by Alex Connor
That morning it rained so long the gutter overflowed and some of the market stalls floated away … Rembrandt stood, his feet apart, his hands on his hips, and told his client that Carel was going to do a preparatory oil sketch, which Rembrandt would then make up into a finished portrait. Sixty guilders he asked. Sixty guilders … Carel painted the portrait, and his father signed it. And the sitter paid the sixty guilders. Of which Carel was given ten.
The master paying the pupil … Carel was so pleased he smiled, which he seldom did. A serious lad, barely nineteen, smiling like a monkey. And that’s what Rembrandt called him, a monkey. His monkey. Rembrandt’s monkey … It was said with affection, but I knew that monkey also meant someone who was a rogue, a scoundrel, a wrongdoer. And I had made my son that … But Carel smiled and took the ten guilders, never knowing that Rembrandt was paying him cheaply. Giving him ten guilders, instead of his name. Money instead of van Rijn. Guilders not genealogy. Lies not lineage.
Carel didn’t know Rembrandt was his father. He didn’t know Geertje Dircx was his mother. He would find out, but never in the way I wanted or expected.
27
New York
Surprised, Philip Gorday looked through into the reception of his law firm and studied the diminutive man sitting with a briefcase on his lap. Surrounded by glass windows and steep glazed walls he seemed like a lost ship in the middle of Antarctica, some tiny freight overwhelmed by its imposing surroundings. Immaculately dressed, his shoes buffed to a high shine, the balding man jiggled his left foot restlessly, then coughed twice. Not as though he was clearing his throat, but his head.
He seemed familiar to Philip, but someone from a long time back. Curious, he moved over to his secretary.
‘Who’s that, Nicole?’
‘He wouldn’t give his name, sir. Just said he had to see you on a matter of extreme importance. He says he used to know your wife.’
‘My wife?’ Philip, thinking of Charlotte, flinched inwardly.
He had grown adept at segregating her memory from his work. He could sometimes obliterate all thought of her for hours at a time – until he returned home and walked into their apartment, into the bedroom where he had found her body.
Everyone had expected him to move out. Charlotte’s lifeless corpse, loaded into its body bag, was moved. The police, having decided that the death was a suicide, had moved on too. Everyone moved out or moved on except Philip. He stayed, because he felt a curious and belated loyalty to his dead wife. In life he had committed adultery frequently, and Charlotte had had her long affair with Owen Zeigler, but after her death – her suicide – no, not suicide, he could never quite take that on board – after she died, he lost his zeal for women. He thought it would come back in time. That after the grief had lessened, his guilt would subside too. But the grief was still as acute, the guilt beggaring.
One particular woman with whom Philip was involved had always held out a hope that she would take over from Charlotte. So when her rival died, she waited for Philip to turn to her, but he did not. He did not turn to his secretary, Nicole, either, although they had enjoyed a long on/off relationship which, miraculously, had never curdled their working life. In fact, Philip Gorday found that freedom from his marriage brought a glut of attention. And its very availability was its turn off.
Curious, Nicole watched him standing at the door of his office. She had to admit that the weight he had lost since his wife’s death suited him, made him look younger. Her gaze took in the speckled hair, the keen features, the now pared-down midriff, before she glanced over to the visitor still waiting in the reception area.
‘Do you want to see him?’
‘Should I?’
‘Do you know him?’
‘No.’
‘He looks harmless.’
‘He certainly does,’ Philip said simply, moving away and calling over his shoulder, ‘Show him in, will you, Nicole?’
Nervous, the stranger stood at the doorway of Philip Gorday’s office, then moved a few feet in, closing the door behind him. His gaze – behind the thick lenses of his glasses – flicked around the room, taking in the sombre elegance expected of a New York lawyer. Hating travel of any kind, Nicolai Kapinski had passed the flight in a state of hyperventilating silence. All food had been refused, all conversation curtailed. Instead he had sipped at water and dozed intermittently, with his briefcase on his lap. On the back of the seat in front of him there was a screen on which he could watch the latest movies, but instead Nicolai had chosen to view the map which showed the route from London to New York: a little yellow plane marking its flight path achingly slowly as it inched across the Atlantic. Away from Albemarle Street, from London. From home.
