by Janet Pywell
‘I was married once – to an Irish man,’ she says unfolding her napkin and tucking it onto her lap. ‘But we weren’t together for long. He wanted me to stay at home and be a housewife–’
‘I bet you never dreamed you would become such a big star,’ Javier interrupts, taking a mouthful of curry.
‘Never in my wildest dreams but it was hard work and I made many sacrifices…’
‘Did you sing as a child?’ I ask.
‘My mother hated me singing. She had no appreciation of music. In fact, I think she was quite deaf. She thought I was shrieking but she sent me to classes anyway. I left home at an early age to pursue my dream. I stayed with an Aunt in New York and went to various voice coaches and then I was offered a place with a group to tour Europe. I was only young, barely twenty…’ She wipes her mouth with a napkin and continues. ‘We went on tour to Ireland and I met a young man. I thought he was so charming. He had brought his parents to the opera to celebrate their wedding anniversary. I had only just left home… I was homesick and he was funny and handsome and he made me laugh.’
‘What happened?’ I lean across the table.
She pauses distracted by the tattoo of the Virgin on my finger.
‘He pursued me. He wouldn’t take no for an answer and when the tour ended, he insisted I returned to Ireland to stay with him. It was all heady romantic stuff. The tour had gone well and I was making a name for myself and we were married within three months.’
‘Wow,’ I say.
‘I never knew you were married,’ Javier says.
‘I was Seán’s wife for a few months but then I realised he wanted a trophy on his arm. He was a budding businessman and Ireland was changing. It was back in the eighties just before the Celtic Tiger and the boom in the economy. He started a construction business and he wanted me on his arm to make him look good but he didn’t want me singing professionally–’ She pauses, twisting the napkin around her index finger.
‘How could he deny the world your voice?’ Javier butts in diplomatically.
She looks up. ‘Ah, but I didn’t sing at my peak then, that came afterward and with lots of practice. It was Seán’s father, Michael who insisted that I sing. He encouraged me and paid for my tutoring. He saw my potential. He was my saviour.’
‘That must have made his son happy,’ quips Javier.
Josephine regards him silently before replying. ‘His wife had just died – my mother-in-law – and Michael was very lonely. He was a Doctor and after she died he lost interest in just about everything. At first I was flattered that he took an interest in my singing and my career. But he wanted me to succeed. He believed in me.’
‘That must have put a strain on your marriage?’ I say.
‘It wasn’t an easy time and I paid a very heavy price. I was invited to an audition in London. My career was taking off then…I was… ill for a while–’
‘And then you became famous,’ Javier laughs.
‘Who needs family? That’s what I say,’ I add.
‘I think family is important,’ she replies. ‘Did your family encourage your passion for art?’
I think she is asking Javier but she is looking at me.
‘Never–’
Javier interrupts me. ‘My father remarried. They didn’t think they would have more children then suddenly my twin brothers came along when I was nine and all the attention went on them. So I sat and painted…’
‘Are you a close family?’
‘My brothers are spoilt. I love them but we’re not alike.’
‘They don’t even look similar,’ I interject. ‘They are fair not dark like Javier.’
‘Are they artistic?’
‘Not at all, one is studying chemistry and the other physics,’ he replies.
‘Do you think painting is an outpouring of your soul?’ she asks.
‘It’s deeper than that, Josephine. It’s my solace. My life. It is the only thing that is true to me.’ Javier wipes his plate with the last of the naan.
‘Opera is art. I had the same passion for my art as you have for yours,’ she says. ‘I was the same with my music. It fulfilled me emotionally and took me where I could not be reached. I escaped via my music. I would lose the demons so I understand you.’
‘What sacrifices did you make?’ He is probing.
How can he be so two-faced? Is he encouraging her to open up so that he can find out her secret? Would he tell Karl Blakey?
The silence is deafening until eventually she says, ‘I sacrificed the most important thing in my life.’
The air between them is palpable. I don’t want her confiding in Javier. Let her keep her secret and return to Dresden in peace and I will go to my new life in Spain. Let us all go our separate ways without any confessions or emotions. Karl Blakey will have to look for another font as the source for his vital information and I am angry with Javier.
‘What is it Josephine?’ he asks softly.
I drop my fork loudly on the plate. ‘More wine?’ I ask.
‘There is something…the most important thing I gave up…’
Javier leans forward, his eyes alert and an encouraging smile on his lips.
I hold up the palm of my hand. ‘Come on, you wouldn’t sacrifice a thing, Josephine,’ I say.
She blinks and tilts her head. ‘What do you mean? I–’
‘You’re a selfish prima donna. You clambered over everyone and everything to seek fame and money and glory – and you got it. I read your stories on the Internet. So don’t start bellyaching now about all the sacrifices you made because it all sounds very hollow from where I’m sitting.’
Javier clenches his fist around his wine glass and frowns at me.
Josephine shakes her head, her eyes are filled with hurt and confusion but I stand up from the table regardless of their emotions. I don’t want to know her secret and I certainly don’t want her to tell Javier.
‘Where are you going?’ she asks.
