by Alex Connor
Downstairs she could hear Mrs McKendrick in the kitchen and remembered cooking for Marshall. And then she thought back to another time, watching the waitresses struggling to prepare food in the cramped kitchen off the gallery space. It had been the night of a private view and she was attending with Marshall, before he had moved to Amsterdam. Owen was there, talking to a collector, another strange, little man hovering beside him. He was diminutive, bi-spectacled, holding a vol-au-vent in one hand and balancing a glass in the other. Feeling sorry for him, Georgia had struck up a conversation and discovered that his name was Nicolai Kapinski, Owen Zeigler’s Polish accountant. He had been fretful, nervy, telling her about a breakdown he had had, and how kind Owen had been to him. Even confiding something about a missing brother … Another image flickered in front of Georgia: the pale eyes of the man outside, so similar to another pair of pale eyes. Nicolai Kapinski’s eyes, Owen’s Polish accountant.
She thought of the recent conversation she had had with Philip Gorday, and how he had told her of Kapinski’s violent death in New York. And suddenly Georgia knew who the man outside was. Knew instinctively that he was Nicolai Kapinski’s brother … But why was he here? Why was he guarding them when his own brother had been killed?
From her room came the sound of her mobile phone ringing, She ran in and snatched it up.
‘Hello?’
‘Georgia, are you all right?’
‘Marshall!’ she said hurriedly, ‘Harry was hurt—’
‘I know, I’ve just spoken to Teddy. He told me where he’d taken you. He said you were safe, Thank God. Are you OK?’
She clutched the phone. ‘I’m fine. But Teddy Jack’s not here now.’
‘No?’
‘No. Greg Horner’s here, and Teddy brought in another man. Someone he knows. Someone who works for him.’
There was a pause on the line, Marshall’s voice anxious.
‘What is it, Georgia?’
‘He reminds of someone. Didn’t Nicolai Kapinski have a brother who went missing?’
Marshall could feel his mouth drying. ‘What about him?’
‘Did they ever find him?’
‘Teddy Jack found him,’ Marshall replied, hardly breathing. ‘He’s called Dimitri Kapinski. He’s a convicted criminal and up until today he was following me. But I lost him … I don’t know where he is now.’
‘I do,’ Georgia said flatly. ‘He’s here.’
BOOK FIVE
40
As the flight from Heathrow to Kennedy Airport crossed the Atlantic, Marshall phoned Teddy Jack’s mobile repeatedly. There was no answer and he left the same message every time – Call me. Urgent. Shifting position in his airplane seat, Marshall could feel his eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, his stomach empty. He was hungry, but couldn’t eat because of the spasm of anxiety in his gut. At first he had thought of calling the police, then calmed himself down enough to reason that Georgia could be mistaken. After all, she had little to go on in order to positively identify Dimitri Kapinski as Nicolai’s brother. And yet he knew Georgia was no fool, her intuition unfailing. So, Marshall asked himself, if it was Dimitri Kapinski, why was he now guarding Georgia and Samuel Hemmings?
Brushing away the steward’s offer of a drink, Marshall stared into the darkness outside the plane. If he could only get hold of Teddy Jack, he would explain, tell him it was a case of mistaken identity. After all, hadn’t he promised to look after Georgia? But had he been lying? Marshall closed his eyes, the noise of the plane’s engines echoing against his temples. He would sleep, he would get some sleep. He could do nothing while he was suspended in mid-air over the ocean. There was nothing he could do until he got to New York.
Eventually sleep came over him, along with a sweaty dream, then he woke suddenly and asked for a bottle of water. His thoughts were haphazard, fuzzy. Sleep – he must sleep and the confusion would lift … There will be an explanation. Teddy Jack was Owen’s confidant, after all. His father would never have let him get so close unless he believed he could trust him. Unless he had fooled Owen Zeigler …
Marshall sat up and dialled Teddy Jack’s number again, and heard the familiar answer phone message. Closing his eyes, he struggled to breathe, his chest constricting, his skin sheened with sweat as he thought of Georgia.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ the stewardess asked, bending down to him.
‘Fine, fine,’ Marshall replied. ‘Just tired, that’s all.’
She nodded sympathetically. ‘D’you want another blanket? It gets colder at night.’
‘How long before we get to New York?’
She glanced at her watch. ‘Another three hours, sir. Are you sure there’s nothing I can get for you?’
‘No, nothing,’ he said, then hunkered down in his seat and closed his eyes, his right hand resting against his jacket pocket which held the letters.
Sleep came, with memory. With the basement of the Zeigler Gallery and the image of Charlotte Gorday, bleeding. Then Nicolai Kapinski, darting about, panicking, asking for his brother. And Teddy Jack smiling, telling him that they had found Dimitri. Found him at last … Waking, Marshall shifted his position and forced himself to sleep again. This time he dreamed of the letters, and of Geertje Dircx. She was very thin, wasted, her hands passing him the paper sheets.
