By a Hand Unknown, page 23
Even so, he was on the point of leaving when his vigil finally paid off. It was after seven when he heard the shouts of a boat crew getting ready to cast off then a boat chugging away. A few minutes later, another engine, with a slow, elderly throb, moved in. Nathan felt a tingle down his spine. He waited a few minutes, listening to the sounds of mooring up, trying to gauge his moment, then hefted his backpack onto his shoulders and walked through to the quay.
The Sally Ann was back, tied up to the same mooring as when he’d first seen it, as far from the buzz of the village as it could be. There was no-one visible on deck but this time Nathan didn’t bother to call out. He grabbed the guard rail and climbed on board.
*
‘I wasn’t avoiding you.’ Sam flicked a glance Nathan’s way but wouldn’t meet his eyes.
He was opening a couple of bottles of beer, prising the caps off with an easy, unconscious hand.
‘I’ve been busy,’ he added defensively.
He handed one bottle to Nathan and took a swig from the other then wiped the back of his hand over his mouth.
‘Doing what exactly?’
Sam shrugged. ‘This and that. Like I told you last time.’
‘So you did.’
Nathan’s cynical tone was clearly starting to rattle his brother because Sam flicked him another edgy glance, frowning now.
‘Have a seat.’ Sam waved a hand towards the benches either side of the table. He took another swig of beer, warily watching Nathan as he sat down, then lowered himself onto the bench opposite. ‘Is this just a social call? Only you seem to have something on your mind.’
Nathan snorted a derisory laugh. ‘Do I? How observant of you. I always knew you were smart, gifted even, though…’ He paused and looked round the tired old boat in a slow, pointed manner. ‘…it doesn’t seem to have got you very far.’
‘I explained that.’
Nathan bent down to look at the floor under the table; it was clear. He hesitated then got to his feet and crossed in a few short steps to a tall cupboard on the other side of the cabin, pulling the doors open.
‘Hey,’ said Sam, jumping up and rushing over. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘I’m looking for evidence. Oh here, what’s this?’
Nathan bent over and pulled out an A3 artist’s portfolio.
‘Leave it,’ said Sam, putting an ineffectual hand on his brother’s arm. ‘Nathan, please.’
But Nathan ignored him, shrugging the hand off, and took it back to the table, laying it flat and unzipping the three sides till he could flip it open. The pocket on one side was filled with sheets of paper, some new, many which looked old. But were they old or had they been treated to look old? The pockets on the other side held drawings. Nathan fumbled through them while Sam continued to protest in a half-hearted, plaintive way. There were sketches, practice sheets from the look of them, in a variety of styles and media, chalk and crayon, pencil and charcoal. Nathan could recognise drawings or part drawings in the styles of Toulouse-Lautrec, Fragonard and Ingres among many others, as well as, pertinently, both Tiepolo and Rubens.
Nathan straightened up and fixed an accusing look on his brother.
‘I think it’s about time you explained, don’t you?’
Sam hesitated for the blink of an eye. ‘I like to sketch. It’s a hobby.’
‘You used to be a better liar.’
‘But it’s true. It’s a hobby. Why are you even doing this? What’s got into you?’
Nathan ignored him.
‘Well it’s not in here so…’ He scanned the room, looking back at the cupboard whose doors still lay open. He went back to it.
‘It must be in here.’ He bent over to look.
‘What must?’
Nathan started poking about. ‘In something protective, I hope, to stop the chalk from smudging and keep it safe.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Sam’s attempt at indignation failed.
Nathan straightened up and fixed a beady gaze on his brother. ‘The Michelangelo of course. The one you’re going to copy.’
He saw Sam visibly blanche and knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was right. It was a sickening feeling.
‘Sit down, Nathan. Please? Can’t we talk?’
‘Only if you’re going to tell me the truth.’
Sam’s head swayed side-to-side desperately like wild animals sometimes do, trapped in cages. ‘OK, OK. Yes.’
They sat as before, facing each other. Nathan waited while his brother fidgeted, looking at his hands, then towards the closed door, then back at his hands.
‘How much do you know?’ he said eventually.
‘Oh no. You tell me. Tell me what you’re doing and who you’re doing it for.’
Sam gave a derisive laugh. ‘Of course, just like that. You think it’s all so simple, don’t you? You come waltzing in here, holier than thou, pretending like everything’s black and white. Have you ever been in a hole in your entire life, Nathan? You’ve never been stuck, desperate, not knowing which way to turn. Don’t lecture me.’
‘You’ve had choices, Sam, the same as everyone. You’ve chosen badly. You always refused to stick at anything. You’ve had the kind of opportunities some people can only dream about so don’t give me the self-pity routine because I won’t wear it. You could have come to me when you needed help; you chose not to.’ Nathan thumped a fist down on the table making the forgotten beer bottles jump. ‘Don’t you dare suggest that any of that is my fault.’
Sam frowned, lips pursed and looked away. He ran a hand through his thinning hair and sighed, long and slow.
‘You’re right.’ He massaged the back of his neck and appeared to be studying the table. Nathan wondered cynically what story he was cooking up now, what fairy tale he thought he might be able to sell.
