Blood Rights (A Jack Le Claire Mystery)

by Kelly Clayton

  Le Claire nodded. “Doesn’t everyone?” He glanced at his watch. “Dewar and Penny should be at their first appointment soon.” He felt guilty at even saying Penny’s name. She’d had a thing for him, and once upon a time, he hadn’t shut her down quickly enough. “They’re meeting with the representative of one of the art buyers named in the contracts with Englebrook.”

  “From what you say, all of this could be one big distraction from finding your killer, but we all know you have to follow every angle, track down each lead.”

  Before he could say anything further, he heard the click-clacking of high heels across the tiled floor. Natasha Rensburg and Louise Unsworth-Murphy were heading towards them. The high heels belonged to Mrs Unsworth-Murphy. Rensburg wore serviceable low-heeled boots.

  Le Claire quickly made the introductions, saying to Louise, “Thanks for your time and for allowing Dr Rensburg to review the painting.” His gaze moved to Rensburg. “Is everything set up?”

  “Yes. We have the painting sold to Mr Unsworth-Murphy at the lab, together with the purported fake Picasso from the Englebrook collection.”

  “Purported?”

  “Yes, given the value of an item such as this, we do have to perform additional testing to be sure that there is no mis-analysis. Especially under these circumstances.”

  “Okay, but I’m not entirely clear why I had to come here in person.” She’d been insistent, but he could barely afford the time.

  “There is something I can only explain by showing you.”

  She wasn’t smiling and seemed tense, which didn’t bode well.

  They passed through several levels of security, from physical human guards, body scanners and door access that required Rensburg’s retina scan and their own photos to be logged. “This is a pretty tight setup. How long have you been here?”

  “Couple of years. Art is a big business and getting it wrong costs money. The major auction houses have conditions in place to refund the purchase price on forged work within several years of the sale. They can’t afford to get it wrong. This is a shared facility financed by a conglomerate of auction houses. It’s cheaper for them to pay for year-round analytical facilities then it is to have to pay out to the injured party if they sell a forgery. As you can see, it’s state-of-the-art.”

  It was indeed. The latest security door took them into a large, scrupulously clean room, which was bare apart from a long white computer table that housed a dozen monitors. The pale walls had glass windows inset that looked into a row of anterooms. “What goes on in there?”

  “These are temperature-controlled, germ-free units that we use to carry out testing.” She pointed to the nearest window. “Pieces of paint are being examined by a microscope and a special machine to determine the composition of the materials used in a painting.”

  Louise asked, “You mean like what is in the actual paint?”

  “Exactly. We look for consistency with the period the painting is supposed to be from. Finding synthetics in a purported Old Master is a sure-fire giveaway, as is finding traces of a paint not developed at that time, or of a material the artist never used. For example, the artist could be known to only use lead white, and the forger used titanium white. It’s a jigsaw puzzle, successful completion of which may impact the attribution of the painting.”

  Le Claire said, “So what are we here to see?”

  Rensburg’s mouth lifted slightly in acknowledgment of his tactic to hurry her along. “We’re in here.” She led them to one of the units through another security door. Two white-coated staff members moved to the side as she came in. “Gentlemen, pull up the infrareds.” She said to Le Claire, “We have photographed each of the paintings under certain conditions. The infrared is where we peel back the layers to what is beneath. This is the painting from the Englebrook collection.” She pointed to the image on the screen. “See the faint grid lines beneath the outline drawing?”

  They jostled slightly to peer closer. “Yes, that’s why you said you believed it was a fake.”

  “Indeed. Now let’s look at the Unsworth-Murphy painting.”

  The assistant scrolled through the carousel of images and, clicking on one, said, “This is it. The exact same angle.”

  They all looked, and moved closer, then closer still. Louise Unsworth-Murphy was first to speak. “But where are the grid lines? I don’t get it. The firm we employed said this was a forgery.”

