Damian had sent his private jet to bring Alec to Amsterdam. It had been ready for departure when Alec arrived at London City Airport, and the two pilots had escorted him across the damp asphalt to the streamlined aircraft. Alec had nestled into the leather lounge chair, and ten minutes later they were flying straight through the low-hanging clouds and into the sunshine. He could hear the pilots conversing quietly in the cockpit.
No sooner had he opened his eyes than he squeezed them shut again. The sky was so blue it hurt. He leaned back and thought over the meeting with the solicitor.
As they entered the office, they’d seen Frank’s will lying on the long mahogany table. After the solicitor had read it aloud, Tibbens and Alec turned to each other in surprise.
“Not what you were expecting?” the solicitor asked Alec.
“It’s just that I didn’t know he felt so strongly about it. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d left his money to the RSPCA. But to science?”
“I was thinking the exact same thing,” Tibbens said. “I never knew science to be one of his interests.”
When Alec asked whether Frank might ever have invested in tulips, the solicitor told him that Frank had given up risky investments long ago. He’d decided to play it safe, sold all his shares, and put his entire fortune into a high-interest bank account.
Alec sat up straight and checked the monitor in front of him. Still a few more minutes before they landed. He stretched his legs and stared at the toes of his shoes. Frank and science? He just didn’t get it. The solicitor had promised to send him a list of all the organizations Frank had left money to. Maybe there was some connection to his own past problems. Could they be researching cures for drug addiction? Or was the money going to clinics like the one he’d been in?
He thought back to the night that Damian had discovered him in the bathroom during one of those wild parties, his nose deep in the cocaine that their host had laid out. A few days later Alec admitted he’d been doing coke a couple of times a day—“for inspiration,” he had said.
Frank and Damian had put all their energy into persuading him to go into rehab. Six months later they’d picked him up from the clinic. He’d stayed clean ever since. Frank had been so grateful to the clinic that it wouldn’t have surprised Alec if he’d left them a generous donation.
The pilot turned around and shouted that they were about to land. Alec fastened his seat belt and looked outside. The sun had disappeared; they were passing through the clouds. Droplets crept like bugs across his windowpane. He swallowed to relieve the pressure in his ears. When they emerged from the cloud bank, he saw Amsterdam spread out below. Curving rows of streetlamps traced the canals around the city’s heart, circles of light contracting toward the center like layers of onionskin. He always enjoyed this unique view, the magnificent old city lying at his feet.
Why shouldn’t I move to Holland? he wondered as he gazed at the dots of light. But no, it was probably better for him to stay in England. Whenever he saw her— no, whenever he saw them together— his guilt resurfaced. Talking to Damian on the phone was one thing, but seeing him, having to look him in the eyes . . .
They’d fallen out of touch over the past few years, but Frank’s death had changed everything and brought them closer again. Alec knew he should confess, tell Damian he had betrayed him by sleeping with Emma, that one night, three years ago. Now his relationship with Emma was strained and guilt ridden. The awkwardness they felt in each other’s presence was glaringly obvious. Damian must have noticed, though he’d never mentioned it.
With a soft thud, the wheels hit the landing strip. The pilot applied the brakes, and the streamlined aircraft slowly taxied to where the other private airplanes were parked in a neat row.
Damian was waiting in the small concourse. “What’ve you got in that thing?” he asked, looking at the large suitcase Alec was pulling along behind him.
“Frank’s correspondence.”
“Correspondence?”
“Yeah. I don’t know what’s in them. I haven’t looked yet. Frank asked Tibbens to save some of his letters and such, I don’t know why. So I brought it all with me. I think we should go through the whole pile. After all, Frank must have had a reason for giving it to Tibbens. There’s got to be some kind of clue there somewhere.”
“Well, let’s hope so.”
In the car, Damian explained what Emma had found out about the tulip fraud. After mulling it over, Alec said, “What if Frank was involved in that scandal?”
