The Rembrandt Secret (40 page)

Marshall watched the man walk off, then looked through the Venetian blinds of the office before taking the letters out of his jacket pocket. Slowly, he weighed them in his hands. He realised that his time had run out. He had no options left. He had to do something, fast … If he had hoped to flush out his father’s killer, he had been disappointed. Whoever was responsible for the murders was not going to step out of the shadows. There was to be no dénouement, no warning. No one was going to approach him and talk – and why should they? Marshall felt himself suddenly embarrassed by his own naivety. Had he
really
expected a killer to act like a reasonable man? To show his hand?

There was to be no discussion. Four people had already died for the letters, there would be no hesitation in making Marshall the fifth. He was only important as long as he had the documents. When they had been taken from him, his death would follow … He paused, now horribly aware of the vulnerability of his situation. He was alone, and in an unfamiliar city. If he even made it back out onto the streets of New York, he wouldn’t get far. He had hoped to last until the auction, but he suspected that he had little chance of that. No one could be trusted. Everyone was suspect, and he had nowhere left to go. The Rembrandt fakes would be sold tomorrow for a fortune unless he
exposed them – along with the letters, the list and the truth about Rembrandt’s monkey.

Marshall knew what he had to do. Not what he had wanted, or hoped for, but what
had
to be done. Carefully, he made two copies of each letter, and two of the list. Every time someone passed the office door, he tensed, waiting for them to come in. Every time he lifted the lid of the copier, he paused. The process seemed to take hours, each warm copy sliding balefully into the plastic tray on the side. Meticulously, Marshall slid the originals into their envelope one by one, handling them carefully because the paper was so worn. The copies seemed different, the reproductions no longer the sepia tones of the originals, but harshly white, crude – worthless on cheap paper.

He was working quickly because he knew he had little time, and that he was probably being watched. Anyone following him would know that he had the letters and would wait for their opportunity to strike. Being in the middle of the largest bank in Manhattan was some protection, but Marshall knew he had been lucky so far. The letters would be safe in the bank, but he would have to leave … Walking to the window and looking through the blind once more, his gaze rested on two men who were in the foyer. They looked out of place and, as Marshall watched, they asked one of the tellers something.

The woman turned and pointed to the back of the bank. To the office where Marshall was … Gathering up the copies, Marshall took out two envelopes, putting identical
copies of the letters in each and addressing them. One to the
New York Times
and the other to
The Times
in London. He had no time to write a note, just sealed the envelopes and tucked them both under his arm. Then, hurriedly, he turned on his laptop. Opening an e-mail, he downloaded the copy of the letters he had made earlier, then typed in the address of the editor of the
New York Times
and wrote.

These letters are authentic, and they prove that the Rembrandt paintings coming up for sale at the auction tomorrow are fakes.

Then he pressed the SEND button, and watched, the process began, then stopped. Baffled, Marshall stared at the screen, just as there was a knock on the door.

‘Who is it?’

‘Mr Zeigler, it’s the manager.’

‘Just a minute.’

The door opened but the man who walked in wasn’t the one with the wasp sting; this was an older man, un-welcoming and brusque.

‘I have to hurry you, sir. Can we take your bag now?’

Marshall glanced at the computer screen. The message had jammed on SEND. ‘I just have one more thing to do—’

‘We need the room, sir,’ the manager said, ‘another customer. Besides, there’s been a power cut—’

‘I just need a few more minutes,’ Marshall said imploringly,
looking over the man’s shoulder into the bank beyond. His instincts were sharpened and he could sense danger. ‘Just give me a couple more minutes.’

‘Sorry, sir, we need the office,’ the manager replied, his tone flat but firm. ‘Do you want to leave your bag, or not?’

Defeated, Marshall turned off the laptop, the message unsent. Then he put the laptop into his bag and passed it to the manager.

‘Thank you, sir.’ He gave Marshall the key to his security box. ‘We look forward to seeing you again.’

