The Rembrandt Secret (44 page)

‘Marshall—’

‘Look, one way or the other, it’ll all be over soon.’

‘The auction, you mean?’

‘Yes, the auction.’

‘Have you got a plan?’

‘I
had
a plan,’ he said, ruefully. ‘Now I have no plan at all.’

‘You’re scaring me.’

‘You never get scared, you’re too tough,’ he teased. ‘I love you.’

Putting down the phone before she could answer, Marshall dropped the mobile into the nearest waste bin and moved on.

He had left Philip Gorday’s apartment around eight. From the foyer he could see the men outside, watching him. Getting back into the elevator, Marshall had got out at the next floor, but pushed the button for Philip Gorday’s floor, watching the lift rise to the twenty-first floor. Then he
took the back stairs to the street and made for the nearest newspaper vendor. Grabbing a copy of the
New York Times
, Marshall had read the front page with surprise, then, panicking, hurried through the rest of the paper. There was no mention of the Rembrandt letters. Not a word about the fakes coming up for sale in two hours time.

He had lost. In that moment Marshall realised that the assistant manager at the bank had
not
sent his letters. They had been thrown away, discarded. The damning news was still hidden; the Rembrandt secret still unknown. Throwing the newspaper onto the street, Marshall began to walk towards the Museum of Mankind. He felt cheated, let down, betrayed. He felt stupid too, and hardly cared if he was being followed.

Angrily he pushed past a pedestrian and stumbled across the road, the traffic blaring its horns, a cab swerving to avoid him. He was aggressively alert, staring at people who passed him like a man looking for a fight. Or someone still drunk from the previous night. Damp from the rain, Marshall arrived at the entrance of the Museum of Mankind and stared up at the posters – REMBRANDT AUCTION. And on the hoardings were images of the portraits. Portraits Rembrandt had never painted, portraits Carel Fabritius had created, many years before in Delft.

Weaving slightly on his feet from tiredness and despair, Marshall stared at the banners and remembered his father.

‘
I can’t explain it, Marshall, you either have a passion for the work, or not. This is my passion, I would give my life for it.
’

And then he remembered the corpse of Owen Zeigler, the way his father had been butchered, the body suspended from the waste pipe. He remembered touching his father’s face and then thought of Tobar Manners. Thought of his lying voice, his threats.

‘…
start running, Marshall Zeigler, and don’t stop.
’

‘What do I do? What do I fucking do now?’ Marshall said out loud, a man skirting round him as he stood in the rain.

He had no chance and he knew it. At any moment he could be stopped and he wouldn’t even see it coming. He had relied on the news being printed, otherwise he would never have left the safety of Philip Gorday’s apartment and be standing – out in the open – on a New York street. Angrily, Marshall reached out his arms in the rain.

‘Well, come on then!’ he said, staring down the portentous street. ‘Come and get me!’

But nothing happened, and the rain kept falling.

Laughing to himself, Marshall dropped his arms and walked to the side entrance of the Museum. There he paused in the doorway. His moment of despair had passed; he was suddenly calm and was forming a plan. It was a long shot, unlikely to work, even if he got into the auction – but it was worth trying. Reaching into his pocket, Marshall felt for the invitation he’d purloined from Philip, then realised that no one would let him in looking so dishevelled. He had to get cleaned up, composed.

In a drugstore across the street, he bought a razor and a comb, then returned to the back of the Museum, moving
behind a row of waste bins under an awning outside. Wincing at the sharpness of the blade, Marshall shaved himself, stepping out from under the awning and letting the rain cool his face. Then he combed his hair, took off his coat, and – taking a deep breath – walked towards the entrance of the Museum of Mankind. Through inner doors he could see armed security men moving around and members of the Museum staff gathering in the foyer. Knowing that if he was admitted, Marshall would be shown into the auction hall – and anxious that his invitation should not be questioned – he back-tracked. Spotting a side entrance on the left, which led to the main gallery, Marshall took the steps to the next floor. There were four doors facing him, only one open as Marshall entered a deserted office. Walking in, he locked the door behind him and then paused, looking round. The room was obviously used as a store for kitchen supplies; the door which led from the chamber into the main body of the Museum was locked.

Oddly calm, Marshall looked at his watch. There was one hour left until the auction. And he was in the Museum. All that stood between him and the Rembrandts was one door.

