‘I’d have thought it was the whole point The painting is what it is, whoever did it.’ She moved away and I heard her heels on the bare boards as she walked slowly round the room.
Art criticism depends on exactly what I was doing: close study of the painting, in which experience, taste, knowledge of other works by the master and his contemporaries and of the craft of painting are all brought to bear on the quality of the work. But part of my study of perception was on precisely this question: the subjectivity of appreciation, how the eye creates what it sees, how it selects, arranges and interprets, according to pre-formed patterns. The eye is not innocent, it is already committed.
I took my eyes off the face, the central focus of the picture and swept the peripheries of the panel. I stopped at the dark corner where the signature J VER MEER was just visible.
I stood there for a long time. Julian disappeared. The gallery was not crowded. Little groups, couples, teenagers, stood beside me and passed on. Sometimes I was alone, except for my guard clicking her needles, not moving her eyes from my back. I sighed. The visit had tested my reactions once again. The answer to the painting’s origin lay in balancing the provenance, the scientific data, the artistic quality. I had already looked up the controversy of the ’sixties, and Minna’s refutation of the case against it, and I would go over it all again. What I needed was scientific data. It was strange nothing had been done, especially in an institute which had specialised in restoration from its earliest days. I did not rate my chances of persuading Minna to have the painting tested. But, with or without the tests, the problem in essence came to this: it did not feel right to me.
Julian, when I rejoined her, was standing in front of the Pieter van den Bergh’s Courtesan.
‘You’re writing about this one?’
‘I find him interesting. He’s a not-much-admired painter, too facile for modern taste. He could adapt himself to almost any style, and he usually did so at the command of a patron. Though it’s hard to see who would have ordered this one.’
The courtesan lay back on her disordered pillows. Her hair, hanging over her shoulders in a mass of tousled curls, was painted with bold, free brush strokes. Her flesh was tawny, rather than pink, and its curves and folds were rendered joyously in a loose, painterly style, so that its soft palpability was transferred through the eye. You could almost sense its firm and yielding qualities under your fingers. The censorious tone that the Dutch liked to give to such scenes was absent here.
‘A besotted patron, artistic and amorous,’ Julian suggested. ‘She looks like the other one.’
‘Like the Vermeer? There’s no comparison.’
‘Yes, there is. It’s the same woman. It’s just that she’s seen through different eyes.’
Her words astonished me. I had been so concerned with the technical qualities of the work that I had not looked at the model as a person. The position of the head, in profile, was different from that of the Lady in a Pelisse so it was not easy to compare the features. The hair was different. Most telling of all, the moral atmosphere of the Vermeer was a world away from that of the Courtesan. I looked again, trying to school myself to see a person not a painting, a woman not an idea. Julian was moving on, and I followed her.
10
The story of Julian and the Arab princes haunted me. Once again the need to know more about her took hold of me. Because I knew she sometimes feared she was followed, I had the idea of stalking her myself. I had entered her flat without permission, looked at her photos, glanced at her bank statements; to track her was only another stage in my research. I could not afford the time to watch the house all day and see what she did while I was at work, so I chose an evening expedition. Just one, I told myself, a random sample, to give me an idea of how she passed her time when we were not together.
I began with her diary, which I took out of her handbag one night while she was in the bath. The door of the bathroom was ajar, but the noise of Radio Three and of running water combined to cover the sound of my opening of the bag and digging through the detritus that all women carry around with them. Emily’s bag was the history of her life. Julian’s was more rigorously controlled. It contained a make-up pouch, a wallet and cheque book, credit cards, a phone, a pen and notebook, the diary. I opened the soft leather covers and, with instinctive egocentricity, looked for her appointments with me during those first weeks. I featured as N.O.; N.O., 7.30; then as N.: N, 7 Wig. Hall. Looking ahead, I saw for the coming week Monday 12.30,1; Wednesday, 8.30, Fr.
