Blood Rights

by Kelly Clayton

  She flung the door open and simultaneously flicked the light switch, flooding the room with an amber glow. Richard Grainger faced her, shock on his face. “Chloe, I thought you were staying at the manor with Jessica.”

  “I can see that. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Look, this isn’t what you think. I can explain it.”

  There was silence for a moment. Richard wasn’t quite so together as usual. His hair was dishevelled, his clothes mismatched, and she could smell stale alcohol even from across the room.

  “I’m waiting.”

  “I need Eva’s laptop.”

  “Why? Is that a husband’s prerogative?”

  “Ah, word gets out, although I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

  “So, you were married to Eva all the time you were flirting with Jessica? Classy.”

  “It was harmless.”

  “You were snogging. I saw you.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “I hate to say this, but that was all Jessica. She lunged at me, and I couldn’t move away in time.”

  She had to grudgingly concede that she wouldn’t put it past her sister to try such a trick. “I couldn’t care less. Funny, though, that you think Kurt would have cared more about his ex-wife’s love life than the apparent infidelity from his current one.”

  “I need the laptop. I’ll take it and go. No one needs to know.”

  “I’m supposed to be sorting out Eva’s work commitments. I think the guys will notice if I don’t do anything.”

  “I’ll bring it back to you tomorrow.”

  She considered this, took in his wan expression and frantic eyes. “I don’t think so.” With that, she reached out and grabbed his bag from the floor. His hand shot out, and he managed to catch the long shoulder strap, pulling the satchel—and her—towards him.

  “Don’t screw with me, Chloe. I need to do this.”

  He was shouting, and she replied in style. “Leave it. Go now, and I won’t tell anyone you’ve been here.”

  “You don’t understand. I need that laptop. Please.” His words, almost screamed, were not pleading in the slightest. More a demand. She pulled at the bag and, stepping back, caught her foot on the base of a low stool. She tumbled to the floor but didn’t let go of the bag. If anything, she held on tighter. Her fisted hand was aching, but she would not give up. Richard landed beside her on the floor. He shoved her roughly and elbowed her in her side. A sharp pain shot through her as she doubled over. “Shit, Chloe. I am so sorry. But I’m desperate.”

  “What the hell for? What is so important?”

  “I can’t tell you. I can’t.”

  He moved towards the back door. She could see now that the glass pane was broken. That was how he’d got in. He tracked her gaze. “I had no choice. I’ll pay for that.”

  The door burst open, and two police ran in. Chloe saw a third person hovering behind them. Her landlady.

  The older policeman spoke first, “As they say, sir, crime doesn’t pay, but criminals invariably do.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Le Claire kept spare clothes at the station and headed there straight from the airport. He quickly showered, changed and called a team meeting.

  “Before we debrief on the London trip, does anyone have any updates?”

  Vanguard stepped forward. “Yes. We have a lot on at the moment, with multiple scenes to review, analyse and decipher. The team finished going over Susan Jones’s property late last night. The remit was to go through all paperwork and find any connection to Kurt or Eva Englebrook.”

  “And did they?” Le Claire was hopeful.

  “Oh, yes. The team are thorough and went through drawers, boxes and some suitcases. They found a folder filled with paperwork. The papers contain an affidavit from a Bahamas lawyer that states the marriage of Kurt and Jessica was invalid, together with printouts of emails between Kurt and the lawyer.”

  “Susan knew about the marriage. Is that why she called Jessica? Let’s follow up on that line.” He indicated the centre of the room. “Dewar, yesterday was your show, so give us a quick recap.”

  She blushed a little as she addressed the team. She’d need to quit that habit soon.

  “I met with several purchasers of paintings from Englebrook. The story was pretty much the same. They had paid substantially less than the market value for the artwork and in return promised to keep their ownership of the painting quiet until Englebrook’s death.”

  Masters piped up, “Why the hell would they agree to that? They have a painting, but they can’t tell anyone they own it. That’s ridiculous. I’d be shouting it from the rooftops.”

  Le Claire uncharitably thought that perfectly summed up Masters. “There’s a thriving black market for stolen paintings. Many collectors want to own the piece; they want to know they possess it. They’re not concerned about anyone else knowing they have it. Their knowledge and satisfaction are enough.”

  He could tell from Master’s face that he wasn’t ever going to buy into that less-showy behaviour.

  Dewar said, “That’s right. No one I spoke to was concerned about the terms. Although many of them have homes in the UK, they are also located internationally and would display the paintings privately at one of their other homes. They got a relative bargain. Englebrook pocketed the money for whatever he needed, which we believe is connected to his business. He was adding additional funds to support expansion.”

  “I guess he also got to pull a fast stunt on his ex-wife.”

  Everyone looked at Le Claire. “If you think about it, Eva was always going to inherit the artwork, but it’s now going to be worth substantially less than she would have envisaged. He mentioned this to one of the buyers.”

  Hunter said, “I guess Englebrook didn’t do anything wrong, though. He was selling something that belonged to him for a price he was happy with, and whether to save face or not, he had fakes placed in his own collection.”

