Chapter 26
“There you are, Mr Fisher, three paintings that represent the bulk of my life savings. You damage them; you die!”
Ced tucked the package under one arm and put the other around her shoulder as they walked to his car.
“That’s brilliant, Sal,” he said, nuzzling the top of her head, “With these, I’m sure we’ll resolve it. How did it go with Andrews? Do you still think he’s squeaky clean?”
“I really don’t know, hon. He’s certainly enigmatic. And now I’ve seen him in the flesh, I can’t believe how alike he is to the face in ‘The Awakening’. It’s uncanny. And those pale grey eyes are spooky.”
“I got that feeling too; there’s certainly a lot going on behind them.”
They reached the car and Ced carefully stowed the package of paintings on a pile of blankets in the luggage area.
As they drove out of the village, Sally thought back to her conversation in the gallery.
“You know, he’s such a nice guy, hon, really friendly, and then you say something and he seems to switch off and go somewhere else. I think he might be attention deficit.”
“You think all men are attention deficit. What did you say to send him off?”
“I think it was the mention of Moretti’s name.”
“What!” Ced hit the brakes in shock as he turned to Sally, generating an angry blast from the car behind them. The car’s tyres squealed as it roared past them, the driver gesticulating angrily.
Ced ignored him as he pulled up.
“You mentioned Moretti?”
Sally was puzzled by the strength of his reaction.
“Yes, but I did it carefully, gave him quite a clever story to lead into it. I was rather pleased with myself.”
Ced was gripping the steering wheel, his eyes darting around.
“What is it, hon?” asked Sally, “Why is it such a problem?”
“We’re worried that he’s going to get spooked and disappear.”
“Who’s we?”
“Corrado and I. We’re worried that Andrews will do a bunk if he suspects that anyone’s onto him.”
“Well, perhaps it would have been a good idea to include me in the loop.”
“I didn’t know you were going to start making up stories about Moretti.”
“He asked why I was so interested in the painting with the country house. He obviously thought a young blonde like me was too Essex to appreciate it. I was put on the spot. Anyway, why do you think he’d suddenly run away? You mentioned Moretti to him.”
“I know, but that was before.”
“Before what?”
“Before I went to Italy.”
“What happened in Italy?”
“I told you,” he mumbled evasively. “Corrado showed me all these other paintings and they’ve turned out to be indistinguishable from Andrews’ work.”
“Oh, come on, hon! There’s more to it than that. Why would you and Corrado suddenly be so worried? What else did you find out?”
Ced continued gripping the steering wheel, his jaw fixed.
“Ced?”
He sighed and turned his head to her. “You’re right, Sal, something else did happen. But I promised Corrado that it would remain between us; that I wouldn’t tell anyone else.”
Sally’s voiced hardened. “I’m not anyone else, Ced, I’m Sally, your girlfriend. I wash your smalls and we share intimate secrets. Remember?”
“I know, Sal, I know. But it’s big. The implications are huge.”
Sally said nothing, the anger written on her face. She waited.
“OK, Sal, but it really must go no further.”
“Do I normally blab about things you tell me when they’re confidential? All the cases that you’re dealing with that are supposed to be just between you and the cops or some lawyer? Do I?”
“No, of course you don’t.”
“Well then, why should this be different?”
“It was a solemn agreement with Corrado. He’s a very worried man.”
“Ced. We’re trying to work this thing out together. I think I’ve shown my commitment to it.” She glanced pointedly to where the paintings were stowed in the rear. “We can’t do it if we keep things from each other.”
“I know, Sal, I’m sorry. It’s really been bugging me.”
She kissed him on the mouth.
“Right, so debug.”
“It’s ‘The Awakening’, Sal.”
“‘The Awakening’?”
“Yeah. As you know, the Italians have done extensive research into it to prove its authenticity. You don’t often get a fifteenth century fresco by a famous artist appearing out of the blue. They’ve poured, and are still pouring, millions into it.”