Gesturing for Nicolai to take a seat opposite his, Philip smiled faintly. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I hope I might be able to help you.’
‘Really. How?’
‘I knew your wife. We had known each other for a long time.’
‘Where did you know her from? New York?’
‘London.’ Nicolai paused. ‘It was Charlotte who introduced me to Owen Zeigler and got me the job at the gallery, I was Owen’s accountant. I thought you knew all about it.’
‘About what?’ Philip asked, baffled.
Nonplussed, Nicolai stared at the composed man. God, what was he doing? Had he made a mistake? Miscalculated? He had thought about it for a long time, then decided that he couldn’t stay in London. They would find him there. They would guess he was involved in the Rembrandt letters. After all, they were working through everyone else who had been close to Owen Zeigler. Teddy Jack had disappeared, and when Nicolai phoned Marshall’s mobile it had been disconnected. Feeling suddenly exposed, he’d panicked. The knowledge that Marshall had the original letters didn’t console him. He was worried, anxious that Charlotte had made copies. That perhaps his theory of her disappointing a seller might be true, after all. Then he had decided that if Charlotte had made copies, he would have to get hold of them. That way he would have some bargaining power with whoever was coming after him.
So, in an effort to save himself, Nicolai Kapinski had made the trip to New York. His small hands gripped the briefcase tightly, his accent more pronounced. ‘Your wife,’ he said, then paused. ‘Charlotte – you knew about her and Owen Zeigler? She told me you knew all about them.’
‘Yes, I knew.’
‘Good,’ Nicolai replied, relieved. ‘What else did she tell you?’
‘Mr—?’
‘Kapinski,’ he stammered. ‘Forgive me, my name is Nicolai Kapinski. I should have said that at first. I should have told your secretary, it was remiss of me. As I said, I worked for Owen Zeigler until he was killed.’
Philip was watching him.
‘Go on.’
‘Your wife died. I’m so sorry, I heard all about it. They said it was suicide, didn’t they, but I don’t think so.’
He now had Philip’s full attention. Frowning, he leaned forward, his wedding ring catching the light.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I think Charlotte was murdered.’
‘Why?’
‘You have no idea?’ Nicolai countered, trying to get some feel of how much Philip Gorday knew. ‘You believe she committed suicide?’
‘Why not?’
‘Why would she?’
‘She was very depressed about Owen Zeigler’s death.’
Nicolai took in a long breath, as though he was about to dive underwater. ‘She wasn’t that type of woman.’
His eyes flickering, Philip’s voice became hostile. ‘Really? Just what kind of woman was my wife? In your opinion?’
‘I’m not giving evidence!’ Nicolai said, his tone rising. ‘I’m not in a court of law. This conversation is in confidence. I mean no disrespect to your wife, I just want the truth. I think she was killed.’
Expressionless, Philip moved behind his desk and sat down, pulling a notepad towards him. ‘D’you mind if I take notes?’
<
br /> ‘If you do, I’ll leave.’
Nodding, Philip stared at the little man. ‘All right. Why d’you think my wife was killed?’
‘Because she was trying to blackmail Owen Zeigler.’ Philip flinched. ‘What!’
‘I’m telling you the truth. Not to hurt you, but to explain why she was killed,’ Nicolai said hurriedly. ‘At one time she possessed some important letters. She wanted Owen to sell them and get himself out of his financial trouble. She said that if he did nothing about them, she would make sure they were seen—’
‘Were they?’
‘What?’ Nicolai asked, wiping his forehead with a folded handkerchief.
‘Seen. Did Charlotte show these letters to anyone?’
‘No.’ Nicolai shook his head emphatically, trying to test out what he knew against what he was told. ‘She had them, but she didn’t do anything with them.’
‘How d’you know all this?’
