Carel. Carel, my son … He stood there, his hat in his hands, not dusty now. Older, almost handsome, smiling as though he found it difficult. But he was so kind, and asked me to sit down. Asked me, taking a seat for himself afterwards. As though I was come for a portrait … I couldn’t think of what to say, sat on my hands like a fool, and his head went to one side because I believe he was sorry for me.
He said he knew I was his mother.
My lips were so dry they cracked when I tried to make an answer. They cracked and a little blood salted my tongue … He said van Rijn had let the truth slip, when he was drunk. Sloppy with wine and talking about the past, and how sometimes he couldn’t sleep for the bad he had done … I said nothing, waiting, not wanting to add anything until I knew what my son did. But when Carel spoke again he spoke of Rembrandt as his teacher, his mentor – not his father.
So the breech truth was only half delivered, half born, wedged into my pelvis, dragging at my innards until I felt the pushing of the years stop somewhere, half arrived. He said he was sorry that he had not been kinder to me and I told him he had never been anything other than kind. Not like the stoat-faced Gerrit Dou, or the lumbering Jan Victors. And then his head bowed like a child come late for confession, certain to be judged. He whispered about the paintings, and I told him I knew. There was a slow nodding, as though it was right I should know. I told him I remembered Rembrandt calling him his monkey, and he smiled. Rembrandt’s monkey. Yes, Carel said, he had been pleased to be called that. Once.
Ssssh … A door bangs outside. I will write when it is quiet again. Now the silence comes like a dead skin over me … When Carel saw me that day he told me he would do everything to get me released. He cared, I saw it in his eyes, and dying would have been sweet that moment …
I took his hand. Yes, I took his hand.
Rembrandt was merciless, Carel said, speaking of what had been done to me. Then he told me of how he had been made to continue working. Painting portraits for Rembrandt, who would sign them, then give them on for selling to his agent, Hendrick van Uylenburgh. A man with a cold, soft voice and a hat brushed blue-black as a magpie’s wing … We are creating a king’s fortune, Rembrandt had said to Carel, keep quiet. Keep quiet. Remember, I made you, I can unmake you also … keep quiet.
All the keepings quiet. All the silences muffling the facts like the drapes round the old bed … Then Carel said he had met Rembrandt’s mistress, Hendrickje Stoffels, and my heart twitched at the name.
Go away, go away, I told my son. Leave Delft, Holland. Go abroad, go to another country …
I would have pushed him, if I could have. Would have taken him into the courtyard and prayed for his back to arch and wings the width of a cathedral to lift him up and take him from Amsterdam.
Take your wife, your children, I urged him. Take them and go whilst you can. Whilst there is time … You owe me nothing.
I took his hands and kissed them. He let me. I kissed him for calling me his mother and for recognising me as such.
Get away, I told him, get away …
The clock of the Gouda House of Corrections was striking seven, booming the dead, brass notes into the flatlands. When he left he turned at the gate and raised his hand to me. For a second his fingers were silhouetted against the setting sun and they looked like the spokes of a Catherine Wheel.
38
Having shaken off Dimitri Kapinski, Marshall ducked into the doorway of an abandoned shop. On the windows were advertisements for the Moscow State Circus and the Rijksmuseum, and underneath, in smaller letters some joker had written ‘dyslexia lures, KO?’ Glancing round again, Marshall took out his mobile, thought for a moment, then dialled a London number. It was a number he had known for many years; a private number few people had, outside the business. A number Owen Zeigler had used many times.
‘Hello?’ a querulous voice answered.
‘Tobar Manners?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Marshall Zeigler.’ He was certain he could sense an intake of breath at the other end. ‘You cheated my father, you bastard, and I’m going to make sure I ruin you.’
‘Now, look here—’
Marshall could feel the pulse thumping in his neck. He was flinging caution to the wind, trying to provoke a challenge. ‘The portraits you’re selling are fakes.’
‘What!!?’ Manners exclaimed, then tried to bluster his way out. ‘Look, Marshall, perhaps I did a bad thing with regard to your father. It wasn’t meant—’
‘You fucking liar!’
‘All right, all right.’ Tobar pushed his free hand through his dandelion hair. ‘I cheated him. OK, so you want to get your own back, fine, I understand. I can pay you.’
‘No, you can’t. I don’t want money.’
‘So what
do
you want?’
‘I want to see you disgraced and penniless, that’s what I want. And I have the means at my disposal to do it.’
‘You have the Rembrandt letters?’ Tobar asked, his voice barely a whisper. ‘
They’re real?
’
‘Indeed they are.’
