by Rose Edmunds
‘Is this possible…?’ asked George, taking in the uncanny resemblance to Ed.
‘Let’s discuss the facts,’ Stan replied. ‘But first, more wine.’
He waved the empty bottle at the owner.
‘What happened to your arm?’ asked Stan, his eyes lighting on the sling.
‘Someone tried to shoot me.’
‘Why?’ He didn’t sound concerned in the slightest. For all his faults, at least Ed had developed a knack for fake empathy, an essential skill in corporate life.
‘I’m assuming it was the same people who ran me off the road.’
‘But what does this mean? The painting…?’
Interesting how Stan lost interest in his new brother as soon the Picasso was mentioned. Meanwhile, George examined Stan minutely, seeking clues one way or the other. Once more, I suspected Stan had an idea about the identity of our enemies, but how could this be?
‘It’s in a Swiss bank vault,’ I said. ‘Professor Maurice Beresford, an eminent art historian, has gone with owner of the deposit box to authenticate it.’
‘Who—that faker? He knows nothing,’ said Stan, to my immense pleasure. ‘Drink?’
As Stan poured out a generous glass of wine, I tried to recall the instructions from the emergency room about the medication. Had they told me to avoid all alcohol, or advised caution? Frankly I didn’t much care and laid into the wine with enthusiasm, as I updated Stan.
‘I must hand it to you,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘You’re better than I thought. I never expected you would find it. I shall begin legal proceedings once its reappearance has been announced.’
‘And remember, we have our deal,’ I added, fearful he might try to wriggle out of it.
‘There’s no proof this man is my brother,’ he said, true to form.
‘Brothers or not, you agreed to give George the copy of the Fernande Olivier portrait, if we located the other original Picasso.’
‘A DNA test will decide the matter,’ said George, showing a hard-nosed side I hadn’t observed before. ‘And you’ll be forced to undergo one when I file my lawsuit for half of the collection.’
‘Remember our last discussion, Stan. If he sues you, he’ll win. But if you give him the painting he wants…’
‘We never did that deal,’ he cut in.
‘But the other arrangement still stands, and you’re trying to renege on it.’
‘He’s not interested in me as a brother,’ said Stan, lashing out at George to deflect attention from his U-turn. ‘Money is all he cares about. I’ve not had a happy life. When my father finally told me about the art while on his deathbed, I thought I could benefit from this otherwise worthless relationship...’
Oh here we go again, I thought.
‘Let’s forget about art for now,’ I said, endeavouring to return Stan to the mental place he’d been before, when he’d embraced the concept of blood relatives with an open heart. ‘We’ve brought a photo for you.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Stan, peering at the snapshot.
‘My father,’ said George. ‘And yours too, perhaps.’
‘He looks like my father, but he’s so young. He told me all the photographs were lost in the war. Who’s that whore with him? And the boy?’
‘That’s my mother,’ George replied. ‘The little boy is me.’
‘So you’re telling me my father got this whore pregnant and you were the result.’
‘He was married to her,’ I said.
‘Impossible. When was the picture taken?’
‘1936.’
Stan took a few moments to digest the information, as I tipped the remnants of the wine into his glass and ordered another bottle.
‘I didn’t know he’d been married before my mother.’
‘Well, he had and he hadn’t,’ I said.
Stan listened intently to my theory about the identity swap.
‘It would make sense,’ he said finally. ‘As I told you, Jan Novak is like John Smith. It would be easier for him with such a commonplace name. And why am I not surprised that he abandoned his wife and son? Because it fits the known facts—he was an opportunist, always.’
Like Ed, I thought, and like you, Stan, but didn’t say.
‘He told me he was forced to collaborate with the Nazis but, as I see it, he cut a deal to save his own skin and then stole from under their noses. His shame was in knowing he would do precisely the same if history repeated—he couldn’t stop himself. And the coldness, the aloofness was all a cover to prevent himself confronting his inadequacies. Why, every time he set eyes on me, he must have remembered the little boy he left behind, and daren’t allow himself to feel anything for me…’
It was an unexpectedly insightful, if gloomy, summary, which the Priory therapists would have lapped up.
I topped up my wineglass. Each mouthful seemed to diminish my anxiety, although obviously this state of mind was illusory.
‘How did he handle the change of name with all his art contacts?’ I asked, for this was the one aspect of my theory which troubled me.
Stan did not, however, see it as an issue.
‘He always spun the truth when he wanted—I expect he found a way.’ Stan turned to George. ‘And what do you remember of this man?’
‘Next to nothing,’ George confessed. ‘But before we judge him too harshly, the war did terrible things to people—they were forced to act out of character…’
‘Stop,’ said Stan. ‘Why can we not accept the facts? Why must we gloss over his deficiencies?’
I thought I knew the answer, but spared George the indignity of spelling it out. The father sounded alarmingly similar to Ed, a calculating tactician whose every action was calibrated by an assessment of the perceived benefit to himself. By rationalising his father’s faults, George was indirectly exonerating his son.
Stan now reverted to more prosaic matters, namely how to prevent George from snatching half of his assets.