“Involved how? Would he have been one of the good guys, the investors who got taken for a ride, or—”
“—was he the one who made off with the cash? Is that what you’re getting at?”
“Yeah, maybe. Yeah.”
Alec stared pensively ahead of him. “How much did you say was missing?”
“Thirty-two million.”
“If Frank embezzled it, it’s gone now, funneled into some other account. He doesn’t have it. I’ve seen the will, and his entire estate doesn’t add up to that.”
Damian couldn’t help feeling relieved, but he also knew the money could have been used for something else. Frank would’ve been crazy to hold on to it. Maybe he’d set up a dummy corporation and sent it all to the Caymans. There were so many ways to make money disappear.
“No,” Alec said, shaking his head. “It doesn’t make sense. It’s just not like Frank. You know what he put in his will? Half of his estate is going to science.”
“Huh? I never knew Frank was interested in science.”
“Right, neither did I. I can’t get my head around it.”
“How much did he leave?”
“Twenty million pounds.”
“No small potatoes, then.”
“The solicitor said Frank had changed his will a few years ago.”
“But why science?”
“That’s what I have to figure out. By the way, I asked Tibbens whether he thought Frank had been hiding something. The only thing he could think of was that from two thousand two onward Frank went on weekend trips twice a year. Tibbens didn’t know why, or who with.”
“But he did know where Frank went?”
“Yeah. Lake Como.”
Damian raised his eyebrows. “That hotel where he always used to take us?”
Alec nodded.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Coetzer stood on the pavement, looking up. Behind him, the Thames rolled swiftly past. His jacket was flapping wildly, as if the wind were trying to carry him away. If he could just hold out a little longer, he could go home, back to the warmth of South Africa. Shivering, he pulled his jacket tight around him and crossed the street.
All he’d had to do to find Alec Schoeller was check the phone book. Even without a house number, Coetzer would have known which apartment to go to. Every brick building in the row had tiny windows on the upper floor, except for this one, where they’d been replaced with a picture window running the length of the façade.
He went to the front door and pressed the top bell. Inside he could hear a faint buzz. He pressed his ear to the door. Nothing. He rang the bell again. No one. Just as he was reaching into his pocket for his tools, he heard someone coming to the door.
The woman was wearing a light blue bathrobe with worn threads of terry cloth dangling from the sleeves. Her bright blue eye shadow had collected in the folds of her eyelids, and clumps of mascara hung from her lashes. The lapdog tucked under her arm glared at Coetzer and growled fiercely.
“You’re here for Mr. Schoeller, I presume?”
She swept back a lock of hair that had strayed from her beehive hairdo. Lipstick filled the lines at the corners of her mouth. She chose her words carefully to mask her thick Cockney accent.
“Yes, I am. Is he in?”
“Not momentarily, you’ve just missed him. Whom shall I say was calling?”
“Oh, rotten luck. I’m here to pick up a painting for the gallery. Didn’t he mention it to you, then?”
“No,
I’m afraid Mr. Schoeller didn’t say anything to me. I’m awfully sorry, but I can’t help you. You’d better come back another day, when he’s at ‘o— that is . . . when he’s available. Good day.”
Coetzer just managed to wedge his foot in the door. As he wrapped his hand around the doorpost, he felt the hot breath of the dog, which yapped and went for his thumb. Bloody hairball.
“Just a moment,” he said. “I’ll give him a ring.”
She slowly opened the door a little farther.
“He was going to leave the painting right there for me, so all I have to do is pick it up. Wait a moment, I’ll call him now.”
As he punched the number, she looked him up and down, clutching the dog to her chest like a hot-water bottle.
“Alec, hi, it’s Jack,” Coetzer said, as he listened to his voice mail. “Yeah, I’m at the house. Slipped your mind, did it? Well, happens to the best of us. Listen, mate, we need that painting today. What? Yeah, she’s right here with me. Okay, fine, I’m sure she won’t mind. Right, later, bye.”