  Rensburg was grim. “It is. The previous analysis found anomalies in the paint used. Whoever the forger was, they knew enough to sail through a superficial analysis, but they didn’t get all the materials right. The fake still in the Englebrook collection is cruder, and while it passed a naked-eye review, it fell apart as soon as we hit it with the infrared. So yes, it’s a forgery, but it is by a different hand than the other one. These paintings are by different people.” She paused and shook her head, her tone dry. “And neither of them was Pablo Picasso.”

  ◆◆◆

  Dewar wondered how Le Claire was getting on. Hopefully, better than she was. She considered the woman opposite her. From her tailored trousers and dark blazer to her low-heeled leather boots, Penny looked the part of a no-nonsense female detective. Dewar ran a self-conscious, smoothing hand over her own trousers. They had caught the 7:00 a.m. red-eye from Jersey to Gatwick, and she’d dressed while still half-asleep. She looked again. Were they black or dark blue? She couldn’t exactly tell, but they seemed a different colour to her jet-black boots. She couldn’t do anything about it now, and she doubted anyone they spoke to today would care. She would be far beneath their considerations.

  The door opened, and a man and woman walked into the small sitting room they had been waiting in. The woman spoke, “Officers, sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Sally Lancaster, and this is Amir Al Kahoun. Mr Al Kahoun is the owner of the painting you wanted to discuss. I’m his lawyer and would ask that you address all questions to me in the first instance.”

  Penny went first, as pre-agreed. “I am DI Powers with the Metropolitan Police. DS Dewar is from the States of Jersey Police. Given her investigation’s connection to the UK, we are providing cooperation and assistance.”

  Dewar cleared her throat. “Thank you. The seller of the painting, Mr Englebrook, has been found dead in suspicious circumstances.”

  Lancaster said, “I fail to see what that has to do with my client.”

  “I am not suggesting there is a connection. However, Mr Englebrook sold many paintings in the year before his death, and after an allegation from a purchaser’s family, it has been proven that the painting they purchased from the Englebrook collection was a forgery.” Dewar paused to let this sink in. “And we are trying to determine if any other forgeries were passed off as the original paintings.”

  Sally Lancaster opened her mouth to speak, but Mr Al Kahoun held up a hand. “Please, I am happy to answer. There is no question that I have the original painting. I insisted that a professional analysis be carried out here in London. The painting was placed into the care of the Raebar Institute, and their experts ran various tests. When the painting was declared genuine, I wired the funds to Englebrook. We shook hands, and I took possession immediately. The papers were signed, and my security team collected the painting direct from him. I have no doubt that I bought, and received, the original. That was almost twelve months ago.”

  “Was Englebrook comfortable that you took immediate possession, or did he try and stall?” Perhaps Al Kahoun’s insistence had foiled Kurt’s plans to swap the painting for a fake.

  “Not at all. If anything, he was eager to accept my conditions and get the money ASAP. He obviously needed it, and fast.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  He laughed. “No one sells a piece of art like that for three-quarters of its market value unless they need cash pronto.”

  “He sold for an undervalue?”

  “Yes, it was a substantial amount.”

  She remembered the contracts she and Hunter had ploug
hed through. “Is that why you agreed to keep your ownership quiet?”

  “Yes, the terms seemed strange, to say the least, but I have no intention of flaunting my ownership. Under the deed of sale, I agreed not to publicise my ownership during the seller’s lifetime and to bind any subsequent purchaser to the same terms.”

  She mumbled under her breath, “Why the hell would he do that?”

  Al Kahoun barked out a laugh. “We shared a similar problem: Ex-wives! Englebrook said he had to leave his art collection to her in his will but that it would give him great pleasure that she would think she’d finally got her hands on the art only to eventually realise that she had received only a fraction of what it had once been worth.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Le Claire looked over his shoulder as he settled himself at a corner table in the crowded bar, placing two Diet Cokes and some crisps on the table. He’d chosen this particular place because it was as far removed from a police hangout as was possible. Booths lined one wall, and high tables, surrounded by stools, covered the area in front of the long bar. It was bright and shiny, and city professionals jostled for space with the Mayfair crowd. He doubted that anyone he knew would be there, far less someone who would recognise the person he waited for.

