The Rembrandt Secret

by Alex Connor

  Refilling his wine glass, Owen had finally looked across the table at his son and said, ‘We could go for a walk tomorrow.’

  Almost as though it was happening to him at that moment, Marshall could feel the dessert spoon in his hand, the metal cool and heavy … He thought of what to say, what he could possibly say, wishing that the following day would disappear, simply pass without the excruciating walk and intermittent silences. He wanted to throw the spoon at his father and ask him why he was even bothering to try, because it was obvious he didn’t want to be there. In that old-fashioned dining room. With his resentful son.

  ‘Marshall, what d’you think?’ Owen had persisted. ‘About having a walk?’

  He had let go of the spoon in that instant. The resounding clatter as it hit the plate had made Owen jump, the surrounding diners turned to stare and the waitress watched from across the room. And then Marshall had looked into his father’s face and realised that his mother’s death wasn’t his fault. That he was as lost and wretched as the child in his care. As sick to the heart with the beef stew and the apple pie and the blathering conversation of diners who had no inkling of his crucifying grief.

  In that moment Marshall had pitied his father. ‘I’d like a walk,’ he had said at last. ‘A walk would be good.’

  And some kind of empathy had passed between father and son, a complicit understanding which would have to do in place of comfortable companionship … Time would change them, mellow them. Time would make Marshall sympathetic and Owen comfortable. But in that dining room, that dusty summer evening, they had made a form of truce.

  Still staring into the murky canal water, Marshall then remembered finding his father’s body, and shuddered involuntarily. No one should have died like that, he thought, and especially not Owen Zeigler. Dying in war was bad enough, dying with cancer, with dementia, with the crumble of old age was bad enough. Dying to protect something was another matter. Dying for another person’s story, another human’s trust, was noble. And that was how, finally, Marshall became close to his father. The letters didn’t mean anything to him personally, but Owen Zeigler had died for them. And in his dying, they had become precious.

  Marshall turned his head, staring at the pedestrians walking past, wondering if one of them was watching him; if one of them had already broken into his Amsterdam flat, or followed him to the bank; if the man in the bank – Nicolai Kapinski’s brother – was coming after him. Oddly, Marshall found himself smiling. He was so out of his depth that he felt the fleeting bravery of many desperate men. He had no real idea who to trust. He was trusting Teddy Jack because Teddy had been attacked; because he had been close to his father; because he had offered help. And because he was tough enough to protect Georgia. His guilt pricked like a needle in his skin. Jesus, why had he told her? Why put her in danger? Of all people, Georgia would have been the one person he should have kept safe …

  Consoling himself with the thought that Teddy was watching over her, Marshall suddenly found himself outside the Waterlooplein Flea Market and remembered the advice to keep to the crowds. Moving into the overcrowded arena, he felt the press of people and paused beside a stall selling cheap tourist mementoes. Pretending to be interested, he picked up a book. Underneath was a reproduction of Rembrandt’s The Night Watch.

  ‘You want to buy that?’ a stout woman asked, leaning towards him over the stall and raising her voice. ‘You English, right?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  She smiled, benign in a headscarf. ‘You’re pale and you’re looking at tourist stuff.’

  Out of the corner of Marshall’s eye he could see a man glance at him. He moved on, the stall owner calling after him, ‘Make me an offer! I can do a special price for the English!’

  Moving down the aisle between the stalls, Marshall could smell the scent of fruit mixing with the dry cement chalkiness of reproduction statues. Men with vacant eyes sat on low stools behind their stalls, some smoking, some just watching the shoppers pass. Behind a worn-down clock stall, three men played cards, one smoking a Turkish cigarette, the tobacco pungent. Everywhere Marshall looked people seemed to be looking back at him. When he turned, there always seemed to be someone pressed up against him, or brushing into him, their eyes catching his, their expressions furtive. Everyone seemed suddenly suspicious, untrustworthy, dangerous.

