by Alex Connor
They had talked many times over the past days, Georgia mentioning that the police had been round to see her in her home in Clapham. Just routine, Georgia had reassured Marshall when he reacted violently, nothing serious. Then he told her that he’d been interviewed just after the murder. They had wanted to know if Owen Zeigler had had any enemies, because even though they were sure it was a bungled robbery, they had to ask. After another few minutes conversation, Marshall had rung off.
But now, here he was, standing at the gates of the school where Georgia was a teacher. Almost as though he was waiting for her, like he used to when they were first married.
‘Hey, Marshall,’ she said simply as she walked up to him. ‘How are you doing?’
His hand was wrapped around one of the school railings, white flesh against black metal.
‘I wondered if we could talk.’
‘Now?’ she asked, jerking her head towards the children behind them. ‘I have to make sure that all the kids have been collected before I can leave. We lose about three a week to kidnappers.’
He smiled, relieved by her humour. ‘Okay if I wait?’
‘Fine,’ she agreed, ‘give me about ten minutes.’
When she came out fifteen minutes later she was buttoning up her coat, her red hair tucked into the collar, her blue eyes steady.
Casually, she slid her arm through his. ‘How are you bearing up?’
‘I saw you at the funeral service, thanks for coming. Why didn’t you stay on afterwards?’
She shrugged. ‘There were a lot of people there, Marshall, you didn’t need me hanging around.’
Together they walked onto Fulham Palace Road, stopping at the lights to cross.
‘How’s Harry?’
‘Fine.’
‘So it’s working out between you two?’
‘Yeah, it is.’
‘I’m glad you’re happy.’
‘Come on, I’ll buy you a drink,’ she said, steering him towards the Golden Compass. Inside the pub it was quiet, the tables empty. ‘We should have booked,’ she joked, sitting down at a table by the fire. Marshall brought their drinks and took a seat opposite his ex-wife. He held out his hands towards the warmth of the fire and Georgia could tell that he hadn’t been sleeping well. She wasn’t surprised. The death of a parent is a shock to anyone, but Marshall had found his father’s butchered corpse and he looked haunted by it.
Taking a sip of her orange juice, Georgia studied her ex-husband. ‘Are you working at the moment?’
‘I was, but not now,’ he admitted. ‘In fact, I’ve just come back from Amsterdam. I was only there a few hours, had to come back to London.’ He smiled awkwardly. ‘Can’t really think straight yet … But I’ll be working again soon.’
‘You don’t have to hurry.’
‘I can’t sit around doing nothing.’
‘You never could,’ Georgia replied, tapping his knee. ‘D’you want to stay with us for a few days?’
His eyebrows rose. ‘You think that would help?’
She shrugged. ‘Maybe not. I just don’t want you to be on your own. Why didn’t you stay in Holland?’
‘I couldn’t. Well, I could, but I thought I should get back here. I felt as though I was turning my back on my father, just going home as though nothing had happened. And there are other reasons …’ He trailed off, staring at her. ‘You’re the only person I can trust, Georgia. And I need someone to trust, need someone to talk to.’
‘So talk.’ She took off her coat and looking directly into his face. ‘You can tell me anything, you know that.’
‘I know.’ He downed his drink and said, ‘Jesus, I don’t know what to do.’
Uneasy, Georgia looked around them. But there was only the barmaid nearby and she was talking to the other customers in the place.
‘Tell me what’s worrying you,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘Talk to me, Marshall.’
‘Maybe I shouldn’t—’
‘Maybe you should! I’d come to you if I was in trouble, you know that. God knows, I’ve relied on you enough in the past. So tell me what’s going on.’
‘I think my father was murdered because of something he found.’
‘What?’
Marshall paused, then – slowly and painstakingly – told her everything about the Rembrandt letters, Georgia’s eyes widening as she listened. As though feeling a sudden chill, she drew her coat around her shoulders, then picked at a loose thread in the lining. For a moment Marshall remembered the smell of her skin against his when they had made love, and the way she read the papers on a Sunday morning, giving him her own hilarious résumé of the week’s news. He also remembered how easily she could cry at a film, and how tough she was when her back was against the wall. And he realised how glad he was to have her on his side.
