The Rembrandt Secret (10 page)

‘So Tim’s been seeing a lot of Tobar Manners, has he? He’s out of his league there.’

‘You can say that again,’ Teddy had agreed. ‘I used to work for that bastard, remember?’

‘Has Tim been talking to anyone else?’

‘Not that I’ve seen. Not in the evenings anyway. Just

Manners. They went to the Ivy on Tuesday night. Manners was courting the idiot like a prospective bride, and Parker-Ross was fiddling with his food.’

‘Poor Tim.’

‘Poor fool.’

‘An orphaned fool with a sly stepfather in the making. I don’t think we can have that.’

Teddy frowned. ‘But you’re friends with Tobar Manners.’

‘Yes, we’re friends – because he’s never tried to cheat me, and he’s a good dealer. We’ve done some profitable business together and I have no personal reason to dislike Tobar. But I know what he’s like, and with certain other people he can’t resist going in for the kill.’ Owen had sighed, passing Teddy some money. ‘You did well.’

‘You don’t want me to watch Parker-Ross anymore?’

‘No. I know what I need to know.’

The following week Timothy Parker-Ross had been made an offer for his gallery from a dealer in the USA. A dealer Owen Zeigler personally knew and had introduced to Tim. Convinced by Owen that the proposition was exceptional and that he would have to move fast, Parker-Ross had signed on the dotted line and retired abroad. It took an enraged Tobar Manners months to get over it and he never knew the hand Owen had played in the matter.

Owen Zeigler had acted like a good man.
A good man
, Teddy thought. But was he really? There had been other occasions he had spied for Owen Zeigler, times which had not turned out so fortuitously and results which had been ambiguous. But Teddy had always given his employer the benefit of the doubt, and in return, he had been privy to Owen’s secrets. Which was why he was now lying, gasping for air, in a box. In a gallery which was closed, in a basement which was cordoned off, within yards of where his employer had been murdered only days before.

He was dying too, slowly and agonisingly. Death, he thought, wasn’t quick enough.

13

Following the children out into the playground, Georgia pulled on her gloves and wrapped her scarf around her neck. God, she thought, was it ever going to warm up? The winter seemed to be going on interminably, the trees still sullen without any hint of green, summer years away. Or maybe that was just typical of life. When you were planning for something and waiting, time the hare became time the turtle. Tempted to go back indoors, Georgia suddenly spotted the figure by the railings and frowned, surprised to see her ex-husband.

They had talked many times over the past days, Georgia mentioning that the police had been round to see her in her home in Clapham. Just routine, Georgia had reassured Marshall when he reacted violently, nothing serious. Then he told her that he’d been interviewed just after the murder. They had wanted to know if Owen Zeigler had had any enemies, because even though they were sure it was a bungled robbery, they had to ask. After another few minutes conversation, Marshall had rung off.

But now, here he was, standing at the gates of the school where Georgia was a teacher. Almost as though he was waiting for her, like he used to when they were first married.

‘Hey, Marshall,’ she said simply as she walked up to him. ‘How are you doing?’

His hand was wrapped around one of the school railings, white flesh against black metal.

‘I wondered if we could talk.’

‘
Now?
’ she asked, jerking her head towards the children behind them. ‘I have to make sure that all the kids have been collected before I can leave. We lose about three a week to kidnappers.’

He smiled, relieved by her humour. ‘Okay if I wait?’

‘Fine,’ she agreed, ‘give me about ten minutes.’

When she came out fifteen minutes later she was buttoning up her coat, her red hair tucked into the collar, her blue eyes steady.

Casually, she slid her arm through his. ‘How are you bearing up?’

‘I saw you at the funeral service, thanks for coming. Why didn’t you stay on afterwards?’

She shrugged. ‘There were a lot of people there, Marshall, you didn’t need me hanging around.’

Together they walked onto Fulham Palace Road, stopping at the lights to cross.

‘How’s Harry?’

‘Fine.’

‘So it’s working out between you two?’

‘Yeah, it is.’

‘I’m glad you’re happy.’

