The Rembrandt Secret (30 page)

Wincing, Teddy stubbed out his smoke and got to his feet. Barefoot, he padded into the corridor. Marshall could hear a cistern flushing a few moments later and watched as Teddy came back into the flat and splashed water on his face.

‘Why would anyone kill him like that?’

Because they were copying
The Blinding of Samson
, Marshall thought, because it was the fourth death which emulated one of Rembrandt’s paintings. Teddy Jack wouldn’t have understood, but Marshall had got the message.

‘The last time we talked, at the gallery, I said some things I regret.’ Teddy paused for an instant. ‘I said Owen used to laugh about Nicolai behind his back, mock him about his missing brother. Well, that wasn’t true. Your father
did
tease him about it, because Nicolai used to go off on these weird depressions, but there was more to it.’

‘Like what?’

‘I found Nicolai’s brother.’

It was the last thing Marshall expected to hear.

‘Nicolai didn’t mention it to—’

‘Because he didn’t know. I only found Dimitri – as Luther now calls himself – a few days before your father was killed.’ He rubbed his beard vigorously with the towel. ‘I’d had no time to talk to Owen about it, ask him what he wanted to do, so I let it be. Anyway, after what I found out, I thought maybe Nicolai wouldn’t want to know that his brother had been found. You know, maybe it was better if he remained lost.’

Marshall stared at the big man. ‘Why?’

‘Because he was no good. Dimitri Kapinski wasn’t abducted. His father sent him away, paid for him to be taken on by another family. The mother never knew, but Dimitri was sent to work in a farm in the backwaters of Hungary. He was only a kid, and by the time he’d been there for a couple of years he’d been starting fires, and when he was seventeen he’d started thieving. He had some odd ways too. Wasn’t all there. Moody,’ Teddy went on, tapping his left temple. ‘By the time he was twenty odd, Dimitri had spent time in jail and been married. Then he’d bunked off to London, worked there for a short while, selling drugs. He’d become pretty violent too, then he went back to Poland, and finally returned to his wife in Hungary.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Last I found out, he was in jail abroad. Someone said Turkey. After that, I lost trace of him. I mean, Nicolai was a bit of a creeping Jesus, but he wouldn’t have wanted to know that his brother turned out to be just one more East European scumbag.’ He thought back. ‘When Nicolai had one of his funny turns he used to talk about his brother constantly, obsessively, and make him out to be something special. You know, a kid someone
would
steal, like he was Merlin or something. Your father never stopped him, just let Nicolai talk. And he’d go off on one and start speaking to his brother – like Dimitri was in the bloody room with him! Weird, but then Nicolai was pretty strange at times. He wasn’t a bad man, though. Not like his brother.’

‘Perhaps it was better that Nicolai didn’t know about him.’

‘Yeah, that was what I thought.’ Teddy took a breath and looked round the sordid room as though suddenly disgusted by it. ‘Let myself go a bit, haven’t I?’

‘Understandable.’

‘Is it?’ He stared at Marshall for a long instant. ‘Why did you come here?’

‘I need your help.’

‘You found
me
in the packing case, remember?’

Marshall laughed, then became serious. ‘I’m being followed.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I thought someone was behind me on the street, then I saw them reflected in a window. They went everywhere with me this morning.’ He paused. ‘And the gallery’s being watched. There were two men last night who didn’t belong in Albemarle Street.’

‘You scared?’

‘Yeah, of course I’m scared,’ Marshall admitted. ‘I don’t want to die.’

‘Well, we’ve got that in common.’

‘Can you find out who it is?’

‘That’s following you?’

Marshall nodded. ‘I have to go to Amsterdam as soon as I can, and I want to go alone. I’m not just worried for myself, but I’d like you to keep an eye on my ex-wife, Georgia.’

Surprised, Teddy raised his eyebrows. ‘Is she involved?’

‘I told her about the letters,’ Marshall replied, hurrying on. ‘It was just after my father was killed and I needed someone to talk to. Unfortunately I chose her. She’s pregnant, and I don’t— Well, just look out for her, will you?’

Nodding, Teddy pulled on his socks and shoes. ‘When are you leaving for Holland?’

‘Tonight. On the six o’clock flight.’

‘OK.’

Marshall took in a breath. ‘It might mean trouble.’

‘It
always
means trouble.’

‘I can pay you.’

‘I could do with the money, no work around.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought about going back up North, but it’s just as bad there, so I just decided to sit on the bed and get stoned for a while.’