This is the story of me …
Waking again, Marshall could feel the beginnings of a sick headache and asked for some tablets. Then he tried Teddy Jack’s number once more, and left another message. This time, when he slept, he fell headlong into a dream so vivid he was living the past: He was the boy who had broken the spine of Owen’s expensive book; the kid going to the British Museum with Timothy Parker-Ross; the young man reaching out to Georgia and kissing her for the first time.
‘I love you,’ she had said, her hair falling over her forehead. ‘Well, go on, say it back!’
‘I love you,’ he had replied, pulling a face at her because he was so awkward at his own good fortune.
A sudden jolt of the plane jerked Marshall fully awake. His headache had gone while he slept and he felt rested, his thoughts clearer as he fastened his seat belt for landing and turned off his mobile. Soon he would be able to do something. He glanced round at the passengers. No one had seemed overly interested in him during the flight; perhaps they had missed him at Heathrow. Perhaps he would have some time in New York before they caught up with him … Impatient, the letters resting against his heart, he willed the journey to end. The early-morning New York skyline seemed to present itself suddenly, visible through the clouds, almost tickling the underbelly of the plane as they came into land.
Tobar Manners had arrived in New York the previous day and was staying at the Four Seasons hotel, where he was complaining about the room service and sending back his water for being stale. His disagreeable mood had been compounded by the ridiculous rituals of communication the seller had insisted upon. He would not talk to Tobar directly, but through an intermediary, a thin American wearing a tight suit. So far, all Tobar had managed to ascertain was that the two Rembrandt portraits were still in storage and would only be delivered to the Museum of Mankind the following day – under escort, two hours before the auction was due to start.
Unable to relax, he had visited the Museum and checked the security, where he managed to irritate the staff and alienate the director. But to Tobar’s intense pleasure, they had erected a high stage upon which the two portraits would be shown to their fullest advantage, able to be photographed and televised to the world. Well, Tobar thought, maybe not the world – the recession had knocked the sheen off cultural endeavours – but certainly the art world would be following every moment.
Having pressed Rosella to accompany him, Tobar was nevertheless surprised that she had accepted. Then, in one of his night-time confessions, he had told her about the Rembrandt letters and the list of fakes.
‘Are they genuine?’ she had asked, showing no sign that she already knew of their existence.
; ‘Oh yes,’ Tobar had replied. ‘Marshall Zeigler’s got them.’
‘But surely,’ she said, hesitantly, ‘someone will try and stop them coming out?’
‘Marshall’s put his head on the block, so he can’t be surprised if someone cuts it off for him,’ Tobar had responded, curling his thin legs against his wife’s long limbs. ‘I tried to help him.’
‘You did?’
‘I did,’ he had insisted, his tone just the wrong side of mawkish. ‘But he didn’t trust me.’
‘Why not? What did you offer to do for him?’
‘Withdraw the Rembrandt portraits from the auction – if they were on the list of fakes.’
She had known at once that he was lying, could sense it in the dark. The lie so huge it was like another person in the room.
‘What did Marshall say to that?’
‘That he wanted to ruin me,’ Tobar had replied, his feet against hers. ‘He would say anything against me, do anything to discredit me. I wouldn’t put it past Marshall Zeigler to claim the portraits were fakes just to ruin me.’
‘But no one would believe him, would they?’ Rosella asked, her tone all honey. ‘Unless Marshall has the list. And if these letters were taken away from him, he would have no proof. The person who has the documents has the power.’
Satisfied, Tobar had smiled into the darkness, then risen and left her bed. Relaxing, he realised that his wife had changed sides. The promise of a fortune had tempered her disgust at her husband’s treatment of Owen Zeigler, and the promise of riches had made her an ally.
Picking the biggest bank in Manhattan, Marshall walked in and asked for the manager. He got the assistant manager, a man with a large red weal on his neck.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked the man, who shrugged and explained, ‘Wasp sting, hurts like hell.’
Marshall smiled sympathetically. ‘My name’s Zeigler and I want to open an account at your bank and hire a safety deposit box. I also need to leave something here.’
The assistant manager extended a hand, saying ‘I’m Dean Foley, Mr Zeigler. Come this way, sir.’
Marshall followed Foley into a back office and sat down, looking at the man steadily. ‘I also need a photocopier.’
‘A photocopier?’ Foley seemed a little bemused by the request.
Marshall gestured to his bag. ‘I’m a translator. I have to take some copies of my work and then I want to leave this bag with you.’
‘Well, we’d have to check its contents first.’
‘You can check it, by all means. There’s just a laptop in it.’ Marshall pushed the bag across the table, then stared at the swelling on Foley’s neck. ‘You should put some ice on that,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘The wasp bite. And check you’ve got the sting out, that’s what hurts.’
Foley smiled lamely, rubbing his neck. ‘The insect just flew in and stung me. No one else; just seemed to aim for me.’
Marshall stared at the man, an old memory reviving. His father had been talking to him, telling him a story about the difference between bees and wasps.
… Bees warn you before they strike, they give you a chance. But wasps don’t. They just pick their victim and go in for the kill. Watch for the wasps, Marshall, the bees will die out long before they do …
‘Are you staying in New York, Mr Zeigler?’
Marshall nodded. ‘For a little while.’
