by Alex Connor
‘Which means?’
‘That the killers aren’t threatening. He, or they, are known to the victims, they seems harmless, familiar.’ Marshall rubbed his eyes. ‘Which makes me wonder: will I let them in too?’
32
Impatiently, Georgia dialled Marshall’s mobile again, and was told – again – that the number was not valid. Thoughtful, she returned to the kitchen and made herself a sandwich, wondering where Marshall was. Certainly not at the gallery. She had called and left a message on the answer phone, even dropped by early that morning. But no one came when she knocked on the door, and the sign read CLOSED DUE TO BEREAVEMENT. The only person whose attention she did catch was an overdressed, over-bejewelled woman who was watching from across the street.
Her anxieties about her ex-husband had been growing, and were even keeping her awake at night. Beside her, Harry would sleep undisturbed while she stared into the darkness, thinking. Sometimes, in the small hours, she decided she would go to the police in the morning and tell them about the letters, explain what was going on. Damn what Marshall thought. He wasn’t safe. But then daylight would come and Georgia would realise that it wasn’t her decision to make. Besides, she didn’t even know where the letters were … Taking another bite out of her sandwich, she thought about Owen Zeigler, remembering her father-in-law’s effortless charm. Owen: so respectable, so safe. So dead.
She put down her half-eaten sandwich and picked up the phone again. This time, she didn’t call the gallery or Marshall’s defunct mobile. This time she dialled a number she hadn’t used for many years, and waited patiently for Philip Gorday to pick up.
Struggling to hear Marshall’s voice against the background noise from the airport, Samuel asked him to repeat what he had just said.
‘Nicolai Kapinski’s been murdered in New York.’
‘Dear God,’ Samuel said, shaken, and automatically glanced out of the window. Greg Horner was leaning against the garage wall, smoking, idle as a statue but oddly comforting. ‘Where are you?’
‘On my way to Amsterdam.’
‘Why?’
‘I have something to do,’ Marshall replied. ‘Don’t be alone, Samuel.’
‘I’m not. I’m fine. It’s you that has to be careful. Has anyone approached you?’
‘No, but I’m being watched. Or rather, I was being watched. I don’t think anyone followed me to the airport.’
Samuel could feel his hand shake and gripped the phone tightly. ‘You have to be careful—’
‘I am being careful. The person who killed Nicolai was copying Rembrandt’s painting of The Blinding of Samson.’
‘They blinded him?’
‘They blinded him,’ Marshall said. ‘And it’s come out about the letters. It’s all over London, everyone’s talking about it.’
‘How did it come out?’
‘I don’t know,’ Marshall admitted. ‘All of a sudden, my father’s theory is fact. People know there are letters that prove which Rembrandts are authentic—’
‘And which aren’t,’ said Samuel, finishing the sentence for him.
‘Yes.’ Marshall glanced warily around him. His gaze ran over the crowd in the departure lounge, where a few businessmen, one of them slightly drunk, were talking morosely in a group. Alongside them, a woman nursed a small child. Behind her, a gaggle of schoolboys in uniform chattered frantically, giggling at a good-looking woman across the aisle. Only two people were alone, one a scruffy young man reading a book, the other an elderly man watching the planes through the window of the lounge. No one seemed to be paying any attention to Marshall.
‘Samuel, are you still there?’
‘I’m here.’
‘There are two Rembrandt portraits coming up for sale in New York—’
‘The Issenhirst pictures.’
‘Is that what they’re called?’
‘They’ve had a few names, because they’ve been reattributed a couple of times.’
‘They’re not by Rembrandt?’ Marshall asked.
‘Oh yes!’ Samuel answered. ‘Yes, they are. At least, that’s what everyone believes. They were re-authenticated around the same time that the Duke of Wellington’s pair of Rembrandt portraits were attributed to Carel Fabritius …’ He paused, sighing down the phone. ‘You’ve got Geertje Dircx’s letters and the list of fakes. Are they on it?’
