The Rembrandt Secret (36 page)

‘Piss off!’ he replied, breaking free and running towards the nearest exit.

But Gerrit Hoogstraten had seen Marshall head for the same exit and then turn at the last moment. Wrong footed, his pursuer ran out and paused, frantically looking round the churning street and knowing he had lost all sight of his prey.

As she folded some laundry, Georgia glanced at the kitchen clock, then turned to Harry.

‘Aren’t you going to the gym tonight?’

He nodded, picking up his case. ‘Yes, I’m just running late. Unless you don’t want me to go. I could stay in.’

‘Oh no, out you go!’ she teased him. ‘I’ve got my evening planned. When I’ve done all this, I’m having a bath, then watching a DVD.’

‘Which one?’

‘It’s a romance, with men and women in it. Talking about their feelings,’ she said drily. ‘You wouldn’t like it.’

He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Lock the door when I’ve gone, won’t you?’

Waving, she watched Harry leave, then slid the bolt closed. For a moment Georgia considered trying Marshall’s phone again, but realised it would be a waste of time. He would contact her eventually; she just had to wait for news. Finishing folding the laundry, she put it in the airing cupboard and went into the bedroom, where she
undressed. She ran a bath, but found herself too uneasy to enjoy a long soak, and a few minutes later, got out and dried herself. Suddenly Georgia was startled by a ring at the front doorbell.

Moving into the hall, she called out, ‘You see, Harry, if you didn’t tell me to lock the door, you could have let yourself in.’ Smiling, she slid open the bolt but, instead of Harry there were two policemen on the doorstep.

Pulling her robe around her tightly, Georgia knew it was bad news. Marshall … ?

‘Mrs Turner?’ asked one of them.

‘Yes. What is it? What’s wrong?’ she replied.

‘Perhaps we could go inside to talk—’

Panicked, she quickly waved them inside. ‘What is it?’

‘I’m afraid that—’

‘What!’

‘Your husband has been knocked down by a car—’

‘Harry! No! Where is he?’ she asked, making for the door.

‘In the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital—’

‘How bad is it?’ There was a protracted pause. ‘
Tell
me! How bad is it?’

‘It’s not good, Mrs Turner,’ one of the officers said gently, taking Georgia’s arm and guiding her back into the house. ‘If you get dressed, we’ll take you to the hospital.’

Twenty minutes later, her hair still damp from her bath, Georgia stood in the Intensive Care Unit, looking in at the inert form of her husband in the hospital bed. She had been told that it was a hit and run, and that Harry
might have sustained serious brain injuries. Trying to stay calm, she thought of the baby she was carrying, and asked to talk to a doctor. After being kept waiting for another half an hour, the doctor appeared; the prognosis, he told her, was grave – but there was some hope. They would know better in the morning …

Clutching her hands together, Georgia watched Harry. He was hardly recognisable with his face swollen to twice its size and his nose bloodied to a pulp. His hands were scratched where he had struck the road, and the index finger of his right hand was torn half way down the nail bed. He was unconscious, breathing on a ventilator.

‘Are you all right?’ the nurse asked Georgia.

‘I’m pregnant.’

‘I see,’ the nurse said. ‘Perhaps we’d better have you checked out by—’

‘Who did it?’ Georgia asked, cutting her off.

‘The police said it was a hit and run. I’m afraid they don’t know who the driver was.’

‘Why are
you
afraid? He’s not
your
husband,’ Georgia snapped, distraught.

Numbed, she continued to sit by the bed. Disconnected images fluttered like dry moths in front of her: Harry coming in with his running shoes, leaving mud on the hall floor; the children at the school, playing in the yard and yelling at the tops of their voices; and Marshall in the pub, talking about the Rembrandt letters …

‘
My father was murdered, Georgia. He was killed. And his killers didn’t get what they were looking for. They won’t stop
searching for the letters now … I have to know who killed my father and I want to make sure they don’t get hold of the letters… there are some honest men that couldn’t survive a bloodbath. The Rembrandt letters can’t get into the wrong hands …
’

Georgia remembered only too well what she had said next.