‘Look, Marshall—’
‘No, Tobar,
you
look. I’ve got the letters and I’ve got proof that the Rembrandts going up for sale in New York are fakes.’
‘Are you going to expose them?’ Tobar asked, his voice thin. ‘I mean, if you were, why haven’t you already done it?’ His confidence percolated. ‘You
don’t
have them, or you would have acted already. You’re bluffing, Marshall. You should be careful who you piss around with, this isn’t amateur night.’
‘After four murders, no, it’s not amateur at all,’ Marshall answered, pushing him. ‘Who are you working with?’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Tobar snapped. ‘You think
I
killed those people? Your father? The rest? Are you insane?!’ he slumped into his seat, loosening his collar. ‘I had nothing to do with those murders.’
Marshall was inclined to believe him. He had never really thought that Tobar Manners was involved in the killings, he was just hoping that his father’s old acquaintance would act as the town crier. By telling Manners he had the letters, Marshall knew it would be all over London within hours. And by telling him that he had proof the portraits were fakes he was effectively setting himself up as bait. The real killer would then be sure to come after him.
Him
, and no one else.
‘Where are you?’
Marshall laughed. ‘Of course you’d be the first person I’d confide in. I bet you’d sell me out to the highest bidder without pausing for breath.’
‘I’m sorry about your father, Marshall.’
‘You don’t know what sorry means,’ Marshall replied. ‘But you will, Tobar. When your portraits get laughed out of court. When you’ll be lucky to get a hundred and fifty thousand pounds for them – instead of forty million.’
‘Marshall, calm down, we can come to an arrangement.’
‘Really? You know who’s behind all this?’
‘No,’ Tobar said honestly. ‘But between us, you and me, we could make a deal … You don’t have to make the letters public, Marshall. You could just let the sale go through, and we could split the proceeds afterwards. Think what you could do with all that money.’
‘What would you do with your half, Tobar?’
Manners ran his tongue over his dry lips before answering, quietly, ‘I could save my business …’
‘Hell of a business if you need twenty million to save it,’ Marshall replied. ‘My father could have saved his gallery with just half a million. My father could have saved his business with the proper proceeds from selling his own Rembrandt. But you cheated him, and now I’m going to cheat you.’
‘Marshall, think about it! Think about what it would mean. You’d bring down the art market—’
‘So I gather.’
‘Hardly anyone would survive. You want that? And what about the letters themselves, Marshall? Proof that Rembrandt had a bastard who faked for him? If that poisonous little secret comes out it will undermine one of the greatest painters who ever lived.’
‘Why should I care? Let the world see Rembrandt for what he was,’ Marshall said shortly. ‘You don’t give a damn about his character, you just care about the money his works make. Even in the middle of a global recession, he’s foolproof. People can always rely on Rembrandt to shore up the market. He’s gold, platinum, bank-safe. The pound and the dollar might crumble, but not Rembrandt. As long as there are Rembrandts to sell, there are fortunes in the offing.’
Rattled, Tobar began to panic. ‘How d’you know the letters aren’t fakes?’
‘They’ve been authenticated by Stefan van der Helde. Remember him? He was the first murder victim. The letters are real because people have killed for them. People don’t kill for fakes, Tobar. They don’t risk everything for a hoax. The Rembrandt letters exist, and they can ruin you, and your fucking business.’
‘So why tell me?’ Manners said. ‘Why are telling me this, Zeigler? You want revenge for your father, fine, I get it. But why else are you telling me? Are you checking me out, is that it? Seeing if I
am
involved, seeing how far I’d go to shut you up and get hold of the letters?’ He paused, staring ahead, aware that he was looking into his own destiny and was terrified by it. ‘You want to make a deal.’
‘No, I just want one thing from you, Tobar. The thing you’re best at – I want you to talk. To gossip, to make sure that everyone knows I have the letters.’
‘Surely you don’t also expect me to tell everyone the paintings due for sale are fakes?’
Marshall shrugged. ‘You’d stab anyone in the back, Tobar, but you won’t cut your own throat.’
‘
You can’t expose the fakes!
’
‘Yes, I can. And I can – and I
will –
ruin you.’
‘But what if someone stops you, Marshall?’ Tobar said viciously. ‘What if someone fills up your belly with stones? Guts you? Blinds you? You want to be a fucking martyr, go ahead. But I’d think about it very carefully … You might hate me, perhaps I deserve it, but I can help you. I can protect you, keep you safe. I can also make you a very rich man if you keep quiet about the sale. Look, you can keep the fucking letters, if you want. You could sell them later. Make a fortune when times are on the up again. Or you could use them as a bargaining tool to get the art market over a barrel—’
‘Like you are now?’
