“Excuse me,” Harry said to his companions. “Save some of that Arsenault for me.”
• • •
Outside in the corridor, Harry could only give the same response. “I don’t know where he is,” Harry said, though he had noticed even in his drunken haze that Sarah Jane was missing from the party too. He immediately put two and two together and figured the worst. “He might be in his office?” Harry suggested. “Doing some paperwork?” he added feebly. “I’ll try calling his mobile.” If Sarah Jane was with him, as Harry strongly suspected she would be, Nat would almost certainly need a moment to compose himself.
“No need. Let’s just go straight to his office,” said Detective Simpson.
Harry had no choice but to lead the policemen down the stairs. He felt like a Judas, though he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as though he could have refused to take the policemen to Nat’s office. And, in any case, perhaps they just wanted to see Nat on a routine matter. Though what on earth could that “routine matter” be? It had to have something to do with the Trebarwen fakes.
“This is it,” said Harry, pausing outside the big wooden door with its highly polished brass nameplate. Nathaniel Wilde. Such proud letters. Without knocking, Detective Simpson pushed the door open. And froze …
“And this is what they call a double Windsor,” Sarah Jane was saying. She was standing on Nat’s desk, in nothing but her red-soled shoes and his tie. Nat was sitting in his chair, leaning back as far as he could to get the best view of Sarah Jane’s Brazilian.
“Oh my God,” said Detective French, the female detective. She immediately turned away. The two male detectives and Harry Brown were transfixed as Sarah Jane gyrated to Barry White’s “Sho’ You Right,” which was belting out of the CD player in the corner of the room. Nat too was completely absorbed. The song had finished before he or Sarah Jane noticed that they had visitors.
“Ahem.” Detective Simpson coughed before Barry White could launch into “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love.”
The police allowed Nat and Sarah Jane a few moments of privacy to compose themselves before they got down to their official business. When Sarah Jane emerged looking as red as the soles of her Louboutins, she was sent back to the party.
“I’ll be there in a moment or two,” said Nat. “Save me some champagne.”
But Nat would not be back at the party that night. Closing the door so that he would be less likely to be overheard, Detective Simpson delivered the speech that Nat had hitherto only heard in television dramas.
“You do not have to say anything—”
“There’s been some kind of mistake,” said Nat, although deep down he knew that there hadn’t.
CHAPTER 68
Bloody Trebarwen. Nat should have known that idiot Julian would cock things up for the pair of them.
The moment Nat had seen the painting of the suspension bridge, he had known that something wasn’t quite right. But his desire to make a quick buck had overridden his professional faculties. Once he’d had Julian over a barrel and the promise of a commission from the profits, Nat had forgotten to ask himself whether the fake would get past everybody else. Of course the subject had been wrong. He knew that now.
And then Lizzy, bloody Lizzy, had been on the case. Maybe he could have kept her quiet. Perhaps he should have brought Lizzy in on the secret and held off fucking Sarah Jane until Lizzy had found herself someone else to take her mind off him. For it was undoubtedly her going to John Ludbrook that had made this moment inevitable.
Nat hadn’t intended to go so far as murder. He had used Sarah Jane’s mobile phone to call Julian and request a meeting. They’d met at the Dove, a quiet pub on the riverbank in Hammersmith. Nat had wanted to hammer out a new deal. Julian needed to say that he had been working alone. Nat was facing the end of a thirty-year career over this.
“Come on, Ju,” he said. “Neither of us has to go down. You just finger the forger. I can collaborate with you and explain that it’s easy to see why you were fooled. I’ve got thirty years’ experience and I didn’t spot the fakes. You brought the paintings to me in good faith. But you have to say where you got them.”
“I can’t do that,” said Julian.
“What do you mean you can’t? You have to. If you hand in the forger, then neither of us has committed an offense. There’s no crime in being duped. Where did you get them, Julian? Did you actually have them painted to order?”