“And?”
“Well, when I was with Corrado, I took images of parts of it with the large format camera. With those and other hi-res images he has access to, I ran the painting against my program. The results I got then showed that only about forty per cent was actually produced by Piero.”
“Who painted the rest?”
“I don’t know. But whoever it was, his style can’t be distinguished from all the others, you know, Perini, di Luca, de la Place. And John Andrews.”
“Christ.”
She was silent for a few seconds, then something else occurred to her.
“You said, ‘the results you got then’. What did you mean? Are there more?”
“Yes. Since I’ve got back from Italy, I’ve been rerunning the images through the program, refining parameters, making the comparisons tighter.”
“And what have you found?”
“The results I now have indicate that no more than twenty per cent of the picture was in Piero’s hand. The rest was by one other person, just one, and he was deliberately trying to mimic Piero’s hand. This is why the experts have been fooled in their visual examination: the differences are too subtle for the eye. But that’s all assuming the program is worth anything, and if it can’t differentiate all these other artists, then it’s all meaningless.”
“What does Corrado say about that?”
“I haven’t dared tell him; I think he’d shoot himself. He’s invested a lot of his professional stock in this painting.”
“But you can’t think that John Andrews had anything to do with it. I mean, it was discovered about twenty years ago. I know they dragged their feet over it once they realised there was something big underneath, but twenty years is twenty years. Are you trying to say that your master forger Andrews had access to some sort of partially completed Piero that no one knew anything about and he then completed it, while at the same time he did it in such a way that the whole art world was fooled into thinking it was a fifteenth century painting. Apart from the ridiculous logistics that would entail, no one is that good, and he would only have been about twenty years old.”
“I hadn’t thought about it like that.”
“And the other question is: why would he do it? For fun? So that he can sit up here in the Lake District and laugh at the art world? There has to be a motive. And huge money would be involved.”
Ced shook his head and banged his hands on the steering wheel.
“So we go round in the same circles again and come back to the same starting point. With all this, we’re no closer to the truth.”
“Let’s get home, hon, get those paintings imaged and under the scrutiny of your program. They must hold the key.”
Once home, Ced wasted no time in setting up his equipment to produce the images he needed for his comparisons. Downstairs in the sitting room, Sally studied each of her paintings. If nothing else, she was now the proud owner of three of the most beautiful paintings she’d ever seen.
She picked up a book. She wanted to leave Ced alone to run his program through its routines, even though she was desperate to see the results. But she couldn’t relax. She marched up and down the room for a few minutes, then sat on the sofa and picked up the sunset view. It was almost abstract, the
vibrant colours playing on the water in a symphony of light. To her eye, it was so completely different from the other two paintings that she couldn’t imagine there would now be any confusion.
She made herself some tea, took some food from the freezer, looked at it blankly, turned up her nose and put it back. They would go out; they would be celebrating. A breakthrough. The cloud of confusion would be lifted. They would be able to relax again.
Three hours passed and still Ced was working in his study. Sally checked the time. Five o’clock. It was the first day for a long time that they hadn’t gone for a run. She thought of going, but somehow the enthusiasm wasn’t there. She realised that there was no noise coming from upstairs – no tapping on the keys, no chair moving around as Ced moved from the monitor to a screed of results and back. Silence.
Finally she could stand it no longer; she had to see how far he’d got. She walked up the stairs and into the study. The screens were blank, the printer idle. Ced was sitting in his chair staring out of the window.
“Hon?”
No answer.
“Ced, what’s happened? Has the computer crashed?”
He swiveled the chair round and looked up at her. He chewed on his bottom lip and slowly shook his head.
“That’s it, Sal. It’s over. I can’t do anything else. The program is a failure.”
“Hon, what happened?” She dropped to her knees in front of him, taking his hands in hers.
“What happened is that I’ve run comparisons with your paintings and the others and it’s no different from before. In fact, it’s worse now I’ve got more than one Andrews sample.”