‘OK,’ he said, after several minutes’ contemplation. ‘If it can be proved by a DNA test that we are brothers, I will give you the painting. On one condition…’
I saw what was coming before he said it, and so did George.
‘You must drop any claim to anything else.’
George stayed silent.
‘What became of your mother?’ Stan asked George.
Not that he cared—he was doubtless only asking to eliminate other potential claimants from the equation.
‘She died, in Theresienstadt.’
‘Oh, I see.’
No empathy again, only matter-of-fact acceptance.
‘So are we in agreement?’
‘No,’ said George. ‘We are not. If I’m your brother, I have rights, and nothing you say can change that.’
This surprised, even annoyed, me at first, before I remembered the last conversation with George. He’d threatened to file suit to ensure the true owners of all the artworks in the collection were traced and adequately compensated.
‘In that case, no DNA test,’ said Stan. ‘I don’t need a brother.’
‘But last time we met, you told me you were pleased to have a blood relation,’ I reminded him.
‘It depends who it is—and what he wants.’
‘But the original deal is still on—right?’ I asked.
‘No deal,’ he said, turning to George. ‘I’m sorry we met. I should have anticipated what a shit you would be—it runs in the family, you know.’
Stan drained the last of the wine, belched loudly, and walked out of the bar.
‘I can’t believe that noxious creature is my brother,’ George said, after he’d left.
Neither could I. But I had no problem believing he was Ed’s uncle.
24
So powerful was the sedative effect of the chemical cocktail I’d ingested, that I put my head on the pillow and didn’t stir until I heard the landline ringing some twelve hours later.
‘Oh hi,’ I said, relieved to hear George’s voi
ce.
‘How are you doing? I missed you at breakfast, but I was afraid to call earlier in case you were sleeping yesterday off.’
‘Yep, that’s about the size of it—I’ve been out for the count. Feeling OK though and I survived the night, so things could be worse, I guess.’
‘How’s the arm?’
‘Surprisingly OK—sort of heavy, but I can’t say it’s painful. Still, I’ll pop another couple of the pills to be on the safe side.’
‘Have you seen the TV?’
‘No—I just woke up.’
‘Switch it on now to one of the Czech news channels.’
Even with the language barrier, I understood the main story involved a man murdered in Wenceslas Square.
‘Not sure if it’s my imagination, but the victim looks familiar.’
As if on cue, a photo popped up on the screen.
‘You’re right—it’s the man from the mirror maze. But what does it mean?’
‘I’m not sure, but according to the waiter this was a frenzied shooting, so rather different from Živsa’s killing.’
‘But no coincidence.’
‘Unlikely.’
‘I wonder if there’s yet another party interested?’ I said, thinking aloud.
‘I’m thinking the same, especially as the guy on reception told me someone called round yesterday evening asking about us. So even though our would-be killer is out of the picture, we can’t conclude that we’re out of danger.’
Which was worrying, to say the least.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I need to go out—will you be OK here?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I replied, with a confidence I didn’t possess. ‘Where are you going, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Stan. I wasn’t happy with the way we parted last night and I need to build bridges.’
In George’s position I’d have left Stan to rot in his own filth and begun legal proceedings. But I now saw that for all his hard-nosed bravado the previous evening, the potential fraternal connection had softened his attitude.
‘Underneath all the bluster,’ George went on, ‘Stan is desperately lonely and he needs a friend.’
‘I see.’ I tried not to sound too sceptical. ‘Shall I come too? I can be ready in ten minutes.’
‘No,’ he replied, without hesitation. ‘This is between Stan and me. Call me straight away if anyone makes contact, or you’re worried about anything. I’m sorry to leave you.’
‘It’s fine,’ I lied. ‘And good luck.’
After George had rung off, a terrible hunger overtook me, as I remembered we’d missed dinner the night before. Surely it would be safe to venture down to the restaurant?
On balance, I decided not to risk it, and ordered an omelette with fried potatoes from room service. Calories be damned—anyway they didn’t count when eating one-handed. As soon as I’d placed the order my phone rang—Mel.
I had no chance to update her about the shooting before she blurted out her news, which to her mind eclipsed all the developments on the art front.
‘He’s proposed, Amy. Mo has actually proposed and I said yes. We had an unbelievable champagne dinner last night in this amazing restaurant and I guessed what was coming. And the ring—it’s superb—vintage Art Deco from the 1930s, and simply perfect.’
I repressed a sudden urge to vomit up the non-existent contents of my stomach.
‘Congratulations,’ I said through gritted teeth.
‘I know you don’t like him, Amy, but with your track record that’s almost like a recommendation isn’t it? Like I said from Day One—he’s the sweetest guy.’
There was, from my perspective, nothing sweet about Beresford’s unique blend of bombast, arrogance, and naked academic ambition, garnished with a dash of mock modesty. But there was little to be gained by saying so, however ludicrous the liaison seemed.
‘As long as you’re happy, that’s the main thing,’ I said, trotting out the first platitude that popped into my head.
‘Mo’s gone to the bank with Hana for their appointment, and then it’ll be time for an even bigger celebration. So I’ll speak to you later when we’ve more info.’ She hung up before I could tell her any of my news.