  Le Claire was pleased Hunter was growing in confidence. “Yes, that’s right. But let’s not forget something else. Dr Rensburg analysed the Picasso from the Englebrook collection, together with the painting that the Unsworth-Murphy family had investigated and analysed. Both paintings are fakes. And that means a forgery was passed off as an original.”

  Masters said, “So if Englebrook put fakes in his own collection and passed a fake on to the buyer, where’s the original?”

  “That’s an excellent question, and one we don’t have the answer to yet. However, Rensburg analysed both paintings. In her opinion, there is no doubt each fake was created by a different artist.”

  Dewar said, “So we have two forgers.”

  “Either that or, for some reason, two different styles. But we need to try and find what happened to the original paintings. Because that could point us in the direction of who is behind this.”

  Dewar was solemn. “But could they also be behind the deaths of Kurt and Susan and the attack on Eva?”

  Masters said, “But Susan never owned the artwork. Why would the killer want her dead?”

  “No,” Hunter said, “but she had the contracts in her possession.”

  Le Claire had to agree. It was a connection. “The land has been our primary focus, but let’s look at the art as a motive as well. Our forgers may be part of this. Kurt starts out by simply attempting to conceal the fact that he is substituting his original art for fakes—good forgeries, but not brilliant.”

  Dewar said, “Good enough to fool the casual viewer of the collection, but not necessarily a deeper analysis. Soon he gets the idea of switching the sold original for another fake, a much better one.”

  “He gets the money, no one knows he’s offloaded the paintings, so he saves face, and he keeps the original neatly tucked away somewhere.”

  Hunter’s innocence shone through. “Why would he do that? I’m assuming he wouldn’t sell it twice?”

  Dewar said, “Why not? He sells low, certainly beneath market value, and the sale contrac
ts stipulate that the buyer can’t openly declare their ownership until after Kurt’s death.”

  Le Claire couldn’t help a burst of pride at her insight. To be a good detective, you had to be able to think like a criminal, or at least understand their twisted reckoning.

  Masters lounged by the window, and his voice carried across the room. “I still don’t get that. Why would you want to own a valuable piece of art and not be able to display it?”

  Le Claire was suddenly glad of the research he’d done a few days ago. “Usually, provenance is all-important in art ownership. That’s the trail a painting leaves from being created, and perhaps originally shown, through its various owners until the present day. It’s important if you want to sell it on. Blue Mood Woman has its provenance in place, so after Kurt’s death, it could be disposed of as an original piece. During his lifetime, the new owner could display it in their home or maybe a private room that few had access to. Even if someone saw it, would they really have enough knowledge to know the original was supposedly held in the Englebrook collection? There are countless tales of usually upstanding art collectors buying paintings that had been stolen by the Nazis during the war, knowing they were stolen, and being content to secretly own them. It usually all comes tumbling down when the buyer dies, as we see with the Unsworth-Murphy case.”

  Dewar said, “Are we going about this the wrong way? Maybe the buyer didn’t feel that way. Could Kurt have been killed to allow someone to display the artwork? I know it seems a bit lame, but sometimes a motive isn’t based on rational thought.”

  “True, and as we said, Susan James did have the contracts. And Eva owned the collection. I don’t know why that would make someone want to get rid of them, given that they only needed Kurt to be dead to proclaim themselves as the owners of the art. But let’s not disregard this line.”

  Masters asked, “So how do we track down the forgers?”

  Le Claire motioned to Hunter. “Go through Kurt’s financial records again. Do a deep dive. There has to be something there.”

  The door opened, and a young PC slunk into the room, heading straight towards him. She held out a folded piece of paper. “A Dr Rensburg called for you, sir. When advised that you were in a meeting, she sent an email and asked that you receive a copy immediately. I have it here.” She handed across the piece of paper. Her hand shook a little. He knew what it was like to be at the bottom of the chain, but then again, the only way was up.

  “Thank you.” He unfolded the paper, scanned the message and smiled. “It seems we may have caught a break. I need to call her straight away.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The police had taken Richard away in their van, and Chloe immediately packed a small bag and drove to the manor. She hadn’t been scared of Richard, just irritated. Whatever was on the laptop was something he was desperate to get his hands on. Now it was with the police. His problem, not hers. She’d given a statement of the facts. He was on his own now. In any event, Eva had set an automatic backup of her data to the cloud, so she’d be able to access whatever work docs she needed via her own computer.

  She’d let herself in quietly and headed straight to her room. Her temples throbbed and adrenalin pumped, but she swiped a glass of wine on her way past the kitchen and had been soothed to sleep. She awoke with the sun; she’d left the blinds open, and slats of light danced across the room. Her hand reached out and caressed the smooth covers. Her first thought, strong and almost overpowering, was that she hadn’t been alone last time she’d been in this bed. A treacherous thought crept to the fore; was there a chance for them? She knew this was terrible timing, but it was simple. Riley had either dropped his guard and expressed his genuine emotions, or, at the worst time in his life, he’d sought comfort in a friendly face and willing body. She hoped it was the former, but the darkness in her expected the latter. She shouldn’t have slept with him, but if she was honest with herself, she’d been on fire for Riley Jones for longer than she could remember. She hadn’t stood a chance.

