Restitution

by Rose Edmunds

  ‘What are Hana’s intentions?’ I asked, and Rudi relayed this to her in Czech,

  ‘She wants shot of the whole business,’ he translated. ‘It’s been worrying her ever since her father-in-law passed away. She’s not sorry her husband is dead—he was an unemployed drunk who used to beat her—but now she’d like to come clean. Money doesn’t motivate her—the most she hopes for is a modest reward from the true owners.’

  ‘I don’t understand why she doesn’t make a police report now.’

  ‘Why put her head above the parapet before she’s satisfied the artwork exists and is genuine? Basically, she wants to take a trip to Zurich and see for herself. Then, when she’s surrendered the painting, she should be safe.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ I said.

  ‘Now all we need is someone to give Hana comfort on authenticity, and perhaps inspire confidence in the Zurich bank staff.’

  He had a point. Even armed with ID, Hana might not convince them of her bona fides. Fortunately, I could suggest the ideal man for the job.

  ‘How about that Beresford guy I was telling you about?’

  ‘Good thinking—can we meet him now?’

  ‘I guess so—he’s staying at the Alcron. I’ll call Mel and see if they’re free for dinner.’

  ‘Meanwhile, we should check Hana into a different hotel. On no account must we let these people, whoever they are, pick up her trail again.’

  We escorted Hana to a place off the Old Town Square, and Rudi checked her in using his credit card, before issuing what I assumed were instructions for contacting her when we were ready to move.

  His dynamism impressed me, though I queried why he was taking an almost proprietorial interest in our quest. I still couldn’t shake my lingering doubts, however much I wanted to.

  ‘By the way,’ I asked Rudi on the way to the Alcron, ‘did you discover whether Brabec spoke to anyone?’

  ‘Yep, you were right—he did. Straight after we left him, someone came up to him and started chatting. And he just got talking, not realising the harm in it.’

  ‘Typical, he keeps his mouth shut for forty years and then goes blabbing to every Tom, Dick and Harry when it’s more dangerous than ever to talk. How dumb is that?’

  ‘It seems his main motivation for keeping quiet was his concern that the pictures belonged to the family—he thought he might be in trouble. Once I’d set him straight, he must have felt a huge weight off his shoulders.’

  ‘I wonder who else is desperate enough to kill for that painting?’ I said. ‘Could it be that oligarch who has the original portrait of Fernande Olivier? I believe he’s tried to hunt down the self-portrait in the past.’

  ‘Who—Boris Ivanov? Did you not research his background? His tag line is “the ethical oligarch”—I’d be amazed if he’d stoop to murder.’

  ‘Did Brabec say anything about the man who approached him?’

  ‘Yes—Czech, stockily built, between forty and fifty years old.’

  ‘How can Brabec be sure he’s Czech? The guy might just speak the language perfectly.’

  ‘Foreigners never speak the language properly, no matter how hard they try,’ said Rudi with a laugh. ‘Your appalling efforts are typical, I’m afraid, and as soon as you open your mouth, you identify yourself as British.’

  Which was probably right. In my opinion I’d totally nailed the greeting “dobrý den” (good day) but every time I tried it, the locals replied in English. ‘That narrows it down, doesn’t it?’ I said. ‘How many Czech men between forty and fifty, do you reckon?’

  ‘Too many. Not that it matters though, because I’m pretty sure he would be a hired heavy.’

  And whatever Rudi said about Ivanov, he still looked like the prime suspect. After all, hiring heavies requires resources.

  ***

  Beresford and Mel had already eaten, so we met in the bar instead.

  ‘Nice jacket,’ said Mel immediately, unable to keep the envy out of her voice.

  ‘It’s Armani.’

  Beresford cut her off from asking how much it cost and where I’d bought it. He was gagging to hear all the latest news on the art front and could barely contain his excitement at the imminent trip to Zurich.

  ‘This will be the highlight of my career,’ he said, rubbing his hands with glee. ‘And Mel—I’d like you to be there with me to share the moment.’

  Mel gave him a glance which was hard to interpret, but to my mind didn’t convey much enthusiasm for the trip.

