The Rembrandt Secret (34 page)

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.’

‘When I have the letters—’

‘People will still laugh. Because it’s
you
that’s funny, Tim, and you’d still be the butt of the joke.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Marshall could see that the security guard had turned to talk to the other guard and – in that instant – he took his chance.

Knocking Tim back in his seat, Marshall ran for the dais. Stumbling up the few steps to the platform he reached the nearest painting and took a penknife out of his pocket. Almost as though he was slashing the throat of an animal, he brought the blade across the canvas. The picture sliced into two as the bearded merchant was summarily decapitated from his elegant painted ruff.

Before Marshall had a chance to escape, two security guards overpowered him, almost breaking his arm as they forced him to drop the knife. Hustled out of the auction hall, Marshall was half carried, half dragged, into the foyer. When the police arrived minutes later he was told he was under arrest and would be taken to the police station to be charged. He said nothing. Looking over the shoulder of one of the policemen, Marshall could see the shocked faces surrounding him – many of whom he recognised – and as he was led away he also realised that he was, for the first times in days, safe.

At the police station he made one call – asking for his lawyer, Philip Gorday.

46

‘Marshall’s safe.’

Relieved, Georgia sighed down the phone. ‘Where is he?’

‘In jail.’

‘Oh,’ she said sarcastically, ‘well that’s OK then, isn’t it.’

‘I’ll get him out soon,’ Philip went on. ‘Apparently Marshall thought the letters were going to be published before the auction. He’d tried to get them to the papers, but when there was nothing in the news he took some drastic action of his own. You’ll read all about it.’

‘Spare me the suspense. What did he do?’

‘Your ex-husband slashed one of the Rembrandt paintings.’

‘
Marshall?
’ she said, incredulous.

‘It was a fake.’

‘Did he know that when he slashed it?’

‘Marshall did. The dealers didn’t,’ Philip said suavely. ‘That’s why he’s in jail. He’s an unusual man.’

‘Has he given you the Rembrandt letters?’

‘Yes,’ Philip said, ‘and the police have arrested Timothy Parker-Ross for the murders—’

‘
Parker-Ross?
’ Georgia replied, stunned. ‘But he’s one of Marshall’s oldest friends! Jesus, Parker-Ross! Are they sure it’s him?’

‘Apparently he confessed. Seemed rather proud of what he’d done.’

Philip could sense Georgia’s incredulity. ‘What was he like?’

‘Someone no one took seriously. Someone who seemed kind, harmless. The last person you’d ever suspect …’ She glanced towards Samuel Hemmings, sitting by the fire, listening to the conversation. ‘What about Dimitri Kapinski?’

‘From what I can gather, Kapinski
was
employed by Parker-Ross last year, but moved on. Parker-Ross travelled extensively, seems he picked up Kapinski along the way. He was already a criminal, keen for the money, and when he moved to London, Parker-Ross got him working for him.’

‘So why did he leave Parker-Ross? Why change sides?’

‘Because his brother was involved,’ Philip said. ‘Kapinski actually had some scruples and wanted out of it when he found out he was following Nicolai.’

‘But Parker-Ross didn’t commit the murders himself?’

‘No.’

‘So he must have had another accomplice.’ She looked over to Samuel, holding his gaze as she formed the next words. ‘Was it Teddy Jack?’

‘No. Teddy Jack was helping Marshall all the time. Teddy Jack hired Kapinski to keep an eye on him.’

‘While he was keeping an eye on us?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Smart.’

‘That he was,’ Philip agreed. ‘He felt bad about what happened to Owen Zeigler and a real need to protect Marshall. To prove himself.’

‘So what will happen now?’

‘The letters will be published, the list of fakes will be made public, and they’ll try to hang a public order notice on Marshall. But it won’t stick. He should be home soon.’

‘So it’s nearly over?’

Drumming his fingers on his desk, Philip stared at the papers in front of him.
So it’s nearly over?
The one thing he had never suspected of Georgia was naivety, but here she was, actually hoping that life would return to normal. Philip knew otherwise. He knew that the backlash was just starting. When the list of fakes was published, all hell would break loose. Dealers would claim that the Rembrandt letters were a hoax; they would demand authentications – many of them – to keep the case open and prolonged. Money would change hands for experts who would swear that the letters were fake. But in the end, they would be proved authentic.

