Authors: Stella Rimington
25
L
et’s go through it one more time.”
It was evening on Hampstead Heath and a few dog walkers were taking advantage of the lengthening days. The sun was dipping below a ridge of trees to the west of them, casting long shadows over the bench where Jerry Simmons and Rykov sat.
Jerry sighed. He was tired after an early start that morning. He had taken Brunovsky’s girlfriend, Monica, to Heathrow at the crack of dawn—she was meeting a friend in Paris for a two-day shopping expedition. “I’ve told you. There’s his assistant, Tamara, there’s Mrs. Grimby, Mrs. Warburton—that’s the housekeeper—and a maid. And most nights, Monica. There was a temp as well, but she’s gone now. Lately his decorator’s been around—his name’s Tutti. Italian bloke. Poof too.”
“Poof?” asked the Russian. Jerry flapped his hand exaggeratedly and he nodded. “And that is all?”
“I told you about the American, Forbes. He comes around a couple of times a week.”
“Other visitors?”
“Lots of them. But nobody regular. Only some student interested in Brunovsky’s Russian paintings.”
“Student? You said nothing about a student.”
“I don’t think she’ll be there for long,” Jerry said.
“Who is this girl?”
“Jane somebody. And she’s not a girl—she must be at least thirty. I drove her home one night. She’s one of those mature students.” Seeing the puzzled look on the Russian’s face, he explained, “Somebody older who’s gone back to college.” He looked at Rykov sourly. “We do that sometimes, you know.”
Vladimir ignored him. “I want to know more about this Jane. Let’s begin with what she looks like. And then where she lives.”
26
A
h, look at this mouse the cat has brought in.” The voice was distinctly Italian, and belonged to a slim man who appeared in the doorway of the formal downstairs dining room. Here Liz had set up shop, since for now
Blue Field
was sitting in a bank vault in the City of London. The delay had been caused by the insurers, who were insisting on yet more security. Only then would the Pashko be allowed to hang in the smaller dining room upstairs.
“I am Marco,” declared the man, walking into the room. He was about Liz’s age, with a slim build, dark complexion and sharp-featured face. He wore his hair short, and had a small neatly trimmed goatee. His clothes were stylish and a touch flamboyant—a canary yellow polo neck, pressed white linen trousers and brown ankle boots. “Marco Tutti,” he said, extending a hand.
“Nice to meet you,” said Liz from her seat. “I’m Jane.” She gestured at the papers on the long mahogany table, which could seat twenty-four with all its leaves in. Each morning the young maid waxed and polished it until its surface shone like glossy chocolate. “I’m doing some research for Mr. Brunovsky.”
“On Pashko, I see,” said Tutti, peering inquisitively over her shoulder. “
Blue Field
is a very beautiful painting,” he said approvingly, then gave a small titter. “But expensive. Personally I would consider putting the painting here.” He pointed to the wall above the room’s marble fireplace, where a gilt mirror hung. “But Nicky insists it go upstairs.” He sighed to suggest the unreasonableness of the Russian.
There were footsteps in the hall, and Brunovsky himself came in. He was dressed casually—a cashmere sweater and thick corduroys—very obviously just back from the country. “Marco,” said Brunovsky briskly, “you are on time. How remarkable. You have met Jane?”
Tutti nodded, and Brunovsky turned and walked over to the windows. He reached out and roughly grabbed a handful of curtain. They were made of heavy cream-coloured damask, bordered with antique gold braid and with thick red silk tie-backs. Looking at Tutti, Brunovsky asked, “What is it she wants to replace these with?”
The Italian shrugged. “I am still showing her samples. Something more colourful.”
“More colour,” said Brunovsky dubiously. He looked now at Liz. “Do you like these?” he asked.
“They’re lovely,” said Liz sincerely. She’d noticed them at once.
“Monica doesn’t think so,” said Brunovsky, letting go of the material and shaking his head. He pointed at Liz. “She likes them,” he said aggressively to Tutti.
“It doesn’t really matter what I think,” Liz protested, and Tutti nodded, intent on his commission.
“But you are English,” Brunovsky said sharply, as if this were an infallible guarantee of good taste. “It is English style I want in this room.”
“Monica is English too,” Tutti insisted.