On Monday I waited outside the flat from midday, wondering if she had already left. At a quarter past a taxi drew up outside the house and a few minutes later Julian emerged and got in, holding the back door handle as she spoke to the driver. They moved off round the square and my will failed me. I couldn’t follow a taxi round London. I would lose it within five minutes and during that time Julian, alert to being watched, would have noticed me. I went indoors gloomily and saw from his expression that Victor had seen my odd behaviour. Reason had won, but I felt no better for it.
In the end I followed Julian by mistake. I was returning later than usual on Wednesday, and, as I approached the square, I saw her at the end of the road, unmistakable in her sable coat. She crossed the street and disappeared. I looked at my watch. It was eight twenty-five. Wherever she was expected at eight thirty, it could not be far away if she was going on foot. Because I knew the area, I could keep well back. In Walton Street there were more people about and I felt safer. She was making slower time now, glancing in shop windows. I watched her turn left and, cautiously rounding the corner, I thought I had lost her, for there was no one on either pavement. Then a rectangle of light silhouetted her on a doorstep. She embraced the person who opened the door, a woman, and went in. I walked slowly past, noting the number, 15. I retraced my steps on the other side of the street. From this angle I could see into the basement kitchen where a table was laid for three. A woman’s hands were placing a basket of bread between the wine glasses. I felt elation mingle with my guilt, as if I had proved something. Spying was unpleasant, but it was worth it to be reassured by an innocent evening with a girlfriend.
I arrived home, cheerfully and almost immediately the phone rang and a voice I did not know said, ‘Could I speak to Mrs Ochterlonie?’
I did not explain my mother’s death, simply saying, ‘This is Nicholas Ochterlonie.’
The tone was not that of the academic world, still less of a friend or acquaintance. There was authority in the pronunciation of my name, slightly threatening, which jarred with the ostentatious civility with which the speaker went on.
‘This is Tom Naish of the CID. I wondered if we could have a brief interview.’
I knew at once what it was about. Since meeting Julian, I had had two encounters with the police. It was becoming routine. I began to get out my diary, thinking of when I could fit him in during the next few days.
‘I wondered,’ he was saying, ‘if you’re free, if I could pop in now.’ I looked at my watch and agreed. His arrival was so swift I realised he must have been phoning from his car somewhere nearby. He probably knew I was at home and unoccupied. He must have been watching me, as I had been watching Julian.
He introduced himself again and insisted on showing me his identity card. I offered him coffee or a drink, both of which he refused. He took out a pocket organiser, turned it on and kept his eyes fixed on the screen, giving the impression he was comparing my words with some technologically authenticated version of the truth. His first words were a surprise.
‘I’m making some enquiries about one of your neighbours, a Russian business man called Vozkresensky, and I wondered whether you would be able to help us.’
‘I don’t know anyone called Vozkresensky.’
He looked disappointed, even sceptical. ‘He’s your neighbour.’
‘Maybe, but I’m afraid I don’t know everyone who lives in the blocks of flats around me.’
‘But he lives literally opposite yo
u.’
Now I understood. It was about Julian after all.
‘And you’ve lived here so long, I thought there might be a chance…’
‘I’ve lived here long?’
‘You haven’t? The electoral roll has the name of Ochterlonie since…’
‘My mother. She died last year. I’ve only been here a few months.’
‘And you know nothing about your neighbour, nothing reported to you by your mother? I’m thinking of personal habits that neighbours might know about: noisy parties, rows, loud music, anything at all.’
‘No, nothing like that. The residents around me are so quiet I wouldn’t know if they were there or not.’ Which was true as far as it went.
He snapped shut his organiser. ‘I can see I’ve drawn a blank. But that’s police work. Sorry to have bothered you, sir.’ He stood up.
‘I suppose this is all to do with the break-in?’ I said. I was filling in the time while he got himself ready to leave.
“What break-in’s that?’
‘In the flat opposite.’
