The Rembrandt Secret Page 32

  ‘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.

  41

  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 l
ying,’ 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.’

  42

  ‘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?’

  ‘Marshall will have gone over there for the sale. What time is it there?’

  Blinking, he struggled upright in his wheelchair, glad to have something to concentrate his mind upon. ‘About four in the afternoon,’ he said at last. ‘You think that’s where he’s gone?’

  ‘Yeah, I do.’

  ‘Does Marshall know anyone in New York?’

  ‘No, but I do,’ Georgia replied. ‘I know someone he could go to for help. I got Marshall’s new mobile number off Teddy Jack.’

  ‘But no answer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So leave a message.’

  ‘I have, several times,’ she admitted, ‘but he’s not called me back.’

  Georgia was hoping that the reason her ex-husband hadn’t been back in contact was because he was angry, rather than that he was unable to call her. After all, to advise him to go to Philip Gorday, of all people, would have come as a shock to Marshall. She could imagine only too easily what he would think: Why had she never mentioned Philip before? And had she known about Charlotte Gorday? Chewing the side of her finger nail, Georgia stared at the mobile in her hand. She should have said some thing a long time ago. Now Marshall would be suspicious, wondering why she had kept the relationship a secret. Especially in light of Charlotte’s association with Owen, and their inter-related deaths.

  Damn it, call me! She willed the mobile to ring, asking herself why she had never told Marshall about knowing the Gordays. It was true she hadn’t wanted to think about her past, or her mother, and the subject had never come up – until Marshall found out about Charlotte, that is. Now, seeing the situation through Marshall’s eyes, Georgia knew she should have spoken up then, realising that he would wonder now what else she was hiding …

  Guiltily, she thought about Harry, and remembered what they had told her at the hospital. Georgia had explained the reason for her absence by saying she was having trouble with her pregnancy and had been advised to rest. The lie made a worm in her heart, but at least Harry was improving; he was off the ventilator, breathing for himself, holding his own … She thought of her husband and felt, with profound contrition, only partial relief. Surely Harry should have been her first priority? Her first thought? And yet Marshall had usurped him in her present thoughts. Without understanding how it happened, circumstances had revived her feelings for her first husband.

  Angrily, Georgia poked at the fire, the flames desultory, then she moved back to the table and sat down again.

  ‘I have to do something … We have to do something.’

  As if he were coming out of a long afternoon sleep, Samuel stirred his sluggish thoughts into activity. If he was honest he had temporarily faltered; unnerved by the gruesome death of Nicolai Kapinski and afraid for himself. The arrival of Georgia had compounded rather than alleviated his fears. Why was Teddy Jack corralling them together? To take care of them? Or make a bigger target? His suspicions had shamed him. After all, hadn’t Teddy Jack simply been following Marshall’s instructions to protect the people he cared about?

  The alternative was too disturbing to contemplate. Being left alone, a man in a wheelchair, in a deserted house … He looked at Georgia, remembering that she was pregnant, and shook himself alert.

  ‘What can we do?’

  ‘I dunno,’ she replied, then asked him, ‘How did Owen got hold of the Rembrandt letters?’

  ‘He would never tell me. I asked him many times, but I could never get it out of him.’ The lie was smooth, convincing.

  Picking at the cuff of his jumper, Samuel avoided Georgia’s gaze as his thoughts slid back to a summer day in 1973 and Owen – lit up, blazing like a firework, his usual urbanity giving way to a frenetic, overcharged excitement. Samuel had known the look; that rush of almost erotic triumph, and had felt his heart quiver with envy. Owen Zeigler had the Rembrandt letters and Samuel’s only consolation was knowing that his protégé would never misuse them. Dry-mouthed, Samuel had studied Owen and seen his own life rear up like a cheap pony in front of him. His learning, his teaching, his theories, would all pale by comparison with the lushness of his pupil’s discovery. His own status would be relegated to second, a perpetual Dr Watson of the art world, and his bitterness at the realisation had uncoiled like a snake in his guts.

  A bitterness of which he was ashamed. A bitterness he would never admit to anyone.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Georgia said, cutting into Samuel’s thoughts. ‘Owen must have said something about how he got them.’