I’m not getting in the middle of this one, thought Liz, as Brunovsky pursed his lips. “She is back today,” he announced. “I will talk with her this afternoon.” He looked again at Liz, who made a point of staring at her computer screen. She was using a new laptop supplied by Technical Ted, the head computer boffin at Thames House. Password-protected, it was loaded with so much additional security that the keenest hacker would have trouble even logging on. As an extra precaution, Ted had made sure that the machine stored nothing to indicate it was anything but the working tool of an amateur student of art.
Liz had begun that week, spending half her working day in Belgravia, the rest at Thames House running her section. The division of labour was making her life complicated. She had to dry-clean herself each time she moved from one location to the other, to ensure she was not being followed. Though she did not think anyone in the Brunovsky household suspected her, she did not know enough about what was going on around her to be sure.
At the house she spent her time researching Sergei Pashko, with special attention to the Irish years of exile when he had painted
Blue Field
. Like a method actor, Liz had decided the best way to play her role—Jane Falconer, art-history student and Pashko enthusiast—was to embrace it. After the discomfiting interrogation by Greta Darnshof at the restaurant in the Hilton Hotel, Liz wanted to make sure she could perform credibly if the Danish woman put her though her art-history paces again.
But her real objective was to unearth as much information as she discreetly could, and pass it back to Peggy Kinsolving in Thames House. She was looking for anything that did not check out. The cook, Mrs. Grimby, was friendly enough, but busy and she didn’t like to chat. On the other hand, Mrs. Warburton was a real gossip, almost a caricature of the traditional housekeeper who knows precisely what’s going on upstairs and downstairs. Only Tamara, the secretary, was unwelcoming, offering the curtest of nods when she emerged occasionally from her office. But there was nothing in that to cause Liz to suspect that she—or Mrs. Warburton or Mrs. Grimby—was anything other than what she seemed. Though as Liz reminded herself, the same might once have been thought of the chauffeur, Jerry Simmons.
Liz had chosen her position next to the front hall, to give her a good vantage point for seeing who came and went, particularly visitors to Brunovsky’s office, which opened off Tamara’s at the back. But the previous day she had realised that she controlled only one of the entrances to Brunovsky’s lair and that people came and went whom she never saw. In mid-afternoon, just after Mrs. Grimby had brought her a tray of tea and biscuits, she heard raised voices speaking in Russian coming from the office. One was Brunovsky and the other was female but not Tamara, whose voice Liz by now could easily recognise. The voices calmed to a dull hum only to be raised again and finally she heard the slam of a door and the sound of footsteps on the garden path. She realised that someone had come in through the French windows that led from Brunovsky’s office into the garden and had then left, presumably through the gate into the mews at the back of the house. Why use that route she wondered, if it was not to avoid being seen by Liz? And if that was the reason, it must be someone who knew exactly where she would be.
She saw a lot of Brunovsky. The oligarch seemed to have the attention span of a gnat, and welcomed any excuse to distract himself from work. Though exactly what work do you do, thought Liz, when you are worth £6 billion? Try and make it seven? It wasn’t clear, and the Russian was constantly emerging from his small office, popping into the dining room, apologising for interrupting Liz’s “work,” then starting a conversation about whatever had caught his perpetually wandering attention. Whenever he spoke to her, Brunovsky appeared relaxed, charming, like a little boy in his enthusiasms about everything from his pictures and his gardens to the spring weather. Increasingly, Liz was finding it difficult to equate this man with the ruthless exploiter of others that he must have been to acquire his present wealth. Billions don’t just fall into your lap, she reflected. When empires fall it’s the most ruthless who survive and prosper. Why are you putting on a performance? she wanted to ask the oligarch. Why do I feel like a character in a play you are directing? And who is the audience?
Now he was watching the gardener tie back a rose bush by the front step of the house, while Tutti dramatically extolled the merits of a Rodin statuette he’d found on a recent jaunt to Paris. You’re on to a good thing, thought Liz as the Italian went on, so I wouldn’t overdo it. It seemed that Tutti was not only in charge of decorating the interiors of Brunovsky’s residences, but was involved in his art buying as well.
Brunovsky and Tutti strolled out of the room, now debating the merits of a painting Tutti had spied in a Lyons gallery. Liz turned her attention back to Google. It had as usual provided too much information—16,000 hits on “Sergei Pashko + Ireland + Blue Field,” though most prominent were the press reports of the purchase of
Blue Field
by an anonymous telephone bidder.
