by Sam Blake
Waiting for the coffee machine to do its thing, he leafed through the post that the housekeeper had left on the kitchen counter. How long had Vittoria been away? There seemed to be tons of it. Mainly junk, needless to say – he tossed another envelope addressed to Vittoria on her pile and shuffled to the next letter, one for him. From the insurance company.
Marcus looked at it, stunned. Why hadn’t he thought of that? He’d totally forgotten that they were due to pay up on the stolen paintings from the first break-in anytime soon.
He grimaced. Vittoria had said something about getting more cameras in the grounds after the second break-in, to make sure they covered the whole garden too. He rubbed his hand over his face. He couldn’t remember if she was doing something about that or if he was supposed to. Christ, with everything going on, she wouldn’t be very impressed if he asked her – it would be obvious he’d forgotten. But he could ring the security company and check.
The espresso machine clicked, the light changing, the sound of coffee trickling into his cup somehow triggering a memory. She’d said something about the pool house, making sure there were cameras active inside as well as outside. He focused on the cup, willing the conversation to return. Jesus, he was getting old. He had no idea why she wanted them there, but he wasn’t about to ask. Hadn’t she said something about wanting to see the whole property before she went to bed? That was it, she was worried someone could hide in there. Perhaps she thought the guy who had broken in had been hiding somewhere before he got into the house?
Whatever had happened, it hadn’t been helped by the fact that he’d been with Stephanie that night – she’d had a late scare, unexpected spotting, and had gone into hospital and he’d stayed with her. By the time he’d realised he hadn’t called Vittoria to say he wasn’t coming home, it was far too late. He was sure she’d be asleep in bed.
They’d kept Steph in for the night and he’d slept in the chair beside her, holding her hand, waking in a panic every time she moved in her sleep. He’d turned his phone off so it didn’t disturb her.
And the next morning, when he’d switched his phone back on again, there had been a stream of texts and missed calls from Aidan saying Vittoria was fine but an intruder had got into her bedroom. Going back through the messages he’d discovered Vittoria had made dinner, which was a diary event in itself, and had been pretty annoyed that he hadn’t turned up.
Christ, he felt sick just thinking about it. What were the chances of it happening that night, of all nights? He’d thought about telling her about Stephanie then, and almost been ready for it, except when he’d got back to Dublin he’d found that she was at the police station looking at photofits and there were guards crawling all over the house.
He couldn’t exactly tell her he was leaving her at that point. And what if she found out Steph was pregnant? That would break her. He knew how much she wanted children. Right before the first break-in she’d started talking about adopting, had brought it up first at a dinner party in Ballsbridge, chatting to the wife of one of his pilot buddies. He hadn’t even wanted to go and somehow they’d all ended up talking about children and she’d said how much she wanted them and he’d felt like a murderer all over again, the murderer of his own children.
Marcus shook his head. It was all so complicated. He wasn’t even sure that he’d ever loved her – he’d played the part, of course, and he had to admit his friends had been insanely jealous. Vittoria was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, with the most amazing body, and he’d wanted her, wanted all of her from the moment she’d sent his coffee all over him in Charles de Gaulle. He’d done everything it took to win her.
And then the accident had happened and it had turned both their lives upside down. He couldn’t leave her then. He still had no idea what had happened that night. He had definitely blacked out, not that he would ever admit that or he’d never have been able to keep his commercial licence, but something had always niggled him, he wasn’t sure what, something to do with a girl. But he couldn’t even remember the party, never mind getting in the car.
Marcus shook himself as a shiver ran up his spine. He’d been the one to walk away like nothing had happened. He’d had his seatbelt on, had a fairly sizeable bruise on his shoulder where he’d hit the car door when it rolled, and nettle stings. And that had been it.
Marcus looked at the envelope from the insurance company in his hand and tore it open. He’d given everything to Vittoria; now he needed to focus on himself and making sure Stephanie and his son were well looked after, and this payout, he was sure, would help.
He scanned the letter. They had taken a commercial rate on the missing paintings rather than an auction price, basically undervaluing them by about thirty per cent. Great. And they were insisting on increased security. But they would be sending a cheque as soon as everything was to their satisfaction. Marcus heaved a sigh of relief. Four paintings had been taken, worth around a million euro. After the excess, they were paying six hundred thousand. It was all bollocks and normally he would have been straight onto his solicitor, but right now a cheque for 600K could do a lot for the mortgage in Notting Hill.
Realising his coffee was going cold, he sipped it black. To secure the money, he needed to show he had the security stuff underway. Those cameras Vittoria wanted were suddenly urgent.
He picked up his phone as it pipped with a text. From Vittoria.
Check the attic. I think there are
some pictures your dad never hung
up there.
Marcus looked at the text, his brow furrowed. More paintings?
Thank fucking God, but what had his dad put in the attic that he hadn’t shown in the house? Every wall was crammed with original paintings. There had been moments recently when he’d wondered if his father had been trying to sink undocumented cash, to make investments that would pay off in years to come. Like the marble statue of an angel that had been at the bottom of the stairs for as long as he could remember. Who had spare cash for museum-standard sculpture like that to stick at the bottom of the stairs?