A micro-expression on Julian’s fat face told Nat that Julian had indeed instructed the creation of the works. In that knowledge, Nat saw a way out. A way of making it seem that he and Julian were the victims of this whole mess.
“I can’t tell you where I got the paintings,” said Julian. “I promised.”
“You promised? Fuck’s sake. You’re going to go to prison.”
“Or maybe you are. I’m not an art expert,” said Julian. “I brought them to you for evaluation. You should have told me they were moody and refused to take them on.”
“My judgment failed me.”
“Three times?”
“You fucker, Trebarwen. If you think I’m going to lose my job and possibly my liberty to save your mystery painter … Tell me the fucking name.”
The pub was about to close. One of the bar staff was moving around the floor, collecting glasses. She edged nearer to Nat and Julian, keen to retrieve their empty glasses, but was put off by their heated tones. Nat caught her eye and gestured to Julian that they should pause for a moment.
“We’re closing up now, guys,” she said.
“Let’s go,” Nat said to Julian. “We’ll continue this discussion outside.”
They walked along the embankment. The conversation continued in the same vein, with Nat insisting that the only way to save both their skins was to place the blame firmly with the forger, and Julian resisting the idea like he was some Second World War hero facing the gestapo.
“Fuck all this bloody honor shit, Trebarwen. Who the hell is it?”
“I’ll never give you her name.”
“Ah,” said Nat. “A woman. You must be fucking her.”
Julian winced. “She didn’t want to get into this. It was an accident. She painted that picture for my mother. The one of the two dogs. You attributed it to Delapole and it went for twenty-five grand.”
Now Nat winced to think he had genuinely thought that painting to be the real thing. They stepped onto Hammersmith Bridge, still arguing.
“She’s got a kid, Nat. She’s on her own. I talked her into it, and I swore I would keep her out of trouble.”
“Just tell me her fucking name. Tell me her fucking name!”
“I will not.” Julian grabbed Nat by the collar and spat the words into his face. “You absolute shit.”
“Me a shit? You’re the one who got her into this.”
“And I want to keep her out of it.”
“Too late. Should have thought of that before you got me involved. Now, would you do me the favor of taking your hands off my lapels? You are creasing them.”
Julian let go of Nat’s lapels, but he wasn’t about to let go of the fight. He swung at Nat’s head, connecting with his cheekbone.
“I wouldn’t start that if I were you,” said Nat. “I boxed for Oxford.”
“Fuck off.”
Julian chanced another slug in Nat’s direction. Though he hadn’t put on the gloves for thirty years, Nat was pleased to discover that he still knew what he was doing. He avoided Julian’s flailing punches effortlessly, while delivering several of his own that went straight to the mark.
Pretty soon Julian, who had not been making much effort to keep himself in shape, was panting. Nat pummeled him until Julian barely had enough breath to beg for mercy.
“You had enough?” Nat asked.
“Yes,” said Julian. “Ye-sssss.” The word came out like the hiss of a punctured bicycle tire. His bottom lip was badly split. Julian put his hand to his nose. It was pointing in a different direction from usual.
“You see,” said Nat proudly. “No one messes with Nat Wilde.”
“Oh shut the fuck up, you old Etonian arse-wipe.”
Seconds later, Julian was sailing backward over the side of the bridge and into the river.
Nat hadn’t expected Julian to drown. He’d thrown him into the river to teach him a lesson. No one took the name of Nat’s alma mater in vain. Nat thought that Julian would pop up spluttering and contrite and head for the bank, and that would be it. He’d watched over the side of the bridge for a while. He hadn’t seen Julian come up, but he didn’t worry. It was dark. The water was black. Julian was out there somewhere, doing the doggy paddle.
“I didn’t know he couldn’t swim,” said Nat to the officer who interviewed him. “I mean, everybody can swim, can’t they?”
“Regardless of whether or not he was able to swim, Mr. Trebarwen was in no fit state to get himself out of the Thames at high tide. He had several broken ribs.”