On tenterhooks, Tobar Manners kept peering around him. Many of the biggest dealers in London had come to New York, Rufus Ariel and Leon Williams being among the first to arrive for the auction, fanning their invitations like geishas. Both London and New York had been
resonating with the news of the letters, but as the day of the auction came around and nothing was exposed, Manners had begun to relax. He would make his bloody fortune and nothing would stop him – especially not Marshall Zeigler. Who had, apparently, disappeared without trace. Him, and the letters – or so people presumed, although there had been another rumour that Marshall had come to New York.

Tobar allowed himself a moment of triumph. If Marshall Zeigler had been able to stop the auction, he would have already done so. For a moment Tobar he did consider the possibility that Marshall might have been killed, like his father, but consoled himself with the fact that someone had to be the winner. If the letters had cost Marshall Zeigler his life, it was hardly Tobar’s concern. He knew only too well that Marshall would have seen him ruined without batting an eyelid.

Taking their seats, Leon Williams turned to Rufus Ariel. ‘It must have been a hoax, all that fuss about those Rembrandt letters.’

‘Four people died for that hoax,’ Rufus replied. ‘Still, people die everyday, I suppose.’

He glanced towards the dais, staring at the preoccupied man who was going to be holding the auction. Sombrely dressed, he had the air of a churchman, with the right amount of pompous solemnity. As the chairman of one of the world’s biggest auction houses, Rufus knew how much the sale meant to him. If the reserve wasn’t reached, it would mean a further hit to the art market.
If the reserve was exceeded, the business would see it as an upturn. An indication of recovery.

Having been threatened with a rent rise in the last week, Rufus was hoping for the latter result. Glancing around, he noted the concentration of dealers who were genuinely anxious; in the previous weeks there had been precious few openings on either side of the Atlantic. Rufus nodded to Timothy Parker-Ross, just entering the hall, then turned his attention towards the auctioneer again as the two Rembrandt portraits were brought onto the dais by the security men and placed on a couple of gilded, over-embellished easels. A collective gasp went up around the select gathering. In the chill drizzle of daylight the portraits were coolly compelling, the dark backgrounds flattering the sitters and bringing out the froth of their ruffs, white as azaleas. Both the male sitter and his wife had a sheen of triumph about them. Wealthy Dutch merchants, come into money, hiring the greatest painter of the day to immortalise them. Smug to a fault.

There were perhaps only two hundred people in the room, all clutching their invitation cards, all either seated or scurrying to their places at the last moment. Then, just as ten o’clock struck, Marshall retraced his steps and came in the main entrance, showing his card to one of the security guards. Surprised, Leon Williams nudged Rufus Ariel. The latter glanced over to where Leon was gesturing. ‘Bloody hell, it’s Zeigler,’ he said, surprised.

He wasn’t the only one who had spotted the late arrival.
Tobar Manners had seen Marshall enter and, shocked, looked around the gathering. His gaze passed over the security guards one by one, searching for someone out of place, or anyone suspicious, then he glanced back to Marshall again. He had taken his seat at the end of the third row, avoiding Tobar’s glance and staring at the paintings instead.

Feeling his mouth empty of saliva, Tobar tried to swallow as someone tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Marshall Zeigler’s here.’

‘I know, I’ve seen him!’ Tobar hissed back to the American dealer.

‘Takes some balls just showing up like this, with all the rumours going around,’ the man continued. ‘Why d’you think he’s here? I thought he’d gone into hiding.’

‘I don’t know, do I?’ Tobar countered, watching as the security guards moved to the doors.

In his seat Marshall could hear the doors being closed and locked and felt a hot spasm of fear. Without turning around he couldn’t see who was behind him, only the two rows in front.
He was a sitting target.
But who would dare to make a move in the middle of an auction? After the auction, though, how the hell was he going to get out? Staring at his catalogue, Marshall could feel the gossip undulate about the room, and flinched when someone sat down in the seat beside him.

‘Hello there.’

He glanced over, then smiled with relief. ‘Tim! How are you doing?’

‘I’m good,’ he said pleasantly. ‘What d’you make of the paintings?’

‘Impressive. But then again, what do I know about art?’

Tim laughed, crossing his legs, his expression bland. ‘I’m sorry.’

