“Why do you suspect they’re fake?”
“Technology works for or against us. It can allow us to peer beneath the layers of paint to uncover the artist’s original line sketch. Some artists initially drew the picture, others didn’t. If you find either more or less than your expectations, then it points towards whether the painting is genuine or not.”
“And what did you find here?”
“We have a portable laser machine in the lorry. Very powerful and extremely useful, especially today.”
“Why is that?”
“We tested paintings by almost a dozen different artists. Dependent upon our findings, we would usually go on to check the materials used, from canvas to paint to frames, trying to determine if they are consistent with the purported age of the painting.”
A prickle of anticipation formed. “And?”
“That won’t be necessary today. We will carry out some additional tests for the record, but I sincerely doubt that eleven different artists operating across a five-hundred-year period would all have covered their blank canvases in a precise grid pattern to aid their drawing.” Her voice was dry.
“Why would someone do that?”
“It makes it easier to copy the original piece. You put the fine-thread grid over the original, trace the exact same components into each square. It’s a crude but extremely effective technique to get the base down.”
“You’re saying someone copied all of these in the same way.”
“Yes. As I said, I will need to carry out some additional detailed research but take it from me: these are all forgeries.”
“Okay, so we have confirmation that fakes have been sold in place of the real paintings. We’ll need a formal report from you.”
“You misunderstand me. Most of the paintings mentioned in these contracts seem as if they are still held in this collection, but they are the fakes. The real paintings were sold.”
Dewar’s head was spinning. “Why sell an original and replace it with a fake?”
“I have no idea. That’s not what I came here to answer.”
“Of course. I was thinking out loud.” Not the greatest trait in a police officer. She would need to watch that.
“You said most of the art mentioned in the sale contracts may have been genuine sales, with fakes kept in the Englebrook collection? What about the rest of it?”
“Yes, in the majority of cases the real paintings were presumably delivered to the purchasers, as the paintings in this collection are forgeries.”
“Majority, but not all?”
“The particular case you mentioned of the Picasso, Blue Mood Woman—it’s a fake.”
“That is what the buyer’s daughter claims, and she appears to have had the tests carried out to support that assertion.”
“That is clearly understood, however,” she pointed to the Blue Mood Woman hanging in the Englebrook collection and purportedly purchased by Louise Unsworth-Murphy’s father, “is a fake as well. As is Joy. There is also a Stubbs, and a Degas that I believe are fakes, but they are not mentioned in any of the sale contracts.”
◆◆◆
Le Claire muttered under his breath as he parked up and strode into the hospital. Coming here was becoming a habit he didn’t like. Chloe Marsden was waiting for him in a small anteroom. She stood as he entered, but he waved her back to sitting. She had a few grazes to her face but, apart from a general paleness, didn’t appear to have been badly hurt. “I arrived at the station to the news that you’d been in an accident. What happened?”
“I was surprised when the nurse told me to wait here and have a chat with you before being discharged. You’re keeping tabs on me.”
“Not at all. Your details were entered into the system for the incident report, and your name was flagged as being related to an open case. What happened last night?”
“I honestly don’t know. The street I live on has a narrow one-way road. I heard a car behind me while I was on the pavement; it was moving fast. Then the car mounted the pavement. It didn’t slow down. I managed to get over the wall and fall into the garden behind. The car sped off.”
“What kind of car was it? Did you recognise anyone?”
“It was a dark colour, and no, it all happened so fast. Probably boy-racers, and I bet you anything they’d been drinking. You know what it’s like, a few of them jammed in a car and they hurtle through the streets until the small hours.”
◆◆◆
Le Claire stared at Dewar. “But where the hell is the original Blue Mood Woman? You’ve lost me. Was Englebrook selling fake paintings or not?”
“As they say, it’s complicated.”
She was getting sassier by the day. As long as she didn’t get too cocky! “It certainly is. There are fakes in Englebrook’s collection, there are other fakes that he purportedly sold, and then there is what happened to all the real paintings. Where are they? Give me the stats again.”
Hunter shuffled through the handwritten notes on his pad. “Natasha Rensburg identified fifteen suspect paintings in the collection. She would like some analysis to be carried out at a London art-research facility. There are another four where she can’t tell if they are fake or not, but they are paintings for which sales supposedly took place.”
“We need to consider why Englebrook would sell his paintings, which is within his rights, and replace them with fakes.”
Dewar said, “Money troubles.”
Le Claire had to agree. “Yes. This appears to be how he financed the additional loans he made to his business.”
“Blue Mood Woman is the key issue, as it appears both copies are forgeries. Dr Rensburg recommended that she see the two paintings side-by-side and run some additional tests at her facility in London. She can arrange for the Englebrook painting to be securely transmitted off-island.”
“Okay, speak to Louise-Unsworth Murphy as well and get everything organised. Book us some flights. We’re going to London.”
“What about the other paintings named in the sale agreements?”
“Get in touch with the parties named. We need to determine if the paintings mentioned in the contracts are real or fake. All of them have fake counterparts in the Englebrook collection, but let’s not assume that the paintings he sold were the originals, as a precedent has been set with the Unsworth-Murphy painting.”