  His anxiety increasing, Marshall bought himself a coffee from a nearby stall and sat down to drink it. He had to control himself. A woman bumped into his seat and he jumped up, accepting her apology as she moved past with a child’s pram. He felt as though he was illuminated by some incandescent light, marked out, and obvious to everyone. As easy to spot as a coffin in a bread tin. Around him the voices and footsteps echoed eerily, rising into the high, glassed roof of the market.

  Why was Dimitri Kapinski following him? Marshall thought, sipping his drink. Why him? Then he remembered what Teddy Jack had said about the man.

  ‘Wasn’t all there. By the time he was twenty odd, Dimitri had spent time in jail and been married. Then he’d bunked off to London, worked there for a short while, selling drugs. He’d become pretty violent too …’

  But why was he involved? Marshall’s glance moved to a middle-aged man who had sat down at his table. The man nodded at Marshall, then began to read his evening paper.

  Was Dimitri Kapinski working alone? Or working with someone else? The names spun like a roulette wheel in Marshall’s head: Tobar Manners, Rufus Ariel, Dimitri Kapinski, God knew who—

  ‘Sugar, please.’

  Marshall stared at the man across the table. ‘What?’

  ‘Can you pass the sugar?’

  Nodding, he pushed it towards the man, watching him curiously. ‘You spoke English to me. How did you know I wasn’t Dutch?’

  ‘I heard you order your coffee in English,’ the man replied reasonably, turning his attention back to his newspaper.

  Marshall looked around, surprised that he had made such an elementary mistake in using his own language.

  ‘Waar woon je?’ he asked the man, watching as he put down his paper.

  ‘Plantage Middenlaan,’ he replied, offering up the street where he lived. He then asked, in English, ‘Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve lived in Amsterdam for a while,’ Marshall replied, wondering if the man was watching him or merely taking time out to read his newspaper. ‘Hoe heet je?’

  ‘Gerrit Hoogstraten.’ He put out his hand, Marshall shaking it as Hoogstraten asked, ‘And what’s your name?’

  ‘Marshall Zeigler.’

  He nodded, smiling. ‘You seem … nervous.’

  ‘A little, yes.’

  ‘Are you in trouble?’

  ‘Why would you ask that?’

  ‘You seem like someone with problems, and you keep looking around as if you expect someone to be watching you. And you obviously suspect me of something … Are the police after you?’

  ‘No.’

  The man put down his newspaper, looking steadily at Marshall.

  ‘I used to be in the police myself, before I retired. I was a detective in the Amsterdam force.’ He sipped his drink. ‘Perhaps you need help?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t turn round now, Mr Zeigler, but there’s a man staring at you. He has been ever since you sat down. I noticed him because he wasn’t interested in the stalls, just in you.’

  Marshall stiffened in his seat. ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘Around thirty, clean shaven, very short hair.’

  ‘I think I know him. He’s been following me for a while.’

  ‘I would say – looking at you and looking at him – that perhaps he is not the injured party here?’ Gerrit Hoogstraten said perceptively, smiling again as though they were having a light-hearted talk about the weather. ‘Perhaps I could help?’

  ‘Why would you want to get involved?’

  ‘Why not? I’ve a good instinct for people, and I don’t like the man who’s following
you.’

  Marshall finished his drink, then glanced over to his companion. ‘How could you help me?’

  ‘If you want to get out of the market, just tell me when, and I’m sure I can hold up the man who seems so interested in you.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Why not? You can trust some people, you know, Mr Zeigler.’ He glanced around idly, as though merely talking and passing the time of day.

  ‘Is he still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Marshall nodded. ‘I’m going to get up in a minute and head for the door.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Gerrit Hoogstraten replied. ‘I’ll make sure he’s delayed.’

  Saying goodbye, Marshall rose from his seat. Then, without looking round, he headed for the nearest exit onto the Waterlooplein. As he left the table, the man followed him, passing Gerrit Hoogstraten who immediately put out his foot. Tripped up, the man fell, Hoogstraten apparently trying to help him to his feet, but delaying him instead.

