceless original, and the expensive auction piece turns out to be rubbish. Nobody wants to be the dunce with a dud, so, if the owner can sell it on without a fuss …’
‘Another fool’s landed with the flop,’ Dorothy said.
Tristin squinted at her. ‘Correct, Madam.’
‘How much is my McKelvey worth in today’s market?’
‘At an auction? A hundred thousand euro. If it’s stolen on demand? Maybe forty.’
‘It isn’t for sale. Never will be. I’d slice my arm off before … Memories are worth more than money. Those blackguards—’
‘Is McKelvey a popular artist for forgers?’ Sharona asked Tristin.
‘This is the second I’ve handled. McKelvey poses a challenge. Claude Monet, on the other hand, is a particular favourite with copiers,’ Tristin explained. ‘He applied loose brush strokes, and later in life when he developed cataracts, the paintings became opaque. Quite straightforward to copy.’
‘Who’s the most difficult to forge, if I want to be sure of buying a genuine article?’ Dorothy asked.
‘You’d need deep pockets, Madam. DaVinci perhaps. There are only fifteen known completed works in existence, so anything pertaining to him gets deemed a forgery until categorically proven otherwise. But in my opinion? Rembrandt. Not those painted by his students. Genuine Rembrandts are the most challenging to forgers.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s much more to a Rembrandt than what we see on the surface. He painted scenes back-to-front, adding layers of colour and texture as he progressed. For example, if he worked on a landscape, let’s say a mountain shrouded in mist, he’d paint the whole mountain first, and incorporate the mist later. Layer on
layer. With people, he’d begin with underclothes and then outer garments. Nowadays, we use imaging methods to scan under the various levels of paint and pencil, to decipher how artists produced masterpieces. So, yes, that level of detail is exceedingly intricate, and impossible to replicate because a photograph can’t layer …’
They promised to keep in touch, and the women walked to a coffee shop on Nassau Street.
‘Now what?’ Sharona asked.
‘Now,’ Dorothy rooted for her mobile. ‘I’ll ring Herbert Park to make sure Ewan Plenderleith is directing the final touches for tonight’s fundraiser. I’m sorry now I twisted Ambrose Hattinger’s arm into buying tickets. Then tomorrow, I can’t wait to see the blue skies of Ulster again and involve the PSNI in this despicable scam. They’ll want your statement too. To think I trusted those villains for years and they repay my generosity by taking me for a senile old sucker who wouldn’t notice a forgery. How dare they even consider fooling me? We’ll see ’bout that. When I get Ambrose, I’ll … I won’t be responsible for what I’ll do to him. And you must oversee the revaluing of all my artwork. It’s possible they’ve planted other fakes. Hattinger’s will pay dearly.’
‘I wouldn’t mention anything for the moment, Dorothy. What if he’s innocent? After all, it was Jana who catalogued your collection and managed to “find” the forgery. She could say she went out of her way to help you and didn’t know it was a copy.’
‘Hmm.’ Dorothy popped a cough lozenge. ‘Tristin said that fake was less than a week old. Apart from Hattinger’s people, no one else has been around. She knew, and as Ambrose Hattinger is a director, ignorance of facts is no defence. Don’t worry, in the cold light of day, I’ll keep my gob shut ’til the time’s right.’
‘I’ll go home and pick up clothes for tonight,’ Sharona scrolled through her mobile. ‘There’s a train to Athlone—’
‘You’ll do no such thing, dear. I’m a friend of Louise Kennedy. Her boutique’s around the corner in Merrion Square. Have you visited it?’
