Dewar gave an un-police like yelp. “Look! Got it.”
She was wearing thin plastic gloves and held two medium-sized tins of paint aloft. The logo was unmistakable. “Here’s our Ripolin.”
Daria looked between them, before glancing at the far wall, then back again. There was an external door he hadn’t noticed before. She reached to the side, brushed some papers off a high stool and, before he could react, launched it across the room at him. It caught him across the shins, and he let out an anguished yell. Shit, that hurt. Daria ran for the door, but he leapt towards her and brought her down. He quickly restrained her as Dewar knelt beside him and handcuffed a squirming Daria. The words coming from her mouth turned the air blue—perhaps a cerulean blue, fitting for an artist’s studio.
He had no doubt they’d found their forger. But had they also found a murderer?
CHAPTER FIFTY
Chloe sat cross-legged on the bed, her laptop in front of her, papers to her side and Khan pressed against her back. The dog’s gentle snores and rhythmic breathing soothed her as she tried to make sense of Eva’s document folders. Eva still wasn’t well enough to manage any of this on her own, so Chloe would take that pressure from her. Eva wasn’t so bad, and she was Rudy and Nils’s mother, so she’d do what she could.
She’d checked the emails and let a few people know that Eva was indisposed and wouldn’t be able to take on any commissions. Eva had already sourced art for several people, and Chloe emailed the sellers and put the purchases into motion.
“How are you getting on?”
Riley backed into the room, bumping the door open as he turned. She smiled. “Coffee, exactly what I needed. Thanks.” She took a mug, sniffed the roasted beans aroma and took a grateful sip. “Lovely. I’m nearly done. I need to check that the invoicing is up-to-date and it’s all good.”
“Okay, I’ll keep quiet.” He laughed as he sat on the bed beside Khan. Now the two of them snuggled behind her. She liked it. She put in a search with invoicing as the keyword, and soon there were several document references on the screen. She quickly checked through the most recent ones. Eva’s last commissions hadn’t been billed, so she made a note to catch up on them later. She searched for quotes to see what pricing had been agreed upon and waited while the machine whirred, and the little search wheel turned. Soon the screen had a new range of files. An awful lot of data. Eva had a particular naming convention—her company name, Englebrook Art, followed by the date and the client name. A few of those names caught her attention.
“This is weird. There are quotes here for Richard’s clients.”
“Why is that odd? They’re married. Maybe he used her computer.”
“No, they are on Eva’s headed paper. She is the one quoting, and pretty high at that. Richard is pricey, but she is through the roof. She can’t be getting much business as no one is going to pay that much of a finder’s fee.”
A gentle thud alerted her that Khan had jumped off the bed and headed to Riley’s kitchen. No doubt it was snack time. Riley moved closer. “So why don’t you put that laptop away and join me in bed?”
She blushed. She wasn’t used to the change in tempo between them. She shook her head with a sigh. “I need to work out what’s going on here. The last twenty or so commissions that Richard has won have also been quoted on by Eva, which seems odd. Richard is in a different league than Eva. These are big-ticket deals, the kind that Richard’s London agency handle all the time. Eva wouldn’t be able to fulfil these deals.”
“Well, she must have quoted for a reason.”
Chloe could only think of one reason why, and it wasn’t good. She grabbed her phone, quickly dialled a number. Nils answered immediately. “Chloe, where have you been?”
“Sorry, I’m not at home. Listen, I’ve looked at Eva’s work stuff in the cloud.”
Nils let out a breath that was almost a hiss. “That’s partially why I’ve been calling you. I can’t believe those two. How bloody perverted is that? She’s my mother.”
“Yeah, but she’s married to Richard. I guess they can do what they like together. I know it’s weirding you out, but it’s not about you.”
“I know. I know. But I’ll tell you what is about me. I was trying to call you to tell you that the drugs are gone.”
“Who took them? What did the police say?”