Biting his lip, Tobar struggled to keep his composure. ‘I know this business.’
‘I don’t. But I know what’s right.’
‘Jesus, you don’t think you’re honouring your father doing this! Or do you? … God, I think you do.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Owen Zeigler wasn’t quite the hero you think he was. He was very cunning, in his own way.’
‘He lived for the art world—’
‘Because he learned how to work the strings. His sleight of hand was always impressive. Even more so because no one suspected the depth of his ingenuity.’
‘Don’t talk about my father like that!’
‘You didn’t really know him! You should have invested more time with your father when he was alive. Dead men – even the undeserving – become ready heroes.’ His voice hardened. ‘You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for. You think you have the upper hand? There are no upper hands. There’s just a continuous game of pass the parcel. We do a favour, we return a favour. We drop a word in the right ear, and forget a fact. We put alarms on our windows and gallery doors to keep out the bad men, but in reality it’s to keep them in. Almost every gallery in these streets has a history of fake promises and lying. We all fill our bellies – not with the few big, genuine sales – but with the drizzling, petty diet of trumped up artists and overestimated Scottish cattle. For every Modigliani there are hundreds of sodden Lake District scenes, in Victorian frames, buffed up and regurgitated for the gullible. Vermeer? Once in a lifetime, if you’re lucky. But any amount of bilious indifferent Dutch interiors and fucking portraits of monks.’
He started laughing to himself, almost amused. ‘People hate art dealers because we’re pompous and patronising. They see the recession hit us and think we got what we deserved. Why? Because we’re elitist, and frequently banal. And rich – and envied for it. But, by Christ, we earn our crust. I’ve sold dross as twenty-four carat gold, and pap as platinum. It takes a special skill to be an art dealer; mendacity is a prerequisite. Fakes? We’re
all
fucking fakes.’ He paused, his tone cooling. ‘You need to think about this conversation, Marshall. Think very carefully. You’ve got this number, call me later when you’ve considered what I’ve said. Think about what you could do with a great deal of money. Then we’ll talk … But if you tell me we can’t do business—’
‘We can’t do business.’
‘Then start running, Marshall Zeigler. And don’t stop.’
39
Due to the unprecedented media interest, the venue for the auction of the Rembrandt portraits was rumoured to be about to move, until confirmation that the auction would be held at the Museum of Mankind, New York. Handled by a leading auction house, the insurance and security was due to run into the hundreds of thousands; the front glass wall of the foyer was re-enforced with another wall of toughened glass. The paintings were being kept at an undisclosed location until the day of the auction, when they would arrive under police escort. The sale was publicly touted as being not only a way to raise money, but to revive interest in the plummeting art market.
Journalists from around the globe came to interview the director of the Museum of Mankind, and Tobar Manners, the broker for the sale. The owner of the Rembrandts was to remain anonymous, although, as Manners pointed out repeatedly, the history of the works was never in question. On camera he seemed a brusque, clever man, with a facility for words and an unexpected charm, as dazzling as a firefly. No one watching or listening to him would suspect the panic inside, the ever present fear that at any moment the paintings would be called out as fakes. And with proof.
It had taken Tobar only half an hour to decide what to do after he had finished talking to Marshall. He had waited in the dubious hope that Marshall might call him back, but as the thirty minutes ended, Tobar picked up the phone and began calling his associates. He said nothing about the Rembrandts coming up for sale in New York, and certainly made no mention that they were fakes. But he made very certain that everyone he spoke to knew that the Rembrandt letters existed. That the theory Owen Zeigler had had for so long was actually proven. Rembrandt had a bastard son who had forged for him. Rembrandt’s son, by Geertje Dircx. The monkey was finally out of its cage.
The news was met with incredulity in some quarters, but as the rumour had been going apace lately, there was almost a sense of relief that the letters had actually surfaced. Then, after the initial relief, the facts slammed home. Without exception, everyone realised the importance and the danger of the letters. Leon Williams visited Rufus Ariel; Tobar Manners joined them a little later, all three men oddly reserved. The murder of Stefan van der Helde was understood when it was known that he had authenticated the letters. The murder of Charlotte Gorday came into focus too, because of her being Owen Zeigler’s mistress. And when someone mentioned the murder of Nicolai Kapinski in New York, no one was in any doubt that the killings were all connected. They spoke of Owen Zeigler, and of his theory. They spoke of a colleague and sometime friend who had found a smoking gun and had passed it on.
The barrel was now pointed at all of them – and in the hands of his son.
Flinging open the door of Rufus Ariel’s gallery, Lillian Kauffman walked into the office beyond. Her expression was combative.