‘Did it help?’

‘A bit maybe. I thought about your father. Kept going over what he did and said about those fucking letters, trying to think if there was something I’d forgotten. And I thought about the people he knew, and what I’d done when I was working for him, and I kept wondering who’d kill him like that – him, and the others. Killing someone, yeah, I can understand that. In temper, I can understand it. In the heat of the moment. But torturing someone? Making it last? No, I don’t get that. And I’m not going to let them do it to me.’

Marshall nodded. ‘Good, because we have to work together now, Teddy. I think it’s the only way we’ll survive.’

‘Even though you don’t trust me?’

‘I never said that.’

‘You didn’t have to,’ Teddy replied. ‘Maybe if I was in your shoes I wouldn’t trust anyone either.’

‘I’m asking you to look out for my ex-wife. I must trust you.’

‘How long are you staying in Holland?’

‘I’m not sure, I’ll keep in touch.’ Marshall paused. ‘But don’t let Georgia know what you’re doing. She’s smart, she won’t be easy to fool.’

Teddy nodded. ‘And you know what you’re doing?’

‘Not really.’

‘I thought not.’ Teddy smiled. ‘No plan?’

‘Well, I know they’ll come after me. I can draw them out that way. And if they’re coming after me, they’re not going after anyone else.’

‘Which means that you’re going to set yourself up?’

Marshall hesitated. ‘They won’t stop. That much is obvious.’

‘Is there anyone else left – apart from you, Samuel Hemmings, and me – that knows about the letters?’

‘Only Georgia.’

‘
And then there were four
…’ Teddy said quietly. ‘Four down, four to go.’

‘Don’t let anything happen to her!’ Marshall snapped. ‘You keep her safe, you hear me?’

‘I hear you. But who’s going to do the same for you?’

House of Corrections,
Gouda, 1654

He hired a new maid, younger than me, called Hendrickje Stoffels. She came to help me out, and I hated her from the instant I saw her. Knew in her cat’s eyes what she was after. Titus didn’t like her, clung to me, but she wasn’t going to be his nurse. Just keep house, help me. Jesus, she helped me. She helped me out of my master’s bed. She watched, feline, plumply sleek, never once looked at the painting on the landing. Didn’t believe in ghosts. I know that.

She will, when she hears them walk the house at night and sees Saskia’s face at the window, looking in, or drawing back the curtains around the bed … I’m jumping in my story. Did I tell you that Carel became so clever? So very very skilled. I watched him work and used to creep back into the studio late at night, and lift the cover over his canvas. And wonder how the child – that had kicked me in my ribs as he grew in my belly – could paint so well. So well he impressed his father … Carel knew I admired his work and was kind. Never patronising or dismissive, like Gerrit Dou, with his round, bird’s-eye glasses and his clever verbal barbs. Carel didn’t know I was his mother, he was just kind. Because kindness became him.

He got that from me …

Then suddenly he was gone. Rembrandt hadn’t told me he was
sending him away. Didn’t say a word. Carel was just there, and then not there. When I asked him about it, Rembrandt said he had set our son up in his own studio in Delft, where he was going to be a triumphant success … I had to let him go, without a word. What else could I do? His monkey, Rembrandt told me, was clever. So clever he would work for his father and they would make money. Fabulous amounts of money. Midas would have been envious.
We will dupe all Holland, we will dupe the world
, he said, nuzzling my neck with his thick lips.

We will dupe the world
. But Rembrandt coughed when he said it, as though his throat choked on the words … Would Carel get into trouble? I asked, curled up against Rembrandt in bed. And he snorted, and told me to stay quiet, that no one knew about our son. And if – oh God – if I ever mentioned it he would deny it. Ruin Carel’s career … Say nothing, he told me in the big bed. Stay silent … Carel must never know his real parents and no one must ever know of the work he was doing for his father.

Then Hendrickje came … I would have stayed quiet for the rest of my life. It would have been enough. I would have made it enough … Carel was out of my life, but he was successful, married, there was no reason to talk. What good would it do him to know his real mother? … But then Hendrickje came and soon she was raising her eyes behind me and making Rembrandt laugh. And he became impatient and scolded me, mocking me in front of the pupils and letting Hendrickje sit for them. I was being usurped. In his heart, in his bed, and in his studio.