‘Because if she had sold them to the person who wanted them, she would still be alive.’
Narrowing his eyes, Philip glanced away. There was something about the little man which made him compelling. His story should have sounded far fetched, the rambling of someone disturbed, but Nicolai Kapinski was clearly frightened and Philip had never been convinced that his wife had killed herself. The memory of her body, the way he had found her, the brutality of the stabbing came back to him and jolted his gut. In the bleak days after Charlotte’s death Philip had gone over her belongings, doing the distressing job of the bereaved. But there had been nothing unusual. Just her will, a few possessions bequeathed to friends and relations, but no paperwork of note, and certainly no letters.
Still turned away from Nicolai, he stared into space. How much did he really know about his wife? From the first time they had met, Charlotte had impressed him with her chic composure. She had never been an adventuress, never a woman drawn to anything immoral or criminal. Sordid was not a word that had any relevance in Charlotte Gorday’s life.
Yet she had been the long-time lover of Owen Zeigler, and as such there had been a part of her life completely separate from his. Perhaps there had been part of her character off limits too … But blackmail? Philip couldn’t accept the idea. It was too low for Charlotte – unless she had been trying to force her lover’s hand in order to help him. To lever Owen Zeigler into saving himself. That was feasible.
Or was it?
‘What were these letters about?’
Nicolai shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you.’
‘This conversation is in confidence.’
‘Believe me, you don’t want to know more. Charlotte was killed because she was involved, and she wasn’t the first. There was a man in Amsterdam who knew about them, and Owen Zeigler. All the people who know about these letters are either dead, or likely to be—’
‘You know about them.’
‘Yes, and I’m terrified, Mr Gorday,’ Nicolai admitted, wiping his forehead again, then the palms of his hands. ‘Why do you think I’m in New York talking to you?’
‘To be honest, I don’t know.’
‘I need any copies your wife made of the letters.’
‘I don’t have any.’
‘Charlotte had them,’ Nicolai persisted, ‘so they must be with her things.’
‘Mr Kapinski, there are no letters in my late wife’s belongings.’
‘Maybe hidden—’
‘No!’ Philip silenced the frightened man. ‘And besides, even if there were copies, why would I give them to you? You come in here, a total stranger, and tell me you knew my late wife and that she was murdered. Then you ask me for these documents. If they’re as dangerous as you say, why would you want them?’
‘To stop the killings,’ Nicolai blurted out, his composure rattled. ‘Why should these letters be protected? Why shouldn’t I give them up? They mean nothing to me, it’s history, the past. Why should I care about what happens in the art market? It’s a grasping business, perhaps it’s time it was shaken up.’ He paused, fractious, nervy. ‘If they get the letters, it will stop. They’ll have no need to come after me or anyone else.’
‘I need to know what these letters are, Mr Kapinski.’
Shaking his head, Nicolai got to his feet. His skin was waxen, his hands shaking.
‘I understand why you ask me this, but I can’t tell you. I came to you for help, Mr Gorday. I want to live, you see. Not much of a life, mine. But I have a wife and son who I would rather like to see again.’ He smiled faintly, hardly lifting the corners of his mouth. ‘You see, I know what to do with these letters, I know where to place them. I can put an end to all of this. I’d like to do that.’
‘But if you did expose them, would it hurt people?’
‘It would rock the art world,’ Nicolai said dully. ‘Some dealers would be ruined, some might kill themselves, many would struggle. Fortunes would be lost. So, yes, Mr Gorday, if the letters came out, people would suffer.’
‘And you think that’s a good enough argument for me to pass them over to you?’ Philip asked, his tone ironic.
‘You have to ask yourself, what’s the alternative? Another murder? Or would that be counted as collateral damage? Maybe two, three murders would be unacceptable? Oh, but there have already been three murders, Mr Gorday. Your wife’s was the last. So far.’ He leaned over the desk, his eyes wide behind the thick lenses. ‘If you have copies of these letters, give them up. Not just for my sake, but for yours.’