Just as she reached for the phone, he slipped it into his jacket pocket.
“I would have liked to speak to him myself,” she said crossly. “I can’t have just anybody tramping in and out.”
“Oh, sorry about that, he was in a rush. But anyway, you heard it, I’m supposed to go ahead and get the painting now. He said I should ask you to let me in, if you’d be so kind.”
“I’ve got the key. I always take care of his cat when he’s away.”
“How long will he be gone for?”
“A week or so. He left this afternoon to visit friends in Holland. Isn’t it just terrible what happened to his uncle?”
“Terrible thing, that.”
“The man was killed, did you hear that? Brutally murdered, his head practically hacked off. They say he was robbed too, they stripped the house bare. You’re not safe anywhere these days, not even in your own home. It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“Heard about that, terrible, just terrible.” The irony in his voice escaped her.
“But fortunately, I have Shakespeare, don’t I, widdle-tiddlums?”
She gave the dog a kiss, leaving a large orange blotch on its furry head. When she looked up, Coetzer saw a couple of dog hairs clinging to her lips. Filthy hag.
“Well, you’d better come in then. I’ll show you upstairs.”
“Oh, that’s very kind of you, but there’s no need. I know my way around the place.”
She contemplated the steep staircase.
“Very well, then.”
From the pocket of her bathrobe she produced a ring of keys, picking out one with a grimy pink ribbon attached to it.
“Bring it back before you leave, all right? Just knock on the door over there,” she said, pointing. “No mess, if you please, I’ve just tidied up so Mr. Schoeller can come home to a nice clean flat. Lord, what a pigsty. Leaves his clothes lying any old place, and that fridge of his—”
“I’ll just be a moment,” Coetzer broke in. “As soon as I’ve got the painting I’ll be off.”
He climbed the stairs, opened the door, and felt something brush against his calf. Instinctively, he pulled his leg aside. The cat meowed and sat down a few feet from the door, its yellow eyes taking his measure. Coetzer walked over to the animal, kicking it as he passed. With a yowl, it fled the entranceway, racing ahead of him into the living room.
The walls were white and bare, all except one, which was decorated with a large abstract painting. On the deep-pile beige carpet were two chairs with billowing leather cushions in angular chrome frames. Against one wall was a buffet holding a sound system and stacks of CDs. At the far end of the room was a dining table covered with small piles of newspapers and letters, next to a large delft serving dish full of pens, receipts, paper clips, loose keys, and miscellaneous clutter. In the middle of the room was a staircase. Coetzer made his way up, with the cat at his heels.
The upper room smelled strongly of paint. Canvases were propped against the walls, on one of which there hung a large unfinished painting. All that had been done was the light blue background. The table in the middle of the studio was covered with brushes, half-empty tubes, and cans of paint. It was clear that this area was off-limits to Alec Schoeller’s helpful neighbor.
Coetzer began in the far left corner, meticulously combing the entire room. When he was done, he went over to the canvases stacked against the wall and examined them one by one. The last one was so small that he had to stoop to reach it. He picked it up and wiped off the dust. She was reclining on a sofa, her arms resting over her head. Her green eyes looked out at Coetzer so tenderly that he began to feel ill. He flipped the painting over. On the back was a name in pencil: “Emma.” Suddenly he knew where he had seen her before— in the photograph on Frank Schoeller’s piano, wearing a wedding dress. But the man at her side bore no resemblance to Alec.
He tucked the painting under his arm and went back down the stairs. In the living room, he went through the same process, picking up everything and turning it over. Then he sat down at the table and pulled one of the stacks of paper toward him. As he was going through the newspapers and letters one by one, he heard a shout.
“You still up there?”
Bloody bitch. Het got up and went to the door.
“Yes, I’m still here, is anything wrong?”
“Are you having trouble finding it?” she shouted up the stairs. “You’ve been in there for ages. You’re not making a mess, are you?”