  She looked around the room. It had been hers for a long time, but she guessed she’d soon have to give it up. Eva would surely get better, and she wouldn’t want Jessica hanging around, nor would the boys. Chloe knew they’d both be happy for her to stay close to them, but Eva would probably want her out of the way. She’d probably look for a new apartment. Last night was a catalyst shining a torch on everything she hated about the place. She still had a load of stuff left here. It would have to come with her or go in the bin. The fitted wardrobes were filled with clothes, and a walk-in cupboard stuffed with memories. She pushed herself from the bed and opened the closet. She expected to find the few boxes she had already packed when she’d first got her own place but never had the time or space to take them with her. But she found more than that—a lot more.

  ◆◆◆

  Le Claire listened as Rensburg explained the complicated processes they had undertaken to deconstruct the materials in the paintings. The detailed analysis and technical descriptions mostly flew over his head, but one thing was clear. “So, whoever painted the Unsworth-Murphy painting tried to recreate the materials used at the time the original was painted?”

  “Absolutely, no titanium whites here. Great care has been taken to authenticate the work as much as possible. And that will work in favour of your investigation.”

  “Go on.”

  “The Unsworth-Murphys had a detailed analysis carried out. Picasso was long suspected of using ordinary house paint in some of his works. It dried quicker, was easier to apply and gave a smoother finish, exactly as they say in the adverts. A research project was undertaken in 2013 using sample paint pots from the time the original was created. The components exactly matched minute extractions from a Picasso painting to the house paint that was popular at the time. He was also said to have used this in Blue Mood Woman, the painting bought by Louise’s father and yet still purported to be held in the Englebrook collection. Whoever forged these paintings used Ripolin paint, the makeup of which is consistent with the paint available when Picasso painted the original.”

  The hairs on his arms were on edge, and his radar was on full alert. “What should we be looking for in particular?”

  “Ripolin enamel paint that was in existence before 1930, the year Blue Mood Woman was first displayed at a gallery in Paris.”

  “Is this stuff difficult to come by?”

  “Difficult, but not impossible. The 2013 research used Ripolin sample pots found on eBay. The forger is detailed. Both fakes have the stamps, chalk marks and inventory labels that presumably mirror those on the original.”

  “But you previously said we’re looking for two different forgers.”

  “Without a doubt. The fake in the Englebrook collection is good enough on the surface, and some of the right elements were used, but not all. Whoever painted the one owned by Louise’s father is the superior forger.”

  “Thanks. Now I have to work out where to begin.”

  “There is something else. We removed some foreign matter from the Unsworth-Murphy painting.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Any painting will collect some of the matter from its environment—stray fibres, cat hairs, even human hair.”

  “What did you get?”

  “Hair. Human hair.”

  “I’ll get the Met to contact you. We’ll get it collected from you and sent to us by secure courier.”

  This would tell them who had been near the painting before it dried, but would it also reveal the forger and, potentially, the killer?

  ◆◆◆

  Chloe stared at her sister. “What the hell are you playing at?”

  Jessica sat at her dressing table, carefully applying mascara. “What are you talking about?”

  “I stayed here last night. I’ll explain why in a moment. First, you can tell me why the cupboard in my room is jammed with stuff—expensive stuff at that.”

  “I bought a few presents for Kurt. I kept them in there so he w
ouldn’t see them. I didn’t think you’d mind. It’s not as if you stay here that much.”

  “Good try. But I had a look in the boxes and bags you shoved in there. I think Kurt would have been surprised to receive something as a gift that he already owned. Like this.” She waved the small silver box in the air. “I always liked this one. It used to be on the dresser in one of the guest rooms.”

  Jessica stilled, the mascara wand held in mid-air. That obviously struck home.

  Chloe continued, “You could probably get £500 for this down the Portobello Road, maybe a bit less if you wanted a dealer who wasn’t concerned with how you came by it.”

  Jessica rounded on her. “Do you blame me for trying to get some security? After everything that’s happened the last few days? Kurt dying and then finding out that my marriage probably wasn’t legal. How can you blame me for taking a little of what is rightfully mine? Balfour and the Jersey lawyers will try and screw me over. Sure, I should get something. I lived with Kurt for enough time, but now they say I’m not due a share as his widow. Because we weren’t bloody married.” Jessica grabbed an antique hand-mirror from her dressing table and threw it across the room.

  It hit the wall with a loud bang and was clearly now cracked. “You’ll regret that. Without the damage, it would have sold for at least £150. And don’t bullshit me. How long have you been at this? There’s a load of stuff in that cupboard. And I don’t think you moved it all here in the last few days. You also have some of the house art from the storage area in there. They’re worth a pretty penny. Have you been doing this since Kurt told you he was going to divorce you?”