‘When
exactly
were you going to tell me?’
‘You already knew about the letters,’ Tobar said, his tone surly.
‘I didn’t know that Marshall had them,’ she lied, sitting down on a chaise longue and crossing her short legs. Her make-up was perfect at eight-fifteen in the morning, her voice flinty as she studied Tobar. ‘Why put Marshall in danger by advertising the fact? I would have thought you’d done enough damage to that family.’
‘He told me to tell everyone.’
‘That he has the letters?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why? It would just mark him out.’
‘I didn’t ask why,’ Tobar replied unpleasantly. ‘He just asked me to pass on the message. Which I duly did.’
She regarded him for a long moment, taking in the unreadable expression and level voice. Was he lying? Difficult to tell, but if Marshall had wanted to set him self up, why? Fiddling with one of her earrings, Lillian glanced at the three men, each displaying different emotions. Tobar Manners, inscrutable; Rufus Ariel, pink and chilling; Leon Williams edging panic, his thin, long legs stretched out in front of him as he slumped in his chair, nursing an acid stomach.
‘Maybe he wanted to flush out the killers,’ she offered, watching them all turn to her. ‘Well, it would, wouldn’t it?’
‘You really think one of us is a murderer?’
‘No, Rufus, I think maybe all
three
of you are,’ she replied blithely. ‘Besides, the murders have a theme, copying Rembrandt paintings. How arty is that?’
‘I didn’t know about that!’ Leon murmured, disturbed as he looked round at the other men. ‘Who knew about that?’
‘There’ve been rumours,’ Rufus replied. ‘In the last killing Nicolai Kapinski was blinded.’
Nauseated, Leon glanced away, and Lillian continued with her previous theme.
‘I was joking, of course, but then again, all three of you
do
have contacts. You could arrange things, get someone else to commit the murders for you. Don’t look at me like that, Leon! I remember that your grandfather was jailed for fraud. He could have made some useful contacts in Wormwood Scrubs.’
‘That’s a damn lie!’ Leon spluttered. ‘He was innocent.’
Raising his eyebrows, Rufus turned to Lillian, his baby face malign. ‘What about you, Lillian? I imagine you could be as deadly as Medea.’
‘But why?’ she countered. ‘I adored Owen and wouldn’t hurt Marshall. And besides, I don’t deal in Dutch art.’
‘It wouldn’t just affect Dutch art, it would rock the whole market. We’d all suffer.’
‘We’ve all made fortunes, don’t you have any savings?’ Lillian replied, seeing them exchange glances. ‘Oh dear, never put anything away for a rainy day? Or even a spot of drizzle, by the looks of it.’ Her voice was amused. ‘The recession was never going to happen to us, was it?’
‘You needn’t look so bloody pleased about it,’ Tobar said testily. Lillian remained implacable.
‘Of course those Rembrandts coming up for sale … If they did turn out to be fakes—’
‘Fuck off, Lillian.’
She stood up, amused, and left, crossing over and walking to the Zeigler Gallery when she thought she saw a movement behind the window. Curious, she peered in, then rattled the door handle. No one answered, but Lillian wasn’t satisfied and, pushing open the back gate, walked down the basement steps. Knocking at the basement door, she waited, then rapped loudly and imperiously on the glass.
A moment later, the huge figure of Teddy Jack came into view as he opened the door. He nodded, then stood back for her to enter.
‘I’ve just seen Tobar Manners and his cohorts,’ Lillian began, walking into the basement area.
The porters had long gone, the blood stain on the floor had dried to a raw umber, the window had been repaired. Slowly she looked around, her gaze resting on the large waste pipe where Owen Zeigler had been tied. At the bottom of the pipe was a strip of police tape, and a scratching of sawdust.
‘What d’you want, Mrs Kauffman?’
‘Maybe I should ask what you’re doing here, Teddy?’
Shrugging, he leaned against the bench, lighting a cigarette. ‘I couldn’t keep away.’
‘Some say the murderer always returns to the scene of his crime.’
‘So
you
did it, did you?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows. ‘You know, I still imagine Owen here. Think I can hear his footsteps overhead, or the phone ringing in the gallery above.’
‘He was very fond of you.’
Teddy nodded. ‘I know.’
‘He relied on you,’ she went on. ‘I don’t want to know the details, Teddy, but I know you did some unusual jobs for Owen …’
He said nothing.
‘ … and I know that Owen was never indiscreet, or injudicious about his confidants. Neither is his son.’
‘No.’
‘So why would Marshall Zeigler suddenly announce – via the odious vessel of Tobar Manners – that he has the Rembrandt letters?’ She perched on a stool, her feet just brushing the floor. ‘It’s a bit like being spotted by a bear.’