When he’d had the paintings valued originally for the insurance, the expert from Rahilly’s auctioneers had whistled at that bust, his eyes wide. Marcus had meant to get it itemised, but it was marble, too heavy to lift and it would survive a fire, so it would only add to his premiums. Vittoria had never liked it – the minute the assessor had left she’d had it moved to the cupboard under the stairs with the hoovers and cleaning materials. There was little chance of a burglar finding it in there.
So the attic was his next stop, right after he’d called the security-camera people. And then he’d get straight over to the solicitor’s. He opened his calendar; he was due at 11.30. Still plenty of time. It was just as well he’d got up early. He yawned and scanned the insurance letter again. They were sending someone – tomorrow – to look at the improved security arrangements.
Tomorrow? Christ. There would be nobody here. He had to get back to London early tomorrow so he was fresh for this hearing. He needed to move the appointment to next week, and he needed to get the cameras organised before their man arrived. Abandoning his coffee, Marcus checked the time again: 9.30 a.m. The security company’s offices would be open by now. He fired the insurance company an email to change the appointment and scrolled through the numbers in his phone. Thankfully, the security company answered quickly
‘Marcus Devine in Alcantara, Killiney. I think my wife might have been in touch with you already about increasing the number of cameras we have linked into our CCTV system?’ He listened to the reply. ‘No? Christ, perhaps I was supposed to call you. She’s going to murder me.’ Marcus warmed to the sympathetic laughter from the man who had answered. ‘I don’t know if you can do anything but the insurance assessors are coming next week and obviously I was supposed to call you weeks ago … Yes, I know. Feckin’ women, you know yourself. She says we need two new cameras, one in the pool house and one on the drive?’
The guy on the end made a c
omment about skinny-dipping and Marcus chortled. ‘I don’t think you’ll get to see, mate, the video’s all recorded here – sorry about that.’
Marcus listened for a moment, then burst out laughing. ‘That too, mate. But, look, I have to go back to London tomorrow. I need the cameras in today for this insurance guy. What can you do? It’ll be worth your while …’
Marcus hung up, smirking to himself. Money talked, end of. He just needed to make sure the technicians took an envelope for Tadgh O’Sullivan back to the office with them. Looking for a pen at the back of the kitchen counter, he wrote the guy’s name down on the insurance company letter. It was only fair; he’d been very helpful.
Tadgh had said he’d call him back, but Marcus reckoned the camera team would be there mid-afternoon, which gave him time to get to the bank before he did anything else and transfer his bonds and savings over to Stephanie. Then he’d be able to see about these other paintings Vittoria had texted about.
Chapter 37
THE ATTIC LADDER was one of those extending ones that was hidden in the ceiling. As Marcus used the pole he’d found in the utility room to hook the catch he smiled to himself. He hadn’t done this since he was fourteen and had sneaked up into the attic to have a covert fag.
Now, as he pushed back the hatch the ladder slid down easily like it had been used recently, was well oiled. Trying the steps for steadiness, Marcus began to climb, his phone in his hand. As he cleared the trapdoor, his head in the darkness of the attic, he switched on the flashlight on his phone, swinging it around the space. The house was two storey, but it hugged the hillside and the roof space was relatively low. He certainly wouldn’t ever be looking at a loft conversion to create a games room in this house. Stooping, Marcus climbed over the top of the ladder and looked around. The attic had been floored at some stage, but it had been a repository for suitcases and old sets of curtains and china and God knew what ever since he could remember.
What had Vittoria been doing up here to find a pile of paintings? Perhaps, like his mother, she’d been storing china – the point was that she’d seen some canvases that Marcus didn’t know anything about. Which meant if they were sold, they wouldn’t be missed. Swinging his phone torch around, he took in the trunks and suitcases, the housekeeper’s old sewing machine. It smelled strange up here, almost too dry. He’d only been to Ayres Rock once, but it was like that, a still, eerie feeling, like time was frozen.
Ignoring the feeling in the back of his neck, Marcus looked around, leaning forward to reach the furthest edges of the attic with his flashlight. It was a big house, had a big footprint, and the attic was huge.
But Marcus didn’t have to look far. Leaning up against the chimney breast, right in front of him, he could see three different-sized canvases stacked facing the red brick. Even without seeing the frames and the paintings themselves, he could see they were old from the charcoal and chalk numbers scrawled on the back – sales lot numbers, maybe?
He climbed closer and bobbed down beside them to get a better look, glad he was in his jeans. Pulling the first one back, he looked at it, using the light from the phone to help. It looked incredibly old – Renaissance, perhaps.
Puzzled, Marcus pulled back the second one. It was totally different, a cubist oil in black and white – something from the 1930s, maybe. Strange they were so different, and so different from the paintings in the rest of the house. And they didn’t have much dust on them, not that it was terribly dusty up here. It looked like Vittoria must have found them, moved them closer to the trapdoor and forgotten to tell him about them. He turned off his flashlight and let his eyes adjust to the low light coming through the trapdoor. Marcus picked up two of the paintings and moved them closer to the hatch, then went back to have another look at the first one. It looked very old – he couldn’t be sure – was it a girl in a field, maybe? It was hard to tell. He’d have a proper look at them in the light.