  There was a fancy neon-lit digital clock on the opposite wall; beneath it, smoked mirrored tiles bordered the tops of the plush velvet booth seating, giving a distinctly retro feel. His vantage point afforded a full view of the wide entrance doors, and he kept a careful watch. They wouldn’t have long. He’d told Dewar he had something to do and would meet her at the airport.

  He saw her as soon as she came in. DI Penny Powers was neat and trim in her black trouser suit; her dark, glossy hair was longer, falling past her shoulders. She was still a beautiful woman with satin skin, a generous mouth and sparkling eyes framed by long, thick lashes. He felt strangely nervous as he waited for her. They had once parted on bad terms, and the last time they had been alone, they had cleared the air—of sorts.

  Penny had been a splinter in his marriage, a ragged edge that Sasha gnawed on for some time. His wife went looking for him one night, sick of his distance and what she’d seen as his emotional withdrawal from their marriage. Missing nights when he should have been at home were spent in dark bars where he’d spoken, and Penny had listened. Chapman’s actions, and his own, left an indelible mark. Penny thought like him—she was police trained and knew what he was going through. What he hadn’t given much thought to was why Penny was spending so much time with him. If he was honest, he hadn’t cared. Selfishly, he’d welcomed the release of being able to talk to someone who understood. Unfortunately, Penny had thought there was a deeper connection between them, evidenced as she tried to kiss him. He had pulled away, hadn’t reciprocated, but that had to be the one night Sasha wanted to have it out with him. She’d traced him to the bar, a popular police hangout, and her shattered look would stay with him forever. He’d chased after her, left Penny sitting there. He’d tried to let Sasha know that there was nothing between him and Penny. She’d fired back that he was talking to another woman, confiding in her, and that was too much to take. She’d moved back to Jersey a week later, and he’d chased her, but to no avail. It had taken time to convince his wife that divorce wasn’t an option.

  He knew what he was doing would upset Sasha, but he had to have this meeting. He just had to. What would he have said to her in any event? Hi, sweetie, all going well here. Oh, by the way, I’m meeting Penny for a drink this afternoon. You don’t mind, do you? He’d never had an affair with Penny, but if he was candid, could he honestly say he hadn’t welcomed her support, her ear during the Chapman fallout? A part of him had always known that Penny had feelings for him, which he had ignored and never acknowledged in case it came between them in their working relationship.

  He was a fool to be meeting Penny, but he had no choice. He needed what only she could give him.

  ◆◆◆

  “You look well, Jack.”

  “Thanks, so do you.” She did, but he didn’t feel anything, never had. He could appreciate Penny as any man did when he saw an attractive woman, but that was as far as it had always gone. “I was surprised to get your call.”

  She held his gaze. “Gareth told me that Chapman called you. That is out of order. It’s like he has taken a personal vendetta against you.”

  “I don’t know if it goes that far. I think he takes pleasure in messing with my brain. Sasha answered a call from a wrong number when I was out. Some bloke who was all chatty and said he was trying to reach his sister, April.” He held her eyes for a moment as the significance of the name sank in. “I think it was Chapman.” Even speaking the name left a lingering foul taste.

  She raised her brows, and her mocking look surprised him. “So wifey picks up the phone to a man you know is a perverted sexual predator—and a killer—and you’re okay with it. Just let it go, have you?”

  He stared. He’d worked with Penny for several years, and she obviously knew him well. “What I think is my business.” He kept his tone mild.

  She laughed. “Jack, I know. Gareth told me you’ve been hounding him for information on Chapman and want the intel on anything we discovered before he disappeared.”