“Still looking. It’s not as easy as I thought.”
“Need a hand, then?”
“Don’t trouble yourself. I’m sure I’ll find it.”
Hearing the door bang shut below, he went back to the table. On top of the smallest stack was a newspaper folded open to an article about Frank’s murder. In the margins, Alec had made some doodles, one of which looked like a snail shell. In the middle of the spiral he had written a date— 1637—followed by a thick black question mark. He had put so much pressure on the pen that the newspaper was almost torn. Beneath it was the word “tulips,” with another question mark.
Coetzer knew enough. He picked up the painting and went downstairs. In the hall below, he knocked on the neighbor’s door, which opened right away.
“Ah, I see you’ve found it,” she said, looking at the painting he held under his arm. The dog tried to slip out of the apartment, but with skill borne of experience, she slid her leg over, trapping the animal between the doorpost and her fleshy calf. Coetzer glanced down. Her slippered feet looked surprisingly young, and on the band across her toes, little feathers were swaying gently.
When he gave her the key, she said, “Let’s have a look, then.” Her hand shot toward the painting and snatched it from under his arm.
“This one?” She stared in surprise. “Is this what you came to fetch? He did this years ago. I remember the exact day he—”
Cunt. “That’s right, but now we’ve found a buyer at last. Could I have it back, please? I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“A buyer? Strange, I thought he only sold those paintings of squares and such. Don’t care for them myself, but never mind. Hard to believe people will pay good money for a few streaks of paint like that. Now, if it was a nice portrait, like this one here, or a lovely vase of fl—”
“Sorry, but I really must be going. Thank you kindly. Good-bye.”
He turned and strode out of the house.
“I’ll let him know you dropped in!” she called after him.
TWENTY-NINE
The hallway was filled with the tantalizing aroma of fresh bread, garlic, and sautéed onions.
Alec smiled. “Mrs. Sartori?”
Damian nodded, and Alec went into the kitchen. She stood with her broad back toward him, stirring a pan at the stove. As he entered, she turned. Tomato sauce dripped from the spoon onto the floor. With a joyful whoop, she set the spoon on the counter, wiped her hands on the dishcloth draped over her shoulder,
and rushed over to Alec with open arms.
“Alec, caro, how are you?”
She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tightly. Then she grasped his arms and looked up into his eyes.
“Think of it this way, Alessandro. It’s like we say in Italy: You’ll meet again someday, in a better world than this.”
He choked back his emotion. “You’re right, I’ll keep that in mind.”
“All right, then. Let’s eat. Food is good for the soul, you know. It heals all wounds.”
“Where’s Emma?”
“She’s out having dinner with a friend. I guess she thinks she’ll eat better there than she does here. Well, if they want to throw away their money, who’s stopping them? Not me. Sit down, sit down.”
One end of the long table was laid with a white tablecloth and set for two. Mrs. Sartori prodded Alec out ahead of her and pushed him into a chair.
“Now, where is Damian? Hold on, I’ll call him. Daaaamian! Mangiare! Pronto!” Her voice boomed through the house.
An hour and a half later, they lifted the heavy suitcase and spilled its contents onto the kitchen table.
“Let’s see,” Damian said, carefully spreading out the pile.
The whole tabletop was covered with letters, invitations, cards, clippings, handwritten notes, and printed e-mails. They each took a stack and began leafing through them. For a while, the only sound in the kitchen was the soft scrape and rustle of paper.
“What a chore. It’s utter chaos,” Damian said. “Have you come across anything interesting yet?”
“No, it’s a mess. Maybe we should sort everything by date first— or even just by year.”
“Yes, that might help. At least we know what we’re looking for. Anything about tulips or the seventeenth century . . .”
“. . . or those trips to Como. Those are the only leads we have so far, right?”
“I think so.”
They went on working in silence until Damian said, “It looks like he started collecting this stuff for you in two thousand two. I haven’t seen anything older than that.”
The Tulip Virus Page 12