Restitution

by Rose Edmunds

  ‘OK—I’ll do it,’ I said, against my better judgement.

  Afterwards, I wished I’d asked why Lytkin’s men hadn’t killed Hardacre in Zurich—he’d have made an easy target as he emerged from the bank with the picture. But like all good actors, Hardacre had this way of sucking you into his web of intrigue by suspending your disbelief, and only much later would I question his version of events.

  34

  Ivanov’s offices were in a Mayfair penthouse suite, overlooking Green Park. Like many Russian oligarchs he based himself in London, while no doubt routing his investments through Cyprus (ostensibly because of the favourable Russia/Cyprus tax treaty).

  No one does bling like an oligarch, but as I stepped inside Ivanov’s quarters, it became apparent that he was atypical. Without trying, I’d developed quite an eye for appraising interior decor while advising rich entrepreneurs at Pearson Malone. And I could tell, from the most cursory glance at the furnishings, that they were all authentic, valuable antiques and paintings. But everything looked understated, and didn’t scream out “I’m a billionaire” in the way I’d expected.

  The theme of low-key sophistication continued with the man himself. He had foxy features with a neatly trimmed beard and moustache. No detail escaped his inquisitive eyes, and his smile revealed imperceptibly asymmetric and natural-coloured teeth, no doubt the work of an exclusive private dentist. He wore an immaculately tailored suit, unfussy but almost certainly Savile Row, together with a crisp white shirt.

  ‘You are admiring my office,’ he observed, once Hardacre had made the introductions.

  ‘Yes—everything’s so exquisitely tasteful—and real.’

  ‘I’m glad you noticed. So few of my visitors appreciate the effort I put into choosing it all.’

  ‘Isn’t the main point for you to appreciate it?’ I said.

  ‘Precisely. Are you fond of art yourself?’

  ‘I know what’s pleasing to my eye. But I’m no investor.’

  ‘Which is as it should be. But sadly, many of my peers regard the objects at best as pure investment or, at worst, a symbol of their perceived wealth and prominence.’

  I recalled my picture-perfect house, and all it had stood for.

  ‘Art should be enjoyed, first and foremost, and it’s my main pleasure in life. I never buy yachts or private jets—only beautiful objects.’

  He signalled for us to sit, before turning to the main purpose of the meeting.

  ‘So—Mr Hardacre tells me a friend of yours is in grave danger.’

  Hardacre had instructed me to make the running, on the somewhat spurious grounds that Ivanov would take a more reasoned approach with a woman. I had my doubts and decided he was passing the buck—an ungentlemanly tactic, especially considering it was his deal and his girl’s life at stake. But nevertheless, I’d agreed to take the lead.

  After my accomplished narration of the story so far, Ivanov flashed us a penetrating glance with those all-seeing eyes.

  ‘Have you contacted the police?’

  ‘That might be a little problematic,’ said Tom. ‘As you’re aware, I had to impersonate someone else to gain access and while I had every intention of turning it in…’

  ‘Naturally.’

  I detected a minute movement of Ivanov’s eyebrow. Was this evidence of his scepticism, or a shared conspiracy between him and Hardacre?

  ‘…the police might not see it that way.’

  ‘Undoubtedly Lytkin is behind this,’ Ivanov said. ‘The kidnapping bears all the hallmarks of his violent methods. Certainly, your friend’s life is far more valuable than a mere work of art, and I completely understand your reluctance to involve the police. But it’s an interesting moral dilemma is it not? Lytkin steals the artwork, but it was already stolen, once if not twice. If I were then to recover it from Lytkin, is it theft, or am I entitled to it?’

  I understood his logic, but legally he’d be in the wrong, as he was perfectly aware.

  ‘The courts ruled that you have no case.’

  ‘Ah yes, but I’m talking about moral entitlement. In a strict legal sense, the portrait must belong to the descendants of the person who purchased it from the Soviet government all those years ago, depending where they live and the restitution law there. I doubt if Novak has any legitimate claim. But no matter, you must hand over the painting to Lytkin in exchange for your friend’s life. Though I fear it may never resurface, unless I strike a deal with him.’