But I kept quiet … I swept the black and white tiles and carried the water. I loved Titus and made herrings, and I waited for Hendrickje to leave, for this new passion of Rembrandt’s to
wane. After all, I was his real mistress and the mother of his son. He would come back to me. In time. I had a hold over him through Carel. I just had to wait, that was all. I had the upper hand.

It wasn’t enough.

Hurriedly packing a suitcase, Marshall heard the bell ring in the gallery below. For a moment he considered ignoring it, then ran downstairs to find Tim Parker-Ross waiting in the doorway. He grinned shyly as Marshall let him in, ambling through to the back of the gallery and standing under the skylight.

‘I was wondering if you’d like that dinner tonight,’ he said, putting his head on one side, his expression curious. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I didn’t say anything was wrong.’

‘No, but I’ve known you since we were kids,’ Tim replied kindly. ‘I can always tell when you’re worried.’

‘It’s just that there’s so much to sort out. I don’t know if I’m going to sell up the gallery or keep it running.’

‘Keep it running?’ Tim replied. ‘Wow, that would be something. I mean, I’m not being rude, but you’ve never been into the art business. Bit like me really.’

‘But I heard you’d just opened another gallery.’

Tim raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Worst time, hey? I’ve
no head for business, probably lose a fortune … So, you’re not on for dinner tonight?’

‘Sorry, I can’t make it, Tim.’

He nodded, looking round. ‘Well, maybe later in the week. By the way, I saw Tobar Manners this morning, in a terrible state.’

‘About what?’

‘He was talking about two big Rembrandt portraits coming up for sale in New York.’ Tim scratched his nose thoughtfully. ‘Tobar wants to broker the deal. Make a killing.’

‘Yeah, well he’s good at that.’

‘You hate him, don’t you?’

‘He cheated my father,’ Marshall replied flatly. ‘I’d like to see him ruined.’

Embarrassed, Tim laughed, shuffling his feet. ‘I don’t like him either. He always talks to me as though I’m a fool. He confuses me, makes me stammer. I can never think when he’s around.’ His voice speeded up, then dropped. ‘I heard Tobar Manners needs this big deal with the Rembrandts, or he’ll be ruined.’

‘Then let’s hope he doesn’t get it,’ Marshall replied, changing the subject. ‘I have to get on with some work now, Tim.’

‘Oh, yes, yes, of course.’ He nodded towards the bag at the top of the stairs. ‘You going away?’

‘Just overnight,’ Marshall lied. ‘I’ve a translating job to do. I’ll be back before you know it.’

‘We’ll have dinner then,’ Tim said, nodding and walking off down the street.

For a moment Marshall watched him go, a lonely figure with no home or family, but kind. Always kind. Deep in thought, Marshall returned to the flat, only to hear a loud banging on the gallery door moments later. Impatient, he went back downstairs and found Lillian Kauffman at the door.

As he let her in, her expression was confrontational. ‘You’re fucked.’

‘No, Libra,’ Marshall replied smoothly. ‘I’ve things to do—’

‘Look, you bloody idiot, I’ve told you, I can help. I don’t suppose you noticed anything strange the last two nights?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like men watching your gallery,’ Lillian said. ‘And when you went out earlier, I could have sworn someone was following you.’

‘You watch too much television.’

‘I watch the
street
, darling, and I see what goes on,’ she said, her tone curt. ‘I don’t need a television, I’ve been making my own entertainment for years. I don’t suppose you knew that Leon Williams was gay, did you?’

‘I don’t know Leon Williams. And anyway, why would it matter if he was gay?’

She clicked her tongue. ‘Gossip is important, darling. It pays to know everything about everyone. Leon Williams is a dealer. Used to be a friend of your father’s. Rufus Ariel’s little running mate.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, that’s by the by. I’ve been thinking all day about what’s been going on. And about those letters, and about the sale
coming up in New York. Two Rembrandt portraits, set to make a fortune. Everyone’s excited by it. It’s going to make big money.’

‘So?’

‘But only if the Rembrandts are authentic, because if they’re fakes, you’re screwed.’

Marshall raised his eyebrows. ‘How?’

‘If you have proof they’re not by Rembrandt, then their value will plummet.’ She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. ‘And everyone who was set to make a fortune will be seriously out of pocket. Unless, of course, they can suppress the information: stop the letters coming out.’ She tapped her foot impatiently and lit a cigarette. ‘I heard about a young man the other day who had knifed and killed another man for his mobile phone. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’