“There were several buyers in Asia and the Middle East, but the majority of the purchasers are in the UK.”
“Let’s start with them first. We can do some interviews in London. Get the flights booked.”
Masters whistled, long and low. “Well, look at this. The telephone service providers gave us details of numbers dialled and received for Susan and Eva. We ran a cross-check to determine any common themes. Both Susan and Eva called the same number shortly before their deaths.”
Le Claire tensed. “Whose number?”
“Jessica Englebrook.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“What the hell . . . ?” Jessica jumped to her feet, her face purple, as she spluttered, “This is outrageous. How dare you.” She looked towards Le Claire. “How can you come here and listen to that man make these ridiculous allegations?”
Le Claire figured this would be a volatile scene. “Once I was made aware of the circumstances, I thought it best that I accompany Mr Balfour.”
“Why are you making this up, Ian?”
“I am sorry, but you and Kurt did not have a legal wedding in the Bahamas.”
“What crap is that? Of course, we did!”
“I’m afraid not.” He waved a piece of paper. “The certificate clearly says you had a blessing.”
She shook her head rapidly. “I got married, and it was blessed. What is the problem?” She spoke slowly, tauntingly, enunciating her word as if talking to a small child.
“I am sorry. You didn’t get married. You didn’t have a legal, civil wedding. The organisers at the hotel should have explained this to you both at the time.”
“
And how did it become known? And why wasn’t I told?” Her face was red, her voice anguished.
Balfour said, “Eva hired someone to look into it after Kurt died. Apparently, he said something that aroused her suspicion.”
“Eva? Always damn Eva. She couldn’t get over the fact that she was getting old and fat and Kurt turned to me. I loved my husband, and he loved me.”
Balfour said, “This isn’t easy to say, but Kurt wanted me to investigate how quickly he could divorce you. He asked that I look at the marriage laws in the Bahamas to see how he could end things. I thought he meant any loopholes that would allow a divorce to process quicker. I am sorry, but I now wonder if he knew the marriage was a fake all along and wanted me to be the one to discover it.”
Jessica swayed and collapsed into her seat. “That figures. Kurt could have played the innocent. The bastard never mentioned divorce to me.” The fight left her, and she sank against the cushions. “What the hell does this mean for me?”
“I suggest you speak to a lawyer. Kurt’s will made provisions for his wife, and that wasn’t you.”
Anguished howls filled the air as Jessica sobbed. Chloe sat beside her and said, “I think you better go now. I’ll look after her.”
Le Claire watched Balfour leave but didn’t move. “I have another matter to discuss with you. Susan and Eva both called someone shortly before their deaths. That person was you, Jessica. Why did they call you?”
“How the hell should I know? They left messages on voice mail. I assume Susan wanted to gloat about the land, and Eva, the art and house. They had no other reason to call me.”
“You didn’t call back either of them?”
“Nope, no desire to speak to either of them.”
“You did have strained relationships with both women. Susan had a closeness with your husband that you resented, and Eva would forever be the first wife and the mother of his sons.”
“I know. I may have hated Susan and Eva, but I didn’t kill them.”
At least she didn’t try to hide her animosity.
◆◆◆
Chloe hugged her arms tight across her chest as she listened to her sister—still ranting and raving. “Bastard. I can’t believe Kurt went behind my back to Balfour. I bet he was trying to get out of the prenup.”
Chloe’s suspicions were growing. “You didn’t flinch when he said Kurt wanted to divorce you. Oh, you acted the part well, but I know you. Did you know?”
Jessica pursed her lips. “We argued, and he mentioned something.”
“Mentioned? What the hell are you saying? Did Kurt say he was divorcing you?”
Jessica was holding a thick cushion that she chucked across the room. “Yes, the shit said he needed his freedom, that we’d run our course. That he should never have left Eva. But I didn’t believe him.”
“Didn’t you? Well, you should have come clean earlier because now it looks kind of suspicious that the man who wanted to divorce you ended up dead, don’t you think? And you have out-of-the-ordinary calls from Susan and Eva.”
“What? I can’t be worrying about that. I need a lawyer.”
“They haven’t arrested you yet. Why would you need a lawyer?”
“Didn’t you listen? If I wasn’t his wife, I don’t get to inherit. I’m fighting for my share. I thought I was his wife; he told everyone we were married. I’ve been tricked, and I want what is due to me.”
“I can’t believe you never got the legality of the marriage checked out.”
“I obviously didn’t think it was an issue. What a bastard. Surely I can fight this. I thought we were married; we lived as husband and wife.”
Chloe ran a hand through her hair, her fingers massaging her aching scalp. She was getting a tension headache. “What would we pay the lawyers with? If you get nothing from the estate, we have the million I was left to live off.”
Jessica’s eyes trapped Chloe’s with a look of complicity. “Don’t worry. I have a little something put away.”