  ‘Do you think you can?’ I asked.

  Ivanov gave a little shrug.

  ‘Who can say? He has something I want badly, which gives him a temporary strategic advantage. But equally, I now have kompromat on him to use later, which may suit me better than involving the police at this stage. So please, go ahead and comply with Lytkin’s demands. And I’m grateful for your efforts even though, as you’ll appreciate, I cannot pay your finder’s fee.’

  He fixed Hardacre with a penetrating gaze.

  ‘You can’t?’ he said aghast, as if the tone of the discussion had led him to imagine otherwise. ‘But I’ve located the painting, as agreed.’

  Come on, Tom, I thought—don’t push your luck. He’s being reasonable, or at least appearing to be reasonable.

  ‘Circumstantial evidence cannot be regarded as proof,’ said Ivanov. ‘And besides, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, payment of the fee may put both of us in an embarrassing position should it transpire that we failed to report the discovery. But take care—Lytkin is even more dangerous as an enemy than he is as a friend. And now, if you will excuse me, I must prepare for my next appointment.’

  As we stepped out into the street, I reflected on how smoothly the meeting had gone—far more than we had any right to expect. Ivanov had accepted his loss with surprising equanimity, and now all we had to do was wait until the kidnappers made contact. Yet regardless of the apparent success of the encounter, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Ivanov was many moves ahead of us.

  35

  That evening I’d planned to visit George and read the riot act to Stan—but we’d still heard nothing from the kidnappers, presumably because they’d chosen to make us sweat. I considered cancelling, but Tom urged me to keep the appointment, promising to contact me if he had any news.

  On the way to George’s apartment, my conscience troubled me. Strictly, I should tell him and Stan about finding the painting, and consult them about how to handle the ransom demand. But George would naturally ask why we hadn’t contacted the police, and might even insist on doing so himself. In the circumstances, silence on the matter seemed wiser, even though the deception weighed heavily.

  George lived in an Art Deco block near Sloane Square underground station, in an apartment full of heavy, dark furniture from another era and another house. I estimated the value of the place at around four mill, which would have been a tidy legacy for Ed had he survived. In fact, Ed had probably stretched himself financially in anticipation of this windfall.

  Although Stan had only been staying with George a couple of days, the tell-tale signs of a hoarder in residence were already evident. No doubt Stan claimed he intended to read the small pile of newspapers stacked on a side table in the lounge. Equally, he would have given a plausible excuse for keeping the empty wine bottles lined up on the kitchen counter. But if George didn’t intervene, Stan would inevitably fill the apartment to the ceiling. I predicted it would take George some time to get to grips with this concept, for even if he’d seen Stan’s apartment, he’d expect Stan to behave differently given a fresh start. I knew, from my experience with my mother, this would never happen. I considered warning George—but I hated to rupture the growing bond between this unlikely pair of brothers, so I held my tongue.

  Unsurprisingly, George asked whether we’d found the imposter, and I lied. A second lie followed in quick succession when he enquired after Mel. These untruths had me squirming with guilt, and I was relieved when the conversation switched to Stan’s situation.

  Stan
mainly feared that any assets he disclosed would be confiscated, just as the art in his apartment had been impounded. This was a typical hoarder fear, but when I asked him what those assets were, he became defensive and taciturn.

  ‘His father had a house in Highgate,’ George said, when Stan popped out to the little boys’ room. ‘Lord knows what’s in it—maybe more art, or jewellery.’

  And doubtless also hoarded to the rafters, I thought.

  Stan also worried about being issued with a huge tax bill for assets later found not to be legally owned by his father. I inferred from this that more artworks were involved, and though ignorant of the technicalities in this niche area, I nevertheless made reassuring noises.

  Comforted, he asked me if I’d represent him in his negotiations with HMRC. I was flattered by his faith in me but wanted no part in it. This was a job for a specialist, and I recommended a tax investigations partner in Pearson Malone—a brilliant negotiator and high-functioning alcoholic who’d be the perfect adviser for Stan.

