The Rembrandt Secret (29 page)

‘Like what? The time?’

Leon, missing the point, blundered on. ‘No, no. I mean someone heard something about how he’d got some letters.’

Already unnerved, Tobar’s patience was running out. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Letters which prove that many Rembrandts are forgeries.’

‘Oh, he was always blathering on about some bloody theory of his.’

‘But there’s proof.’

His eyes glazed, Tobar stood up and faced Leon. His expression was threatening, his tone hostile. ‘What?’

‘I heard—’

‘From who?’

‘Just a rumour, Tobar,’ Leon said nervously, now sorry he had ever started the conversation. ‘Just a rumour.’

‘About Rembrandts being fakes?’

Leon nodded, wretched with misery. ‘Apparently these letters are proof that paintings which have always been thought authentic are fakes. Done by a pupil of—’

‘People have said that for centuries.’

‘But there are
letters
,
Tobar,’ Leon went on, his thin face filled with panic as he watched his companion begin to sweat. ‘Proof. The rumour goes that up to half of the pictures we think are by Rembrandt are fakes. It would be bad for the market—’

‘
Bad for the market!
’ Tobar exploded. ‘It would bring
down
the fucking market. It can’t be true.’

‘There’s a list.’

Tobar felt a hot flush of panic. ‘What?’

‘With the letters there’s a list. A complete list of the paintings which are fakes.’

Tobar’s legs lost their strength as he stumbled into his chair and loosened his collar. He could feel the sweat running down his back and puddling under his armpits. If it was true, these letters – this list – would destroy the market. He would never be able to broker the sale in New York and make the fortune he needed to prevent the collapse
of his business. If the letters came out, with the list, every Rembrandt would be questioned, undermined.
And what if the Rembrandt portraits due for sale were proved to be fakes?

With cold misery, Tobar thought back to the paintings he had sold to private collectors and galleries. If they were discovered to be counterfeit they would be worth a tiny percentage of the selling price. And his reputation, what of that? Tobar felt his breathing accelerate. It was a bitter irony that the Rembrandt he had stolen from Owen he had claimed to be painted by a pupil. But perhaps it had been; perhaps it was a fake after all. Perhaps it
had been
worth next to nothing.

He stared ahead, blind with shock, acutely aware he had cheated himself. ‘Where are these letters, Leon?’

‘No one knows for sure.’

‘
Where are they?
’

‘Someone said that maybe his son had them.’

‘His son …’ Tobar replied thoughtfully.

‘It’s just a rumour going the rounds, but everyone’s talking about it,’ Leon stammered. ‘Is it bad for us, Tobar?’

Tobar ignored the question, unsettled. If it was true that Owen Zeigler had found the letters, was it possible he had been killed for them? A memory nudged Tobar, his recent conversation with Rufus Ariel. Something about the death of Stefan van der Helde … And then there was the suicide of Charlotte Gorday, Owen’s lover. His hand shaking, Tobar reached for his glass of water. He sipped at it, tried to swallow. He had been close to Owen; if he
had
kept
close Owen would have confided in him, told him about these letters. Given him insider knowledge.

And it was then Tobar realised that by cheating his friend he had inadvertently cut his own throat.

New York

Drenched by the heavy downpour, Philip Gorday ran into the entrance of the office building, taking off his coat and shaking it impatiently. Water flicked onto the polished floor, throwing flecks up onto the front of the reception desk. Philip smoothed back his damp hair with his hands as he walked to the elevator. Staring at the illuminated floor numbers, he watched them change, thinking of the conversation he had had with Nicolai Kapinski the previous day.

He wanted to dismiss it as a hoax, but the words had jammed in his head and rattled around his dreams that night. Charlotte was alive again, walking into the sitting room of the apartment and then laughing. But as she laughed, her portrait over the mantelpiece faded, dying back into a blank canvas until there was nothing left of her. Jerked awake, Philip had got up and padded into the kitchen, making coffee and petting the dog. He had known instinctively that what Nicolai Kapinski had told him was
true. Charlotte hadn’t committed suicide, whatever the police said. Which meant that someone had broken into the apartment and killed her while she was sleeping in their bed, alone. Philip had been out walking the dog that morning, so there had only been a short space of time for the killer to act. Uneasy, Philip wondered if he had been watched, if someone had waited for him to leave the building, before they broke in. But then again, the lock hadn’t been forced, and Philip knew only too well he had not left it undone.

