Painting in the Shadows

by Katherine Kovacic

  ‘But she didn’t believe you. Meredith had a photograph of the red Whiteley. Your Whiteley.’

  ‘I don’t know how she got that; she must have followed me. I saw it in her bag and then I thought, if she was sick, I’d have time to finish the painting and get rid of it. I knew she’d work late on that Landseer, so I put stuff in the coffee pot after everyone else had gone.’ Fiona is sounding increasingly shrill, and I realise I should stop with the questions.

  ‘It’s over now, Fiona. Let’s go’ I try again, but no one is listening.

  ‘It was a stupid, stupid thing to do,’ Barbara says, ‘and now here we are with a much bigger problem.’

  My mouth falls open and I turn my head from Fiona to Barbara, who are both staring at me. ‘What?’

  ‘I told you to come to me, Alex.’

  ‘Barbara?’

  ‘Fiona may be good at painting, but you can’t seriously think she’d have the contacts to sell the works, do you? Would you buy a Whiteley from a conservator at MIMA? On the quiet? Of course not.’

  ‘But if the renowned art historian Barbara Cottrell told me she had something for me to look at …’ I trail off.

  ‘The crucial question now, Alex, is this: are you part of my team? Or are you that same naive but mouthy intern that got kicked out of here a decade ago?’

  My brain is careering between thoughts and none of them are making much sense. Out of that maelstrom comes one whispered word. ‘Why?’

  Barbara shakes her head at me, a disappointed teacher. ‘Money, of course. Do you think academia pays well? You’re not stupid. You must feel it, surrounded by priceless art all the time, people who spend a million dollars like they’re buying a loaf of bread. And it’s not as if they even have any idea what they’re buying, as long as it’s a name they know and can brag about. I saw a chance to have just a bit of that. Everyone goes away happy. I get my money and the buyers not only get their art, they get it at a good price, and the richer the buyers, the more they like to prove their financial superiority by getting a good deal. It doesn’t hurt anyone.’

  Except Meredith, I think, but that still feels like dangerous territory so instead I ask, ‘Why Fiona?’

  ‘She’s a good painter, wasted as a conservator.’ Barbara shrugs.

  ‘Barbara saw my work in the Rotary Art Show.’ The voice comes from next to my ear and I jump. I’ve been focused on Barbara and hadn’t noticed Fiona moving to stand close behind me.

  ‘Who else knows, Alex? Other than Monty and Mister Porter, who have you spoken to?’

  I’m debating what to say, whether to pretend that Giles, Kev and whoever else I can think of are in on things, or if saying it will make my current situation worse. But Barbara must be able to see it on my face, because she smiles.

  ‘Well that’s good. I’m sure we can come up with a story that will keep Monty happy, and you can handle your friend, can’t you Alex?’

  ‘Barbara …’

  ‘Alex, let me be perfectly clear.’ Barbara’s tone is light and matter-of-fact, as though she’s talking about the weather. ‘You’ve messed this up, and no matter what we say Monty will be suspicious, so Fiona and I will have to sit tight for a while. However …’ Suddenly her voice becomes icy and hard and she takes a single step closer to me. ‘You will not ruin everything I have worked for. You agreed to be part of my team and either that stands or I will destroy you. If you thought your reputation was shot last time, that’s nothing to what I can do.’ She steps back and regards me with a critical eye, as though looking for meaning in a work of abstract expressionism. ‘Don’t be stupid, Alex.’

  Fiona’s standing at my shoulder; I can feel her breathing. I already know she’s fast, but if I make a break for it, I can find Giles – or even Robert Swindon – and get my story out first. With John and the evidence of the paintings to back me up, people will have to believe me. But almost as I’m thinking it, I also remember how I was dismissed last time, how even though I was ultimately believed, I was still the pariah. And I remember earlier tonight, John turning away and Sue’s exultant face.

  ‘People will see the paintings and know.’ My voice shakes and I hope Barbara doesn’t notice.

  ‘Did I mention I asked Monty to move the paintings into my office for safe keeping? Just until everything is sorted out. Such a polite young man. And of course, Ms Buchanan’s death has already been ruled a suicide. With your reputation, who do you think people will believe?’