  ‘This might be dangerous,’ she said, confirming my impression. ‘Don’t forget Amy was run off the road and Hana’s husband shot in the name of that picture.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said George. ‘And I don’t wish to put anyone in jeopardy either. Amy may have a deal with Stan, but there’s more than one way to skin a ferret.’

  There certainly was, I thought, remembering Plan B.

  ‘But the kudos in finding it,’ said Beresford, aghast. I wasn’t sure if he was ignorant of the dangers, or whether the intellectual excitement trumped his fear. Whichever was the case, I reckoned he’d come up with some spurious argument to support his position.

  ‘And besides,’ he continued, scarcely drawing breath before beginning the predictable justification, ‘provided we take precautions, our adversaries need never know where we’ve gone. Plus Amy and George can stay here in Prague to distract them.’

  I wasn’t keen on being used as a decoy, but then again, I didn’t share Beresford’s optimism that they would leave Prague undetected.

  ‘Now look here,’ I said. ‘We don’t know who our enemies are or what resources they have at their disposal. I have a hunch that the oligarch who owns the other painting in the pair might be behind this. And if so, he has serious money to throw at thwarting us.’

  ‘I’m not worried at all,’ said Beresford. ‘Art historians don’t tend to get bumped off. And besides, Boris Ivanov is not your typical oligarch, as I’m sure you must be aware.’

  ‘Isn’t he known as the ethical oligarch?’ I said, repeating what Rudi had told me earlier.

  ‘Exactly so,’ said Beresford. ‘I rest my case.’

  I resolved to research into Ivanov when I had a moment, since I was by no means sure of his innocence. And the risk remained irrespective of the culprit’s identity. Still, Beresford’s foolhardiness was his problem and if the bad guys picked up the trail to Zurich, logic dictated that George and I should be safe in Prague. Shame about Mel though…

  ‘I’m happy to stay here,’ I said.

  ‘So am I,’ George agreed.

  ‘How about you, Rudi?’ asked Beresford. ‘I expect Hana needs a Czech interpreter.’

  ‘Ah—unfortunately I’m far too busy over the next few days,’ Rudi swiftly replied. ‘But there’ll be plenty of interpreters in Zurich. I’ll look into it in the morning if you like.’

  ‘And I’m happy to pay the bill,’ added George, for good measure.

  Even Beresford seemed to get a whiff of everyone’s disinclination to travel, as he launched into new attempts at rationalisation.

  ‘Even if worst comes to worst and they figure out we’re in Zurich, I wouldn’t expect it to be so dangerous,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget, Amy was above the legal alcohol limit when she had her accident…’

  I seethed, tried to control myself and failed miserably.

  ‘For the last time, someone rammed my car. In the UK the blood alcohol limit wouldn’t be an issue. And leaving my “accident” aside, Živsa was murdered. Don’t try to minimise what happened.’

  Undeterred, Beresford reverted to his original argument.

  ‘But since they can’t know we’re going, all that’s irrelevant.’

  He flashed Mel an engaging little smile, which was not reciprocated.

  ‘What’s your view, Mel?’ I asked. I’d given her an opening to challenge Beresford, but she declined to take it.

  ‘Mo has put forward very strong arguments. I should say we’ll be a good deal safer in Zurich tha
n you guys will be in Prague.’

  Though this was loyal of her, I doubted if she was wholly persuaded. But at the same time, I picked up on a reluctance for him to travel alone.

  ‘Gosh, I wish I was as worldly wise as Mo,’ I said in tones of sarcasm.

  I’d clearly offended her, because she stood up to leave.

  ‘It’s fair to say, Amy, my past performance in assessing the riskiness of situations is considerably better than yours.’

  ‘What did she mean by that?’ asked Beresford when she was out of earshot.

  ‘I suggest you ask her.’

  I could only speculate about what yarn she’d spin him, but sure as hell it wouldn’t be the truth.

  ‘I certainly shall,’ he said, going after her.

  Rudi yawned ostentatiously.

  ‘It’s late, and I don’t fancy the drive home, so I guess I should find myself a room for the night. In fact, maybe they have one here.’