‘There’s a group of people,’ Sam said eventually. ‘Let’s call them a syndicate. They… they’re interested in acquiring certain art works, then they act as dealers, so to speak, passing the works on to clients.’
‘They sell them.’
Sam nodded. ‘They… persuade people who have some artistic skill to help them achieve this.’
‘They get them to copy the art works,’ Nathan suggested, ‘so that it’s not immediately obvious that anything is missing and they’re good copies but they wouldn’t fool an expert.’
Sam looked up at Nathan in surprise. ‘Exactly. But they need to have somebody on the inside of whichever collection they’re targeting to effect a swop and they’re clever at doing that – at finding someone who can be bought or blackmailed. They identify places with weak security.’
‘And this is happening in several places at the same time?’
‘That’s what I hear. It’s a large syndicate. That’s all I know.’
Sam stopped talking as if he hoped that would be enough. As far as Nathan was concerned he’d only just got started.
‘And what’s happening here then?’ he pursued insistently, stabbing the table with a determined index finger. ‘They’re targeting the collection at Ranling Manor but only the drawings, the work that’s easy to take and replace and forge?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve heard that they are.’ Sam paused. ‘The word is that you don’t ask too many questions about these guys. They recruit people they can manipulate but only tell them what they need to know. Most of the time they don’t know who the other people involved are. The art work, whatever it is, is dropped off for the artist who’s going to copy it in a specified place. Just a note or a call to say where. Then it’s left there again a specified time later. Communication is all by note, you see, or a phone call, with fake names so no-one can grass on the others. No face to face.’ Again he paused. ‘That’s what I’ve heard they do anyway.’
He picked up his bottle of beer and took a long pull on it.
‘And the Michelangelo that’s missing?’ prompted Nathan. ‘Where’s that?’
Sam put the bottle down but continued to hold it as he met Nathan’s gaze.
‘I imagine the artist has it still to work from.’ He produced a pinched smile. ‘If he doesn’t, he’ll get into a heap of serious trouble, you see. It takes time to do a good copy. It takes practice so the artist is given a few weeks. They monitor it though. They don’t like them taking too long – it makes discovery more likely – so there’s a cut-off date by which it has to be delivered. Like I told you: it’s just what I’ve heard.’
‘Why doesn’t the artist go to the police?’
‘Because he doesn’t know enough to break the syndicate, I imagine. And that leaves him seriously vulnerable if they find out he’s talked.’ He paused again, still holding Nathan’s gaze. ‘And they always find out. There’s also the artist’s family to think of.’
‘And what about the art curator who conveniently died because she realised what was going on?’
‘I know nothing about that,’ Sam spat out vehemently.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Bloody hell, Nathan, what do you take me for?’
There was a brief, tense silence.
Sam got to his feet suddenly. ‘Do you want something to eat? I’ve got sausages. And a couple of those potato sachets. I might even run to baked beans.’ He started rummaging in the wall cupboards, pulled out a tin, then looked back at Nathan. ‘Then you should go, for both our sakes.’
Nathan stared up at his brother, incredulous.
‘But you haven’t told me anything.’
‘I’ve told you all I can.’ Sam gave a resigned shake of the head. ‘There’s nothing else to say.’
They ate but he refused to discuss the matter further, despite Nathan’s persistent attempts to make him.
‘Now you should go,’ Sam repeated, when Nathan had barely swallowed the last mouthful.
‘I can’t leave it like this,’ said Nathan. ‘I can’t know that there’s a huge crime going on and not do anything about it. And it’s going to go on and on unless someone does do something about it.’
‘You should never have got involved.’
‘An innocent woman was murdered.’
‘Was she? Do you know that?’
Nathan stared at him. A couple of minutes passed.
‘What have you become?’ he said.
Sam didn’t reply.
‘More people will end up dead. Don’t you care?’ Nathan stared at Sam who stared back. ‘These things always snowball. It’ll get out of hand. At least give me something to go on. Like where does the art work get left?’
‘I believe it changes.’
‘When will the fake Michelangelo be put back in the collection?’
‘I don’t think the artist would be foolish enough to give that kind of warning.’
‘Soon?’
His brother shrugged.
They parted without embracing. In the couple of hours they had been together it felt as though the distance between them had become a chasm, deep and wide. Nathan returned to his car and drove slowly back to the manor in a daze and still sat in his car in the parking area long after he’d killed the engine. Sam’s account had a ring of truth to it, for all the veiled language, but still he wondered how much of it was Sam’s all too plausible and imaginative creation. But Sam was clearly involved, right up to his neck. There could be no doubt.
The problem was, he didn’t know what to do about it, either way. Sam’s words: They always find out. There’s also the artist’s family to think of, kept running through his head. Was that just Sam, trying to stop his brother from rocking the boat, or a real and genuine threat?
Chapter 18
Hannah was knocking on Nathan’s door at ten to eight the next morning. She’d not seen him at all the previous evening but she had heard him leave his room earlier that morning and cross to the bathroom. He’d been back in his room more than half an hour already and she couldn’t contain her curiosity any longer.
