14
‘Marshall!’ a voice called suddenly, ‘I thought it was you.’
The tall, gangling figure of Timothy Parker-Ross, came towards Marshall in Albemarle Street.
He ambled over, then clasped Marshall in a sloppy hug, his long arms wrapped around his friend until he pulled back, embarrassed. ‘Sorry, Marshall. I was just so pleased to see you … I’m sorry about your father.’
‘I’m pleased to see you too,’ Marshall said, and meant it. ‘I thought you were abroad.’
‘Came back. You know how it is, I always liked travelling.’
‘I remember. When we were young you said you wanted to go to every country in the world. And learn every language.’
‘Well, I don’t have the brain to learn all the languages. Never was much of a scholar,’ he laughed, his long arms folding and refolding as though they were in his way. ‘But I do travel a lot. I have the time, and the money helps. I’ve got lots of money now, from selling the business.’ He looked around the empty street. ‘Are you staying in London?’
‘I don’t know,’ Marshall replied honestly. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
‘It was just that if you – er – if you, well, felt like it, we could – er – have dinner. Catch up.’ Timothy paused, acutely aware that he was floundering. ‘I tried to get back for your father’s funeral, but the flight was delayed … my father always said I was late for everything.’
Smiling, Marshall touched his arm. He himself had grown up, thickened out and hardened, but Timothy had stayed soft and boyish. He had never married. Never had the confidence, his shyness making him a social hermit. He might travel the world, but he would never relax anywhere, and Marshall realised that he was probably still Timothy’s only friend.
‘We’ll have dinner, I’d like that. I have to sort out my father’s things, but after that we could meet up.’ Marshall paused, staring at the friend of his youth. The lad who had jumped on and off the Piccadilly buses, the boy in the British Museum, the misfit cowering under his father’s blistering ambition.
‘Are you working?’
Timothy shuffled his feet. ‘No … don’t know what to do really. I suppose I
should
work, but at what? I thought I might go into property. You know, in Spain perhaps, lots of English people there so I wouldn’t have to learn the language.’ He laughed. ‘Mind you, I helped organise a couple of charity balls this summer. Phoning people I knew, raising money, but lately I thought I might build a house in Switzerland.’
‘Can you ski?’
He put his head on one side. ‘No. D’you have to?’
Marshall smiled. ‘It’s not compulsory.’ He reached into his pocket and scribbled down his mobile number. ‘I have to go now, but we’ll meet up again soon. Give me a ring, will you?’
Timothy took the number and nodded. When he walked off Marshall stood watching his etiolated figure move away, pausing only once to kick a tin can into the gutter at the end of the street.
Turning his attention to the gallery, Marshall stared at the police tape then glanced up to the windows on the first floor. He looked around him. Albemarle Street was deserted, London rain falling disconsolately on the street and running down the barred gallery windows. On the front door of the Zeigler Gallery was a notice: CLOSED DUE TO BEREAVEMENT. For a moment he wanted to rewrite the note to say CLOSED DUE TO MURDER – but what would have been the point? Every one in W1 knew what had happened to Owen Zeigler.
Ducking under the blue and white crime scene tape, Marshall unlocked the gallery door and walked in. The damp eeriness of the place affected him, his shadow falling along the gallery floor as he moved further inside. Turning on the desk lamp, he looked about him. Everything was as he had last seen it, Nothing tidied up or moved; the papers still scattered, the frantic scrabbling search obvious. He wanted so much to tidy up, put the gallery to rights, to make it as his father would have wanted it – presentable, elegant, ordered. But he knew he couldn’t because the police would be back. What for, Marshall wasn’t sure. They had taken forensic evidence and fingerprints, had tramped up and down the floors until any clue would have been ground underfoot by sheer weight of numbers. But still they had cordoned off the gallery, allowing no one inside for the last twenty-four hours.