“What the hell have you been up to? You were always complaining that Kurt kept a tight rein on your spending. Whatever you do, don’t draw attention to yourself.” Chloe thought for a moment. “And keep away from Grainger. We don’t want you looking anything other than the grieving widow. I’ve seen how you look at him. And now he’s married to Eva.”
“Don’t be such a little prude. Isn’t that the bloody point? I’m not a widow. I want to talk to someone about this. I want more, and I deserve more.”
Her voice was shrill, and Chloe soothed, “Hush, it’ll be fine. Keep your head down and don’t rock the boat.”
She couldn’t imagine what Jess had been up to, and she didn’t want to know.
◆◆◆
Le Claire dragged himself through his front door shortly after 10:00 p.m. He dropped his bag by the door and slung his jacket over the bannister. He was dog-tired and ready to sleep. But before that, he’d need to get his clothes laid out for the morning. Dewar had booked them on the first flight, which meant he’d have to leave home at 5:30 a.m. to get to the airport in time. The house was in darkness. Sasha had probably gone to bed early, snuggling up with a book instead of her husband. But that’s the way it was when you were the wife of a detective, and it would never change.
He crept up the stairs. He didn’t want to wake her, so he’d have to get up even earlier to make sure he had everything he needed for his day in London. He undressed in the spare bedroom and left his clothes there as he quickly jumped in the shower. Feeling refreshed but still shattered, he made his way, naked, into the bedroom. The slatted blinds were closed, but slivers of light fell across the bed. Sasha was lying curled up on her side, her cheek resting on one hand. He slid under the duvet and pressed a soft kiss to her hair. He settled down on his back to sleep and smiled as Sasha’s warm body snuggled into his with a sleepy, “You’re earlier than I expected. How’s it going?”
“We have more leads to go on. Did you get my message that I have to go to London tomorrow?”
“Yes, I did. I’ve left your clothes in the wardrobe in the spare room.”
“You’re a darling. That will save me some time.”
“That’s why I did it. Plus, to be honest, it also means you wouldn’t annoy me tonight when you got home, searching the drawers and slamming the wardrobe doors.” There was no censure in her words, only a gentle laugh.
“Thank you anyway. I do appreciate it. So how was your day?”
“It was fine.” She paused.
He couldn’t see her face in the dark, but he could sense her hesitation. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I guess I’m feeling a bit blue at the moment. I understand that I have to share you with the force, and I’m okay with that. I am. I know what I signed up for the day we got married. And I’m proud to be your wife.”
“Hey, where’s this coming from? Not that I’m complaining.”
“I’ve been thinking. You have so much on your mind. I’ve been wondering if this is the right time for us to be thinking about doing IVF.”
“I’ll support you in anything you want to do. You know that.” He felt her tense and immediately realised he’d said the wrong thing. “I didn’t mean that. I obviously want this too. But it came out the wrong way.”
“Did it? I don’t want you to go along with IVF just because you think it’s what I want. This is too big a decision. It must be what we want. We have to be honest with each other.”
It was easier to be honest in the dark. Nighttime stripped away the day’s protective barriers. He spoke without a filter. “I love you; you know that. You being happy is what makes me happy. In my heart, I’m probably seventy per cent in favour of going down the IVF route. And you’re one hundred per cent. I’m happy with it. Don’t worry.”
She moved until she was slightly above him, reached out and stroked his face. Gentle, teasing touches that took his mind in another direction. “You have to tell me if you don’t want to do this. You are my entire life. And I want
to be with you more than I want to have a child. Because I don’t want a child. I want our child.” He pulled her closer to him, and as her body melted against his, he caressed her bare back in a long downward stroke.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess the phone call unsettled me.”
His hand stilled. “What phone call?”
“I had a wrong number earlier tonight. A nice guy. He was looking for his sister. But said he must have dialled wrong.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“He said his sister’s name was April. That name’s imprinted on my memory, and it’s one you rarely hear these days.”
Le Claire tensed. “What exactly did he say?”
“He asked if April was in. He laughed when I said I thought he had the wrong number and said it had been a long time since he’d spoken to her. He was charming. He apologised for disturbing me. We had a little chat for a few minutes. I told him I’ve been reading, and he asked what book. But it was the name that bothered me. Stupid, I know.”
“Yeah. I can see why it would. Tell me, did this guy say anything else?”
“No. It’s me being a little melancholy. I didn’t want to bring it up. I didn’t want to remind you.”
You couldn’t remind someone of something they couldn’t forget. He pulled her closer to him and lay there while his mind raced. Had that been Chapman? Or some huge coincidence? Problem was, he didn’t believe in coincidence.
CHAPTER FORTY
Le Claire glanced at his old boss. “Thanks for cooperating in this.”
Gareth Lewis smiled. “It’s a courtesy we offer to other UK forces, albeit the Channel Islands aren’t connected to the British Police Force. However, British residents have been impacted by the activities in question, which is why I’m happy to tag along with you and lend some officialdom to your investigations in London. Plus, I’ve always been interested in how they determine whether paintings are fakes or not. I love that TV programme with Fiona Bruce presenting.”
Blood Rights (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 21