‘It’s late and I’m going to bed. You are welcome to stay the night if you like. You can sleep with Javier for all I care. But if you want to climb into bed with me then think again. You’re not my type and beside you are way too old for me.’
‘Mikky!’ Javier jumps to his feet.
‘I’ve learned a lot Josephine and one thing I do know is that no one wants or does anything for nothing. People don’t just come knocking on your door and ask you to paint their portrait. I think you’re a bit weird and that’s fine. Javier is good with weird but personally I can’t be bothered–’
‘Weird? Stop it! Please don’t think that! There’s something else. There’s something far more important than all this. You’re right! This opportunity has been…is …’ She reaches out and grips my hand. ‘Please,’ she whispers, ‘please listen to me. I need to tell you both something very important. Something I have never told anyone–’
The doorbell rings, shattering the tension between us. It is late and I glance at Javier. Then someone thumps on the front door.
‘Who is it? It’s almost midnight!’ she asks.
‘I don’t know,’ I reply.
Javier moves quickly but he barely has time to open the front door before it is pushed from his grasp. Roy propels his way inside and grabbing Javier’s collar he shoves him up against the wall. His fist is raised in Javier’s face.
Behind me Josephine gasps.
I grab the neck of the empty prosecco bottle and rush to the door. ‘Get off him! Get off him now, unless you want this bottle in your face.’
‘I want my painting,’ he shouts.
His arm is across Javier’s throat.
‘Get out – now!’ I shout.
‘Where’s my painting?’ he hisses at Javier.
‘He doesn’t have your painting,’ I shout.
‘He stole it.’ He pushes on arm against Javier’s windpipe. ‘He’s swapped it with some crap that isn’t mine. Where is it? I’m going to kill you, unless you tell me…’
�
��You have two seconds to let him go.’ I move forward threateningly, holding the bottle inches from his face. ‘I’ll kill you first,’ I say through clenched teeth.
Behind me Josephine says, ‘I have taken your picture on my mobile and I’m calling the police. They can see who you are and what you are doing. I will video it all.’
I follow Roy’s gaze. She holds the phone to her ear and begins speaking calmly. ‘Police, please – I want to report an intruder. Now, yes, he’s armed. I have his photograph…’
When I turn back Roy has gone and Javier is bent over leaning against the wall and choking with relief.
In the daily newspaper the following day there is a double page spread written by Karl Blakey with the heading, Vermeer’s Secret – No Longer. After Roy’s visit last night and now this I am frightened that if I leave the country – the finger could be pointed at me. I must be patient. There is no evidence and no proof. I phone the newspaper to get Karl’s mobile number.
‘This is a pleasant surprise,’ he says, by way of greeting two minutes later.
‘Cut the crap. I want to speak to you.’
‘It’s about time.’
‘Meet me in Chiswick Park at the coffee shop in an hour and don’t be late.’
When I see him the rain-splattered glass is between us. He sits with his shoulders hunched and his hands clasped around a mug of tea. I brush the rain from my jacket and scowl at the women with two prams and a screaming toddler.
He stands up when he sees me. ‘Would you like a coffee, tea – breakfast?’
‘Just an espresso,’ I reply.
He returns with my coffee and slides into the seat opposite me. ‘I’m pleased you want to talk to me about Josephine? She’s a thief.’
‘She’s not a thief but you are a liar.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘How else do you explain that article you wrote. I want to know how you got the information. How could you write these lies?’
‘It’s what I do for a living…’ He gazes out of the window. His features are small, and his pointed nose and pink eyes are like a wary rodent’s. ‘Besides, it’s all true.’
I pull the newspaper from my bag and place it on the table between us. ‘How do you know Roy Green?’ I ask.
‘Roy’s first wife – Ella Steinberg – was German and five years after they married she committed suicide.’ He surveys the café then levels his gaze at me and waits.
‘You say in here that Mrs Green was an art collector who sold her expansive art collection to pay her sons gambling debts. You then go on to describe Roy’s sleazy past, his gambling addiction and his relationships with numerous prostitutes. I would expect nothing less of you – and true to form – you don’t hold back. You also state that he owns the original; Vermeer’s The Concert.’
‘He does.’
‘Impossible.’
He shrugs. ‘His mother’s dead. Roy is the inheritor and he’s trying to sell it. He’s made no secret of it.’
‘It’s a fake.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he says.
I stare at him. ‘It was a stolen painting. The whole world knows it was taken from the Isabella Garner Museum in Boston. They would pay a considerable sum to have it returned…’
‘Roy isn’t interested in returning it to the museum. He wants to sell it to a collector. That’s how I know about it.’
‘If it was the original, it would be impossible to sell legally.’
‘His intention is to sell it on the black-market to an Eastern European.’
‘He would have to settle for a small percentage of its value, probably less than the museum would pay to have it returned.’
‘The Eastern Europeans will pay more on the black market than anyone, even more than the Isabella Stewart Museum – just to own it and to have it in their country.’
‘But getting back to your article.’ I stab the paper with my finger. ‘You’re suggesting here that Roy has sold it to Alexandru Negrescu’s business rival, a man called Petre Ardeleanu. It says here he’s a wealthy Romanian and a philanthropist with interests in gas, petroleum and coal,’ I read aloud.