Afterwards, the more I thought about it, the odder Beresford’s proposal seemed. I’d heard of whirlwind romances, but to propose in less than a week was at best impulsive and at worst bonkers, and Beresford didn’t strike me as either. But oddest of all was this—why hadn’t he waited until after his triumphant discovery of the Picasso to pop the question?
***
Paranoia confined me to the hotel for the rest of the day. Lunch consisted of Pringles from the minibar, washed down by a mini bottle of champagne. I watched old movies and the BBC News on the TV, and speculated about how George might be progressing with Stan.
At around six, I heard an unobtrusive tap on my door.
‘It’s me,’ George called, correctly anticipating my nervousness.
Relieved, I let him in.
‘Been worried about me?’
Not worried exactly, but pleased to see him back. I noticed he was swaying slightly as he walked into the room.
‘He got you drunk then,’ I observed.
‘I drank a little more than I’m used to, but difficult to avoid it with Stan.’ He was even slurring his words.
‘Did anyone ever suggest you have a problem with alcohol?’ I asked, with a laugh, playing back his words from the Café Slavia.
‘The words pot, kettle and black come to mind. What’s that I see?’ He pointed to the empty bottle on the table.
‘A quarter bottle of champagne—almost like a detox for me. I take it the discussion went swimmingly since it lasted so long.’
‘Yes—he’s in a bind, poor chap—hates all the publicity, desperately wants to make amends, and now he’s got the Inland Revenue in the UK on his back.’
‘They call themselves HMRC these days,’ I corrected him. ‘But I’m not surprised. Let me guess—his father’s probate didn’t include those paintings found in the apartment.’
I guessed they’d picked it up from the press reports. People are always amazed that the taxman reads newspapers, but the media is a fertile source of information for HMRC. I’d even seen clients drop themselves in the doo-doo with injudicious comments to journalists.
‘So Stan and I will be spending some time together, I expect.’
‘But he’s horrible. Last night you called him a noxious creature.’
‘Yes, but he’s still my brother—the only one I have.’
George seemed, to my dismay, to be getting a little ahead of himself, maybe because subconsciously he regarded Stan as a replacement for Ed.
‘You have no proof of that.’
‘But he’s agreed to the DNA test, although the result is a foregone conclusion.’
The notion of the level-headed George investing emotional energy in this narcissistic, mentally ill piece of shit made me shudder. All of Stan’s sob stories sounded manipulative, and I hated to think of George being conned. Hoarders are attached only to stuff, not people, and no one knew better than me about playing second fiddle to piles of crap. But equally, it was useless to warn George, as he would never accept it.
‘Anyway, how are you doing? How’s the arm?’
‘Oh—so, so. The whole incident has brought back unfortunate memories, I’m afraid. To be honest, I’ve felt too scared to go out, which is illogical because if someone wants to kill me, they can do it here. No contact from anyone though.’
‘Not even from Switzerland?’
‘Well, not quite what we expected,’ I replied, relaying Mel’s astounding news.
‘I thought that might be on the cards. You can see how they adore each other, and she somehow brings out the best in him. Since Beresford’s been with her, he seems much more…’
George paused, as if searching for the precise word.
‘Human?’ I suggested, and he laughed.
‘He real
ly rubs you up the wrong way, doesn’t he? And your loathing of him seems disproportionate, so perhaps you should ask yourself why.’
He stumbled over the word “disproportionate”—proving beyond doubt he was intoxicated.
‘There’s no benefit in analysing something that defies analysis,’ I replied, which might equally have applied to George’s affection for Stan.
‘But did you ever feel such intense hatred for someone before?’
Ed Smithies had inspired a visceral revulsion on our first meeting, but it seemed tactless to bring this up.
‘No never.’
‘Then perhaps he reminds you of someone.’
‘I’m not up to navel-gazing today, George.’
He wisely backed off and instead asked about the timing of Beresford’s appointment at the bank.
‘This morning, so I guess we should have heard something by now. Shall I give Mel a call?’
Mel didn’t answer, and an odd feeling of foreboding came over me.
‘I hope everything is OK with them.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it is,’ said George blithely. ‘I bet they’ve got caught up in their billing and cooing, and have forgotten we’re on tenterhooks waiting for news.’
Which was at best inconsiderate of them.
‘Anyway, why don’t you and I go out for dinner, as you’ve been stuck in all day—if you’re up to it.’
‘Oh yes please—I can’t bear to watch the BBC news cycle again.’
‘Why don’t we try the Café Louvre? I read in the guidebook that Einstein was a regular customer during the year he spent in Prague.’
‘Sounds good, but I’m not allowing you another alcoholic drink.’
‘I have no desire for one—unlike you I know when I’ve had enough.’
I almost gave a cutting response, but in the interests of harmony, I let his comment pass.
25
By the morning, my nagging unease had crystallised into a more focussed anxiety, and George plainly shared my concern.
‘Still no news?’ he asked, as we sat down to breakfast.
‘Afraid not—I’m beginning to worry something’s gone badly wrong.’
‘Me too. Did you tell Mel about the shooting?’