  ‘Mind you,’ I said. ‘He’ll give you the same advice as me. Own up to everything.’

  Ironic how a man who advocated full disclosure hid vodka in the orange juice he sipped all day—now there was a real alcoholic, not a lightweight drinker like me.

  I regaled Stan and George with tales of clients who’d failed to follow this guidance and come a cropper. Generally, they underestimated the ability of HMRC to assemble all the pieces in the jigsaw, but some were just plain stupid. My favourite story involved the man who settled his tax liability by writing out a cheque from a bank account he hadn’t declared. As I related this, I could almost visualise the thought balloon above Stan’s head. “No way am I that dumb”.

  I doubted Stan would ever accept the benefits of complete transparency, but if he hired my former colleague, he’d do fine. Drunk or sober, nobody pulled the wool over his eyes.

  ‘Thanks,’ said George, as he saw me out. ‘I’ll keep working on him but he’s so stubborn.’

  Just like Ed, I thought.

  ***

  I felt the need of a large gin and tonic to neutralise the effect of an evening wrangling with Stan, but just as I’d settled down to drink it, my phone rang.

  ‘They’ve made contact,’ said Tom. ‘Put a note through the door with a number to call. I spoke to them and they want to do the handover tomorrow.’

  ‘Is Mel safe?’

  ‘They just sent a video.’

  ‘Can I see?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll ping it over now, but it doesn’t add much.’

  ‘So what are the arrangements?’

  ‘The Diana memorial fountain in Kensington Gardens at noon.’

  ‘Sounds good—a public place.’

  My knowledge of hostage handovers, gleaned from movies and novels, suggested the more public the location, the less likely the victim would be harmed.

  ‘It’s good for them too. They know we met Ivanov and they’re antsy as hell about being double-crossed by his heavies.’

  I also feared Ivanov had a cunning plan up his sleeve, and could only hope it didn’t involve any harm coming to Mel.

  ‘So we go there tomorrow,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll go alone—it’s way too dangerous for you. You can drive and wait outside the park.’

  I almost laughed. After the events of the past nine months, I’d grown accustomed to hazardous situations, whereas Tom was a babe in the woods. Still, I wasn’t anxious to add to my catalogue of terrifying experiences, so I suppressed the impulse to argue.

  As Tom had indicated, the video provided no useful information. A remarkably composed Mel declared she was being well cared for, and begged us to accede to the kidnappers’ demands. From the inoffensive picture of flowers in the background, I guessed Mel was being held in a hotel room, but could deduce nothing further. Still, she wouldn’t be spending too much longer in captivity. This time tomorrow, if everything went according to plan, she’d be back.

  36

  Early in the morning, we collected the painting from the lockup in Acton where Tom had hidden it.

  ‘I hope they haven’t followed us here,’ I said. ‘Because they could just grab the picture and kill Mel anyway.’

  ‘They won’t,’ said Tom, sounding supremely confident.

  The picture was covered in bubble wrap, but I asked Tom if I could see it. After all our efforts, it would be shame not to take a little peek at the unique artwork before relinquishing it. Reluctantly, Tom peeled off the wrapping, revealing a recognisable likeness of Picasso sitting in an armchair gazing at someone or something out of range—Fernande Olivier, presumably. On the table by his side were the wine and grapes—according to Beresford, the hallmark of the original.

  We made it to the entrance of the gardens without interference. Tom instructed me park the car and wait for his return, hopefully accompanied by Mel. I scoured the entrance for any sign of the kidnappers going in, but saw neither Mel nor anyone who looked remotely plausible as Lytkin’s henchman. Perhaps they were already in there.

  After half an hour of churning anxiety, I caught sight of Tom and Mel in the distance. As she drew nearer, I saw Mel looked pale, but otherwise less visibly shaken than I’d expected. Tom must have found the encounter stressful since he dived into a nearby public convenience, leaving me alone to debrief Mel.