‘Roy agreed to the sale but the original painting has gone missing.’
‘Missing? You didn’t say that in the article.’
‘I only found out last night. Roy was dealing with them both – a dangerous game – playing one off against the other. Now he can’t produce the original painting and Petre is accusing Alexandru of doing a deal behind his back. Each of them believe that the other has bought it and that Roy has led them on a goose chase and they are not happy.’
‘What will they do?’
‘Something not very nice to him – but why are you so interested?’
‘Because Mrs Green was my friend.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing! I liked her. She told me she had left the painting to a friend of hers in Bruges.’
He frowns. I don’t know if this is news to him but I am hoping it will push him in another direction. Karl sips his coffee. ‘It’s life and death – not just money – Roy needs to get the original painting back urgently. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.’
‘How is this article going to help him?’
‘It won’t. It’s not meant to’
‘You are despicable.’
‘That’s my job, Mikky. I find out the truth.’
‘You have no regard for anyone. You are a seedy, low-life–’
‘I’ve been called worse.’
‘And now you have made Javier, your friend – and that does worry me.’
‘We have become very close,’ he smiles smugly. ‘Javier enjoys fame. He likes to be recognised and invited to nice places. He also has expensive tastes.’
‘Stay away from him.’
‘He is easy to buy. He likes a good time and he has no loyalty–’
I throw my untouched, lukewarm coffee into his face and walk out accompanied by the screams and tantrums of the toddler and its shushing mother.
The next morning I am photographing landscapes for a new exhibition for an art gallery in New Bond Street and I am lost in thought. If only things were simple. Why didn’t Roy give the painting to the art dealer in Bruges as Mrs Green wanted him to do?
My mobile phone rings and I answer it distractedly.
Annie’s voice is tense and she whispers. ‘Roy is going ballistic. The painting’s been stolen. He said someone has swapped it. He was going to sell it and the men who were going to buy it are very angry with him–’
There is no point in me lying. ‘He came around to my flat on Saturday night and threatened, Javier. He accused him of stealing it and replacing it with a fake.’
‘Oh my God. Did Javier steal it?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Roy is so angry.’
‘I thought Mrs Green left the painting to a friend of hers in Belgium?’
‘She did. But that will she made was two years ago. She was changing it when she died. She wanted Roy to keep the painting. It was a good fake and I think he was trying to pass it off as the real thing. But now it’s not the same painting that Mrs Green had in her bedroom.’
‘Really?’
‘Her friend in Bruges is furious. He’s an art dealer. He wants to take Roy to court – he’s threatening all sorts of things. He’s the one who said it wasn’t the same painting. That’s how Roy found out someone had switched the paintings.’
‘But it must be the same painting,’ I protest.
‘It’s not. Don’t you understand, Mikky? This means someone thought that the painting Mrs Green had hanging in her bedroom was the original. They stole it and replaced it with another one. That’s why Roy suspects Javier.’
‘But Javier wouldn’t do that.’
‘Who could have done it then?’
‘It could be anyone in the art world. Was there anyone else who knew about the painting?’ I need to deflect her attention from Javier.
‘She
didn’t know many people but Roy is determined to find out – the art dealer is furious. It was a secret–’
‘Why was Roy in London when Mrs Green died? You thought he was abroad?’
‘I don’t know. I’m sure he killed Gran but I have no evidence.’
‘There was no sign of a struggle. We saw her remember?’
‘He suffocated her with a cushion. I found it on the floor.’
‘That would have come out in the autopsy,’ I reply.
‘Maybe they got it wrong? I had no idea she was really rich. I’m going to confront him. I know he did it. He killed her. I’m going to record our conversation and then present the evidence to the police.’
‘That will be dangerous, Annie. He’s violent–’
‘We’re moving. The removal men are here. They’re packing everything. He’s pushing me to my limit. He’s crazy, Mikky. He’s like a mad man. I can’t live like this. I can’t live with him. I–’ She can barely catch her breath. Her words are lost in tears and choked emotion.
I push the phone against my ear. ‘Annie? I can’t hear you…’
My mobile goes static.
‘I can’t go on...Kill me – if Roy…I–’
‘Annie?’ I shout.
The telephone goes dead in my hand.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘I never paint dreams or nightmares. I paint my own reality.’
Frida Kahlo
That evening I work late with Sarah Wozniak an art gallery owner on the King’s Road. It’s the last project that I have booked and my last commitment before I pretend I am taking a holiday – never to return.
It’s dark and almost eight o’clock when I am walking home from Kew station. Mrs Green’s death, Josephine Lavelle’s intrusion, Karl Blakey’s maliciousness and finally Annie’s frantic phone call yesterday have all left me exhausted. The thought of a glass of red wine in the bath and dinner cooked by Javier spurs me on. He texted me earlier promising my favourite seafood paella and as I skipped lunch, my stomach rumbles. I can already taste the succulent squid, the saffron rice and juicy mussels.
Outside my flat a black cab is waiting with the engine running and I wonder if Oscar is back from South America. Mrs Green’s house looks dark and naked as if the curtains have been taken down and as I fumble for my key the cab door opens.