‘
I’ll help you any way I can. But I won’t tell Harry about any of this. I don’t want him involved …
’

But he
was
involved, she thought, her mouth dry as lint as she looked at him. A hit and run accident. A hit and run. Poor Harry. Harry, who had never done anyone a bad turn but was now the victim of something he didn’t even know about. Or would care about. Rembrandt. Art. None of it meant anything to her husband, so why hurt him?
Why?
But Georgia knew the answer. To warn her, to make her realise that she was now alone. Pregnant, vulnerable, unprotected.

A touch on her left shoulder made Georgia turn nervously. A tall, well-built man was looking down at her, his beard fire red, his expression serious.

‘I’m—’

‘Teddy Jack.’

He nodded. ‘How did you know?’

‘Last year Owen sent me some photographs of an exhibition opening at the gallery. You were in one of them.’

‘Don’t ask any questions, or make a scene, please, but you have to come with me.’

‘
Are you joking?
I’m not leaving my husband!’

‘You
have
to leave him,’ Teddy said, his grip tightening on her shoulder. ‘You’re in danger, Georgia. Marshall asked me to look out for you, but neither of us thought they’d go for your husband.’

‘I’m not leaving Harry,’ she said firmly, looking at the figure in the bed. ‘I’m not afraid of anyone.’

‘You should be,’ Teddy replied, drawing up a chair next to her. His voice dropped to barely a whisper. ‘They won’t do anything else to your husband, they just wanted him out of the way …’

She made a small, catching sound in her throat.

‘You’re vulnerable, Georgia, you have to come with me. I can keep you safe. I have to do this, I promised Marshall—’

Her eyes widened. ‘He knows about Harry?’

‘No, I haven’t spoken to him since this morning. I don’t even know where he is.’

‘Why doesn’t he just give up those bloody letters!’ she snapped. ‘Nothing’s worth this.’

‘Georgia, come with me, please,’ Teddy persisted. ‘I have to look after you. I’m going to take you somewhere safe. Somewhere I can keep an eye on you until all this is over.’

‘All
what!
’ she hissed. ‘Until what? Until Harry dies?’

‘He isn’t going to die. He’ll recover.’

‘And what about Marshall?’ she asked, her eyes blazing. ‘What if they get him? Will they just injure him or will they kill him? How many is it now, Teddy? I know of four deaths, and now Harry’s accident …’

‘Which is why we’re not going to add to the numbers,’ Teddy said, his voice implacable. ‘Come with me—’

‘Sod off!’

‘Come with me!’ Teddy commanded her. ‘You think being here with your husband will help? You can’t stay here, and you can’t go back home. You can’t be alone. You’re in danger. Don’t you get it?’ His expression was hard. ‘Stop fucking around and help yourself. That way you’ll help everyone else too.’

Slowly, Georgia stood up, pulling on her coat. The nurse came over to the bedside. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine, just tired. I thought I’d go home and get some rest.’

‘Good idea,’ the nurse said. ‘Your husband’s stable now. You can afford to relax a little.’

‘Will they keep him on the respirator?’

‘Until he’s breathing on his own, yes.’

‘And he
will
breathe on his own, won’t he?’ Georgia asked, her voice shaky.

‘Yes, he will. He’s making progress, believe me. He’ll recover. We’ll look after him. You just have to look after yourself now.’ She smiled encouragingly. ‘And the baby.’ She glanced over to Teddy. ‘Are you family?’

‘Cousin,’ he lied, and the nurse smiled as she took in the red beard and hair. ‘Of course, same colouring,’ she said.

Clumsily, Georgia fumbled with her handbag and buttoned up her coat. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’

‘Good,’ the nurse replied cheerfully. ‘But get some rest first, all right? Your husband’s going nowhere.’