  Gareth Lewis needed to learn to keep his mouth shut. Why the hell would he tell anyone what he had asked? They couldn’t give out that information, and he sure as hell had no right to it.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” If anyone had any reason to land him in a pile of trouble, it was Penny. Hell hath no fury and all.

  “Oh, that is a pity. You see, I was the lead on the informal unit keeping tabs on Chapman. Gareth couldn’t let you have copies of any reports or information from our files—that would be wrong. And traceable.”

  He held his breath. Was he going to catch a break? “Go on.”

  “Gareth suggested we meet. He said Chapman called you at home and Sasha answered. What a creepy bastard. So here we are. Two ex-colleagues chewing the fat, shooting the breeze and whatever other cliché you want to tag on to what we’re doing here. Maybe I’ll talk about what I’ve been doing. You know, maybe be a little indiscreet about the Chapman surveillance. Tell you who went to see him, perhaps.”

  He smiled. “I’m all for catching up.”

  “I thought you would be.” She caught the eye of a passing waiter. “Can I have a glass of sauvignon blanc, please?”

  Le Claire said, “Make that two.” He may as well have a drink. It looked like he was going to be here for a while. He’d stay overnight and get the morning flight.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Chloe awoke, her sleep mask, as usual, angled around her neck. She used it to block out the light from all the devices that inhabited her bedroom and stole her rest. Alarm clocks, tablets, the streetlights intruding through the slatted blinds. These were part of her nightly sleep challenge. But what had woken her?

  She had heard something. Something alien. She could barely hear over the hammering of her heart as it beat against her chest. The oppressive dark was suffocating, closing in on her. She listened carefully, trying to ignore the blood pounding through her ears. There it was again. She had definitely heard something.

  She sat up, ears straining as she tried to determine the cause of the noise. This place was old, with nooks and crannies that shifted and settled. Noises in the night weren’t unusual. But it was 3:00 a.m. by her digital clock, that space and time where rational thought and logic had no place. Had she locked up? Her front door faced a pretty courtyard shared with three other similar properties. The back was more private; her small yard was bordered by a wall that backed on to an alleyway running behind neighbouring gardens. She double-checked the doors every single night. Sometimes getting out of bed to check them when her memory played false. She always found that she had indeed locked the door. But she couldn’t shake the knot of doubt. She tried to retrace the steps of her night-time routine but couldn’t remember going to check. S
he heard the noise again. A shuffling noise, followed by silence, then the sound of something moving.

  The previous tenants had installed a cat flap, and her landlord had never got around to having it boarded up. This wouldn’t be the first time a feline chancer had crept in for a look around or some shelter. She didn’t want them spraying to mark territory and stinking the house up. She’d be on the phone to the landlord first thing in the morning.

  Another noise, louder this time. It was coming from the small lounge that ran directly off her bedroom. Quietly, and with great care, she pushed the covers back and swung her legs to the floor. She looked around to see what she could take with her as a potential weapon. She slept in a T-shirt and shorts, so she didn’t bother reaching for any other clothes. She didn’t have a landline, only her mobile. Her eyes darted to the bedside table. She made out the shape of the lamp, the novel she was reading and a small bottle of water. No phone. She must’ve left it in the lounge. The window was old, leaking and jammed shut. No exit there. Jessica thought she was crazy for living here when she had a room at the manor, but this was hers. She paid the rent and earned money to do so.

  It was bound to be a cat. But better safe than sorry. Her fingers fumbled along the top of the chest of drawers until they found the expected metal. She grabbed the candlestick, removed the tapered candle from it and, making a fist, held it tight. She had no other option. If only she could get to her handbag, she would be able to call the police.

  She carefully opened her bedroom door a few inches, pausing as it creaked. The intermittent sounds from the lounge stopped.

  She peeked through the crack. The lounge led to the small kitchen through an open archway. Shit. She could clearly make out a shape across the room. It sure as hell wasn’t a cat. Frozen in place, she stilled her breathing—in, out, low, slow. She glanced over her shoulder; there was no other way out of her bedroom.