‘I’m a lawyer, I would need proof of all this,’ Philip said. ‘I can’t take it on trust.’
‘In the end you’ll believe everything I’ve told you,’ Nicolai replied, defeated. ‘Can’t you help me?’
Philip shook his head. ‘If I couldn’t help my wife, how the hell can I help you?’
28
London
‘So it’s true?’ Tobar Manners asked, staring at Leon Williams, ‘there are two Rembrandt portraits coming onto the market?’
His visitor nodded, but he was preoccupied. ‘Shouldn’t you get some more bars on the window?’ he said. ‘I mean, what with all these break-ins and murders.’
‘Two Rembrandts?’ Tobar repeated, ‘Who’s selling them?’
‘Some Japan dealer—’
‘Hokinou?’
‘I don’t know,’ Leon replied. ‘I wasn’t really listening.’
‘Well, where did you hear it?’
‘Rufus Ariel was muttering about it. He’s been in the London Clinic for some more Botox injections and—’
‘Rufus Ariel has Botox?’
‘Didn’t you ever wonder why his face didn’t move and was so shiny?’
‘I thought that was just fat,’ Tobar replied, and pushed on. ‘So, what about the Rembrandts?’
‘Rufus heard the rumour a while back, and then Lillian Kauffman came to see him—’
‘While he was having Botox?’
‘I don’t know if he was having Botox at the time, maybe it was afterwards,’ Leon replied thoughtfully. ‘Anyway, Lillian Kauffman confirmed it. I think Rufus wants to handle the sale—’
‘I bet he bloody does!’ Tobar drummed his fingers irritably on his desk. No one was going to handle the sale but him. He needed it, and he had to get it. If the galleries couldn’t pay the rents, they would be priced out. So much valuable retail property up for grabs. Not only that, but a sale to a German collector had fallen through and an exhibition Tobar had been planning to put on in the summer had been cancelled. Bloody Russians, he thought, all that Moscow Mafia money was running out, just like Arab money had in the 1970s. His confidence was nose-diving, his usual arrogant bluster faltering. If Leon Williams and others couldn’t – or wouldn’t – see what was happening, he could. Some dealers were even stupid enough to ignore the warning signs – that nervy Tim Parker-Ross, for example, opening up a new gallery off the King’s Road although God only knew how long it would stay open.
Fretting, Tobar worried about his precarious future. Lillian Kauffman,
he thought bitterly, that bitch would be trying to secure her position early. If he didn’t make the big Rembrandt sale and preserve his reputation, he would join the list of casualties which was growing weekly. A walk around Bond Street, Davis Street and Cork Street, once the preserve of galleries, with their private vews and parties, once the prime site for swathes of Brit Art, paparazzi and minor royals – was changing. Some of the windows were empty and ‘To let’ notices had appeared on premises which had flourished for decades. Where limousines once waited by the kerbside for their celebrities, discarded copies of the Evening Standard flapped round the empty gutters.
Only the previous week Tobar had put a Govert Flinck into an auction and it hadn’t reached its reserve. Regretfully he had had to pull it and put it back into storage. No one was buying, and the few that might buy were only going for the biggest names. Like Rembrandt … Tobar realised that unless he managed to secure the Rembrandt sale he might well be fighting to find the rent in six months time.
‘That wasn’t all I heard,’ Leon went on. ‘There’s a rumour going round that Owen Zeigler was killed because he knew something.’
‘Like what? The time?’
Leon, missing the point, blundered on. ‘No, no. I mean someone heard something about how he’d got some letters.’
Already unnerved, Tobar’s patience was running out. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Letters which prove that many Rembrandts are forgeries.’
‘Oh, he was always blathering on about some bloody theory of his.’
‘But there’s proof.’
His eyes glazed, Tobar stood up and faced Leon. His expression was threatening, his tone hostile. ‘What?’
‘I heard—’
‘From who?’
‘Just a rumour, Tobar,’ Leon said nervously, now sorry he had ever started the conversation. ‘Just a rumour.’
‘About Rembrandts being fakes?’