Suspecting that he had been deliberately interrupted, Marshall walked out of the office and was heading for the foyer when he noticed the two men turn in his direction, both watching him. He looked round, but there was only one exit and to reach it he had to pass them. Trapped, he felt real panic. If only he had managed to send the e-mail, if only … He moved forwards, the two men watching him, waiting, Marshall’s steps slowing … An image of his father’s dead body came back to him, and he decided that he wasn’t going to make it easy for anyone. Instead he glanced around, then spotted the young assistant manager, Foley, and headed straight for him. The two men, startled, came across the foyer, while Marshall grabbed Foley’s arm.

‘You have to get the wasp sting out,’ he said, propelling the startled man backwards. ‘Where’s the restroom?’

‘In the back,’ the man said, shaken, as Marshall half
pushed, half pulled him between the clerks’ desks and through the double doors into the corridor beyond. Outside, on the landing, he gripped the man’s arm and passed him the two envelopes. His voice was urgent, desperate. ‘Send these letters. Mail them for me.
Please.
’ And then he ran.

The double doors flung open a moment later, the two men hurrying after him down the exit stairs towards the basement. Confused, the assistant manager watched them pass, then wandered, bewildered, back into the bank. Sitting down, he gazed, baffled, at the letters Marshall had given him.

Then he sighed and dropped them into the waste bin beside his desk.

Out of breath, Marshall ran into Central Park, then took out his mobile and punched a number.

‘Where the hell have you been!’ he snapped down the phone when Teddy Jack finally picked up.

Teddy sounded unperturbed. ‘I was about to call you. Where are you?’

‘That’s not important! What about Georgia? You bastard, why have you hired Dimitri Kapinski?’ Marshall yelled, his temper rising. ‘If anything happens to my wife—’

‘Your
ex
-wife,’ Teddy answered, pulling his van over to the side of the street and turning off the engine. ‘Georgia’s safe.’

‘
With Dimitri Kapinski?
’

‘Your father would have understood—’

‘I don’t!’ Marshall snapped. ‘Enlighten me.’

‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,’ Teddy responded. ‘Dimitri
was
working for someone else. What better way to get him onto our side by getting him to work for
us
?’

Looking around, Marshall tried to calm his breathing. He was clammy, his forehead shiny with sweat.

‘I don’t believe you. In fact, I don’t believe anything you say.’

‘Remember I told you that I found Dimitri Kapinski years ago? Your father asked me to do it, for Nicolai.’

‘So?’

‘I told you about Dimitri, but I didn’t tell you everything. He’s a thug, yes. He can be violent, yes. And he’s a thief, true. But above all, he’s greedy – and loyal to the person who pays him the most.’

‘And how much are you paying him?’

‘Enough to keep him on our side.’

‘And where did you get the money?’

‘I have money.’

‘Your flat says otherwise,’ Marshall replied. ‘Someone else must be giving you money.’

‘Lillian Kauffman.’

‘
Lillian?
’

‘I told you, Marshall, she wanted to help you.’ Teddy’s tone was brusque. ‘She gave me the money. If you want to check, call her, she’ll vouch for me.’

Marshall had run from the bank into Central Park, the day sunny and relatively busy as he’d moved through a small underpass and come out into an open space by a lake. Sitting on the bench, which backed onto a stone wall, he could make sure that no one came up behind him, and he could see anyone approach. Around him,
women walked with children, a group of schoolboys playing baseball.

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘What don’t you believe?’

‘Any of it,’ Marshall said flatly. ‘I know Dimitri Kapinski
was
following me—’

‘Yes, I hired him to do that.’

Wrong footed, Marshall paused. ‘
You
hired him?’

‘Yeah, and you managed to lose him in Amsterdam!’ Teddy replied, laughing. ‘I’ve told you, Marshall, you can trust me. I wanted him to tell me where you were and what you were doing. When he lost you, I told him to come back to England and I sent him over to Sussex. Listen, I’m not just doing this for you, but for your father. If I’d looked out for Owen more, perhaps he’d still be alive … I won’t let you down. Or Georgia.’

Wary, Marshall pushed him.

‘If that’s true, why did you act so surprised when you told me that Dimitri Kapinski was following me?’

‘I wanted to make you trust me.’ He was all plausibility. ‘You were worried about Georgia, Marshall, I had to calm you down.’

‘Who was he working for?’

‘What?’