‘Who is it?’ he called.
She glanced up the corridor but there was no-one in sight.
‘Me.’
‘Come in.’ It was a tired, flat response.
He wasn’t in bed but he wasn’t dressed either. He was standing, shrugging a thin dressing-gown over a bare chest and a pair of night shorts. His hair was dishevelled, his face looked drawn and behind the glasses his eyes were strained and pinched.
‘Don’t tell me there’s another fire,’ he said acidly, pulling the dressing-gown belt round his waist and knotting it.
‘Didn’t you sleep?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s that obvious, is it?’ He turned away, making a futile effort to pull the bed covers straight before sitting down heavily on top of them.
‘What happened? With Sam I mean. I’m guessing you saw him.’
He sighed. ‘Yes, I saw him.’
Hannah pulled the armchair round to face him and sat down, looking at him expectantly. ‘And?’
‘And… nothing. And I don’t know what.’
‘Explain.’
Another sigh and the familiar running of his hand through his hair.
‘Well, he’s got all the necessary gear there on his boat: practice sketches to copy Old Master drawings, all kinds of art materials and paper – some of it old or looking old. It’s all pretty damning as far as I’m concerned but it’s not exactly proof and he won’t admit to anything. He confirmed the way these people work which is just as we thought, but pretends he only knows because he’s heard it on the grapevine. I was so cross, Hannah, I could have…’
He broke off and was silent, putting a hand to restlessly smooth out the thin coverlet over the sheet beside him.
‘I asked when the fake Michelangelo would be dropped off but he wouldn’t play along. He implied that he’s too scared both for his own skin and for his family.’ He shook his head. ‘The thing is I honestly don’t know how much I believe. You know, I was so excited when I first realised I’d found my brother again but now it feels like I’ve met a stranger.’
Hannah got up, went to the door, looked out into the passage again, then resumed her seat.
‘Did he have the Michelangelo?’ she asked softly.
‘I don’t know. I didn’t see it and without pulling his boat apart…’ He shrugged. ‘He wasn’t about to show me, that’s a fact.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know.’ He rubbed at the stubble on his cheek with an agitated hand. ‘I really don’t know. It’s a nightmare. I’ve been working it through every which way in my head all night and I’m no further on. Someone must know who’s at the top. Sam tries to make out it’s all anonymous – I suppose he’s covering himself – but it couldn’t work that way, could it, especially if threats are involved? There must be some face-to-face contact. I suppose it’s possible the artists don’t know who they’re dealing with but there must be middle men too. If Sam or whoever delivers a drawing to a specified place, assuming that’s true, then someone else must be picking it up.’
‘Yes, but that could be whoever from here is taking them in the first place.’
‘You’re right. I’m just trying to find a way to believe him and hope he wasn’t involved with what happened to Carrie. I feel so helpless.’
Hannah was at a loss to know what else to say. She noticed the watercolour Nathan had bought for his mother had been taken out of its wrapping and was propped up on its side against the wall.
‘You got the watercolour out again,’ she observed, for something to say.
‘I was looking for distraction in the night. It’s a lovely picture. Very peaceful.’
‘It is.’ She went over to pick it up. ‘I thought you were going to send this on to your mum.’
‘I decided I’d rather give it to her in person. It’s selfishness – I’d like to see her open it.’
She studied it a moment, admiring the cleverly laid subtle washes of colour, then slipped into work mode and automatically examined the frame, turning it over to scrutinise the backing. Anything rather than address the elephant in the room. How would she phrase it: have you thought of going to the police?
‘What do you think about getting out on the water then?’ she suggested instead, replacing the painting against the wall. ‘We could do with a change of scene. It might clear our heads a bit.’ She looked towards the door. ‘And we can talk better. There’s no chance of us being heard on a boat.’
‘Sure. Why not?’ He didn’t move.
Hannah looked down on him, her nose wrinkling.
‘You will need to wash and dress however. And a shave would be good.’
He raised bleary eyes to her face with the first flicker of a teasing smile. ‘You mean you don’t feel the primitive animal attraction I’m exuding?’
‘Is that what it is? And to think I thought it was just sweat.’ She went to the door. ‘I’m going down for breakfast. I’ll see you later.’
*
Rose knocked on the door of Mortimer’s den and waited. It was barely ten o’clock but she knew he was in there. She’d been waiting for an opportunity – and the courage – to tackle him about the things her father had said and she’d seen him sauntering out here some ten minutes ago.
She didn’t come over to the den very often. Mortimer didn’t encourage visitors and in truth she found it an unnerving place. It was the trains, spinning endlessly round and round on their tracks. How pointless and how irritating, unearthly even. And Mortimer would often be sitting painting bits of scenery as if his life depended on it. Why? She liked her uncle but it gave her the creeps, a grown man playing with a train set and doing it with such intensity.
‘Who is it?’ came Mortimer’s voice now from deep within the den.
‘Rose.’
There was a pause before the door opened and Mortimer looked out at her suspiciously.