And then the market would rock on its already unsteady feet. Collections, museums, private owners would all question their Rembrandts. Those on the list would be uncovered and exposed, virtually priceless works of art relegated to inexpensive forgeries. And with the news of the forgeries would come the revelation of Rembrandt’s secret. Rembrandt’s monkey. Of Carel Fabritius, Rembrandt’s bastard with Geertje Dircx. Very soon, not only Rembrandt’s paintings but also his character would be re-evaluated … No, Philip thought to himself, it wasn’t over and it wouldn’t be for years.

‘It’s not that simple,’ he said, finally. ‘Marshall will have made a lot of enemies.’

He thought of his conversation with Marshall and of his client’s muted triumph at demoting the Rembrandts Tobar Manners had so desperately wanted to sell. Seeing his fortune literally slashed in front of his eyes, Manners had also seen revenge in action. Spooked, he had returned to London and then moved on, no one knew where. Not even Rosella.

‘No one can hold anything against Marshall,’ Georgia went on. ‘The truth was in the letters.’

‘Don’t shoot the messenger?’

‘All right, what else
could
he have done? Died for them? What good would that have been?’

‘No good at all, but perhaps Marshall could have thought all this through a little more. He
could
have destroyed the letters when he first got them. Four people died.’

‘And he was damn near the fifth!’ she said shortly. ‘You’re such a hypocrite, Philip. I remember you telling my mother how truth was everything in law, and in life. How veracity always triumphed. How it
should …
So what changed?’ she challenged him. ‘What Rembrandt was, and what he did, is in those letters. And now the world will read them. The woman he tortured will be heard, and his bastard recognised. The truth will come out.’

Philip smiled distantly to himself and said, ‘A client once told me that the absolute truth is an instrument that can only be played by an expert.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘I advised him to start lying.’

Covering his eyes with his arm, Marshall lay back on the bunk in the cell, trying to sleep. He had talked to Philip Gorday at length and was waiting to be released, for the guard to come and tell him he was free to go home. The auction house had wanted to press charges, Philip had told him, but when the truth came out they had hesitated. Marshall’s reckless action was excusable, but between the shock of the damage and the exposure of the letters, he was going to be left to sweat a while in jail.

Philip had fielded the media, who were clamouring to line up interviews with Marshall on his release. He told them that Marshall Zeigler
would
be talking – but not for the time being. Exhausted, Marshall kept his eyes closed, remembering the expression on Tobar Manners’ face when he had slashed the painting. Marshall had been so quickly overpowered that he hadn’t had a chance to look at anyone else, just Manners. And he had held his gaze while the police were handcuffing him and jerking him to his feet. Tobar’s expression had said everything before he skirted the crowd and disappeared out the back of the auction room, a beaten man. Marshall, hoisted to his feet, had been marched out. In passing the crowd, he had caught sight of Rufus Ariel and turned his head to look for Timothy Parker-Ross – but his seat was empty.

Screwing up his eyes, Marshall thought about Parker-Ross. He had never suspected him, not even considered him. He’d suspected every cunning, clever person his father had ever been involved with, but not the kindly fool … His mind turned back to his youth, to the two of them jumping onto London buses. Then he remembered the last time he’d seen Timothy Parker-Ross in London, deceptively caring as he called around at the gallery.

‘What’s up, Marshall?’

‘
I didn’t say anything was wrong.
’

‘No, but I’ve known you since we were kids. I can always tell when you’re worried …’

Marshall flinched as he recalled other conversations.

‘You’re like me. You’ve never been really interested in the art business. But then again, you got out, made another career for yourself. I never had the brains to do anything else …’

‘I’m a fool, everyone knows that.’

A fool. A vicious fool. Overlooked, underestimated. With a character which had brooded on its ill treatment for years. A fool in public, a thug in private. Marshall rubbed his temples with his fingers, trying to understand. How
could
Timothy Parker-Ross be a killer? he thought blankly. Maybe the actual killings had been done by others; perhaps Tim would have focused on the letters, dismissing the murders as an unpleasant necessity. After all, the letters must have seemed his only hope, the one thing that would ensure him status in a world which sneered at him. Perhaps, Marshall thought, his longing for power would have expunged everything else – even the death of a man who had helped him and protected him.