*
Downstairs, arranging the paintings across the kitchen table, the spotlights on full above him, Marcus could see these were something special. And he could see why his mother would have insisted they stay in the attic. None of them were to her taste at all – she had favoured the impressionists, loved soft colours and pastoral scenes.
Guessing at an appropriate description, Marcus did a search for similar images. The first one was the 1930s cubist monochrome.
There it was. The exact picture.
It took him a few minutes to absorb the information. He pulled out the kitchen chair and sat down heavily. What on earth? He checked the second one. Then the third. A pattern was emerging.
The caption that appeared with the first one said it had been missing from Hanover since 1937. It had been painted in 1912 by an artist called Albert Gleizes. Another one, a portrait he’d thought was of a girl before he looked closely, was Portrait of a Young Man by Raphael, which had been looted by the Germans from a museum in Poland in 1939.
Raphael. Holy fuck.
He leaned over it, looking closely at the brush work. It was definitely real.
Marcus sat for a few minutes, shocked, absorbing the information, his mind unable to process it.
Then things began to fall into place.
His father had known De Valera. Had he introduced him to Nazis who were hiding in Ireland after the Second World War, Nazis who had brought art with them to sell on the black market, to keep themselves in the lifestyle they had grown accustomed to? Marcus remembered sneaking out of bed in his pyjamas, listening through the banisters as people arrived at his parents’ dinner parties. People with foreign accents.
His father was a well-known art collector in Ireland. Had he bought the paintings but been unable to show them in the house because of their rarity and provenance? Or had he been given them as payment to help with something else?
Marcus had no idea what that could have been, but his father had been a powerful man with a public profile. If he’d met a known war criminal, he’d have been obliged, surely, not only professionally but also morally, to report their presence in Ireland? But what if he hadn’t? What if he had looked for them to buy his silence?
It was a long time ago; Marcus knew he could only speculate. But however they had got here, these paintings were worth thousands, maybe millions. And Vittoria obviously had no idea of their value. But Marcus was quite sure her art dealer friend would, and, as she’d suggested, if he was happy to find buyers away from auction rooms, then he was definitely the man to sell these.
Marcus felt a huge surge of relief. With the money from these pictures perhaps he’d be able to divorce Vittoria after all, to buy her out of the house, and he’d definitely be able to make sure Stephanie was well looked after and he’d be able to fight this bloody Inquirer thing.
With this sort of money, he could hire someone to find out exactly who was behind the photographs, find out who would want to damage him like this. He knew papers always protected their sources, but knowing who was doing this and, more importantly, why was starting to eat him up.
The only problem he had was time, or lack of it. He needed to get this guy of Vittoria’s over here fast and get all the pictures sold. He was sure it would take time to find buyers for paintings of this level of worth.
Marcus smiled to himself. Perhaps his luck was changing at last.
Chapter 38
‘HAVE YOU heard from her?’
Lily turned away from the kettle and leaned on the kitchen counter, keeping her fingers crossed behind her. She was wearing her baggy work dungarees and a skinny T-shirt – there was no way Jack would see her hands behind the folds of soft paint-splattered denim. ‘No, not yet. She’ll be in touch in due course.’
Sitting at the kitchen table nursing his tea, Jack grimaced. ‘Do you really trust her? I mean, how do you know her?’
Lily put on what she hoped was an innocent face with a good dose of sincere and worried mixed in. ‘I told you, through college. I was checking out Edward Croxley and she came up on his Faceb
ook page as a friend of a friend. I’d met her at a party and we’d got on well. I only got in touch to find out more about him.’
‘But you said she’d been swindled by him too?’
The kettle boiled and she turned around to pick it up. Thank God she didn’t have to look at him; she hated lying to him. He was right to be suspicious, but this time she just needed him to trust her and do what he was told.
They’d talked about it on the plane, their voices low although no one could hear them in their little first-class pod. There was no way anyone could know of their connection. That’s what made the whole plan work. Lily would have loved to have told him all about it, but it was crucial that Jack wasn’t involved. Lily felt grateful all over again that she’d been flying business class – if they’d met in economy they’d never have been able to talk without a whole load of people hearing and none of this could have happened. Their whole meeting had been so utterly random – her ticket had been changed to TransGlobal at the last minute, and Vittoria had been flying out of Heathrow rather than Dublin because she was using an employee family pass. Perhaps the Universe knew that a few things needed rebalancing.
But obviously Jack was curious – he’d been asking all sorts of leading questions since they’d found the amulets. Lily’s silver bangles jangled down her arm as she reached up to the cupboard for the mugs. She just needed to keep to her story. She kept her back to him as she answered, taking out the teabags.
‘Well, sort of, I don’t know the details but I think she was dating Croxley or something and he walked out on her really abruptly. That was before they realised that a bunch of jewellery was missing. She couldn’t prove anything, obviously.’
‘But she wants to get one over on him too.’
‘Exactly.’ She poured the water into his mug and turned around to hand it to him, the teabag still in it.