‘Dimitri Kapinski. Before you hired him, who was he working for?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I find that hard to believe,’ Marshall replied, looking about him. ‘If you’re jerking me around …’

‘You sound upset, what the hell’s going on?’

Rattled, Marshall shook his head. ‘Just look after Georgia, that’s all I ask. And if you know anything, Teddy, if you know who’s behind all this, tell me now. If it’s you, tell me.’

‘It’s not me.’

‘If anything happens to Georgia I
will
kill you.’

‘Nothing will happen to her. Are you in New York?’

‘Don’t you know?’ Marshall countered wryly, leaning back against the bench.

‘What have you done?’

‘What I needed to do.’

‘Are you in danger?’ Teddy asked, his tone anxious.

‘Yes, but it doesn’t matter that much anymore.’

‘Marshall, come back to London.’

‘I don’t think they’ll let me,’ he replied simply.

‘Who won’t?’

‘It’s
not
you, is it, Teddy?’ Marshall asked, ignoring the question. ‘I mean, I know you couldn’t have planned all of this yourself, I know someone else would have worked it all out. But you
could
have been following orders. And my father would have trusted you. You were his ally, he wouldn’t have suspected you.’ Suddenly he felt weary. ‘You didn’t kill my father, did you?’

‘No.’

‘Who did?’

‘I don’t know,’ Teddy replied. ‘Where are the letters?’

‘The letters … you didn’t read them, did you?’

‘No.’

‘Shame, they would have moved you. ‘

‘Where are they?’

‘Was it Charlotte Gorday?’ Marshall asked. ‘Did
she
betray my father?’

‘No.’

‘Nicolai Kapinski?’

‘No.’

‘It has to be someone in the art world. It has to be someone who knows how the business works, and what damage the letters could do. Someone who’s cultured, who knows about art. Someone ruthless. Someone ambitious, someone who knows about Rembrandt … Is Samuel Hemmings behind it all?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Guess.’

‘I don’t know,’ Teddy replied, his tone unwavering.

‘Where are the letters now?’

‘Where they should be. Is it someone I know?’ Marshall persisted. ‘Lillian Kauffman? It could be her, she’s smart enough, and she knows everything that goes on in the business.’

‘She’s trying to help you—’

Again, Marshall ignored him. ‘It has to be someone my father trusted …’ Marshall leaned forward, watching the pathways. Overhead a plane cut into the sky, the schoolboys argued on the grass, shadows lengthened and twisted under the moving sun. ‘I don’t think I’m going to get out of this alive.’

‘Don’t say that—’

‘You lied to me.’

‘Everybody lies, Marshall.’

‘No, not everyone.’

‘You’d be surprised. Even the people you think you know, you think you can trust, people you love – even they lie sometimes.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Did you know that Georgia’s mother had an affair with Philip Gorday?’

Marshall winced.

‘And that your ex-wife is still in contact with Philip Gorday? She spoke to him only the other day,’ Teddy went on. ‘You
didn’t
know, did you? You were married to her and she never mentioned it. Which makes me wonder why. Georgia knew Charlotte Gorday too.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I’m not lying,’ Teddy replied. ‘Like I said, no one’s what they seem. Your father knew that only too well. Then one day he forgot it, and that’s what killed him.’

‘I can’t sit here another minute doing nothing,’ Georgia said impatiently. ‘And why hasn’t Marshall phoned?’

Her gaze moved over to Samuel. He was picking list-lessly at a sandwich Mrs McKendrick had made for him, pulling out the lettuce and laying it on the side of the plate. His hands moved very slowly, his glasses sliding down his nose. With an effort he pushed them up onto the top of his head, then began picking at the sandwich again.

‘If you don’t like lettuce, why don’t you tell her?’ Georgia said, moving over to Samuel and sitting down beside him. ‘I could make you something else.’

‘This will do,’ he said. ‘Have you eaten your lunch?’

She nodded and glanced out of the window. The day was folding down as she drew the curtains and turned on the lamps in the study. The room had a sticky feel, an overhang of anxiety which had not been allayed by Teddy Jack’s recent phone call. When Georgia questioned him about Dimitri Kapinski he told her what he had told
Marshall, reassuring her that she, and Samuel, were in good hands.

‘New York.’

Samuel put down his sandwich. ‘What?’