‘So where are the letters now?’ Georgia asked, then shook her head, her eyes widening. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got them?’
‘I’ve hidden them.’
‘Where?’
He gave her an incredulous look.
‘All right, don’t tell me,’ she said, ‘but shouldn’t someone else know where they are?’
‘In case something happens to me?’
Her expression shifted with unease. ‘Don’t say that.’
‘My father was murdered, Georgia. He was killed. And his killers didn’t get what they were looking for. They won’t stop searching for the letters now. They’ll come after anyone who might know about them—’
‘And you told me. Thanks.’ She was teasing him.
‘That’s why I’m not telling you where they are.’
Shivering, Georgia moved closer to the fire to warm her hands. The barmaid had stopped talking and was wiping the end of the bar listlessly; the logs were shifting in the fire grate; reflections of the pub interior and its occupants flickered on the decorative copper pans and kettles, the gold tops of the optics winking blindly in the firelight.
Unusually anxious, Georgia felt the shift in atmosphere and realised that her life had changed within minutes. And, to her shame, she resented it. Resented her contentment being so summarily dethroned.
‘Go to the police, Marshall,’ she said at last. ‘Tell them about the letters.’
‘I daren’t—’
‘Why not?’
‘Because – say they even believed the story – it would become public knowledge and then everyone would know. That would only make these people even more reckless and dangerous.’
‘Depends on who these people are,’ she replied, with a tinge of irritation.
His expression hardened. ‘I found my father’s body. I know what they’re capable of.’
She stared at the floor, thinking about everything Marshall had told her. ‘I don’t suppose Stefan van der Helde’s murder was just a coincidence, was it?’
‘No.’
‘So who else knows about the letters?’
‘My father’s mentor, Samuel Hemmings. Maybe my father’s employees, Teddy Jack and Nicolai Kapinski. And possibly someone else – my father’s lover.’
Georgia paused, her glass half way to her lips. ‘You never said anything about your father having a girlfriend—’
‘I didn’t know about her. Until she turned up today. She said they had been lovers for eighteen years.’
Putting her glass down on the table, Georgia ran her finger down the condensation, writing the initial G. ‘I never thought Owen was the type to keep secrets.’
‘Well, he obviously was. I didn’t know about Charlotte Gorday or the Rembrandt letters.’
‘Makes you wonder …’
‘What?’
‘How well you know anyone.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s like a chest of drawers—’
He smiled, bemused. ‘What is?’
‘Your father. It’s like there was this big, handsome piece of furniture, which everybody admires. It’s a chest of drawers. Simple. Obvious.’ She paused. ‘But when you look more closely, all these draw
ers are hiding things. A drawer with his debts, a drawer with his lover, a drawer – a big drawer – with the Rembrandt letters.’ She shrugged. ‘Yeah, I know, it’s a basic simile, but I work with kids, remember.’ She was silent a moment, then asked, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m not sure. There’s something I want to check out tonight, but after that I don’t know.’ His voice dropped. ‘If I’m honest, a part of me wants to just go back to my old life, but I can’t. I found that out today. I have to know who killed my father and I want to make sure they don’t get hold of the letters. Exposure could bring down the art market.’
She looked at him incredulously. ‘But why would that matter to you? You always hated the business.’
‘A little while ago I’d gladly have seen the art world brought to its knees. I can understand why people hate the dealers’ greed, how the huge profits stick in the craw.’ He held her gaze. ‘But when my father was killed I realised that good men could get caught up in the backlash too. That for all the bastards trading there are some honest men who couldn’t survive a bloodbath. The Rembrandt letters are worth millions because they could rock the market. They can’t be allowed to get into the wrong hands.’
They were both silent a while.