‘
What?
’
‘Well, if you were camping with your family and a bear burst out of the woods – if you were brave and wanted to protect the ones you loved – you would call attention to yourself. Then the bear would go after you, and not your family.’ She paused. ‘Is that why Marshall did it?’
‘Of course that’s why he did it.’ Teddy agreed. ‘Don’t repeat this to anyone, but his ex-wife’s husband was the victim of a hit and run last night.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘Harry Turner will live, but I don’t know in what kind of a state. I’ve got Georgia somewhere safe, along with Samuel Hemmings.’
‘Does Marshall know?’
‘No,’ Teddy replied, inhaling deeply on his smoke. ‘Marshall asked me to watch Georgia, but it was obvious when Harry was injured that I had to get her into hiding, and ensure Samuel was safe too. I’ve got people with them now.’ He regarded Lillian steadily. ‘Trouble is I don’t know where Marshall is. I don’t even have a number to ring him on. He keeps changing his phones … Have
you
got a contact number?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘He didn’t tell you where he was going?’
‘Not a hint.’
‘D’you think he’d go to New York?’
‘He might … for the sale.’
‘Mrs Kauffman,’ Teddy began steadily, ‘I should warn you not to go around blowing your mouth off. You should be more careful what you say – and who you say it to.’
‘I’m not scared!’ she snapped. ‘Besides, who’d believe an old Jewish broad like me?’
He paused, wondering how he might best phrase the next words. ‘You should leave your gallery for a while. Until all this has been sorted out.’
‘All this?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘No, Teddy, I don’t. And I’m not going anywhere. I live at the gallery. It’s my home, and no one’s scaring me out of it.’ She tapped the back of his hand. ‘I have an alarm system which would fry anyone who so much as touched the windows. I have a panic button direct to the police—’
‘Both of which rely on electricity.’
She blanched. ‘What?’
‘Someone could cut the wires, Mrs Kauffman, and you’d be helpless.’ He stared at her, unblinking. ‘You know about the letters, that makes you vulnerable. Let me get you somewhere safe.’
She rallied fast. ‘Do guns run on electricity?’
‘
What?
’
‘No, I thought not … I have a gun, Teddy, and I happen to be a very good shot. My late husband taught me how to defend myself. Trust me, I wouldn’t think twice about shooting someone.’ She smiled, her lipstick vivid. ‘I’m not running away. I’ve never run away from anything.’
‘I can’t watch you here.’
‘I don’t
need
watching! Watch Georgia, watch Samuel Hemmings, poor bastard’s in a wheelchair. And besides, he knows all about the letters. He was Owen’s mentor—’
‘But he didn’t see all of them.’
Her pencilled eyebrows rose. ‘He didn’t?’
‘No, he never saw the list of fakes.’
‘How d’you know?’ she asked, her tone suspicious.
‘Marshall told me,’ Teddy replied, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘He said that Samuel Hemmings was safer because he didn’t have all the information. You see, the only people who are
really
in danger are the ones who know everything.’ He looked at her steadily. ‘Have you seen the letters and the list?’
‘No!’ Lillian laughed, genuinely amused. ‘I heard about them for years, but never saw them. To be honest, I never thought they really existed.’ She slid off the stool and walked to the back door, then turned. ‘Thanks for worrying about me, but it’s Marshall who needs help now.’
And with that she walked out, her footsteps fading gradually on the street above.
‘I can’t stay here indefinitely!’ Georgia said, pausing beside the fireplace in Samuel Hemmings’ study. ‘I want to see Harry.’
‘Phone the hospital again,’ he replied, ‘they keep you in touch. You know what Teddy Jack said, we have to stay here.’
Sighing, she turned to the old man and folded her arms, watching him at his desk. He had aged considerably in the last weeks, an angina attack proving the strain he had been under. His hands were not shaking any more than usual, but the skin seemed stretched, the blue veins visible. As though desperate to keep his mind focused, Samuel was working on a paper, typing laboriously at his computer, his gaze moving from the keyboard to the garden, and back again repeatedly. Aware of how difficult the circumstances must be for him, Georgia tried to curtail her restlessness. But although she had called the hospital three times that day, and been assured that her husband was making steady progress, she was unable to cover her unease.
Luckily Samuel Hemmings was not a stranger to Georgia. They had met at her wedding to Marshall, and several times afterwards at the Zeigler Gallery. But the clever, sharp-witted historian she remembered seemed now reduced, shrivelled into a fallen leaf.
Walking over to the table, she stood looking at the reproductions Samuel had laid out.