  For a moment, staring at Barbara’s benign smile, one corner of my brain toys with the idea of the job. What if? Why not? I’d just do the job, maybe wait for a better time to expose the forgery caper if they start up again.

  ‘I’m really not sure what to say, Barbara.’ I try to sound like the idolising student she still thinks I am. She smiles. Then I jab my elbow hard into Fiona’s stomach and start running.

  ***

  It wasn’t that I thought Fiona was much of a threat, I just really wanted to get one in for Meredith.

  I’ve only gone a few steps before a figure looms up in front of me and with a shriek I crash straight into a chest and outstretched arms.

  ‘Alex, Alex. Stop!’

  ‘John?’ I stop flailing about and for a brief moment, my head rests in the crook of John’s neck, then I ease back a little and look up into his face. ‘It’s Barbara and Fiona. They’re in it together. The fakes. Only nobody is going to believe me. They’re back there.’

  ‘It’s okay, Alex. You’re okay.’ His arms are still around me.

  I shake my head wildly. ‘Of course I’m okay. Except Barbara’s got the paintings and she’s going to … Everything I’ve worked for.’

  Suddenly overhead spots snap on, bathing the Great Hall in harsh light, and over by the wall I can see Giles and Robert Swindon, the Museum Director. He must be the one who flipped the switch. I loosen my hold on John enough to turn around. Barbara and Fiona are still there. For a moment I lock eyes with Barbara, then she folds her arms and strides forward, Fiona trailing in her wake.

  ‘Thank God you’re here, Robert,’ she calls. ‘We have a situation that needs to be dealt with immediately.’

  Giles and Robert start moving and everyone converges on our patch of floor. I make an effort to pull myself together, taking comfort from John’s arm around me. He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

  Giles stops a little way back, but Robert steps past John and me, almost ending up toe to toe with Barbara.

  ‘Yes, I heard there was a situation, which is why I’m here and not schmoozing with some of our biggest benefactors.’

  ‘I understand. You shouldn’t be wasting your time. But I’m sure we can clear things up quickly.’ Barbara places a hand on his arm, a bony little claw with an incongruously perfect manicure. ‘Alex Clayton seems to have developed some mad conspiracy theory about fraudulent art and the unfortunate death of Meredith Buchanan. And she’s inveigled her gentlemen friends into assisting her.’

  I’m so angry my vision almost goes white and I start forward, but John’s grip suddenly tightens and he holds me back. He leans down to my ear. ‘Shhh.’

  I shoot him a sideways look and he does it again, exaggerating the shape of his mouth. ‘Shhh.’

  ‘I’m sorry it’s come to this, Alex.’ Barbara is looking at me. ‘But I think you need help. I’m not sure if this all stems from that unfortunate incident when you were an intern or if it’s something more recent – you did say you’d been under a lot of pressure – but you seem to be delusional. Why, the way you assaulted Fiona and then ran from us just now! One minute we were talking and the next …’ She shakes her head and sighs, a paragon of sympathy and sadness.

  ‘I was given to understand there were several paintings that Dr Clayton has identified as problematic.’ Swindon uses my proper title without a hint of irony.

  Barbara spreads her arms wide. ‘So
she claims, however …’

  Again I start to move, and again John holds me back, but I can’t just stand here and have this woman assassinate my character without fighting back. I shrug off his arm.

  ‘It’s completely true! Dr Swindon, I –’

  The director of MIMA holds up his hand in a stop gesture. ‘Mr Montagu-Jones!’

  Monty steps from behind one of the steel columns.