There was no point in Nat’s pretending he hadn’t been there. The girl who worked at the Dove had called the police when she’d seen a photograph of Julian Trebarwen in the paper. She said she had seen him earlier on the night he’d died, in a heated row with another man. She later identified Nat from a photo in press coverage of the Ricasoli sale.
“I remember him,” she said, “because he tried to chat me up while he was waiting for the dead guy to arrive. I thought he was a right old sleaze.”
The best Nat could hope for was that a jury would accept that Julian’s death was an accident. Sure Nat had trained as a boxer, but he wasn’t given to violence unless provoked. Julian had been more than a match for him in size and weight.
“I didn’t know he couldn’t swim,” Nat said again and again. Though gradually it came to make sense. Like his brother, Mark “Chubby” Trebarwen, Julian had been a fat kid back when fat kids were far less common. He hadn’t wanted to go swimming with the rest of the boys because they’d teased him so mercilessly about the rolls of blubber around the waistband of his shorts. His mother, Louisa, had collaborated, telling the PE teacher that Julian had a weak chest and couldn’t sit around in the cold and the wet. So while the rest of his classmates grew up knowing how to keep afloat at the very least, Julian never learned how.
Nat looked at his long-fingered hands, which were clutching a white plastic cup full of undrinkable coffee. There was no hint that those hands had been able to kill.
“Am I going to be charged with his murder?” Nat asked his solicitor.
“I’ll go for manslaughter,” the solicitor said.
CHAPTER 69
Nat’s arrest and subsequent charge of manslaughter turned the fine art department at Ludbrook’s upside down, totally overshadowing the Ricasoli sale. About a month after the arrest, John Ludbrook himself asked to see Lizzy.
“I feel I owe you an apology, Lizzy,” said John. “It’s clear that I underestimated you. With someone as brash as Nat Wilde heading up the department, it wasn’t always easy to see who was actually doing the work. I’ve been talking to the directors. It’s time you realized your potential. We’d like to make you acting head of department with a view to taking the position on on a permanent basis once we have discovered what our obligations are with regard to Nat.”
Lizzy said she would be delighted to give the position her consideration. But it wasn’t the only position she had to choose from right then.
That evening, Lizzy had a dinner date at Scott’s. She took great care with her appearance. Even more than she had done when she had first started her affair with Nat. She was rewarded for her efforts.
“That is a fantastic dress,” said Carrie Klein. “Where did you get it?”
Lizzy beamed. “Oh, this is just some old thing,” she lied. She’d bought it from Amanda Wakeley earlier that afternoon. It was more than she had ever spent on a single piece of clothing, but Lizzy had decided that it was time to change her image. To sharpen up with style. The fact that Carrie Klein approved was a very good sign.
“As you know,” said Carrie, “I have been watching you very closely since I came to London. And everything I’ve seen or heard about you—with the exception of the obvious …”
Lizzy rolled her eyes at this coded mention of Nat.
“Everything has left me very impressed.”
“Thank you.”
“You know what you’re doing and you care about getting things right. I can see why Ludbrook’s wants you at the helm of their fine art department.”
“How did you know?” The offer was supposed to be top secret.
“Nothing escapes my notice for very long. Have you accepted the offer?”
“Not yet,” said Lizzy.
“Good. Because I would like to make you a better one. Forget Ludbrook’s, Lizzy. It’s a dinosaur. Come to Ehrenpreis and work with me. I’ll match any offer they’ve made you to be my head of fine art.”
For the first time, Lizzy found herself lying awake because of a lovely dilemma. Ludbrook’s or Ehrenpreis. Where would she go? Carrie’s offer had been astonishing. But how should she choose? Ludbrook’s was the bigger house. Being head of the fine art department there was a position of bigger responsibility. But Ehrenpreis was growing fast, and Lizzy wondered if she might not have more freedom to do things her own way with Carrie Klein.
The following morning, she called Carrie as she walked into Ludbrook’s for her last day as second in command of the fine art department.