Which meant that Charlotte’s killer had a key. Was it someone she knew? Philip paused, stirring some cream into his coffee. Was it someone they both knew, in New York? Or someone only Charlotte knew, from London …?

Sighing, he stepped out of the elevator and walked to his office. ‘Any messages?’ he asked Nicole.

‘Just these.’ She passed him a few notes. ‘Nothing urgent.’

‘Anything from Nicolai Kapinski?’

‘No.’

Nodding, Philip sat down at his desk. If Charlotte had been killed, he wanted to find her killer. Wanted him brought to justice. Wanted him punished for taking away a woman he had loved so much. And missed more. Once again he wondered whether Charlotte had known her killer, and then his thoughts turned to Nicolai Kapinski. Kapinski said he had known Charlotte for a long time in London, but was he genuine? Had he come to confide in Philip or to try and trap him into handing over copies of
these phantom letters? Had he been lying about being afraid for his life?

But if Nicolai Kapinski was Charlotte’s killer, he would have already got the letters, Philip thought.
Unless Charlotte didn’t have them.
Perhaps Kapinski had been bluffing, trying to discover if she had passed them over to her husband. Uncertain of everything, Philip took a note out of his middle desk drawer and punched the number into his phone.

‘Hotel Melmont. Can I help you?’

‘I want to speak to Mr Nicolai Kapinski,’ Philip said, glancing back to the piece of paper. ‘He’s in room 223.’

‘One moment, please.’

There was a long pause, during which Philip heard the phone ring several times before the operator came back on the line.

‘No answer, sir. Would you like to leave a message at reception?’

‘No,’ he said hurriedly. ‘No, thanks.’

It was after lunch before Philip had time to think about Nicolai Kapinski again. Pushing away his coffee, he stared at the phone and then decided that he would visit the man at the hotel. He strode out of his office, past Nicole, without uttering a word, and hurried into the street. The rain had stopped and a truculent sun pitted the shiny road. Hailing a cab, Philip gave his destination and then leaned back in his seat, staring out of the window until the car drew up outside the Hotel Melmont. He paid the
cabbie and walked into reception, surprised to notice a number of people milling around, talking. Curious, Philip was about to get the elevator, when he decided to take the stairs instead. On the second floor he walked towards room 223.

As he turned into the next corridor he almost collided with a policeman who was standing at the half-open doorway. Craning his neck, Philip could just make out two other men inside, standing over a covered heap on the floor.

‘Hey, sir. You can’t go in there,’ the policeman on the door said, putting out his arm to stop Philip.

‘What’s happened?’

Inside, one of the detectives turned to Philip. ‘Why would you want to know?’

‘Is Mr Kapinski all right?’

Noticing that the two detectives exchanged a glance, Philip raised his voice. ‘
Is Mr Kapinski all right?
’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘I’m his lawyer,’ Philip lied, and the policeman on guard dropped his arm to allow him into the room.

‘Correction,’ one of the detectives said flatly. ‘You
were
his lawyer.’

The hairs rising on the back of his neck, Philip looked at the body covered with a sheet.

‘Can I see?’

‘Well, it’s more than he can.’

Frowning, Philip looked questioningly at the detective.

‘His eyes were gouged out.’

Tentatively, Philip lifted the sheet which covered the remains of Nicolai Kapinski. He was naked from the waist up and his eyes had been pushed in by some terrific impact or object, splattering blood outwards and coating his face and chest. His hands had been tied behind his back so tightly that the wire had been driven into the flesh, and in his struggle he had managed to sever a vein. Another repugnant detail lay on the floor around the tortured body. Nicolai Kapinski had had little hair, but now his scalp was totally bald. In places his hair had been pulled out, the roots still attached, while other parts of his skull had been shaven, white and eerie as a bone.

And in his left hand was his tongue.

London

Hurrying down Beak Street, Marshall paused outside the narrow entrance of number 67, where several doorbells had names beside them. Lulu, Stacy and Kim all offered massage; but the very top bell was marked Teddy Jack. Somehow knowing that the Northerner wouldn’t answer his bell, Marshall pressed all of them at once, and the door clicked open almost immediately.

