by Alex Connor
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Quercus
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Copyright © 2013 by Alex Connor
The moral right of Alex Connor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Ebook ISBN 978 1 84866 774 7
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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The Forger
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
The Killer, the Painter and the Whore
The Painter and the Whore
The Theft
The Fool
The Killer
The Forger
ONE
“Of course forgery is always a problem, especially in the high-stakes world of art,” Professor Altman explained to his intrigued audience at the Museum of Culture. “The methods used are many and varied, from those of Michelangelo – who faked a cherub and convinced many that it was an antique – to the forgers of today.” He was warming to his theme, eyeing up a good-looking woman in the second row and thinking that she looked like a typical art groupie, just the type to ask him questions about his lecture afterwards in the Museum Bar, as if she was really interested. “For centuries women have placed new pieces of carved ivory into their cleavages, where sweat and oils yellowed the article and made it seem antique.” He caught the titter of amusement and pressed on. “And of course it’s well known that urine ages stone quickly. Michelangelo peed on his fake cherub and many a thirteenth-century church saint has been rendered antique by someone’s urinary tract.” He was enjoying himself immensely, his lustrous black beard giving him a raffish appearance, his reputation as a ladies’ man preceding him. But despite his persuasive charm, he was also highly skilled, the nemesis of the art world. This was the man who could expose any faker, the scourge of forgers worldwide.
A brilliant bighead, his conceit was directly proportional to his knowledge.
“Of course now and again the forger couldn’t resist giving himself away and proving just how clever he was.” Altman smiled at the brunette in the second row. “One man copied a religious masterpiece, supposedly Tintoretto, but in the far background, unnoticeable to the naked eye, he had painted a man on a bike.” There was another round of applause and Altman beamed. “I noticed it when I was scrutinising the work, but it had gone unspotted for decades. Luckily I have a nose for fakery.”
*
Later the brunette came to ask the professor questions, and later still they ended up in his hotel room at the Langham. She was not much of an art student but she was very sexually creative, and as dawn came up over London Altman fell asleep, exhausted.
TWO
Graver Hirst was thinking that it didn’t really matter. After all, it was only a painting. And besides, it was his opinion. That was what the art world ran on: opinions as to whether a picture was valuable or worthless. Graver stared at the portrait and decided that it could pass for a seventeenth-century Flemish Baroque master, in the manner of Rubens, or some such. After all, Rubens had a vast number of assistants, all employed to help him cope with the endless commissions. He had pupils too, like Van Dyck, hundreds of paintings churning out of a factory system as efficient as a car plant.
And besides, Rubens didn’t sign all his paintings…
Graver wasn’t a villain in the true sense of the word. He was merely an astute businessman, with a greedy wife and a daughter who was marrying Benjamin Lambert, son of the notorious Gordon. The Lamberts were rich, as Antonia kept telling her father when they talked about the coming wedding.
“We have to have a big splashy affair and a honeymoon in the Bahamas. Oh, Daddy, please…”
Graver didn’t have the money for that. But then again, Antonia was his daughter, his only daughter, and he couldn’t look like a klutz in front of the Lamberts.
No one wanted to lose face, but money had to be found, and if it wasn’t sitting there all green and glowing in the bank, you had to magic it up. And besides, it was only a picture. It wasn’t like he was killing anyone. He was doing it for his daughter. What father wouldn’t do the same?
So Graver looked at the picture again and then picked up the phone.
“Hello, Martin?”
“Graver!” the voice said happily. “How are you?”Graver resisted the impulse to remind Martin about the deal he had snatched out of his hands, hijacking the price at auction of a sculpture Graver had promised to a client of his. Red-faced, Graver had watched the bald Martin Kemper triumph and put it down to business. You win some, you lose some.
But you get your own back.
“We haven’t heard from you for a while now,” Martin continued. “How’s business?”
“Busy as always,” Graver said cheerfully. “I’ve got something I think you might like. Well, I’m sure you’ll like it. A portrait. It needs some restoration, but I think we’re talking Rubens here. And as you and I know, not many of them come on the market. Of course I could be wrong.” He paused, his conscience absolved by allowing a note of doubt to creep in. “It’s not signed, but my instinct—”
“Is usually sound.” Martin made a whistling sound between his teeth. “Rubens?”
“Might be School of.”
“Provenance?”
“It’s a sleeper. I picked it up at a sale in Holland,” Graver continued. “Black as pitch. Apparently the couple who had owned it had kept it above a fire, and they were both heavy smokers. If you like kippered Rubens, this is for you.”
“But no provenance? No papers?”
“Oh, come on, Martin!” Graver admonished him. “Now and again these paintings turn up at auctions and sales, out of the blue. The couple had no relatives and the painting was sold to pay off their debts.”
“What did you pay for it?”