‘I’ll help you any way I can,’ Georgia said finally. ‘But I won’t tell Harry about any of this. I don’t want him involved.’
Marshall nodded. ‘No. Nobody else must know.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
Touched, Marshall shook his head. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘Well, you could buy me another orange juice,’ she said simply. ‘That would be a start.’
An hour later they parted, Georgia making her way home alone through the London streets, brushing off Marshall’s offer to accompany her home. It was quiet, mid-week, and as she walked along she was aware of her heels echoing on the pavement and her shadow extending in front of her. Uncharacteristically nervous, she thought about Marshall’s revelations, and found herself glancing round a couple of times to check that she wasn’t being followed. But the street was empty and Georgia shook her head, exasperated by her own nerves. Putting her bag over her shoulder, she walked beyond Clapham Common, passing under the streetlamps towards home.
At first annoyed at being involved, Georgia was pleased that Marshall had come to her. She had been thinking about him recently, wanting to hear from him, to confide her own news. But when she had been told of Owen’s death, she had stayed quiet, and although she had been tempted to speak up earlier, the time was out of sync. She wondered fleetingly if she was still in love with Marshall and hoped she wasn’t … She turned into her road as a car suddenly rounded the bend, startling her, causing her to jump back from the kerb.
The car drove on, disappearing at the end of the street. Taking in a breath, Georgia calmed herself. What the hell was the matter with her? The car hadn’t been coming for her. It had been taking someone home – picking up a daughter from dance school, perhaps, or a husband from squash. Surprised by her own unexpected nerviness, she walked resolutely up the front steps of her house and then slid the key into the lock.
‘Hi, darling,’ Harry called from the back. ‘Where have you been?’ He came out to the hallway, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, and skirting round a mountain bike propped up at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I should move that.’
She raised her eye heavenwards. ‘And the hiking boots.’
‘I thought you liked them there,’ he replied, kissing her forehead. ‘You used to say that it reminded you that you had a real live action man in the house.’
‘Along with real live action mud.’
‘Hard day?’
‘I had to throw one child out of the window, but otherwise quiet.’
His head cocked over to one side. ‘You look different.’
‘It’s the beard.’
He laughed. ‘No, you do look different. Nothing worrying you is there?’
‘No, Harry,’ she said lightly, taking off her coat. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’
‘Good. I made curry.’
Closing the door behind her, Georgia smiled, and dismissed all thoughts of Marshall and the Rembrandt letters.
14
‘Marshall!’ a voice called suddenly, ‘I thought it was you.’
The tall, gangling figure of Timothy Parker-Ross, came towards Marshall in Albemarle Street.
He ambled over, then clasped Marshall in a sloppy hug, his long arms wrapped around his friend until he pulled back, embarrassed. ‘Sorry, Marshall. I was just so pleased to see you … I’m sorry about your father.’
‘I’m pleased to see you too,’ Marshall said, and meant it. ‘I thought you were abroad.’
‘Came back. You know how it is, I always liked travelling.’
‘I remember. When we were young you said you wanted to go to every country in the world. And learn every language.’
‘Well, I don’t have the brain to learn all the languages. Never was much of a scholar,’ he laughed, his long arms folding and refolding as though they were in his way. ‘But I do travel a lot. I have the time, and the money helps. I’ve got lots of money now, from selling the business.’ He looked around the empty street. ‘Are you staying in London?’
‘I don’t know,’ Marshall replied honestly. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
‘It was just that if you – er – if you, well, felt like it, we could – er – have dinner. Catch up.’ Timothy paused, acutely aware that he was floundering. ‘I tried to get back for your father’s funeral, but the flight was delayed … my father always said I was late for everything.’
Smiling, Marshall touched his arm. He himself had grown up, thickened out and hardened, but Timothy had stayed soft and boyish. He had never married. Never had the confidence, his shyness making him a social hermit. He might travel the world, but he would never relax anywhere, and Marshall realised that he was probably still Timothy’s only friend.