‘That’s what I’m going to find out,’ Marshall replied. ‘I memorised the list, but I can’t remember any paintings called the Issenhirst portraits.’ He paused, listening to the overhead intercom that was calling for people to board the Amsterdam flight. ‘Samuel, I have to go now.’
‘Marshall, those portraits are worth a fortune. The sale’s been put together very hurriedly, and it’s supposed to be the biggest for a decade. It’s meant to bolster the market. The Rembrandts are expected to make at least forty million. If they’re not genuine, then—’
‘I’m not sure yet. I have to check the list.’
‘Dear God, be careful,’ Samuel said, gripping the phone even more tightly. ‘If they are fakes, people will do anything to stop it coming out. They’ll be desperate to save the sale. You must watch your back—’
‘I have to go, Samuel,’ Marshall said hurriedly. He clicked off his mobile and walked towards the boarding gate.
He didn’t notice the scruffy young man put down his book and stand up, keeping his eyes on Marshall; didn’t notice him as he moved behind him in the queue.
33
Rosella Manners unlocked the front door of the house in Barnes and let herself in. As she moved through the hall she could smell stale cigarette smoke and opened the window. So Tobar was smoking again, was he? Well, who cared? He could kill himself for all it mattered to her. Looking around the immaculate, untouched kitchen, Rosella realised that her husband had been eating out and that he’d forgotten to put the rubbish in the bins. As usual. Lifting the bag out, she moved into the back yard and dropped the bin liner into the refuse, wrinkling her nose in disgust.
Her return had been prompted by her decision to divorce Tobar. After so many years Rosella had become used to his devious ways, but his treatment of Owen Zeigler had been the final straw, the lever between marriage and divorce. Rosella was back in London, but she wasn’t staying. After the divorce, she would leave the city and never come back. There was nothing left for her in London; better to return to her own country and family and begin again. She sifted through the post, extracting the letters addressed to her for reading later and glancing idly at Tobar’s mail. An envelope caught her eye, Rosella picked it up, staring at the thick black letters, which read:
TOBAR MANNERS
Delivered By Hand
All through their marriage, Rosella had had no interest in Tobar’s dealings, nor had she ever opened any of his post. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to be involved – or tainted. Or perhaps she had simply been uninterested. But this particular letter, with its demanding writing, fascinated her. Delivered By Hand, it said … Rosella went to the door and looked out into the smart front garden, with its gravelled drive and trim little walk to the door. But whoever had left the envelope had long gone.
Rosella went upstairs, the letter in her hand, and placed it on the dressing table in her bedroom. She opened the window to let in the cold air and started unpacking. She and Tobar had never shared a bed. Their arrangement had not included any sexual contact, and besides, Tobar wasn’t interested in her. She knew that he had frequently indulged in homosexual flings, but none had led to a lasting relationship and none had ever impinged on the Barnes house. If Tobar wanted to have sex, he could do it in the gallery … Rosella took off her shoes, gathered up clothes from her suitcase, and placed them in the walk-in closet. Finally she laid out her make-up and toiletries in the en suite bathroom and mused at how quickly her life had shunted back into its usual routine. Only this time the routine would not endure. This time, when Rosella left again, she would never return.
Rubbing some moisturising lotion i
nto her hands, she looked at the letter. There was a hot, nervy energy to it, almost as though the syllables were in a rage, that the writer had been bilious as he wrote the words. She knew – with her impeccable instinct for trouble – that the letter was not good news, and for a moment she was tempted to put it back onto her husband’s pile of mail, unopened.
But then again … Rosella was going for a divorce. She and her lawyer would have to take Tobar on and her husband would be certain to fight dirty. Surely this was the time to gather any ammunition that could benefit her? God knows, she needed every bit of help she could get. Their finances were off limits to Rosella. Tobar had kept her in comfort certainly, but she had never been privy to his business dealings. Of course there had been times when Tobar had been rattled, even vulnerable; times he had crept into her bed and spooned up against her, resting his head on her shoulder. In the morning he would be gone and neither of them would refer to it, but Rosella knew how much her presence gave him comfort, albeit celibately. At such times Tobar had told her little dribbles of information, his guilt talking, his remorse making a midnight child out of the daytime tyrant. In such a way she had heard about his dealings with the United Emirates, how he shipped second-rate paintings instead of top quality portraits. And he had once, then again a year later, muttered about being threatened, the gallery broken into.