“What about the sunset painting? It looks so different. Don’t tell me the program says it’s the same as all the others.”
“The program tells us it’s by the same artist as the others but that there are differences owing to a different style being used. It’s designed to do just that and it has passed with flying colours. But then it’s failed by not being able to separate these paintings from the other artists we’ve found. The only explanation is that they were all painted by the same person, which is, of course, complete nonsense.”
“Unless all of them are products of some unimaginably complex forgery.”
“Yes, but we’ve discussed that endlessly; it makes no sense. No, it must be in the assumptions made in the program. I’ll check and check again, but frankly I doubt I’ll ever be able to find it.”
“Oh, hon, I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it. There must be some other explanation.”
“I’m sorry, Sal, but I’m afraid you’ve wasted your money. I’ll pay it back to you, but it’ll have to be in instalments.”
“The money’s not important, hon, and anyway, I’ve got three amazing paintings. True masterpieces.”
“Maybe I can sell them through one of my contacts in London. Although I think they are soon going to be my ex-contacts.”
“Don’t even think about it! I love all three of them and they are bound to appreciate. Maybe I should go and bump off Andrews. An artist’s work is always worth more when he’s dead.”
“You know, the enormity of this thing is only now starting to hit me, Sal. I’ve given opinions based on this program. Legal opinions. There are people out there starting to structure insurance policies around it. I’ve got to stop everything. Forefront Forensics will sack me, or worse, sue me. They’ll think I’ve done it on purpose for personal gain. I’m ruined. I’ll never be able to hold my head up in the art world again.”
Sally stood up, still holding Ced’s hands. She pulled him gently to his feet and folded her arms around him, her head pressed against his chest.
“Ced, my dear, lovely, brilliant Ced, it can’t come to that. We must be able to get help from someone else in the business. Who is there?”
“There are several people, Sal, but I doubt they can help. I don’t want to sound bigheaded, but I’m the best. At least, I was. It’s taught me a horribly painful lesson. I made the mistake of believing the preliminary results and charging ahead with the program without having completed the full validation of it.”
“That’s rubbish, Ced. I saw your protocol and you followed a stringent testing routine. You cannot be blamed for this. Your data and methods are impeccable. No one expects your testing to include every painting by every artist that’s ever lived before you can release the results.”
He squeezed her tight. “I don’t know where I’d be without your support, Sal. You’re brilliant, but I think we have to face facts.”
“I’ll only face them when I am absolutely certain that there are no alternatives. None.”
He waved an arm at the hardware. “I’ve had it with this lot for today. Have we got any wine in the fridge? I think I need a drink.”
“I put some there earlier. I think we might as well down a couple of bottles.”
They walked downstairs, arms round each other. Sally went to the fridge while Ced walked over to the paintings. He picked them up in turn and studied them.
“Trouble is, Sal, they’re brilliant. Amazing.”
“Better put them somewhere safe, hon. If we both get as smashed as I intend us to be, they ought to be out of harm’s way.”
“I’ll take them upstairs while you pour.”
“Deal.”
As she rummaged in a drawer for the corkscrew, the phone started to ring.
She stopped what she was doing and stared at it. Whoever it was, she was in no mood to talk; she wanted nothing more than to dispense some tlc to Ced. No interruptions. She let the phone go onto the answer message.
“Sal? Ced? It’s Claw. Are you in? You must be, you always are at this time on a Sunday. Pick up if you’re there, please, now, I really need to talk to you. We all really need to talk. It’s very important Sal. It’s about John Andrews. Please Sal, pick u–”
“Claw.”
“Sal, you are in. Thanks heavens! Sal, something really strange has happened.”
“Claw, strange and I are no longer friends. I’ve had strange up to the back teeth. I–”
“Sal, I should have phoned you earlier, but I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
“About what, Claw?” sighed Sally, resigned to the fact she’d have to hear her friend out. She recognised that breathless, earnest tone and knew there would be no resisting it.