‘And you’re here because of work?’
‘Yes, because of work.’
Foley passed a form across the desk for Marshall’s signature. He then studied the signed document and extended a hand, saying, ‘If you give me the bag now—’
‘I have to do the photocopies first,’ Marshall cut in hurriedly. ‘Have to send them to my publishers today. They like the work faxed to them.’ He shrugged. ‘You’d think I could just send it digitally, but they’re old fashioned.’
‘There isn’t a lot to photocopy, is there?’
‘No, not much.’
‘D’you need any help?’ Foley asked, pointing to the photocopier in the corner of the office.
‘No, I’m fine,’ Marshall replied, flicking the ON switch of the machine. ‘It’ll take no time at all.’
Marshall watched the man walk off, then looked through the Venetian blinds of the office before taking the letters out of his jacket pocket. Slowly, he weighed them in his hands. He realised that his time had run out. He had no options left. He had to do something, fast … If he had hoped to flush out his father’s killer, he had been disappointed. Whoever was responsible for the murders was not going to step out of the shadows. There was to be no dénouement, no warning. No one was going to approach him and talk – and why should they? Marshall felt himself suddenly embarrassed by his own naivety. Had he really expected a killer to act like a reasonable man? To show his hand?
There was to be no discussion. Four people had already died for the letters, there would be no hesitation in making Marshall the fifth. He was only important as long as he had the documents. When they had been taken from him, his death would follow … He paused, now horribly aware of the vulnerability of his situation. He was alone, and in an unfamiliar city. If he even made it back out onto the streets of New York, he wouldn’t get far. He had hoped to last until the auction, but he suspected that he had little chance of that. No one could be trusted. Everyone was suspect, and he had nowhere left to go. The Rembrandt fakes would be sold tomorrow for a fortune unless he exposed them – along with the letters, the list and the truth about Rembrandt’s monkey.
Marshall knew what he had to do. Not what he had wanted, or hoped for, but what had to be done. Carefully, he made two copies of each letter, and two of the list. Every time someone passed the office door, he tensed, waiting for them to come in. Every time he lifted the lid of the copier, he paused. The process seemed to take hours, each warm copy sliding balefully into the plastic tray on the side. Meticulously, Marshall slid the originals into their envelope one by one, handling them carefully because the paper was so worn. The copies seemed different, the reproductions no longer the sepia tones of the originals, but harshly white, crude – worthless on cheap paper.
He was working quickly because he knew he had little time, and that he was probably being watched. Anyone following him would know that he had the letters and would wait for their opportunity to strike. Being in the middle of the largest bank in Manhattan was some protection, but Marshall knew he had been lucky so far. The letters would be safe in the bank, but he would have to leave … Walking to the window and looking through the blind once more, his gaze rested on two men who were in the foyer. They looked out of place and, as Marshall watched, they asked one of the tellers something.
The woman turned and pointed to the back of the bank. To the office where Marshall was … Gathering up the copies, Marshall took out two envelopes, putting identical copies of the letters in each and addressing them. One to the New York Times and the other to The Times in London. He had no time to write a note, just sealed the envelopes and tucked them both under his arm. Then, hurriedly, he turned on his laptop. Opening an e-mail, he downloaded the copy of the letters he had made earlier, then typed in the address of the editor of the New York Times and wrote.
These letters are authentic, and they prove that the Rembrandt paintings coming up for sale at the auction tomorrow are fakes.
Then he pressed the SEND button, and watched, the process began, then stopped. Baffled, Marshall stared at the screen, just as there was a knock on the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Mr Zeigler, it’s the manager.’
‘Just a minute.’
The door opened but the man who walked in wasn’t the one with the wasp sting; this was an older man, un-welcoming and brusque.
‘I have to hurry you, sir. Can we take your bag now?’
Marshall glanced at the computer screen. The message had jammed on SEND. ‘I just have one more thing to do—’
‘We need
the room, sir,’ the manager said, ‘another customer. Besides, there’s been a power cut—’
‘I just need a few more minutes,’ Marshall said imploringly, looking over the man’s shoulder into the bank beyond. His instincts were sharpened and he could sense danger. ‘Just give me a couple more minutes.’
‘Sorry, sir, we need the office,’ the manager replied, his tone flat but firm. ‘Do you want to leave your bag, or not?’
Defeated, Marshall turned off the laptop, the message unsent. Then he put the laptop into his bag and passed it to the manager.
‘Thank you, sir.’ He gave Marshall the key to his security box. ‘We look forward to seeing you again.’
Suspecting that he had been deliberately interrupted, Marshall walked out of the office and was heading for the foyer when he noticed the two men turn in his direction, both watching him. He looked round, but there was only one exit and to reach it he had to pass them. Trapped, he felt real panic. If only he had managed to send the e-mail, if only … He moved forwards, the two men watching him, waiting, Marshall’s steps slowing … An image of his father’s dead body came back to him, and he decided that he wasn’t going to make it easy for anyone. Instead he glanced around, then spotted the young assistant manager, Foley, and headed straight for him. The two men, startled, came across the foyer, while Marshall grabbed Foley’s arm.