Yet
something
had drawn Marshall back. He had put the package in a security box in an Amsterdam bank as intended, but had kept a copy of the letters with him. In his case, hidden amongst his working translation of Dante’s
The Divine Comedy
. After his conversation with Charlotte Gorday, Marshall had wanted to leave Holland fast, his return to London prompted by a desire to see his ex-wife, and a need to revisit the scene of his father’s death. But as Marshall moved to the back of the gallery space, he found himself pausing, uncertain, in front of the door which led down to the basement. Did he
really
want to go back down there? Down into the dark underbelly of the gallery? To the place where Owen Zeigler had been tortured and strung up? Did he really want to remember …
He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them again. The police, he told himself, had searched the area repeatedly; what could he really expect to find? But they were looking for clues, evidence. Marshall was looking for something a father might leave for a son to find. Some hint, some note … Still hesitating, he saw the basement in his mind’s eye, walked the space in his head. He had looked around after the murder. There had been nothing there.
Nothing.
There seemed no reason to go back downstairs, he told himself. What could he possibly gain from reliving such a hideous event … Changing his mind, Marshall let go of the door handle and turned, retracing his steps back to the front entrance.
The gallery seemed crammed with memories, haunted with his recall. Out of the corner of his eye Marshall even thought he caught a glimpse of his mother, coming down the stairs to a private viewing, resplendent in 1970s finery. Without trying he could hear the chatter of past conversations, hear a phone ringing in the distance … The memory of the burst pipe came back in that instant, Lester Fox and Gordon Hendrix up to their knees in water, passing the paintings from hand to hand. Lester to George to Owen to Marshall, and finally to his mother. Standing on the top step of the basement stairs.
And then Marshall thought of the ghost, the dead soldier, who had skirted his childhood dreams, but a muffled sound under his feet snapped him out of his reverie. At first he thought he was still daydreaming, that he was about to see the dead soldier finally materialise. But the noise seemed real to him and, curious, he retraced his steps to the basement door. He paused, listening. Nothing. And yet he knew he hadn’t imagined the sound. Silently, he turned the handle and opened the door. The basement steps were in darkness and hardly any light was coming through from the back window at the far end. The dampness seemed to have intensified, and underneath it the smell of blood. Marshall moved down the first steps cautiously, and again heard a sound, a slight thud.
He wondered whether the boiler been left on accidentally. Perhaps it was the pilot light making a thunking sound as it lit. But no – it couldn’t be the boiler, the building was too cold. Warily, he continued down the steps; another couple of feet and he would be able to reach out for the light switch. The musty air gathered in his nostrils as he descended, the partition wall coming into view at the far end – a huge black shape crouching in the eerie cellar.
There it was again.
The dull thump.
Marshall jumped and flicked on the light.
He hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly hadn’t been the huge packing case in the middle of the basement floor. Mystified, he moved towards it, then realised that it was where the sound had come from.
Someone was inside the box.
‘Hang on!’ he said urgently, ‘I’ll get you out.’
Taking a hammer off the worktable, Marshall tried to use the claw-footed end to jemmy up the lid, but the steel straps were holding it tight and gave no leeway. Desperately, he tried to break the straps, then ran to the wall and took down a pair of wire cutters. His hands clenched around the cutters, he put all his effort into breaking the top strap until, finally, the steel gave way.
‘I’ve nearly got you. Can you hear me?’ he called.
There was no sound.
He was too slow! Jesus, he was too slow! He scrabbled at the strap at the head of the box, tugging at it, pulling at it until it cut into his hands. Then finally he snapped it, jammed the claw of the hammer under the lid, and used all his strength to prise it up. With a crack, the wood split, the lid lifted a couple of inches, and Marshall peered as best he could into the dark box.
‘Christ!’
Teddy Jack was grey, motionless, spittle around his mouth, his lips drawn back over his teeth. But as Marshall levered the lid open further the big man’s eyes fluttered and, with a rasping intake of breath, he drew in a gasp of clean air.
15
‘It makes you think …’ Rufus Ariel said smoothly. ‘Who would have killed Owen Zeigler?’
Leon Williams fiddled with his cuff links, fingering the smooth gold orbs with his bony fingers, his eyes wary behind tinted glasses. He had been shaken by the murder, coming so close to home. His wasted figure, dressed in a pristine navy serge suit, twitched with restless energy, his bony hands clasping and unclasping, finally finding some rest tucked deep in his trousers pockets. Always a nervous eater, Leon had barely managed to keep anything down in the last week and his gut was now rumbling with acid.