  ‘Fortuitously, Mr Montagu-Jones came to me with the disputed artworks, although he told me he was under instruction to put them in your office, Professor Cottrell. We’ll be able to have them properly analysed, but their presence in the Museum is certainly surprising, given they’re not part of our collection. And before you say anything else, I’m not sure if you’re aware of the marvellous art installation we have here at the moment in the Great Hall.’ He gestures to two huge parabolic dishes, visible now the lights are on. One stands at the far end of the hall, and the other is placed just behind where Barbara, Fiona and I had been standing. ‘It’s called Three May Keep a Secret, and it’s remarkably clever. It functions as something of a whispering gallery. So if you stand by one dish,’ he points to the far wall, near where I first saw him and Giles, ‘you can hear anything said by a person standing near the other dish, even if they’re whispering. No idea how it works, but it’s proven to be popular. And surprisingly convenient.’

  The colour has drained from Barbara’s face and her hands are hanging limply at her sides.

  ‘I should also mention that security has been made aware of the situation and I’ve no doubt they have contacted the police. Perhaps if we wait in the boardroom.’ He steps to one side, inviting Barbara and Fiona to precede him just as two security guards enter through the far door. Swindon watches as the two women shuffle across the room and are gathered up and ushered away by the guards. Then he turns to me. ‘Obviously the police will need to talk to you as well, but you can wait in my office.’

  John and I slowly start back toward the offices; his arm has found its way back around my shoulder.

  ‘Why did you run Alex? From what we could hear, it didn’t sound like you were in danger.’

  I’ve been thinking about that myself. ‘I guess I just lost it. That chance I thought I was getting – not only the job, but the restoration of my credibility – was gone, and Cottrell was saying she was going to destroy the name I’ve worked so hard to build for myself as a dealer. And with everything else,’ I glance up at John, but he’s not looking at me, ‘it was too much. Besides, it felt good to sink my elbow into Fiona after what she did.’

  We step from the Great Hall and John has to let go so we can walk down the narrow passage. The sudden absence of his touch makes me realise something.

  ‘Where were you?’ I can’t help but sound a little bit hurt. ‘And what happened to Sue?’

  John stops walking. ‘Sue may be waiting for me back in the exhibition, or she may have left without me. I’m not sure.’ He looks down, then back at me. ‘She appeared out of the crowd and said she’d wanted to surprise me. That we should both make more of an effort, that sort of thing. I saw you wave and was about to come but then … then she was Sue. The old Sue, bright and funny. She dragged me around to look at some of the paintings, introduced herself and me to various people and spruiked my credentials as a conservator … I couldn’t get away and I guess I convinced myself you were just waving at me for a changeover. So I thought it would be okay.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I didn’t realise how much time had passed. And then Monty appeared.’

  He stops and I wait. I see a range of emotions on my best friend’s face – guilt, hurt, anger, and something else – and I realise what a struggle this is for him.

  John sucks in another deep breath. ‘When Monty said you’d sent him to get me, right now, Sue was livid. She said she’d seen you earlier, trying to catch my eye, and sending Monty was just your latest ploy to try and split us up. She was furious when I said I had to go.’

  He stops again, then reaches out and grabs my hand. I can feel his thumb making slow circles in my palm. ‘I felt sick when I thought how you’d needed me and I wasn’t there. How I let her take control, even though I knew you … I’m so sorry, Alex.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It all worked out.’ I smile at him and try not to think nasty thoughts about Sue. ‘And I don’t want to mess up your marriage. You know that.’ I give his hand a squeeze and then let go, and we resume our walk toward Robert Swindon’s office.

  ‘It’s already messed up. Sue has never accepted the fact that you’re my best friend and I’m not giving you up for anything.’

  It may not seem like much, but it’s enough for now. Walking ahead of John, a huge smile spreads across my face and I force it back down before half-turning and saying as casually as I can, ‘We’ll figure it out.’

  ***

  John escorts me to Swindon’s office and then goes to see if Sue is waiting for him somewhere, possibly causing a scene. He’s back inside ten minutes.

  ‘Most people have left and Sue is definitely not there.’

  I nod, keeping my expression neutral. ‘Hey what about Monty,’ I say. ‘Who’d have thought he’d come through like that?’

  ‘Crap, yes, I’ll have to be nicer now.’