“You made your mind up quickly,” said Carrie. “I knew you would. When can you start?”
“I start tomorrow,” said Lizzy. “But not at Ehrenpreis.”
“What?” Carrie exclaimed. “I must have offered you twice as much money.”
“I appreciate that,” said Lizzy. “But you know yourself that the money isn’t really what matters to me right now. I want to make my mark on this world and I’m not sure that I could do it in your shadow. Because the thing is, I don’t think I could be entirely in your shadow. I believe I could go head-to-head with you sooner than you think.”
Carrie was shocked but impressed.
“Brave words,” she said. “And I’ll let you take them back if you want to.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Lizzy.
“Well,” Carrie sighed. “What can I say? I hope you won’t blame me for making my offer.”
“I’m flattered. And I hope you aren’t too offended by my refusal.”
Carrie assured Lizzy that she wasn’t. Perhaps she had patronized the girl by expecting her to take a second-in-command position at Ehrenpreis rather than the top job at Ludbrook’s, with the chance to learn from Carrie as the bait.
“I’m sure we’ll see plenty of each other over the coming years as we compete over sales,” said Carrie.
“Yes,” said Lizzy, “and may the best woman win.”
That afternoon, Lizzy conducted her first sale since the Trebarwen debacle. The bimonthly Ludbrook’s old masters sale. Moments before the auction was to start, Olivia asked her whether she truly felt she was ready.
“We’ll all do our best to support you,” she said. “But none of us knows how to read a room like Nat did.”
“I might,” Lizzy said, and smiled.
Where once she would have panicked to know that Nat wasn’t there in the background, ready to prompt her, now she was glad to look out over that room and not have to see his face. She was on her own, and it felt great.
She didn’t need Nat. In actual fact she had never really needed him, but somehow her confidence had become wrapped up in his approval of her, his desire. His influence had started to wane the day she’d seen him fucking Sarah Jane, but it was only as she stood at the block in the auction room and addressed the crowd that Lizzy knew for sure he no longer had any hold on her at all. A good job, she thought. She had no desire to go visiting a mentor in prison.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” she welcomed the crowd. “My name is Lizzy Duffy and I am head of Ludbrook’s Old
Masters and Nineteenth-Century department.”
It was to be a very special afternoon.
“Lot twenty-four. A small painting of a horse by George Stubbs. Do I have one million pounds?”
Lizzy did.
“One million pounds.”
As she said the words, she couldn’t keep the smile from her face. It was her first seven-figure sale.
John Ludbrook was there to congratulate her in person when she stepped down from the block.
“How did it feel?” he asked.
“Like losing my virginity,” she said. “But much, much, much more satisfying.”
As she undressed to get into bed that evening, Lizzy still had a smile on her face. Taking off her earrings, she pondered for a moment making the tiny diamond chips her auction mascots. Her lucky earrings … But no, she decided finally. She didn’t need luck. Lizzy Duffy had something more enduring and much, much better. Lizzy Duffy knew she had talent.
CHAPTER 70
Old Ehrenpreis came to London to celebrate the second anniversary of the opening of the London office. There was another party, of course, expertly arranged by Jessica, who had recently announced her intention to become a Brit by marrying one.
“So you don’t want a transfer back to New York?” Carrie asked her.
“I’ll kill you if you pull that one on me now,” Jessica assured her. “But how about you? Are you happy here in London?” she asked.
Old Ehrenpreis had asked the exact same question just that afternoon, while he and Carrie had been lunching at Gordon Ramsay on Royal Hospital Road. Carrie’s old boss and opposite number in New York was close to retirement. If Carrie wanted it, the position would almost certainly be hers.
Am I happy in London? Carrie asked herself. She was certainly proud of what she had achieved over the past two years. The London office was performing well above the targets that had been set for her when she’d taken the job. Walking around the building, she was certain that her staff were happy. Her clients were happy. But was she?
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