In silence Teddy and Georgia walked down the back stairs to the corridor which led to the hospital car park. He walked quickly; Georgia was withdrawn, uncertain of where she was being taken.

‘Why can’t I stay at home?’

‘I’ve told you, it’s not safe,’ Teddy replied, moving over to his van and unlocking it. ‘You can trust me, Georgia, honestly you can. I promised Marshall I’d look after you.’

Nodding, she slid into the passenger seat, suddenly cold. She wanted, above anything, to go back home. To make something to eat and then sit and watch the DVD she had promised herself. She wanted to see Harry and listen to him tell her about the gym, bragging about the weights he had lifted, and most of all she wanted to curl up against her husband in bed and feel warm and safe. Instead, she was sitting in some uncomfortable van, on a cold plastic seat, having just left Harry in Intensive Care.

After stopping briefly to allow Georgia to pack a bag, Teddy turned out of London and headed for Sussex. In silence, Georgia sat beside him, staring at her reflection in the window. As the miles passed, she thought she might doze, and then realised she would probably never doze again. Until it was over.

‘Where are we going?’

‘You know Samuel Hemmings?’

‘The art historian?’ she asked, surprised. ‘Owen’s mentor?’

‘Yeah, him. We’re going to his house. I can keep an eye
on both of you there,’ Teddy replied, driving carefully as they moved onto the unlit roads. The van jerked over the uneven surface, then the road smoothed out again and they entered a village.

‘What about Marshall?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Where’s he?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So who’s looking out for him?’

‘No one – at the moment.’ Teddy was obviously irritated. ‘Your ex-husband plays his cards very close to his chest. Like his father for that.’

‘You were close to Owen, weren’t you?’

Nodding, Teddy kept his eyes on the road as it began to rain. ‘He was a good employer and then he became a friend. And before you say it, I already feel guilty for what happened to him.’

‘It wasn’t your fault.’

‘No,’ Teddy said curtly, pulling into a drive and turning the car into a garage beside a large property. Shutting off the engine, he looked at Georgia. ‘There’s a man called Greg Horner here. He’s living over the garage part time, but he’s going to move into the house. God knows, there’s enough room. He’s a surly bugger, but he can handle himself, and he’s big enough to make anyone think twice.’

‘You think someone will come here?’ she asked, startled.

‘No,’ he lied, ‘but if anyone did, I’ve got it covered. You’re not going to be on your own, and neither is Samuel.’

Her eyes fixed on him, unwavering. ‘You think they’ll come for me—’

‘I just—’

‘Think they’ll come for me,’ she interjected. ‘Well, you better be bloody good at your job, Teddy Jack, because I’m not about to die. And neither is Harry, or our baby. So you look after me, you hear? You bloody well look after me, because I didn’t ask to get involved in any of this.’ Angry, she slammed her hands down on the dashboard, her voice wavering. ‘It’s not my bloody war!’ Then, more calmly, she said, ‘I want my family back, and I want my life back. So you make sure I
get
them back, you hear me?’

Teddy nodded, smiling faintly. ‘I hear you.’

‘And you can find Marshall too,’ she added. ‘Find him

– before they do.’

House of Corrections,
Gouda, 1654

Winter arrived early, or maybe it just seemed that way … News came, the guard called me out of my cell, and together we walked down the corridor towards the asylum. The House of Corrections. The Asylum. So close they could be the same. You hear the noises at night of women barking like dogs. Some crying, some imitating the lascivious lip-smackings of sex, some clucking like mad ducks at little duckling children … Mad, sad. Different. And the same. Like me …

God made us that way, in His image.

The guard walked me to the Governor’s room, which was soft like the inside of a robin’s egg, all yolky yellow fabric, the desk black as a coalface. And a mirror which distorted you, making your body huge at the belly, your head and legs small as an ant’s. Or maybe that was how I looked after years here … He stared at me and said I had a visitor and I thought it might be Rembrandt, but when they took me into the little greeting room there he was.

They say larks sing when they see Heaven. I do not doubt it.

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.