Graver laughed. “As if I’d tell you!”
It was Martin’s turn to smile. “Not much, I bet, if you picked it up by chance—”
“I was wily enough to spot a sleeper when others didn’t. It’s my good fortune – and it could be yours.”
Martin was tempted. He had a clientele of collectors and a number of influential interior designers on his books. In fact he could think of at least four people who might be prospective buyers, all of whom were big spenders.
“I’d like to come over this afternoon and have a look at this so-called Rubens.”
“Of course,” Graver said with alacrity. “Be my guest.”
*
Hoping for a quiet lunch break, Graver moved into the flat above the gallery, only to be greeted by his wife standing at the top of the stairs. Her hair was freshly blow-dried, her forehead sculpted wi
th Botox, her mouth a slot of crimson. And her voice was as soothing as hailstones on a tin roof.
“Our daughter is upset—”
“Our daughter is always upset,” Graver replied, walking past his wife into the kitchen. “What now?”
“What now?” she parroted, watching as her husband opened the fridge door and took out a plate of sliced ham. “The Lamberts are crowing over us! They told her that if we had trouble paying for the wedding they could help us out—”
“Good.”
“Good!” Pam snorted. “You want us to look like paupers?”
“They have a lot more money than we do,” Graver replied, teasing her, but inside he was nettled. “Don’t worry, we won’t need handouts. Leave it to me. I can get enough money to wipe the bloody smile off the Lamberts’ faces.” He made himself a sandwich and poured some milk, Pam refusing to join him. “That Benny Lambert’s a prick anyway—”
“A prick who will inherit a fortune when his father dies,” Pam responded tartly. “And anyway, our daughter loves him.”
He calmed down at the thought of Antonia. Darkly pretty, sweetly demanding she was the perfect consort for any man, Benny Lambert included. Biting into his sandwich, Graver thought of Benny’s father – the buccaneering Gordon Lambert – and his wife, the monosyllabic and preening Josephine. Aggressive and ruthless, Gordon Lambert had made a fortune in plastics, then married Josephine, a sculptress with a penchant for entrails. Her works of severed colons, intestines and split hearts had been collected worldwide, particularly admired in Germany and London, her latest offering hailed by one wit as ‘offally impressive’.
“I can’t stand Josephine Lambert,” Graver said, taking another bite of his sandwich. “That crap she makes is fetching fortunes at auction. Jesus, who’d buy someone’s anus? I reckon she’s a serial killer, and it’s a way to dispose of the bodies.” He laughed at his own joke, Pam watching him critically.
“Just how are you going to raise the money for the wedding?”
“Oh, darling,” Graver replied, kissing her lightly on the cheek, “leave it to me.”
“I won’t have my daughter humiliated!”
“She won’t be.”
“And I won’t have the bloody Lamberts patronising us.”
“Relax,” he soothed her. “No one’s going to lose face. Not in this family anyway.”
THREE
“Why her?”
Surprised, Benny Lambert glanced over at his mother. She had spoken, which was a novelty in itself. For a last few months Josephine had communicated by notes only, claiming that speech impeded her creativity. But now she was talking again, which was a pity.
“I love Antonia,” he replied, knowing to whom the question referred, because it was the same question he had been asked repeatedly. Why her? Well, why on earth not? Antonia Hirst was adorable. Beautiful, gentle, funny, warm-blooded – the opposite of his mother, who was sitting perched on the arm of a chair like a headstone.
“Love…” Josephine repeated, rising to her impressive height and grasping her son’s hand. Her gaze held his and Benny swallowed, intimidated. “You need a strong woman.”
He was thinking that another strong woman might well kill him. “I love her.”
“Love.”
He nodded. “Yes, I love her.”
“You love a poor girl?”
“She isn’t poor!” Benny retorted. “She isn’t as rich as we are, but she’s not poor.”
Josephine let go of his hand and moved to the door. There she paused. “I have only one thing left to say to you. One word – pre-nuptial.”
“That’s two words,” Benny muttered under his breath as she left.
*
That evening it was his father’s turn, Gordon Lambert catching Benny in the driveway as he drew up outside the house. Smiling, he eased his bulk out of the car and patted his son on the shoulder. He was ruddy-faced, his shirt collar undone, an overstuffed briefcase under his left arm. A ramshackle slob of a man, a modern alchemist who had turned plastic into gold.
“Benny!” he said. “You and your mother have a good chat?”
“I’m marrying Antonia,” he replied, avoiding the question, “and nothing either of you can say will change my mind.”
“What about being disinherited?”
To his father’s surprise, Benny shrugged. “OK, disinherit me.”
“Just joking, just joking,” Gordon replied, walking into the house and making for the study. “She’s a nice girl.”
“But poor?”