“No idea, and quite a lot, actually. They seem to think I used the drugs to tamper with mum’s e-cigarette vial.”
“And why the hell would you do that?”
“They figure it’s all about the money we need for the business. What a bloody joke.” His bitterness permeated through the phone, but she didn’t have time to be sympathetic right now.
“I’m sorry, but I need to know if Eva was taking on bigger commissions.”
“How big?”
“To source art with price tags in the millions.”
“Whoa, no way. Mum’s not in that league. At least, I don’t think so. Rudy would know better. Why are you asking?”
“I found some strange work quotes. I’ll talk to Rudy. Is he there?”
“No, he went to see Angela. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
“Okay, I’ll give him a call.”
She disconnected and immediately rang Rudy.
Riley asked, “What’s up?”
“I think Richard is up to no good. If Englebrook Art quotes an inflated rate to source art, then Richard’s own quote, while extortionate, looks reasonable. I think he’s up to some jiggery-pokery. The question is whether Eva knows. I need to speak to Rudy. See what he wants me to do.”
The phone kept ringing. “I guess you’ll be looking for another job soon.”
She snorted a laugh. “Very funny—and true.”
Voicemail clicked on. “Rudy, it’s Chloe. Give me a call. I need to speak to you sharpish. See you later.”
She nibbled at her fingernail. “Come on. I’m going to Angela’s. I can’t wait. I need to let Rudy know what’s going on.”
◆◆◆
“Tell us about the Ripolin.”
Daria stared at Le Claire, a mutinous set to her lips. She said nothing.
“We can wait as long as you like. But what you need to know is that a strand of hair was found in one of the forged Picassos, and it was sent to the lab this morning. That hair is pretty much going to tell us who was near that fake painting when it was still wet. It will tell us if it was you. Believe me, it will go better if you speak to us. How much did you get paid, and what did you do with the money?”
Dewar said, “It probably wasn’t a lot because it wasn’t a particularly good fake, was it?”
Le Claire liked her manoeuvre. He’d play along. “It was pretty easy for the experts to discover it wasn’t the real thing.” He turned to Dewar, “Was this the fake they said looked like it had been done by an amateur copyist?”
“Yeah, they said it was obviously fake, which is why the buyers had it analysed so quickly.”
Daria was turning redder, or perhaps purple was more accurate. She leaned over the table as the words were shouted out. “It was bloody nigh-on perfect. I bet they had to use infrared and X-ray to find out anything.”
There was silence as a now-ashen Daria sank into her seat. “It’s not what you think. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Dewar said what he was thinking. “You forged a painting. How can that not be wrong?”
“Because I forged it for Kurt. It was supposed to stay in the collection.” She ran her hand across her brow. “I can’t believe this. I was only trying to help.”
“How was it a help?”
She started to speak and then coughed as if the words were choking her. Dewar opened a small plastic bottle of water and poured some into a disposable cup. Daria sipped at it, and a moment passed. The silence lengthened. Was she going to confess?
She carefully placed the bottle on the table, her hand shaking. “I haven’t done anything illegal. Kurt needed the money and quickly. He was sell
ing paintings and didn’t want anyone to know. He was a proud man.”
“You made copies of around a dozen expensive paintings, perhaps more, and didn’t worry about where those copies would end up one day.”
“No, I didn’t. I mean, I believed they were only for the collection, that way no one would know he was financially embarrassed. But I copied three pieces of art, not twelve.”
But there were contracts for a dozen sales. “What pieces did you copy?”
“The Picasso, a Degas and a small Stubbs. That one was a devil to do.”
“And when did Kurt approach you?”
“He didn’t. I mean, he did, but it wasn’t direct. It was through Angela. It was about six months ago.”
“Why didn’t Angela do the work? Wasn’t she good enough?”
“She is more than proficient at making a good copy. Of course, it would only pass the most cursory of views. I guess Kurt wanted something that would stand up to scrutiny a little more.”
“Did he pay you?”