Marshall swallowed. He had to know if Parker-Ross had been at the murders. Had to know if his old friend had watched Owen Zeigler being tortured and gutted. If he had seen Stefan van der Helde sodomised and forced to swallow stones. If he had witnessed the knife go into Charlotte Gorday and split her heart. And if he been in that bleak hotel room and seen Nicolai Kapinski held down, his eyes gouged out, blood choking him as he died …

Had Tim seen all this? Jesus,
had
he?

Marshall had been right about one thing – the victims had all let him in. They had all known Timothy Parker-Ross and would never have been frightened of him. Van der Helde, Owen, Charlotte Gorday, Nicolai Kapinski – they would have recognised him as being part of their world. Someone no one feared. Of course Owen would have let Parker-Ross into the gallery, into the basement. Marshall could picture it only too easily, his father talking to the man he had thought of as another son. Perhaps Parker-Ross had asked him for the Rembrandt letters, tried to make some kind of deal. Marshall knew that his father wouldn’t have taken him seriously; would have laughed it off.

Letters, Owen would have said. What letters, Tim? He would have looked at him and smiled, thinking that of all people Timothy Parker-Ross wouldn’t have the clout to be able to handle something of such importance. No, Owen would have said, there are no letters …

With a shudder, Marshall wondered when his father first realised what Parker-Ross really was. When did he first fear him? Did the initial blow come from Parker-Ross, or from his accomplice? Not from Tim, surely. He had always been so afraid of blood, turning his head to one side if anyone cut themselves … So when did he turn his head away from Owen Zeigler? At what point did he separate himself from that death and the other violent deaths to come?

Hearing a banging, Marshall opened his eyes and glanced at the door, waiting for it to open. But it stayed closed, locked. Sighing, he stared back up at the ceiling. He would ask to talk to Timothy Parker-Ross, because he wanted to hate him. Wanted to know more. Because Parker-Ross was still partially the playmate of Marshall’s childhood, too benign to be feared …

And then Marshall realised that everyone would see Parker-Ross in the same way. That a clever lawyer could get him off by pleading insanity. Regurgitate the public-school upbringing, the bullying, the patronising dislike of the art world grandees; the people who admired his father so much, and pitied the son more by comparison. A mirror would be held up to the business, with all its petty spites recalled. Poor Timothy, they would claim, he had money, but nothing else. No affection, no love. Detached, he had rattled around the world as an outsider, and then, obsessively and compulsively, he had fixed his thoughts on the Rembrandt letters. The way, finally, of making his name.

Anyone could understand that, couldn’t they? No, Marshall thought, and he had to make sure that no one
ever
understood what Parker-Ross had done.

Sighing, he sat up on his bunk and went to the door, calling out, ‘Hey, I need to see my lawyer.’

A guard came down the corridor and paused outside his cell. ‘You want something?’

‘My lawyer. Philip Gorday. I want to see him. I should have been out of here by now.’

‘That so?’

‘Yeah, that’s so. Please, can you get hold of him for me?’

‘Gorday, you say?’

‘Philip Gorday.’

‘He left a message for you,’ the guard went on. ‘He said to tell you that he’d be back soon.’

‘Where’s he gone?’

‘London—’

‘
London!
’ Marshall snapped, incredulous. ‘He can’t have! He can’t leave me here.’

‘He can, and he has.’

‘Let me out!’

‘Mr Zeigler, you must know I can’t do that,’ the guard replied, shrugging. ‘Relax. Your lawyer will be back.’

‘Did he say when?’

‘No, he just said he’d be back soon.’

‘Can I make a phone call?’

‘You had your phone call.’

‘Can I send a message?’

‘Do I look like a fucking pigeon?’ the guard replied curtly. ‘There’s nothing you can do, but wait. So wait.’

House of Corrections,
Gouda, 1654

For many days I did not touch the pen. The nib weighed heavy as a pail of water.