Rufus stared at the area of blue serge which was emitting noises. ‘Why don’t you eat something?’
‘I can’t keep it down,’ Leon replied, looking at his colleague with admiration.
He was impressed by Rufus Ariel’s calmness. Everyone was talking about the murder, wondering if it had been personal. Or if it had been a botched robbery – and they might be next. No one left their galleries unattended for long, and every night a ribbon of alarm lights blinked nervously over Albemarle Street.
‘My secretary left yesterday,’ Leon went on. ‘After all, we’re only two doors away from the Zeigler Gallery. She said her husband was worried and didn’t want her working in W1 any more … Are you listening, Rufus?’
Nodding, Rufus glanced up.
‘Why would anyone want to kill a secretary, even a bad one?’ he said. ‘Everyone knows that gallery secretaries are the stupidest women in England, just filling in time before they marry some wanker from the Home Counties.’
Rufus had a long-term, personal dislike of the upper class girls who worked in the galleries. But although he had never stopped flirting with them, he’d never managed to seduce one. Perhaps they were not that stupid, after all.
‘You know what I mean!’ Leon replied tightly. ‘Why would anyone want to kill Owen Zeigler? I heard he was gutted. Blood everywhere … I mean, it was odd how quickly he was buried, wasn’t it? All such a rush.’
‘His son had to organise it when he was in London. He doesn’t live here, remember.’
‘But I saw him yesterday—’
Suddenly alert, Rufus looked at Leon, his puffy face no longer bland, his fat hands clenched across his stomach.
‘
Marshall Zeigler?
I heard he’d gone back to Amsterdam.’
‘If he did, he didn’t stay there. I tell you I saw him yesterday.’ Leon’s voice rose, as it always did when he thought he was being challenged. ‘I know what he looks like! I tell you, I saw him. He was going into his father’s gallery. It was pretty late.’
‘What was he doing at the gallery? I thought it was cordoned off, the police said no one could go in.’
‘Well, it was his home once, wasn’t it?’ Leon countered, feeling cornered. ‘I suppose he thought no one would mind. Can’t say I’d fancy it, going back to where you found your dead father. D’you think the police will catch him?’
‘Who? Marshall Zeigler?’
‘The man who killed his father!’ Leon replied petulantly, taking a seat on one of the gilt chairs positioned perfectly under a still life. His thoughts were speeding up, his words blundering on. ‘Or should I say
men
? They think it was more than one, don’t they? Could be two, even three. Could be a gang of them,’ Leon went on, his agitation increasing, stomach acid burning his gut. ‘You hear about it all the time, these gangs roaming around with knives, guns even … I should get my alarm checked again, maybe change the locks. Why did they do it? Why would they do that to anyone? Why? I mean, it could have been
any
of us.’ He stood up, pacing restlessly. ‘Do you ever think about Stefan van der Helde?’
Shaken, Rufus gave Leon a cold look. ‘Van der Helde? What made you mention him?’
Something in his tone made Leon flinch, and his voice faltered as he spoke. ‘It was something one of the dealers was saying at the club. Van der Helde worked in New Bond Street a long while back, before he moved to Amsterdam, and when we were talking about Zeigler’s death, someone remembered how Van der Helde was tortured and murdered. It was only last year. Surely you remember about the stones?’ He paused, unnerved by Rufus’s unreadable expression. ‘They made him swallow stones before they killed him. And they disembowelled Owen Zeigler … Why would they torture two dealers if there wasn’t a connection?’
‘People get murdered all the time.’
‘But both men were art dealers, and both were tortured …’ Leon was beginning to wonder if he was saying too much – and to the wrong person. Rufus’s expression was chilling. ‘Oh Christ, I don’t want to think about it.’
Just then a young woman came into the gallery and sat down at the front desk. After a few moments, she began typing on the computer, stopping to pick up the phone when it rang next to her.
Getting to his feet, Rufus pulled his waistcoat down over his extended belly and moved back to his office, beckoning for Leon to follow.
Rufus closed the door behind him. ‘No point talking in front of the staff,’ he said, easing himself into his chair. ‘I don’t want to lose my secretary too.’