Marshall turned to him, puzzled. ‘What for?’

‘Your father.’

‘I know, Tim, you told me before.’

He dropped his voice, his head inclined towards Marshall’s. ‘You can’t get away with this, you know that,’ he smiled, benign, almost foolish looking. ‘You have to give me the letters. You can’t get out of here, and I know where your ex-wife is.’

The room swelled around Marshall, the walls throbbing, the ceiling closing down on him. Slowly, the conversations in the room slid into white noise, the gathering blurred, and only the paintings remained visible, in perfect focus. The shock was so great that Marshall couldn’t turn his head for a moment. Could just sit, rigid, in his seat, feeling the warmth of Timothy Parker-Ross’s body next to his.

I wonder if I know the person. If it’s someone I like, someone I trust.

He could remember his visits to the British Museum with Timothy Parker-Ross, the lanky misfit overshadowed by his charismatic father. The poor lost boy. So out of place he had had to make friends with a kid much younger than he was … Marshall could feel the ground slip under his feet, the shock numbing him, making a queasy lilt in
his stomach … Of all the people he had known, of all the inhabitants of the art world, he had never suspected Timothy Parker-Ross.

Rigid, Marshall watched the auctioneer walk up onto the dais. Timothy rested his hand lightly on Marshall’s sleeve. ‘Where are the letters?’ he asked.

‘I burnt them.’

‘No, you wouldn’t do that,’ Timothy replied. ‘I know you wouldn’t.’

Marshall turned his head to look at his old friend, his voice damning. ‘You killed my father?’

‘I didn’t do it—’

‘But you arranged for it to be done?’

‘Your father was kind to me, I didn’t want it to happen,’ Timothy went on, his voice unemotional. ‘It became so complicated. I didn’t think any of this would happen. Owen could have just given me the letters …’

Marshall felt Timothy’s grip tighten on his arm. His strength came as a surprise, his fingers clenching the muscle.

‘You have to be quiet now. We’ll sort it all out after the auction. I’m sorry you got involved, Marshall. I just wanted the letters, that was all. No one was supposed to get hurt.’

Silence fell suddenly. The auction room filled with suspense, everyone watching the action on the raised platform. Then there was an unexpected lull in the proceedings while the auctioneer talked to someone at the side of the dais. Marshall sat rigid as Timothy continued to talk. Aware that the sale was being held up, the audience started murmuring
amongst themselves. Timothy’s voice was barely audible.

‘The letters will make me someone. You watch, Marshall, when they’re mine, people will finally take me seriously.’ His tone was cajoling, weirdly benevolent. ‘Come on, Marshall, you can understand that. You know me. Everyone thought I was a fool. But when I get hold of the letters I’ll have the art world in my hands.’

‘My father helped you, he cared about you—’

‘I know, I know.’ Tim’s voice was childlike, catching on the vowels. ‘I just wanted the letters, that was all.’

Marshall leaned forward in his seat, and Tim gripped his arm even tighter. ‘You can’t do anything. You’re finished,’ he said. ‘And if you
were
thinking of making some kind of move, remember that I know where Georgia is. And she’s pregnant, isn’t she?’

His eyes hard, Marshall turned to Timothy, his voice barely controlled. ‘I’ll make you pay for this.’

‘You can’t. There’s nowhere you can go. Nothing you can do.’

‘Jesus, you’re even more stupid than I thought,’ Marshall said, interrupting him. ‘More stupid than
anyone
thought. I felt sorry for you, because you were a misfit—’

Injured, Tim dropped his voice. ‘Marshall, don’t—’

‘
Marshall, don’t
,’ he parroted. ‘You pathetic bastard.’ He was baiting Tim, and at the same time keeping an eye on the dais and the preoccupied auctioneer. There was clearly a complication, the delay was continuing. Marshall, glancing to his left, realised that the nearest security guard
was several yards away. ‘You sick fuck,’ he hissed. ‘Now I think about it, all those murders made to coincide with Rembrandt’s paintings – that’s just the kind of puerile schoolboy charade you’d think was sophisticated.’

Timothy flushed. ‘Don’t say things like that!’

‘I can say what I like. You don’t impress me. You don’t impress anyone. That’s your trouble, Tim. Whatever you did people would still laugh at you.’