‘Mr Vozkresensky’s flat?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I don’t know about any break-in.’ He was looking puzzled and so was I.
‘It was some time ago now, say four weeks. The place was totally wrecked. I assumed you’d come to talk about that.’
He sat down again and his voice was more conciliatory. ‘Perhaps we ought to begin again.’
His call was unrelated to Julian, and I had just revealed her to him. I was uncertain whether to regret this or not. If I had said nothing about the break-in, I would have been rid of him, at least for a time; but I would have learned nothing.
‘Tell me about this burglary next door,’ he was saying.
‘It’ll all be on record. I have the crime number somewhere if you want to find out about it. I gather you are not the local bobby checking up on a minor detail.’
He laughed. ‘Let me give you my card. It’s more informative than an identity document. He passed it to me. Detective Constable Tom Naish CID (Fraud), I read. I held it, studying its terminology, as I described to him the destruction that had been inflicted with such creative energy next door. I said nothing about Julian. I wanted to hear about Mr Vozkresensky, the owner of the flat.
‘How did you come to be enquiring about my mysterious neighbour if you hadn’t heard of this?’ I posed the question before he could ask me to fill in some of the gaps in my story. I had him at a disadvantage. I had revealed a hole in his knowledge and then I had given him, apparently freely, the information he needed. I had some kind of credit, but he was still unwilling to give anything away.
‘I’m afraid I can’t go into detail. We have been alerted to certain aspects of Mr Vozkresensky’s business activities. That’s as much as I can say.’
I had to mention Julian now. He would find out in any case, as soon as he looked up the records of the break-in, and I would look extremely devious if I had said nothing.
‘I should tell you,’ I said to him in the hall, ‘that though I’ve never met or even heard of Mr Vozkresensky before this evening, there was someone living next door, a woman called Julian Bennet.’
He shook my hand firmly and took the stairs to the ground floor. I poured myself a large whisky and wandered with it into our bedroom. I opened cupboard doors, put my hand into the pockets of a jacket. I drew out the drawers of a chest. I was not systematically searching. I was waiting for something to show itself. And it did. On a shelf I found a tortoiseshell jewellery box, unlocked. I lifted the lid as idly, speculatively, as I had opened the cupboard and the drawers and this time I was rewarded, or punished. It contained the dollars, the ones I had seen Julian gathering up on the night of the break-in. On top of them lay a pistol, black, business-like, no lady’s weapon. I did not touch, but just looked at this store before putting it away.
* * *
This visit and my find decided me on two initiatives. One was to learn something about Tom Naish CID (Fraud) and the other was to employ a private detective. I had never called upon the services of such a person before, but I revived from the depths of my memory an account, heard months ago, before I had split up with Emily, of a friend who had a case of industrial espionage in his office. He had described to an enthralled dinner table how the firm he had employed had tracked down the culprit among his employees.
I rang him and asked for his firm of detectives and whether he would recommend them.
‘Obviously, yes. They did a brilliant job for us, but, well, Nick, you know they’re not cheap, not that you’re short of a bob or two, but what I mean is…’
‘What do you mean, Simon?’
‘I’m not sure they’re what you’re looking for. They’ll do marital stuff, but it would be a bit like buying a Rolls-Royce when you need a country runabout.’
‘It’s not for marital business,’ I reassured him. My disagreements with Emily must be known to all the world by now, I thought. ‘It’s something, er, financial. You’ll understand that I can’t say much about it.’
‘Of course, of course. Well, if you want the best and are prepared to pay for it, these are your men. The guy who dealt with us was called Colin, Colin Trevor, or was it Trevor Colin? I’ll look it up and fax you the details.’
I kept the phone number of Colin Trevor on my desk. It was a bit like the key to Julian’s flat. I knew I would use it, but as long as I didn’t, I was innocent of spying. In the meantime, I managed to achieve a little more on my own.