‘Come on, I’ll buy you a drink,’ she said, steering him towards the Golden Compass. Inside the pub it was quiet, the tables empty. ‘We should have booked,’ she joked, sitting down at a table by the fire. Marshall brought their drinks and took a seat opposite his ex-wife. He held out his hands towards the warmth of the fire and Georgia could tell that he hadn’t been sleeping well. She wasn’t surprised. The death of a parent is a shock to anyone, but Marshall had found his father’s butchered corpse and he looked haunted by it.

Taking a sip of her orange juice, Georgia studied her ex-husband. ‘Are you working at the moment?’

‘I was, but not now,’ he admitted. ‘In fact, I’ve just come back from Amsterdam. I was only there a few hours, had to come back to London.’ He smiled awkwardly. ‘Can’t really think straight yet … But I’ll be working again soon.’

‘You don’t have to hurry.’

‘I can’t sit around doing nothing.’

‘You never could,’ Georgia replied, tapping his knee. ‘D’you want to stay with us for a few days?’

His eyebrows rose. ‘You think that would help?’

She shrugged. ‘Maybe not. I just don’t want you to be on your own. Why didn’t you stay in Holland?’

‘I couldn’t. Well, I
could
, but I thought I should get back here. I felt as though I was turning my back on my father, just going home as though nothing had happened. And there are other reasons …’ He trailed off, staring at her. ‘You’re the only person I can trust, Georgia. And I need someone to trust, need someone to talk to.’

‘So talk.’ She took off her coat and looking directly into his face. ‘You can tell me anything, you know that.’

‘I know.’ He downed his drink and said, ‘Jesus, I don’t know what to do.’

Uneasy, Georgia looked around them. But there was only the barmaid nearby and she was talking to the other customers in the place.

‘Tell me what’s worrying you,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘Talk to me, Marshall.’

‘Maybe I shouldn’t—’

‘Maybe you should! I’d come to you if I was in trouble, you know that. God knows, I’ve relied on you enough in the past. So tell me what’s going on.’

‘I think my father was murdered because of something he found.’

‘What?’

Marshall paused, then – slowly and painstakingly – told her everything about the Rembrandt letters, Georgia’s eyes widening as she listened. As though feeling a sudden chill, she drew her coat around her shoulders, then picked at a loose thread in the lining. For a moment Marshall remembered the smell of her skin against his when they had made love, and the way she read the papers on a Sunday morning, giving him her own hilarious résumé of the week’s news. He also remembered how easily she could cry at a film, and how tough she was when her back was against the wall. And he realised how glad he was to have her on his side.

‘So where are the letters now?’ Georgia asked, then shook her head, her eyes widening. ‘Don’t tell me
you’ve
got them?’

‘I’ve hidden them.’

‘Where?’

He gave her an incredulous look.

‘All right, don’t tell me,’ she said, ‘but shouldn’t someone else know where they are?’

‘In case something happens to me?’

Her expression shifted with unease. ‘Don’t say that.’

‘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. They’ll come after anyone who might know about them—’

‘And you told me. Thanks.’ She was teasing him.

‘That’s why I’m not telling you where they are.’

Shivering, Georgia moved closer to the fire to warm her hands. The barmaid had stopped talking and was wiping the end of the bar listlessly; the logs were shifting in the fire grate; reflections of the pub interior and its occupants flickered on the decorative copper pans and kettles, the gold tops of the optics winking blindly in the firelight.

Unusually anxious, Georgia felt the shift in atmosphere and realised that her life had changed within minutes. And, to her shame, she resented it. Resented her contentment being so summarily dethroned.

‘Go to the police, Marshall,’ she said at last. ‘Tell them about the letters.’

‘I daren’t—’

‘Why not?’

‘Because – say they even believed the story – it would become public knowledge and then everyone would know. That would only make these people even more reckless and dangerous.’

‘Depends on who
these people
are,’ she replied, with a tinge of irritation.

His expression hardened. ‘I found my father’s body. I know what they’re capable of.’

She stared at the floor, thinking about everything Marshall had told her. ‘I don’t suppose Stefan van der Helde’s murder was just a coincidence, was it?’

‘No.’

‘So who else knows about the letters?’

‘My father’s mentor, Samuel Hemmings. Maybe my father’s employees, Teddy Jack and Nicolai Kapinski. And possibly someone else – my father’s lover.’