Then, only a few weeks earlier, he had talked in the darkness. Forming words that would have been too much in daylight.
‘We’re in trouble, Rosella … I need to make a killing… we’re in trouble …’ He had reached for her hand and she had let him take it, wondering if this presentiment of doom was just one of his nervous shudders, or something more serious. ‘We might have to cut back soon …’
‘That bad?’
‘It might change,’ he had replied, suddenly aware that he was making himself look vulnerable, and worse, like a man who might fail. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.’
And with that he had slipped out of her bed, and in the morning he had been back to his cocksure, spiteful self.
Recession or no recession, she wasn’t going to suffer, Rosella thought fiercely. If Tobar was going to fall, she wasn’t going to fall with him. He hadn’t earned that kind of loyalty. Her mind turned back to their last argument. She had meant it, she had been disgusted by her husband’s treatment of Owen Zeigler, realising that his ruthlessness to his closest friend did not bode well for her. If he could cheat Owen Zeigler, he could just as easily betray her. Rosella might like the money, and the comfort of her life, but she didn’t like the fact that she felt suddenly vulnerable.
Her attention moved back to the letter on the dressing table. Rosella reached out for it and tapped it against her chin. It had such an urgency. Maybe a lover’s note? A hateful spurt of verbal venom? Another of the lily-white boys? Perhaps she should open it? Perhaps it would give her some interesting information to help her with the divorce. Perhaps some rent boy had put his feelings on paper – or maybe it contained something incriminating about Tobar’s business. She knew that Tobar used some disreputable people – a letter that implicated him might be a valuable bargaining chip … Slowly Rosella opened the envelope and slid out a sheet of paper. It was handwritten and brief.
Tobar
The Rembrandt letters exist – and with them is a
list of fakes. Maybe the two coming up for auction
in New York?
About time you got what’s coming to you.
Taking a long, slow breath, Rosella stared at the words. The Rembrandt letters – what were they? And what was the list of fakes? She paused, remembering what she had heard about the New York auction of the Rembrandts which was being arranged … Maybe the two coming up for auction?
‘My God,’ she said under her breath. Were they fakes? Jesus … She thought back a number of years. Owen Zeigler had been visiting them, with a group of other dealers. After dinner, they had talked about Dutch art in general, and then about Rembrandt. And Owen, the charming raconteur, taunted them all with some vague theory about the artist having a bastard son who had supposedly painted many of Rembrandt’s works. She could remember everyone laughing about it, particularly Tobar, who had said that anyone could say anything, that theories came ten a penny. That no one would worry unless they had proof.
The Rembrandt letters exist – and with them is a list of fakes …
And now there was proof … Pushing the note into her pocket, Rosella realised the enormity of what she had just read. And what it would mean to the art market – and to her husband’s business. Tobar might well be ruined. Which, by extension, would mean that she would not come out of a divorce well. Damn it, she thought impatiently, padding around in her stockinged feet. Why would someone have sent Tobar an anonymous note about this? Just to gloat? But surely it would also tip her husband off about the upcoming sale? The sale Tobar would be desperate to profit from.
A clammy unease settled over Rosella. If he found out about these Rembrandt letters, what would her husband not do to get hold of them? She caught her breath. What would he do to make sure the facts stayed hidden – especially the list of fakes. She remembered the death of Owen Zeigler. Had he been killed for the letters? Oh God, she thought, beginning to panic. Maybe Tobar knew about it. Maybe he had been involved. He was capable, she knew that. She might not have admitted it to herself before, but she knew it. Knew it the moment she realised that her husband had cheated Owen Zeigler – or worse.