As he rounded the stairs to the first floor, a girl came out, eating a cheese sandwich and smiling morosely.

‘You looking for company?’

‘I’m looking for Teddy Jack.’

Half heartedly, she jerked her head upwards. ‘He’s on the next floor. I think he’s in. He’s not been going out much lately.’

‘Is he ill?’

‘Nah … well, you’ll see.’ She went back into her room and closed the door and Marshall made his way upstairs in the fading light. The air was clammy with incense
and an underlying sourness. When he reached Teddy Jack’s door, he saw a handwritten note – DON’T DISTURB. He ignored it and walked in. The damp, mottled blind was drawn, the light shaded, and the thick odour of old food, stale beer and cannabis was cloying. On an unmade bed under the window lay Teddy Jack, dressed but dozing. His head was lolling over to one side, dry crusting sat at the corners of his mouth, his big feet were bare and dirty.

‘Teddy,’ Marshall said, leaning forward and shaking his arm. ‘Teddy, wake up.’

He murmured in his sleep, but didn’t wake.

Sighing, Marshall moved into the tiny cubicle which served as a kitchen. In the full sink, a cockroach scuttled for cover; a half-eaten tin of beans sat discarded on top of the hob. Throwing aside a slimy cloth, Marshall put some water onto boil and then made coffee before walking back into the front room and lifting the blind. Disturbed by the light, Teddy finally woke, while Marshall was opening the window and letting in some cold air.

‘Fucking hell!’ Teddy exclaimed, reaching for a blanket. ‘What on earth …’ He stared at Marshall in disbelief. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Nicolai Kapinski’s dead.’

Teddy’s eyes registered nothing. No flicker, no emotion, just an empty, almost resigned, acceptance.

‘He had the letters?’

‘No,’ Marshall replied, watching him rub his face with his ham-sized hands. ‘Are you taking drugs now?’

‘Why d’you care?’

‘Cannabis?’

Teddy leaned forwards in his seat. ‘Why d’you care?’

‘Is that all you can say?’

‘OK, try this. What’s it to you what I do?’

Closing the window again as the room temperature dropped, Marshall leaned against the wall. ‘You didn’t strike me as the type to give up.’

‘I was having a holiday,’ Teddy replied drily. ‘In my head.’

‘Go anywhere nice?’

‘Can’t remember. Don’t want to. In fact, I don’t want to be talking to you. No offence, Marshall, you saved my life and I’m grateful, but you don’t have to spend the rest of your time looking after me.’

‘Aren’t you surprised that Nicolai’s been murdered?’

Reaching for the stump of a smoke, Teddy lit up and inhaled. His eyes were puffy and unclear, his red beard mottled with food and spittle. And he stank.

‘Why should I be surprised? We’ll all be killed in the end.’

‘You think so?’

‘Yeah. I think anyone involved with the letters is as good as dead.’ He slumped back against the bedhead, his expression unreadable. ‘I don’t suppose they know who killed Nicolai?’

‘No. In fact, if Philip Gorday hadn’t told me all about it, I doubt I would have heard. You see, Nicolai was killed in New York.’

Finally interested, Teddy stared at Marshall. ‘
New York?
What the hell was he doing in New York?’

‘Apparently he was trying to find the letters.’ Marshall hesitated, wary, careful not to give too much away. ‘Nicolai thought Charlotte might have had them, or copies of them.’

‘So?’

‘Philip Gorday said that Nicolai knew who would want to buy the letters. Where to place them.’

‘In New York?’

Marshall shrugged. ‘No, apparently Nicolai just went to New York to see Philip Gorday—’

‘And save his own skin.’

‘Can you blame him?’

Teddy’s eyes narrowed as he inhaled again. ‘I think
you’ve
got those fucking letters.’

Marshall ignored the comment. ‘Why don’t you put that out?’ he pointed to the joint. ‘You’ll think more clearly.’

‘Why do I want to think more clearly?’

‘Because you could be the next victim.’

‘Why? I don’t have the letters.’

‘Neither did Nicolai,’ Marshall said pointedly.

‘I didn’t like the little creep. We never got on.’ There was a long pause. ‘How was he killed?’

‘He was tortured. His eyes were put out. Nicolai was held down on the floor, and a sharp instrument blinded him. First one eye, then the other. Then they cut out his tongue.’