  We hang around for over an hour, making ourselves comfortable in the plush office without feeling the need to say much. At one point, I go and retrieve my shoes, but I don’t bother putting them on. Finally Swindon arrives in the company of two plain-clothes policemen, both in near-identical suits that look as though they were chosen more for their wash and wear properties than for any sartorial reasons. The officers look like two of the panels from David Hockney’s 12 Portraits After Ingres in a Uniform Style, but I’m pleased to see neither of them is Detective Tautology.

  ‘These are Detectives Koenig and Jackson.’ Swindon waves vaguely toward the two men and then moves around his desk to occupy the chair I’m hurriedly vacating. John is already sprawled across two-thirds of a low sofa, and I perch on the free end.

  ‘We won’t keep you long. Just some contact details for now and if we could see you at Police Centre in Flinders Street tomorrow that should do,’ says one of the detectives. He’s slightly shorter and younger-looking than his associate.

  John and I look at each other, then back at the detectives.

  ‘But what’s going on? What happened?’ I ask.

  The two cops exchange a quick glance and the taller one – with deeper lines around his eyes – gives a barely noticeable shrug. In response, his colleague flips open a small notebook.

  ‘We’ll have to send the artworks for full assessment by an impartial party, but the young woman has admitted to painting them for sale as forgeries. She’s also implicated the second woman in the crime, claiming it was she who came up with the initial idea and handled all the details regarding sales.’

  ‘So she’s trying to throw Barbara Cottrell under the bus,’ John says.

  ‘For her part, the older woman is denying the sale of any fraudulent artworks. In fact, she said,’ he flips another page and reads from his notes, ‘Alex Clayton is an ungrateful and vindictive little bitch. If I wanted to sell fake paintings, I’d at least make it something worthwhile, like a van Gogh or a Rembrandt.’ His lips twitch as he looks at me. ‘I gather you’re the Alex Clayton she’s referring to?’

  I nod. ‘Bitchy as charged. But she’s full of crap. A van Gogh or Rembrandt would be much harder to fake. You have to use the right materials for the period as well as a canvas and wooden stretchers of the right age, and then you’d have to figure out how to make the painting look realistically old. Whereas when you fake a Whiteley, a bit of surface dirt makes it look thirty or forty years old and there’s no way to distinguish the materials of an original from something painted yesterday.’

  The detective makes a small note in his book.

  ‘Yo
u may need to consult an expert on Whiteley’s style. Probably his widow, Wendy, would be your best bet.’

  Another note. ‘We’re going through Cottrell’s office now. and there’s a BMW in the carpark that’s registered in her name. We’ll tow that if necessary.’

  ‘A dark blue BMW?’ I ask, looking at John.

  ‘That’s correct,’ he replies, regarding me with slightly narrowed eyes.

  ‘It may have been involved in a hit-run.’ I gesture toward John and both detectives turn to him.

  John bats his hand in the air, waving their unspoken query away. ‘We can deal with that tomorrow. What about Meredith’s death?’ he asks, and I feel a flush of shame. I’m so fixated on nailing Barbara Cottrell that I’d forgotten about the most important thing in all of this.

  ‘Mr Swindon has given us a statement regarding what was overheard in the Great Hall, but the young woman has refused to answer questions relating to that. Needless to say we will be informing the officers in charge of the Buchanan case and the investigation will be reopened as part of our inquiries.’

  We exchange a few more words, give our contact details and promise to report at ten a.m. the next day, and then the detectives are gone. There is a minute or so of numb silence, before John stirs.

  ‘How did the Alizarin Crimson end up everywhere? Why did Meredith even have it?’ John asks without directing his words to anyone in particular.

  ‘She had the photo and knew Fiona had been using that paint. Maybe Meredith was going to confront Fiona about the Whiteley, or maybe she was going to talk to Giles, or to you, Robert.’ I turn to Swindon.

  ‘I wish she had. I keep thinking if I hadn’t been pushing Giles to have Man Proposes ready for the show, Meredith wouldn’t have been here all alone. We could have got her to hospital –’ He covers his face with his hands.

  The sofa creaks as John reaches across and grabs my hand. The office lights are too bright, but I sit there, wide-eyed, thinking about how far people are prepared to go for money. And for other things.