Leon flinched. ‘Has she asked you about the murder?’
‘No, but then she knows Vicky Leighton who worked for Owen Zeigler, so no doubt she’s heard all the gory details.’
Relieved that the conversation was benign again, Leon relaxed.
‘What about Victoria Leighton? She’ll be looking for a job now, won’t she? Maybe she’d work for me—’
‘Sort it out for yourself,’ Rufus replied, cutting him off and returning to their previous conversation. ‘About Stefan van der Helde—’
‘I don’t want to talk about it anymore.’
‘I do.’
Cowed, Leon glanced down as Rufus continued. ‘Did his killers steal anything from Van der Helde’s gallery?’
‘No. And the police never found out who did it. It could have been the same people who killed Owen.’
‘Now, why would you say that, Leon?’
‘Say what?’
‘That it could be the same killers.’
He was sweating now. ‘Well, it could be.’
‘Why? What did Van der Helde and Zeigler have in common?’
Shifting in his seat, Leon stammered. ‘They … they knew each other.’
‘How well?’
‘I don’t know how well!’
‘Van der Helde was gay, Zeigler was straight,’ Rufus replied thoughtfully. ‘Zeigler dealt in Dutch art, Van der Helde dealt in Russian art—’
‘Yes, but before that Van der Helde also dealt in Dutch paintings.’
Rufus’s eyebrows lifted, his mouth tight. ‘He did? I didn’t know that.’
‘My father told me. It was years ago. Van der Helde went into Russian art in the 1970s – before you opened your gallery …’
Piqued, Rufus Ariel let the barb pass. Few things rattled him, but he despised any reference to some of the more privileged backgrounds of some of the dealers. Their happy inheritances irked him; he had spent twenty years grafting before he even obtained a toehold on the London art scene. Lazier, more stupid men had come by their galleries by luck and birth, and Ariel had had to cajole and smarm his way into their ranks. And even when he had finally been accepted, any reference to his not having been born into the business pinched at his ego.
Knowing that he temporarily had the upper hand, Leon blundered on. ‘Van der Helde dealt in Dutch interiors. He knew loads of dealers at that time. My father told me once that he discovered a Vermeer, but I think that was a rumour. People are always lying about their successes. Only the other day Tobar Manners was going on about—’
Rufus cut him off.
‘So Van der Helde was an expert on Dutch art and he knew Owen Zeigler.’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s it?’ Rufus sneered. ‘That’s all they had in common?’
Leon looked pained. ‘They were both murdered—’
‘I meant, was that
all
they had in common when they were alive?’
‘I don’t know!’ Leon replied, his voice rising again. ‘Why are you interrogating me, Rufus? I was just thinking aloud, thinking it was odd that two dealers were brutally murdered. I’m not implying anything else, I don’t
know
anything else! I don’t
want
to know anything else. It might not be wise.’
‘For whom?’
‘For us! For all of us!’
‘Jesus,’ Rufus said cruelly, ‘you
are
a coward.’
‘I am, yes. I don’t pretend otherwise. I’m not a brave man, never have been, but I liked my life until recently. I had it good, we
all
had it good round here, but everything’s changed. People you thought would be there for life are leaving, businesses closing, marriages are breaking up. You walk around this place at night and it’s like a ghost town. I thought depressions happened up North, in those bloody mill towns, not down here, not in the art market. It’s not
supposed
to happen here.’
Delighted to have rattled Leon so thoroughly, Rufus assumed a sympathetic expression. He might not have been one of the chosen few on his arrival in Albemarle Street, but the naive dealers weren’t going to be able to handle the hard times as well as he was. Now was the time when it paid to be streetwise.
‘It’s bad enough wondering if you can keep your business going,’ went on Leon, ‘but now to have to worry about being killed; worry about every person you let into your gallery; wonder about who’s walking in and what they might do …’ He shuddered. ‘You know what I think?’
Rufus shook his head.
‘That the bloody country’s ruined, and no gives a shit! I ask you, what the fuck is going on?’
Rufus’s expression was inscrutable. If he knew something, he certainly wasn’t going to pass the knowledge on.