Gordon shrugged. “No one’s as rich as us,” he replied. “You can’t hold it against her that her father’s a loser—”
“Graver Hirst isn’t a loser, he’s a well-respected art dealer. He’s done well.”
“But your mother makes a fortune with her art.”
“Because you back her!” Benny retorted. “And because people can’t get enough blood and guts. Oh, come on, Dad, you can’t think what Mother does is really art?”
He ignored the question. “Your mother is an extraordinary woman.”
“I don’t want an extraordinary woman, I want Antonia. And you know why? Because she’s extraordinary to me.” He stood up to the bullish Gordon. “Antonia is the right woman for me. The right wife, the right partner.” He sighed. “This family has so much money, we’re richer than anyone needs to be, or deserves to be. I’m not marrying for money, I’m marrying for love.”
“You’re wrong.”
“About marrying for love?”
Gordon shook his head. “About us being too rich.” He sighed. “Jesus, boy, you are a fool.”
FOUR
Martin Kemper walked into Graver Hirst’s gallery and checked his reflection in a mirror. Why does he do that? Graver wondered. Surely you only need to do that if you are checking your hair? Kemper was bald as an egg.
Smiling, Graver walked over to his visitor. “Welcome, Martin. Come into the office.”
He had arranged the easel so that it faced the door, the portrait placed at eye level. The painting was of a life-size head and shoulders, the woman’s limpid gaze fetching, her skin pinkly perfect under an aureole of gilt curls. Graver had spent several minutes setting up the painting, arranging and rearranging the lights until it was illuminated to perfection. It shimmered, a flirtatious golden trinket in its solemn Dutch frame.
“Hmmmm,” Martin said, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. “Hmmmm.”
It was delightful, he thought. Confident and very Rubenesque. Creamy, the colours singing. Found in a sale? he wondered. Without proper provenance? That could be a problem, he thought, but then again, papers could prove or disprove worth. Without papers this might well be a Rubens.
“I think it’s School of Rubens,” he lied glibly.
Graver was ready for him. “Possibly. I’m showing it to an expert tomorrow—”
“Who?”
“A well-known expert,” Graver replied. “Of course, in the end we may not be able to prove it one way or the other. As we both know, it often comes down to opinion. But I’ve already had it dated and checked out. It dates from Rubens’ period.”
Martin could feel his heart speeding up. He had two buyers in mind. There had originally been four, but now that he saw the picture he realised only two were rich enough for what he would be asking. Mr Thomas and Mr Halliday were both brokers acting for anonymous rich collectors. Martin had done business with them before and was pretty certain that he could pit the two against each other and hoick up the price.
It was a shame that Graver didn’t have his contacts himself, or he could have made a direct sale. But that was the art business, Martin thought with mock sympathy. The man with the contacts made the killing.
“What d’you want for it?”
“Three hundred thousand pounds.”
“Don’t be fucking silly,” Martin retorted. “What d’you really want for it?”
“Ask me again and it’ll be four hundred thousand.”
“You can’t prove it’s a Rubens!”
“You can’t prove it’s not,” Graver replied. “If it was a genuine Rubens, you and I both know it would fetch four or five million at auction—”
“But it could be a fake.”
“No, it couldn’t. I’ve had it dated. The timing and materials are right for Rubens—”
“It could be by one of his pupils.”
“Or by him,” Graver said shortly. “That’s the point of giving a judgement – it’s a personal opinion. And although I can’t swear to it, I’d say it was by Rubens.” His voice hardened. “Look, Martin, you’d be getting a bargain. And to be honest, I need money quickly. A lot of money.”
“Oh yes, your daughter’s upcoming wedding—”
“I’m not having the Lamberts making me look like a poor relation,” Graver confided. “You’ll make at least three times what I’m asking on that painting. You know you will – it’s a beauty.”
“School of Rubens doesn’t fetch high prices—”
“Look at it! This isn’t some bloody student’s work. This is fabulous.” Graver moved over to the painting and studied it, his voice hardening. “Actually, you know what? I’ve changed my mind. I think I’m going to have a shot at selling this privately—”
Martin’s eyes bulged. “No, I want it!”
“It could fetch a fortune.”
“I can give you what you want here and now,” Martin insisted, seeing a large profit evaporating before his eyes. “Even if it’s by a student of Rubens it’s wonderful. I’m prepared to take the risk.” He blundered on, knowing full well that he would never intimate to his clients – with so much as a glance – that it wasn’t a genuine Rubens.
Stern faced, Martin out his hand. “Three hundred thousand, OK?”
“OK,” Graver agreed.
*
Well, thought Graver, that would pay for a splashy wedding. Stop the bloody Lamberts looking down their noses at them. Graver smiled at Martin Kemper. It was business, that was all. Last month Kemper had got one over him. This time, he was going to win.