  ‘Zorgig! Zorgig!’ he said, trying to brush the man down as he struggled to get away.

  ‘Piss off!’ he replied, breaking free and running towards the nearest exit.

  But Gerrit Hoogstraten had seen Marshall head for the same exit and then turn at the last moment. Wrong footed, his pursuer ran out and paused, frantically looking round the churning street and knowing he had lost all sight of his prey.

  37

  As she folded some laundry, Georgia glanced at the kitchen clock, then turned to Harry.

  ‘Aren’t you going to the gym tonight?’

  He nodded, picking up his case. ‘Yes, I’m just running late. Unless you don’t want me to go. I could stay in.’

  ‘Oh no, out you go!’ she teased him. ‘I’ve got my evening planned. When I’ve done all this, I’m having a bath, then watching a DVD.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘It’s a romance, with men and women in it. Talking about their feelings,’ she said drily. ‘You wouldn’t like it.’

  He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Lock the door when I’ve gone, won’t you?’

  Waving, she watched Harry leave, then slid the bolt closed. For a moment Georgia considered trying Marshall’s phone again, but realised it would be a waste of time. He would contact her eventually; she just had to wait for news. Finishing folding the laundry, she put it in the airing cupboard and went into the bedroom, where she undressed. She ran a bath, but found herself too uneasy to enjoy a long soak, and a few minutes later, got out and dried herself. Suddenly Georgia was startled by a ring at the front doorbell.

  Moving into the hall, she called out, ‘You see, Harry, if you didn’t tell me to lock the door, you could have let yourself in.’ Smiling, she slid open the bolt but, instead of Harry there were two policemen on the doorstep.

  Pulling her robe around her tightly, Georgia knew it was bad news. Marshall … ?

  ‘Mrs Turner?’ asked one of them.

  ‘Yes. What is it? What’s wrong?’ she replied.

  ‘Perhaps we could go inside to talk—’

  Panicked, she quickly waved them inside. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m afraid that—’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Your husband has been knocked down by a car—’

  ‘Harry! No! Where is he?’ she asked, making for the door.

  ‘In the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital—’

  ‘How bad is it?’ There was a protracted pause. ‘Tell me! How bad is it?’

  ‘It’s not good, Mrs Turner,’ one of the officers said gently, taking Georgia’s arm and guiding her back into the house. ‘If you get dressed, we’ll take you to the hospital.’

  Twenty minutes later, her hair still damp from her bath, Georgia stood in the Intensive Care Unit, looking in at the inert form of her husband in the hospital bed. She had been told that it was a hit and run, and that Harry might have sustained serious brain injuries. Trying to stay calm, she thought of the baby she was carrying, and asked to talk to a doctor. After being kept waiting for another half an hour, the doctor appeared; the prognosis, he told her, was grave – but there was some hope. They would know better in the morning …

  Clutching her hands together, Georgia watched Harry. He was hardly recognisable with his face swollen to twice its size and his nose bloodied to a pulp. His hands were scratched where he had struck the road, and the index finger of his right hand was torn half way down the nail bed. He was unconscious, breathing on a ventilator.

  ‘Are you all right?’ the nurse asked Georgia.

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  ‘I see,’ the nurse said. ‘Perhaps we’d better have you checked out by—’

  ‘Who did it?’ Georgia asked, cutting her off.

  ‘The police said it was a hit and run. I’m afraid they don’t know who the driver was.’

  ‘Why are you afraid? He’s not your husband,’ Georgia snapped, distraught.

  Numbed, she continued to sit by the bed. Disconnected images fluttered like dry moths in front of her: Harry coming in with his running shoes, leaving mud on the hall floor; the children at the school, playing in the yard and yelling at the tops of their voices; and Marshall in the pub, talking about the Rembrandt letters …

  ‘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 … I have to know who killed my father and I want to make sure they don’t get hold of the letters… there are some honest men that couldn’t survive a bloodbath. The Rembrandt letters can’t get into the wrong hands …’

  Georgia remembered only too well what she had said next.