Shaken, Rosella glanced over to her suitcase on the bed. She hurriedly brought back some of her clothes from the closet and put them in her case. She wasn’t going to stay. Didn’t dare to, not now. Tossing her underwear in the suitcase, she went into the bathroom and picked up her toiletries but, as she moved back to the bed, she heard the front door opening downstairs. Tensing, she listened. The cleaner wasn’t due, and no one else had a key. Unless it was Tobar … Hearing the footsteps coming up the stairs, Rosella took the note out of her pocket, looking round frantically for somewhere to hide it. She noticed her discarded shoes on the floor, and was just cramming the paper into the toe of her left shoe as Tobar walked into the bedroom. Her heart was pounding, the pulse in her neck thumping as she turned to him.
‘Rosella?’ he said, surprised, but with a touch of pleasure in his voice. ‘You came back.’
She was holding the shoe in her hand. Calmly, she bent down and picked up the other shoe, placed them both in the walk-in closet then turned back to her husband. Decades of innate breeding had made Rosella refined and circumspect. She hadn’t endured years of unhappy marriage to jeopardise her chances now. Far better to hold back and review the situation before doing anything rash. If she could have left before her husband returned that would have been one thing, but now it would look suspicious for her to suddenly change her mind and go.
Instinct had prompted Rosella to open the envelope. Instinct now prompted her to stay her hand.
‘I missed you, Tobar,’ she said lightly. ‘Florence was dull.’
His arrogance didn’t allow him to question her words. Instead, sure of himself again, he leaned against the doorframe. ‘You know, one day, Rosella, you might push me too far. You were talking about us to that bloody old fool Samuel Hemmings.’
‘Samuel’s an old friend,’ she replied blithely. ‘And he’s always been very protective of me.’
‘I didn’t need his fucking interference in my home life!’ Tobar snapped. ‘He’s never liked me.’
‘You never liked him.’
‘He lives in the past, doesn’t understand that the business has changed. It’s not like it used to be. People like Leon Williams and Timothy Parker-Ross are on their way out, bloody public-school pricks who got handed their galleries on a plate. I built up my reputation, grafted for what I’ve got.’
Her mouth was dry, but her composure was complete. ‘That’s what makes you an expert in your field.’
He nodded, pleased she was giving him credit. ‘Yes, and tha
t’s why I’ll stay an expert in my field.’
‘Sometimes you have to be ruthless in business.’
‘You have to fight to stay one step ahead.’
‘You’ve always fought, Tobar,’ Rosella said, her tone honeyed. ‘We’ve had our differences, but I’ve always admired you for that.’
Slowly he looked her up and down, swinging the door key in his hand, his expression sly.
‘You seem different, Rosella.’
‘Just tired, it was a difficult flight,’ she replied. ‘You look tired yourself.’
‘Yes, well, times are tough at the moment. Mind you, I’ve just had some welcome news.’
‘About what?’
‘About the sale coming up in New York,’ he said, trying to sound nonchalant but failing. ‘Two Rembrandt portraits are going to be auctioned. And I – I – have just managed to close the deal as the broker. I get fifteen per cent of the sale.’
He paused, luminously triumphant.
Rosella thought of the anonymous note. ‘Are they important paintings?’ she asked.
‘Rembrandt at the height of his powers. Should reach forty, even fifty, million.’
‘Good provenance?’ she asked, trying to feel her way.
‘Good enough,’ Tobar replied. ‘We know that the portraits were painted in 1653, and that they stayed in private hands in Amsterdam until someone sold them to a Japanese collector last century. Their names were changed a couple of times, and there’s a gap for a while in the 1950s, but now they’ve been put on the market. The owner wants to stay anonymous.’
‘But you know who he is?’
‘Of course I bloody know!’ he responded shortly. ‘But anonymity is what he’s paying me for.’ He paused, self righteous to a fault. ‘Everyone wanted this deal. That smug fart Rufus Ariel was provoking me about it, and I daresay there was lots going on the background to try and cut me out.’