  She felt like a bag of bones as I gave her a big hug and asked if she was OK.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘They treated you properly—didn’t knock you around or anything?’

  ‘No—it was like a business deal, which they made clear from the start. They fed me and kept me comfortable and I never really believed I was in any danger.’

  I silenced my inner bitch, who told me it wouldn’t have made any difference if they hadn’t fed Mel, since she didn’t eat anyway.

  Mel’s composure impressed me, though I figured she was putting it on for my benefit. Surely even feisty Mel couldn’t be as sanguine about the matter as she appeared. I expected she would break down later, over a few Mojitos, and let all the true emotion come pouring out.

  She seemed less calm about Tom though.

  ‘The toad,’ she said. ‘He’s acting like I should be so grateful to him for rescuing me, but this would never have happened if he hadn’t abandoned me in Zurich. Would you believe, he’s actually blaming us for leading them to him, and I still have no idea why he took the picture from the vault.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll enlighten you in due course,’ I said, though doubting how convincing she’d find his account.

  ‘There can be no excuses for what he did.’

  ‘So the relationship is over?’

  ‘You bet your life it’s over.’

  ‘You coming home with me then?

  ‘Actually,’ she said evasively, ‘I do need to have it out with him first—closure and all that.’

  And I knew then, no matter how vehemently she criticised him, she wasn’t done with Tom Hardacre yet.

  37

  As my mother used to say, you don’t miss what you never had.

  Over the next few days I repeated this mantra in an unsuccessful attempt to salve my conscience. Fact was, I ought to inform Stan and George about recent events. True, their entitlement to the Picasso was dubious, but by encouraging Hardacre to hand it over to Lytkin, I’d robbed them of their rights. In addition, I doubted whether my mother’s maxim applied if something you could have had slipped from your clutches, particularly a $100 million artwork.

  All in all, keeping quiet about the whole sordid episode didn’t sit easily. George and Stan deserved to be told the truth, however mad at me they might be for not confiding in them earlier. So ultimately I cracked and telephoned George to invite myself over.

  ‘I’m glad you called,’ he said. ‘Because I was planning ask you round anyway. I’ve made progress with Stan.’

  ‘What—you mean he’s agreed to come clean with HMRC?’

  ‘Sort of, yes.’

  I h
adn’t expected this result but as I’d come to appreciate, Stan was nothing if not unpredictable.

  I arrived at George’s place with Germanic punctuality. Although less than a week had passed since my last visit, the piles of newspapers and collection of empty wine bottles had grown perceptibly. Moreover, various items of Stan’s clothing were strewn all over the lounge. By now, George, an orderly man, had no doubt confronted Stan, and Stan would have trotted out his excuses. But these discussions wouldn’t change the fundamental position—bit by bit, like an iceberg forming in a cold ocean, Stan’s clutter would take over the apartment.

  ‘So,’ I said, once the drinks had been poured and we’d dispensed with the initial pleasantries. ‘What did you want to discuss?’

  They exchanged a conspiratorial glance.

  ‘You go first,’ said George.

  They listened in silence as I described my brilliant sleuthing, Mel’s kidnap, the feuding oligarchs and the subsequent loss of the picture. But throughout my account they kept giving each other these weird little looks, as though they possessed a key piece of information unknown to me.

  ‘So, I’m sorry I lied to you the other day,’ I concluded, ‘but you’d only have insisted I contact the police.’

  ‘And why didn’t you?’ asked George.

  ‘For reasons too convoluted to explain.’

  Fortunately, despite my evasive answer, neither he nor Stan pressed me on the subject.

  ‘Still,’ I said, with a nervous smile. ‘You can’t put a price on a human life and besides, you don’t miss what you never had.’

  I awaited their reactions with trepidation— Stan’s in particular, and braced myself for outrage. Instead, astonishingly, the ominous silence was broken by a chuckle from George, followed by Stan’s throaty roaring laughter.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘The whole story,’ said Stan.

  ‘Why?’

  Eventually, they managed to stop laughing long enough to get to the point.