I was invited to lunch at a bank in the City, a networking meeting with no obvious theme to the guests, apart from the fact that we were all old friends of our host. Opposite me at the table was someone I had not seen since our university days together at Edinburgh. He was called Mills-Millais now and worked in the Home Office, although then he had been plain Charles Mills, reading some fashionably sociological subject. It was somewhere in the middle of the smoked salmon that I realised he could help me, which was what such lunches were for. I waited for coffee, until he was unwrapping a chocolate mint, before starting my story of the visit of Tom Naish of the CID. I drew it out a bit, emphasising the suddenness, the lateness of the hour, the mysteriousness of the fellow.
Then I said, ‘I’d really like to know what sort of outfit he’s working for and what they’re investigating. Can you find out for me? It must be the sort of thing that comes within your empire. I don’t want you to tell me anything confidential, naturally. It’s just if one receives a mysterious visit from an agent of some unspecified unit, one likes to know who and what one’s dealing with.’ I handed him Naish’s card. ‘This is who he claims to be.’
People always like to show off their power, and he had all the meticulousness of the bureaucrat. Once the demand was fed into the system, I was sure that a reply would emerge, in time. He made no promise to help, but he put the card away with a small grunt, which I felt was a good sign.
About two days later he called me at my office.
‘I’ve got something on Tom Naish. I don’t know why he was being so uncommunicative. It’s quite hush-hush, but he could still have told you a bit more. It seems that a section was set up in Scotland Yard to deal with economic crime in an international context. It’s called the International Economic Crime Intelligence Unit or IECIU. It’s been going for about three years now. The Americans have been very keen in the last few years to prevent drugs profits from entering the white economy. They’ve forced the Europeans to pass legislation, obliging banks to notify deposits and movements that they suspect might have a drugs-related origin. The unit monitors this sort of thing, but it’s not just drugs-related crime. Its remit is any kind of large-scale international financial scam. It’s such a major problem nowadays that the PM felt that it needed concentrated attention. Is that any good to you?’
‘Excellent. Couldn’t be better. Many thanks. I don’t suppose you discovered what in particular our Mr Naish is working on at present?’
He did
not reply at once. I realised he knew, but was not going to tell me.
“That’s an area we can’t go into. Sorry, Nick. You can see why.’
‘Indeed. Thanks for all you’ve done.’
I put down the receiver and looked for Colin Trevor’s number. If Mills-Millais wouldn’t tell me, someone else would. The information was there. Somewhere there were traces of Julian Bennet and Vozkresensky. I stopped. The cufflinks: AФ. Surely, if Vozkresensky was Anatoli, the Cyrillic monogram would have been AB? So Vozkresensky was perhaps the other one, the sleeper. For some reason, I nursed a hostility to that invader of Julian’s bed that I did not feel towards the smiling, moustachioed figure in the photograph. Colin Trevor would find all this out for me.
We met the next day in his office in a modern building near Blackfriars. I was suffering from residual unease, determinedly suppressed, about spying. The clinically orderly offices, with their silent, blinking screens and glass partitions reassured me. There was a combination of light and silence. Nothing could be heard, everything could be seen. It was at once open and unsleazy and private. Colin Trevor sat opposite me behind his desk, in his shirt sleeves, like an accountant or a management consultant. What I was doing was perfectly normal.
I explained I wanted to find out anything I could about Miss Julian Bennet and Mr Vozkresensky and Anatoli, who might be Mr Anatoli Vozkresensky. I stipulated very carefully that I did not want any attempt made to follow Miss Bennet. I had already seen Julian frightened by this possibility and I did not want to make her more nervous, still less to discover that I was spying on her.
Colin Trevor had the fresh face of a twenty-two-year-old, which was probably a disadvantage to someone approaching forty. He was, nonetheless, business-like, emotionless. He must have cultivated his manner to defuse the rage and anxiety and tension that routinely filled his office. He explained his firm’s system of charging and the length of time he would expect his enquiry to take.
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