  In the light of my last encounter with Rudi, I took this at face value, rather than as a proposition.

  ‘They’re full up with this convention of toy manufacturers. But you’re welcome to crash out in my room. There are two big beds and Mel isn’t using hers.’

  George caught my eye, but sensibly said nothing.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive. Here’s the key. I’ll be right up. I need a quick word with George.’

  ***

  ‘There’s something we must discuss,’ I began.

  ‘About you and Rudi. Look—leave me out of it—it’s none of my business.’

  ‘Not about that, you silly old fool, about Stanislav, or Stan as he’s urging me to call him.’

  ‘Stan—you must be getting on well.’

  ‘Yes, at last I’ve broken through his reserve. Underneath all the unpleasantness, he’s desperately lonely and he seems to welcome the idea of a brother. Thing is, the situation may be more complicated than we thought.’

  Sensitive to the issues, I proceeded slowly and carefully. George had more or less justified Novak’s neglect of him by convincing himself that his birth father was unaware of their relationship. But if Novak was in fact Dušek, this put a whole different slant on things. His father had wilfully abandoned the family to their fate, taking his art with him, and cynically feathered his own nest while collaborating with the Nazis. Moreover, his lack of effort to contact George now demonstrated a lack of affection rather than a lack of awareness. This scenario might be tough for him to handle.

  George listened in silence as I presented the evidence, saving the most compelling, Stan’s photograph of Jan Novak, till last. The colour drained from George’s face.

  ‘It certainly looks like Josef. Does Stan have any earlier photos?’

  ‘He says not, which in itself might be significant. But I’m planning to ask Rudi to examine his grandfather’s journal for other references.’

  Although Rudi had already refused to do this, I felt certain he would take a different view if he understood the importance of the task.

  ‘And may I see the picture of Stan again?’

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said, once I’d shown him. ‘I wonder if Edward would have ended up looking so dreadful…’

  ‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘Your son had none of Stan’s vices.’

  Except for one—his overweening opportunism, a vice that left no physical traces.

  ‘Stan wants to meet you,’ I said. ‘Would you be willing?’

  ‘A brother,’ he said, unconsciously echoing Stan’s words. ‘I have a brother.’

  ‘There’s no absolute proof, of course.’

  ‘Not yet, but there will be.’

  George peered again at the picture.

  ‘It’s not who I would have chosen for a brother. From what you say, he sounds like a horrible creature.’

  Come to think of it, George wouldn’t have chosen Ed as his son.

  ‘We don’t get to select our family, only our friends.’

  I hadn’t chosen my mother either, and I’m damned sure she wouldn’t have picked me out as a daughter given the choice.

  ‘Why are you telling me this now?’

  ‘Stan wants to meet you, and also it strengthens your case. The piece we’re after was part of your father’s estate, but you might be entitled to a share in the rest. Your father may have died intestate, but even if he made a will, you can dispute it.’

  ‘I know what I said before, but I may lodge a claim,’ he said, ‘simply to ensure the artworks are restored to the true owners. From what you tell me, I doubt Stan could be relied upon to do that.’

  ‘And does this change your mind about Zurich?’

  ‘No, and I’m not keen on you going either. You said you’d stay here.’

  Although I had agreed to remain in Prague, I was now having second thoughts. Instinctively, the notion of being away from the centre of action unnerved me.

  ‘But…’

  ‘No buts. Apart from anything else there’s no point in you going. When this Hana woman turns the painting in, I shall start legal proceedings. In the meantime, why not let Beresford take the heat?’

  ‘But surely…?’

  ‘And do you really fancy playing gooseberry with those two?’

  ‘No, but I’m prepared to put up with it for the greater good,’ I said, which was total bollocks but sounded somehow honourable.

  George tutted and shook his head.

  ‘I’m beginning to understand you, Amy. You crave adventure, you thrive on it—it’s like an addiction. Only two days after your car crash, you’re seeking the next high. Now, I’m your client and therefore you follow my instructions. I want you to telephone Stan and fix a meeting, which I should like you to attend with me, but you are not going to Zurich. Is that clear?’