“Well, that’s it, I said I wouldn’t tell, so I kept it under wraps.”
“Claw, take a deep breath. You’re not making any sense.”
“Sal, I’ve been wanting to tell you all week, but I promised I wouldn’t.”
“God, not another one. I feel like a mother confessor today.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just a little problem that Ced had in telling me something.”
“What?”
Sally laughed. “Actually, Claw, I can’t tell you.”
“OK, I’m sure you have your reasons. But this thing, Sal, I should have told you, I wish I had earlier.”
“Then make your wish come true by telling me now.”
“Ced!”
“Coming Sal, I’m just making sure these beauties are safe. Have you got the wine poured?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re going to London.”
“London?”
“Yes, London. Big city in the south-east of England; you must have heard of it.”
Ced arrived at the bottom of the stairs.
“What are you on about, Sal? Have you started on the wine without me?”
“Ced, Claw called.”
“I thought I heard the phone. How is she?”
“She’s fine. Shut up and listen. She’s been keeping secrets from me, just like you did.”
“Secrets?”
“Ced!”
“Sorry.”
“Last week, same day you went to Rome, I think, she went to London to see her old prof. You remember him, don’t you? Frank Young?”
“No, I’ve never me
t him. Before my time.”
“Oh yes, of course. Well, he’s a professor of genetics specialising in immune systems. He and about a million others, but he’s good, one of the best in his field. Claw took her sample–”
“Sample?”
“I told you, the one from the envelope flap that she’s done extra tests on.”
“Oh yes.”
“She took the rest to Prof Young to ask if he would look at it to see if there is anything odd about it, immune-wise.”
“Immune-wise? What does that mean?”
“It means whether Andrews’ immune system is any different in any way as a result of his weird junk DNA.”
“Interesting idea.”
“Very, although it was a bit of a shot in the dark.”
“What happened?”
“Well, the prof only did one test that runs the sample against ten diseases, that is, whether the sample has any raised or lowered immunity to them. Andrews’ DNA showed raised immunity to all ten!”
“Wow! Wait a minute, aren’t there rules about this sort of thing? Shouldn’t the professor have sought Andrews’ permission?”
“Yes, he should. But to keep Claw happy, he agreed to do one test on the condition that they get permission for any more they want to do.”
“Fat chance.”
“Exactly. Anyway, when the results for this test came out, the prof was prepared to throw caution to the wind and carry out more tests, although of course there’s not much sample.”
She paused and waved her arms in the air, fists clenched in frustration. “Why didn’t Andrews lick that envelope today?”
She dropped her arms and continued. “He called Claw about two days ago to say that he’d completed another test and that it confirmed the first one. He told her that he’d do the rest next week. Then he phoned her this morning and said he hadn’t been able to wait. He put the tests on yesterday and the results will be ready this evening. He wants her to go down to London to be there when the results come out.”
“Bloody hell – a Sunday evening? What sort of time does he think they’ll be ready?”
“Around eleven, I think.”
“He obviously thinks he’s onto something. Wonder what it is?”
“I’m not sure. I think Claw has some idea, but she’s not committing herself. The thing is, she wants us to go too.”
“Why?”
“Well, I think, hon, she reckons the answer to all these problems might lie in these results.”
“I can’t see why this bloke’s DNA is going to explain the problems with my program, can you?”
“Off the top of my head, no. But Claw’s no dummy when it comes to genetics and if she thinks it’s important, then I think we should go with it.”
“And you’ve already said yes.”
“I have. We’re driving down to her place and she’ll take us from there.”
“OK,” sighed Ced. “This is turning into quite a day. Look, I want one guarantee.”
“Which is?”
“This isn’t the first time that we’ve forged ahead, Sal, convinced that this time we’ll have the answer to the problem, only to end up even more frustrated. If tonight it all goes wrong, stuff the white wine, I want to head into oblivion with a good malt. I don’t care that I don’t normally touch spirits or that tomorrow’s a working day: I’ll call in sick.”