  ‘I’ll help you any way I can. But I won’t tell Harry about any of this. I don’t want him involved …’

  But he was involved, she thought, her mouth dry as lint as she looked at him. A hit and run accident. A hit and run. Poor Harry. Harry, who had never done anyone a bad turn but was now the victim of something he didn’t even know about. Or would care about. Rembrandt. Art. None of it meant anything to her husband, so why hurt him? Why? But Georgia knew the answer. To warn her, to make her realise that she was now alone. Pregnant, vulnerable, unprotected.

  A touch on her left shoulder made Georgia turn nervously. A tall, well-built man was looking down at her, his beard fire red, his expression serious.

  ‘I’m—’

  ‘Teddy Jack.’

  He nodded. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Last year Owen sent me some photographs of an exhibition opening at the gallery. You were in one of them.’

  ‘Don’t ask any questions, or make a scene, please, but you have to come with me.’

  ‘Are you joking? I’m not leaving my husband!’

  ‘You have to leave him,’ Teddy said, his grip tightening on her shoulder. ‘You’re in danger, Georgia. Marshall asked me to look out for you, but neither of us thought they’d go for your husband.’

  ‘I’m not leaving Harry,’ she said firmly, looking at the figure in the bed. ‘I’m not afraid of anyone.’

  ‘You should be,’ Teddy replied, drawing up a chair next to her. His voice dropped to barely a whisper. ‘They won’t do anything else to your husband, they just wanted him out of the way …’

  She made a small, catching sound in her throat.

  ‘You’re vulnerable, Georgia, you have to come with me. I can keep you safe. I have to do this, I promised Marshall—’

  Her eyes widened. ‘He knows about Harry?’

  ‘No, I haven’t spoken to him since this morning. I don’t even know where he is.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he just give up those bloody letters!’ she snapped. ‘Nothing’s worth this.’

  ‘Georgia, come with me, please,’ Teddy persisted. ‘I have to look after you. I’m going to take you somewhere safe. Somewhere I can keep an eye on you until all this is over.’

  ‘All what!’ she hissed. ‘Until what? Until Harry dies?’

  ‘He isn’t going to die. He’ll
recover.’

  ‘And what about Marshall?’ she asked, her eyes blazing. ‘What if they get him? Will they just injure him or will they kill him? How many is it now, Teddy? I know of four deaths, and now Harry’s accident …’

  ‘Which is why we’re not going to add to the numbers,’ Teddy said, his voice implacable. ‘Come with me—’

  ‘Sod off!’

  ‘Come with me!’ Teddy commanded her. ‘You think being here with your husband will help? You can’t stay here, and you can’t go back home. You can’t be alone. You’re in danger. Don’t you get it?’ His expression was hard. ‘Stop fucking around and help yourself. That way you’ll help everyone else too.’

  Slowly, Georgia stood up, pulling on her coat. The nurse came over to the bedside. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine, just tired. I thought I’d go home and get some rest.’

  ‘Good idea,’ the nurse said. ‘Your husband’s stable now. You can afford to relax a little.’

  ‘Will they keep him on the respirator?’

  ‘Until he’s breathing on his own, yes.’

  ‘And he will breathe on his own, won’t he?’ Georgia asked, her voice shaky.

  ‘Yes, he will. He’s making progress, believe me. He’ll recover. We’ll look after him. You just have to look after yourself now.’ She smiled encouragingly. ‘And the baby.’ She glanced over to Teddy. ‘Are you family?’

  ‘Cousin,’ he lied, and the nurse smiled as she took in the red beard and hair. ‘Of course, same colouring,’ she said.

  Clumsily, Georgia fumbled with her handbag and buttoned up her coat. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’