“Yes, Angela gave me money from Kurt to buy all the materials. The Ripolin was expensive as hell and took an age to find.”
The poor fool hadn’t even been paid.
“Kurt sold twelve paintings. There are twelve fakes in his collection, but we know, at least in the case of the Picasso, that there was a second fake. The originals of the Degas and Stubbs are apparently still in the collection.”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“Actually, I’m beginning to believe you.”
“Does Angela copy using grid lines?”
“Yes, why?”
“Nothing, that’ll be all for now. Someone will be in to take your statement, and I suggest you call a lawyer.”
“But I don’t understand. I haven’t done anything wrong.” Her words ended in a plaintive whine.
“I think you’ve been badly used. But you still forged original artworks. You put those fakes into circulation. I am afraid there will be a price to pay.”
His mobile rang. He answered, listened and said, “Thanks, Gareth. Send it over immediately.”
He faced Daria. “Excuse us, someone will be right in.”
As soon as they were outside, he said, “That was Gareth. They got warrants to search Englebrook’s two London apartments. The one in Mayfair didn’t throw up anything, but the Camden one is the gift that keeps on giving.”
Dewar said, “Go on. What did they find?”
“Three paintings.”
“Let me guess. A Picasso, a Degas and a Stubbs?”
“Yep, got it in one. I bet those are the originals. And the building has full CCTV in all public areas. Gareth is sending us the recordings by email.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Rudy sipped at his tea while Angela’s went cold. She’d stormed off, and he’d let her. She needed to calm down, and he was best keeping out of the way. He drained the remainder of his now-cold tea and went in search of her to make peace. He hadn’t heard a peep out of her, and she was no longer at her easel, so he assumed she was sulking in her living quarters. He heard a door slamming upstairs. She must be in the bedroom. Following the noise, he found Angela in her bedroom, an open holdall on the bed, into which she was stuffing clothes.
“What the hell is going on?”
“I need some space. I’m going away for a few days.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We had a few words. You don’t run off like that. What’s the problem?”
“It’s nothing. I want a little time away. It’s all been extremely tense lately.”
“You’ve been tense? My father’s dead. Horribly murdered. His most trusted employee was bludgeoned to death, my mother almost died from a tampered e-cigarette, and the business is in freefall. I find out you’ve been taking loans from my father behind my back, and now you’re walking out on me. And you’re tense? I think that should be me.”
She carried on, rifling through drawers. Then she pulled out her passport and some cash and threw it into her handbag. She zipped up the holdall and swung it over her shoulder before grabbing her bag. She kissed him on the lips, squeezed past and ran towards the stairs. He reached out and grabbed her hand, pulling her back.
“What is going on? This isn’t normal behaviour. Is there something you’re not telling me?” A horrible, insidious worm of thought burrowed into his mind, and he couldn’t shake it off, no matter how crazy he’d sound. “Do you have anything to do with all this?” He took a breath and let the words break free from the deepest recesses of a fearful mind. “Did you kill my father?” He could hear the disbelief in his own voice. It couldn’t be true, but why would she act like this?
“I have to go. Just let me be.” She ran down the stairs, and he followed her.
He grabbed her, hard. “Answer me. Did you harm them? Are you behind all this?”
“Of course not.”
“Why did my father really give you that money? Did you forge the paintings?” A memory broke free, one he’d obviously discarded as being meaningless. “I saw you in the spring. I was going to the bay to take some pictures for Mum. She wanted to do a painting. I saw you and Dad by the tower. You said you couldn’t find me, so you had gone for a walk. Dad said he wanted to check the new perimeter fence. I believed you, but it was all a bloody lie, wasn’t it? You were either fucking my dad, or you forged the art.”
She laughed. “Your dad was okay, but you’re a better catch—younger, sexier and you’d inherit alongside Nils. I always figured he’d be dead before he was thirty, but it looks like he’s cleaned up.”
“Jesus, who are you? I don’t even know you.”