  ‘He said nothing to me. Perhaps he told Marshall,’ Samuel replied, feeling his way tentatively, wondering how much Marshall had confided in his ex-wife. If keeping Georgia in ignorance was meant to protect her.

  ‘Marshall’s clammed up entirely about the letters,’ she replied, her tone short. ‘Why wouldn’t Owen tell you how he got hold of them?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Samuel replied, emphatically, surprising Georgia. ‘I’m sorry, but I still find it difficult to know that Owen didn’t trust me.’

  Samuel wasn’t lying, he did find it difficult, but he understood why. He knew he was too covetous, too ambitious to share, and his punishment was not so much in being beaten to the historic find, but in Owen’s recognition of his true character. All the years Samuel had believed he had led Owen Zeigler by the nose – grooming him and making him an ally for his old age – his protégé had listened and confided in him, allowed Samuel to believe that he owed him a debt of gratitude and honour – but that was not so. For all the knowledge Owen had been given by his mentor, Samuel had long since been compensated. For the tutelage and insights, he had been rewarded. Owen Zeigler had paid off the debt completely, and added the interest of his charm.

  But his complete confidence? Never.

  Picking up a sheet of paper and a biro from a container on Samuel’s desk, Georgia turned to the old man. ‘I tell the kids I teach to write things down, make lists. Put things on paper.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like what’s been happening,’ she said firmly, jotting down the names of the victims and the manner of their deaths. ‘Can I see the reproductions of the paintings?’

  Samuel passed a book over to her, depicting Rembrandt’s The Stoning of St Steven. ‘Stefan van der Helde was forced to swallow stones. He was martyred.’

  ‘What about Owen?’

  Samuel turned several pages, stopping at the Anatomy Lesson of Dr Joan Deyman. ‘This echoes Owen Zeigler’s death.’

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  ‘I don’t think you should be doing this in your condition.’

  Georgia gave Samuel a slow look. ‘I have to look at it. I might end up in this condition. I might be killed – you might be killed.’ />
  ‘I’m old.’

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ she said flatly. ‘I need to try and work this out. Show me the other paintings.’

  Reluctantly, Samuel continued. ‘This is The Suicide of Lucretia—’

  ‘Charlotte Gorday?’

  ‘Yes.’ He turned over another dozen or so pages and paused at The Blinding of Samson. ‘Nicolai Kapinski had his eyes gouged out.’

  Horrified, Georgia pulled the book round to face her. In Rembrandt’s painting the overpowered Samson was being held down, the triumphant Delilah running away with his shorn hair. But that was not all. Not only was Samson overpowered, but one of his attackers was driving a metal spike into his eye, the socket imploding inwards, blood spurting from the wound.

  ‘People considered the painting melodramatic—’ Samuel began.

  ‘Especially Samson,’ Georgia finished drily.

  ‘After this work, Rembrandt toned down the content of what he painted. He was never so bloody again.’

  Still making notes, Georgia looked at her silent mobile and then turned back to Samuel.

  ‘We know that the killer – or killers – copied the Rembrandt paintings.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To show us they were connected?’

  ‘OK, that would make sense,’ Georgia agreed. ‘Any other reason? I mean, do they follow a chronological order?’

  ‘No … but it is a way for the killer to show off his knowledge.’

  ‘Why would that matter?’

  ‘It would matter to someone cultured, and to someone who wanted to own the letters. Someone who thought they had a right to them.’

  ‘You think the killer just wants to own them?’

  ‘Maybe, or maybe the person wants to feel close to Rembrandt.’ Samuel paused, his lethargy was lifting, his brain was regaining its intellectual keenness. ‘The killer could be saying that he understood Rembrandt, that he was paying him tribute with the murders. A way of flattering the painter. Or he might actually believe that by getting hold of the letters, he could protect Rembrandt’s reputation.’

  ‘Protect him?’

  ‘You know what was in the letters,’ Samuel said, carrying on immediately. ‘If they were exposed, Rembrandt would be seen not as a genial old genius, but as some spiteful, vindictive, greedy bastard. If someone had worshipped the painter, that would be unacceptable.’