“From what I’ve heard about the professor, that shouldn’t be a problem. I’m sure he’ll join you either to celebrate or commiserate with a bottle from his extensive collection.”
When Frank Young met them at the laboratory’s reception, Claudia knew from his face that something strange had happened. He was so distracted he was hardly able to go through the courtesies of being introduced to Ced and Sally and he was silent in the lift as they went up to the laboratory.
“What is it, Prof?” asked Claudia cautiously, hoping he wasn’t angry with her for bringing Ced and Sally, although she’d called ahead to explain.
Young walked them over to a computer monitor.
“About ten minutes ago, the computer stopped processing the numbers for the third test I told you about. The results are on the screen here. I think you should be able to interpret them, Claudia.”
Claudia sat down in front of the screen and worked her way through the data. She looked puzzled, turned to speak, changed her mind, and read the data again. Sally looked over her shoulder. She was less familiar with the process but she understood enough to raise her eyebrows at the numbers.
Claudia turned to Young.
“What does this mean?” she asked.
“I think we should wait for the results of the final test before we try to interpret what it means,” he replied.
“Have you ever seen anything like this before?” said Claudia.
“Never.”
“Would you mind telling me what it is that’s baffling you all?” cut in Ced, “I’ve no idea what any of these data mean. Could you give me a layman’s guide?”
“As I said to Claudia, Mr Fisher, I really think we should wait for the results of the final test before we start to digest what this means and what the implications are.”
“Implications?”
“Please, Mr Fisher, it will only be about fifteen minutes.”
Exactly seventeen long minutes later, a table of data appeared on an adjacent monitor. Young, Claudia and Sally turned their attention to it.
“Well?” asked Ced, exasperated by their continuing silence.
Claudia turned to him. “The third test the prof ran followed on from the first two tests. It went much further than they did and it indicated very strongly what this fourth test has confirmed.”
“Which is…?”
“Which is,” said Young, “that this man appears to be immune to disease of any kind.”
“When you say disease, you mean he can’t catch things like a cold, or measles, or tuberculosis?” asked Ced.
“Precisely,” answered Young. “He’d be totally resistant to them. But there’s more than that. His body would also be completely resistant to conditions arising from mutations or regenerative problems, such as cancer. Nor would it be susceptible to other diseases that you might regard as degenerative.”
“So he could live a long time if there’s no disease out there to get him?”
“It depends what you mean by a long time,” replied Young. “It will need confirmation and much more work, but so far, all the results would appear to indicate that barring accidents or life-threatening attacks on the man – such as somebody shooting him – there is no reason for him to die.”
Ced frowned, trying to take in what this information meant. “But wouldn’t he end up looking horribly old, like one of those characters in a movie who’s a hundred and twenty? You know, all wizened and gaunt.”
The professor smiled. “No, that’s exactly the point. If you regard ageing as a type of disease where the body’s ability to maintain itself becomes increasingly compromised, if you overcome that disease, it would be possible to remain in a state of equilibrium for, well, I don’t know how long. If this man’s immune system has the properties I think it has, he could be hundreds of years old and still look like a man in his prime.”
Ced sat down hard in a chair as the truth hit him.
“Christ! This means that his paintings are indistinguishable from Moretti’s, or de la Place’s, or Perini’s or di Luca’s because he painted them. He was all of those people. The person depicted in ‘The Awakening’ doesn’t just look like him, it is him!”
He turned to Claudia and Sally. “Girls, he knew Piero della Francesca. Knew him! He worked with him! John Andrews worked with Piero della Francesca!”
Sally threw her arms around him. “Ced, Ced, you know what this means?”
He frowned, still overwhelmed by the unbelievable words he’d just uttered.
“Ced, it means your program was right all along. There’s nothing wrong with it at all. It’s brilliant, Ced, comple
tely mindblowingly brilliant!”
Rare Traits (The Rare Traits Trilogy Book I) Page 27