“No, you don’t. Spoilt little rich boy.” Her lips drew back, and she bared her teeth, her eyes dark pools he couldn’t fathom. He didn’t know her at all.
◆◆◆
Chloe pulled the motorbike into a tiny space by the harbour wall. She kicked out the stand and waited for Riley to dismount.
“Jeez, Chloe, that was one hell of a ride. Talk about putting your life in someone’s hands.” His playful tone belied the words.
“Ha-ha, it wasn’t that bad. I bet you secretly enjoyed it.”
“Yeah, actually I did. It was good fun. Now let’s go and find Rudy so you can stop worrying.”
“I’m concerned that Richard is making a fool of Eva. Although she may be perfectly aware of what he is doing. It’s not exactly illegal, but it certainly isn’t moral. I want to put my mind at rest.”
They reached the gallery to find it closed, and Chloe said, “Angela sometimes closes if it’s a quiet day. That way, she can get on with some painting. At least Rudy is still here. Look, there’s his car. Angela is probably at home. Let’s go around the back.”
◆◆◆
Le Claire and Dewar waited patiently while Hunter loaded the videos. “These are clips from the building CCTV at Englebrook’s apartment in London. Okay, here we go. I’ve sped it up a bit. Let me know when you want me to stop.” He moved to the side, giving them a better view.
People came and went, rushing in and out at ten times average speed. Le Claire’s head was pounding from the concentration. He was looking for Englebrook, but the images sped past without a sighting.
Dewar yelled, “Stop!” She reached out, pointed at the screen. “Rewind. Slowly.”
Someone exited the lift. They held a large flat package that blocked their face. They stopped outside Englebrook’s apartment and, resting their burden against the wall, pulled out keys and opened the door. Someone else was walking down the corridor towards them. They turned and said hello.
Le Claire said, “Freeze it and zoom in, please.” The face was unmistakable. Angela Laine stared out of the image.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Angela was screaming now. “You have no idea what it’s like. I’ve learned how to fit into your world, but I’ll never belong. I was only Harrison Laine’s daughter. He was a great painter but a screw-up as a person. I wanted to be known for me. The gallery gave me kud
os; if I lost it, I’d lose my reputation. I’d be a joke to all your hoity-toity friends. And to top it all your bloody father decided to mess me about.”
Every nerve was on full alert. “What did you do, Angela? What did Dad do to annoy you?”
“Annoy me? I was bloody furious. I gave him twelve bloody fakes, and he said he wanted at least another twenty more. I’d have been paid at least £300,000. I needed that money.”
“What for? Your fancy exhibition parties? Did you kill my father?”
“No. He fell. He was trying to destroy some new paintings I’d completed. I kept them in the tower with the special materials I needed—paints, old frames and stuff. He was bleeding. He hurt himself. He was going to die anyway.”
Bile choked him, and he swallowed it down, ignoring the acrid taste as he concentrated on her words. “You set the fire. You burned him alive.”
“I had to. Don’t you see? I had to get rid of the evidence. He was going to die anyway. I didn’t kill him.”
He had to keep calm. “And Susan? What did she do?”
“That stupid cow found the sale contracts. She must’ve been snooping around. I had to keep her quiet.”
She wasn’t screaming anymore. She was calm, too calm, her voice even, and if he ignored the actual words, she sounded entirely rational.
“And Mum?” He kept his tone conversational.
“She wanted the collection valued. I couldn’t allow that.”
“What now?”
“Now? I’m leaving. Andy has the plane ready. Kurt told him he always had to take me wherever I wanted to go.”
And a private plane was great for moving precious art around.
“You’re not thinking straight. Let’s call the police. They’ll only come after you otherwise.”
She giggled, and it jarred in the circumstances. “No, they won’t know anything about it.”
She reached out and pulled him to her, latched her lips to his and kissed him. He froze. She was crazy. He held on to her with the lightest of touches. She made him sick, but he had to work out what to do next.
Blood Rights Page 27