‘We’ll have dinner, I’d like that. I have to sort out my father’s things, but after that we could meet up.’ Marshall paused, staring at the friend of his youth. The lad who had jumped on and off the Piccadilly buses, the boy in the British Museum, the misfit cowering under his father’s blistering ambition.
‘Are you working?’
Timothy shuffled his feet. ‘No … don’t know what to do really. I suppose I should work, but at what? I thought I might go into property. You know, in Spain perhaps, lots of English people there so I wouldn’t have to learn the language.’ He laughed. ‘Mind you, I helped organise a couple of charity balls this summer. Phoning people I knew, raising money, but lately I thought I might build a house in Switzerland.’
‘Can you ski?’
He put his head on one side. ‘No. D’you have to?’
Marshall smiled. ‘It’s not compulsory.’ He reached into his pocket and scribbled down his mobile number. ‘I have to go now, but we’ll meet up again soon. Give me a ring, will you?’
Timothy took the number and nodded. When he walked off Marshall stood watching his etiolated figure move away, pausing only once to kick a tin can into the gutter at the end of the street.
Turning his attention to the gallery, Marshall stared at the police tape then glanced up to the windows on the first floor. He looked around him. Albemarle Street was deserted, London rain falling disconsolately on the street and running down the barred gallery windows. On the front door of the Zeigler Gallery was a notice: CLOSED DUE TO BEREAVEMENT. For a moment he wanted to rewrite the note to say CLOSED DUE TO MURDER – but what would have been the point? Every one in W1 knew what had happened to Owen Zeigler.
Ducking under the blue and white crime scene tape, Marshall unlocked the gallery door and walked in. The damp eeriness of the place affected him, his shadow falling along the gallery floor as he moved further inside. Turning on the desk lamp, he looked about him. Everything was as he had last seen it, Nothing tidied up or moved; the pa
pers still scattered, the frantic scrabbling search obvious. He wanted so much to tidy up, put the gallery to rights, to make it as his father would have wanted it – presentable, elegant, ordered. But he knew he couldn’t because the police would be back. What for, Marshall wasn’t sure. They had taken forensic evidence and fingerprints, had tramped up and down the floors until any clue would have been ground underfoot by sheer weight of numbers. But still they had cordoned off the gallery, allowing no one inside for the last twenty-four hours.
Yet something had drawn Marshall back. He had put the package in a security box in an Amsterdam bank as intended, but had kept a copy of the letters with him. In his case, hidden amongst his working translation of Dante’s The Divine Comedy. After his conversation with Charlotte Gorday, Marshall had wanted to leave Holland fast, his return to London prompted by a desire to see his ex-wife, and a need to revisit the scene of his father’s death. But as Marshall moved to the back of the gallery space, he found himself pausing, uncertain, in front of the door which led down to the basement. Did he really want to go back down there? Down into the dark underbelly of the gallery? To the place where Owen Zeigler had been tortured and strung up? Did he really want to remember …
He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them again. The police, he told himself, had searched the area repeatedly; what could he really expect to find? But they were looking for clues, evidence. Marshall was looking for something a father might leave for a son to find. Some hint, some note … Still hesitating, he saw the basement in his mind’s eye, walked the space in his head. He had looked around after the murder. There had been nothing there. Nothing. There seemed no reason to go back downstairs, he told himself. What could he possibly gain from reliving such a hideous event … Changing his mind, Marshall let go of the door handle and turned, retracing his steps back to the front entrance.
The gallery seemed crammed with memories, haunted with his recall. Out of the corner of his eye Marshall even thought he caught a glimpse of his mother, coming down the stairs to a private viewing, resplendent in 1970s finery. Without trying he could hear the chatter of past conversations, hear a phone ringing in the distance … The memory of the burst pipe came back in that instant, Lester Fox and Gordon Hendrix up to their knees in water, passing the paintings from hand to hand. Lester to George to Owen to Marshall, and finally to his mother. Standing on the top step of the basement stairs.