Not that Brunovsky seemed to be trying to keep his acquisition a secret—if even his housekeeper knew he had spent millions on “some picture,” it didn’t seem possible that an inquisitive rival like Morozov would not sooner or later find out the identity of the buyer. Probably sooner, Liz thought, remembering the banker Harry Forbes’s account of the other Russian’s envy of Brunovsky. Even though both men were vocal critics of the Putin regime, Morozov and Brunovsky evidently disliked each other wholeheartedly.
She kept her eyes on her screen, while her mind mulled over this weird world with its strange alliances and hatreds, until a movement caught her eye and she looked up to find Monica Hetherington standing across the table from her. Just back from her trip, she was dressed in a sleeveless lilac dress that showed off both her athletic figure and deep tan; her ash-blonde hair was carefully tousled, and streaked as if by the sun.
“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” Monica demanded angrily, leaning across the table with both hands gripping its edge. There was no sign of her usual mild affability.
“Sorry?” said Liz, taken aback.
Monica pointed at the tall front windows. “Nicky says you think he should keep those bloody curtains.”
“Steady on,” said Liz. “I’m not here to decorate the house. He asked me if I liked the curtains. I said yes. That was the extent of it. Okay?”
Monica stared at Liz, her face hard. Liz hoped there wasn’t going to be a second outburst—she had no wish to make an enemy of Brunovsky’s girlfriend, especially over something as inconsequential as the oligarch’s choice of curtains. And gradually Monica’s expression softened. “Sorry,” she said, “it’s just that it’s taken me three months to persuade Nicky, and now I come back and find he’s changed his mind again. It’s hard work trying to do anything round here, you know. Nicky is a great guy and I love him to bits, but he can get quite nasty if you go against him. He’s Russian and I suppose they’ve got a different attitude to women,” she said with a touch of wistfulness. “So I try to get my way by working on him slowly.”
“Men,” said Liz, sounding sympathetic.
“You’re telling me,” said Monica, and she laughed.
Liz motioned towards the curtains. “What do you want to put in their place?”
“Would you like to see?” asked Monica, and when Liz nodded, she went into the hall and came back with a small pile of sample swatches. She rifled through them until she suddenly stopped at a swatch with a lime green background. On this were stamped enormous pink and white cabbage roses. It was hideous.
Liz managed to say, “How lovely.”
Monica nodded. “I’ve always loved roses,” she said. “Even as a little girl.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“Oh, here and there. My father was in shipping.” She smiled vaguely. “We were always moving around. Portugal, Italy, the Caribbean, Singapore. Name a port, I’ve lived there. How about you?”
Liz gave a wry shrug. “The West Country. London’s as far as I’ve got. But where did you meet Nikita?”
“Nicky? Oh, here in London. At a party.” She detached the sample from its holder and went and stood by the window, holding it up against the cream-coloured curtains. “What do you think?” she asked.
“It’s good. Really great,” said Liz, trying not to grit her teeth. I should get some of Tutti’s commission for this, she thought.
“Tell Nicky that, would you? He’s bound to ask.”
“Of course.”
She put the samples down on the table, then pointed at Liz’s computer on the table. “How’s it going then?”
Liz shrugged. “Okay,” she said.
“Is everyone being nice to you?” The tone was big-sisterly. Liz sensed that for all her sudden aggression, Monica was a girl’s girl.
“Absolutely.”
“I bet Tamara’s not.” Monica laughed again. “Don’t let that witch put you off. When she’s rude to me once too often, I just tell her where to get off. It works a treat—for a while, that is. You try it if she gives you any gyp.”
Liz’s position in the household was hardly comparable to that of the oligarch’s paramour, so she just nodded equably as Monica went on. “The rest are all right. Mrs. W. acts like she knows everybody’s business, and she probably does. But she’s a harmless old thing. Cook’s a sweetie. One of the gardeners was a bit of a perv, but he’s been sacked.”
Liz noticed that as she grew more confiding, Monica’s accent was slipping a social rung or two. Was it South London lurking behind South Africa, or pure Essex? Hard to tell, though if her father was a bigwig in shipping, thought Liz, mine was Lord Mayor of London.