  I opened my mouth but thought better of it. George was only trying to save me from myself.

  21

  Most men assume an invitation to a woman’s hotel room means sex—Rudi was different.

  When I arrived, he was sitting on the chair watching an American film dubbed in Czech.

  ‘Why do they always dub foreign films here rather than using subtitles?’ I asked.

  ‘Because we have a top-notch dubbing industry and they’d all be out of work if we moved to subtitles.’

  ‘I see.’ I wasn’t sure whether he was joking—I sometimes found it difficult to tell with Rudi.

  ‘Good chat with George? No doubt he’s advised you not to become entangled with me, and hadn’t noticed you’d already given me the brush off.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Doesn’t “two big beds” mean no sex, or did it lose something in the translation?’

  I hadn’t knowingly intended that meaning, and nor was I used to having my remarks subjected to such close analysis. To tell the truth, but for my injuries it could have gone either way, and I couldn’t remain celibate forever…

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, picking up on my hesitancy. ‘It’s generous of you to let me sleep here, and I don’t plan to abuse your hospitality.’

  I relaxed instantly.

  ‘If you must know, we were talking about his relationship to Stanislav.’

  I explained my theory about Josef and Jan. He considered it a far-fetched conjecture but grudgingly agreed to revisit the journals.

  ‘It’ll be quite a task,’ he said. ‘But for you…’

  For a moment, I thought he’d changed his mind about the sex, and in an involuntary movement I edged away from him, tensing my body again.

  ‘Oh, Amy, please—I promise I won’t try to seduce you. But when was the last time a guy told you he loved you?’

  The question caught me off guard. When was it? Toby loved me, but never told me. Dave told me, but only loved an idealised, hypothetical version of Amy. And looking back, my ex-husband Greg must have said the words, but they’d been as empty and meaningless as our marriage.

  ‘You seem to find the answer difficult.’

  He’d
hit me on a raw nerve. Finally, the dam broke and all the emotion I’d valiantly striven to control burst out in an unstoppable tsunami. Tears streamed down my cheeks as though they’d never stop.

  Rudi was amazing. He held me until the sobs subsided and then listened as I spewed forth the misery and pain which was eating into my soul like a cancer. At the Priory, I’d played a game with the therapists, feigning disclosure while holding the inner Amy back. Now, I blurted out a full confession of all the past year’s incredible events, and how they’d blighted my life. And, in a spirit of complete openness, I suggested that this catalogue of disaster had been self-inflicted—a pre-ordained culmination of a lifetime’s hypocrisy and deceit.

  ‘When will this nightmare end? I don’t want to be Crazy Amy anymore.’

  Without saying a word, Rudi extracted the two small bottles of champagne from the minibar. What impelled everyone to crack open my champagne whenever I was in the depths of despair, I asked myself. He poured the fizz into two glasses and handed one to me.

  ‘Here’s to the end of Crazy Amy,’ he said as, in a symbolic act, we raised our glasses. ‘Though as I told you at the vineyard, you never were crazy, just unlucky. At every turn, your reaction to events has been completely logical—the circumstances were crazy, not you.’

  I could just about buy his explanation, but for my most heinous crime.

  ‘I murdered Zowie, my baby.’

  There—I’d finally uttered my shameful declaration of guilt.

  ‘Tell me why you say that, Amy.’

  So I did.

  ‘I can’t explain what possessed me to open the wine. I’m not an alcoholic and I’d been so careful ever since I’d found out about the pregnancy, plus even the thought of alcohol repulsed me. But that evening, I had a visitor and I fancied a glass. So we had one each, and then I corked up the bottle.’

  The visitor had been George, but this wasn’t relevant, so I omitted to mention it.

  ‘But after he’d gone, I decided another small glass wouldn’t hurt, and before I knew it I’d finished the bottle.’

  ‘And you truly believe a few glasses of wine killed Zowie?’

  ‘I hear you, I’m a rational person and on its own the amount I drank wouldn’t have caused his death. But I keep thinking, suppose the pregnancy was hanging in the balance and the wine tipped it over the edge.’