Georgia paused, her glass half way to her lips. ‘You never said anything about your father having a girlfriend—’

‘I didn’t know about her. Until she turned up today. She said they had been lovers for eighteen years.’

Putting her glass down on the table, Georgia ran her finger down the condensation, writing the initial G. ‘I never thought Owen was the type to keep secrets.’

‘Well, he obviously was. I didn’t know about Charlotte Gorday
or
the Rembrandt letters.’

‘Makes you wonder …’

‘What?’

‘How well you know anyone.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s like a chest of drawers—’

He smiled, bemused. ‘What is?’

‘Your father. It’s like there was this big, handsome piece of furniture, which everybody admires. It’s a chest of drawers. Simple. Obvious.’ She paused. ‘But when you look more closely, all these drawers are
hiding
things. A drawer with his debts, a drawer with his lover, a drawer – a
big
drawer – with the Rembrandt letters.’ She shrugged. ‘Yeah, I know, it’s a basic simile, but I work with kids, remember.’ She was silent a moment, then asked, ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m not sure. There’s something I want to check out tonight, but after that I don’t know.’ His voice dropped. ‘If I’m honest, a part of me wants to just go back to my old life, but I can’t. I found that out today. I
have
to know who killed my father and I want to make sure they don’t get hold of the letters. Exposure could bring down the art market.’

She looked at him incredulously. ‘But why would that matter to you? You always hated the business.’

‘A little while ago I’d gladly have seen the art world brought to its knees. I can understand why people hate the dealers’ greed, how the huge profits stick in the craw.’ He held her gaze. ‘But when my father was killed I realised that good men could get caught up in the backlash too. That for all the bastards trading there are some honest men who couldn’t survive a bloodbath. The Rembrandt letters are worth millions because they could rock the market. They can’t be allowed to get into the wrong hands.’

They were both silent a while.

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

Marshall nodded. ‘No. Nobody else must know.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

Touched, Marshall shook his head. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

‘Well, you could buy me another orange juice,’ she said simply. ‘That would be a start.’

An hour later they parted, Georgia making her way home alone through the London streets, brushing off Marshall’s offer to accompany her home. It was quiet, mid-week, and as she walked along she was aware of her heels echoing on the pavement and her shadow extending in front of her. Uncharacteristically nervous, she thought about Marshall’s revelations, and found herself glancing round a couple of times to check that she wasn’t being followed. But the street was empty and Georgia shook her head, exasperated by her own nerves. Putting her bag over her shoulder, she walked beyond Clapham Common, passing under the streetlamps towards home.

At first annoyed at being involved, Georgia was pleased that Marshall had come to her. She had been thinking about him recently, wanting to hear from him, to confide her own news. But when she had been told of Owen’s death, she had stayed quiet, and although she had been tempted to speak up earlier, the time was out of sync. She wondered fleetingly if she was still in love with Marshall and hoped she wasn’t … She turned into her road as a car suddenly rounded the bend, startling her, causing her to jump back from the kerb.

The car drove on, disappearing at the end of the street. Taking in a breath, Georgia calmed herself. What the hell was the matter with her? The car hadn’t been coming for her. It had been taking someone home – picking up a daughter from dance school, perhaps, or a husband from squash. Surprised by her own unexpected nerviness, she walked resolutely up the front steps of her house and then slid the key into the lock.

‘Hi, darling,’ Harry called from the back. ‘Where have you been?’ He came out to the hallway, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, and skirting round a mountain bike propped up at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I should move that.’

She raised her eye heavenwards. ‘And the hiking boots.’

‘I thought you liked them there,’ he replied, kissing her forehead. ‘You used to say that it reminded you that you had a real live action man in the house.’

‘Along with real live action mud.’

‘Hard day?’

‘I had to throw one child out of the window, but otherwise quiet.’

His head cocked over to one side. ‘You look different.’

‘It’s the beard.’

He laughed. ‘No, you do look different. Nothing worrying you is there?’

‘No, Harry,’ she said lightly, taking off her coat. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

‘Good. I made curry.’

Closing the door behind her, Georgia smiled, and dismissed all thoughts of Marshall and the Rembrandt letters.