First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Quercus

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Copyright © 2013 by Alex Connor

The moral right of Alex Connor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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Ebook ISBN 978 1 84866 774 7

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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The Forger

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

The Killer, the Painter and the Whore

The Painter and the Whore

The Theft

The Fool

The Killer

The Forger

ONE

“Of course forgery is always a problem, especially in the high-stakes world of art,” Professor Altman explained to his intrigued audience at the Museum of Culture. “The methods used are many and varied, from those of Michelangelo – who faked a cherub and convinced many that it was an antique – to the forgers of today.” He was warming to his theme, eyeing up a good-looking woman in the second row and thinking that she looked like a typical art groupie, just the type to ask him questions about his lecture afterwards in the Museum Bar, as if she was really interested. “For centuries women have placed new pieces of carved ivory into their cleavages, where sweat and oils yellowed the article and made it seem antique.” He caught the titter of amusement and pressed on. “And of course it’s well known that urine ages stone quickly. Michelangelo peed on his fake cherub and many a thirteenth-century church saint has been rendered antique by someone’s urinary tract.” He was enjoying himself immensely, his lustrous black beard giving him a raffish appearance, his reputation as a ladies’ man preceding him. But despite his persuasive charm, he was also highly skilled, the nemesis of the art world. This was the man who could expose any faker, the scourge of forgers worldwide.

A brilliant bighead, his conceit was directly proportional to his knowledge.

“Of course now and again the forger couldn’t resist giving himself away and proving just how clever he was.” Altman smiled at the brunette in the second row. “One man copied a religious masterpiece, supposedly Tintoretto, but in the far background, unnoticeable to the naked eye, he had painted a man on a bike.” There was another round of applause and Altman beamed. “I noticed it when I was scrutinising the work, but it had gone unspotted for decades. Luckily I have a nose for fakery.”

*

Later the brunette came to ask the professor questions, and later still they ended up in his hotel room at the Langham. She was not much of an art student but she was very sexually creative, and as dawn came up over London Altman fell asleep, exhausted.

TWO

Graver Hirst was thinking that it didn’t really matter. After all, it was only a painting. And besides, it was his opinion. That was what the art world ran on: opinions as to whether a picture was valuable or worthless. Graver stared at the portrait and decided that it could pass for a seventeenth-century Flemish Baroque master, in the manner of Rubens, or some such. After all, Rubens had a vast number of assistants, all employed to help him cope with the endless commissions. He had pupils too, like Van Dyck, hundreds of paintings churning out of a factory system as efficient as a car plant.

And besides, Rubens didn’t sign all his paintings…

Graver wasn’t a villain in the true sense of the word. He was merely an astute businessman, with a greedy wife and a daughter who was marrying Benjamin Lambert, son of the notorious Gordon. The Lamberts were rich, as Antonia kept telling her father when they talked about the coming wedding.

“We have to have a big splashy affair and a honeymoon in the Bahamas. Oh, Daddy, please…”

Graver didn’t have the money for that. But then again, Antonia was his daughter, his only daughter, and he couldn’t look like a klutz in front of the Lamberts.

No one wanted to lose face, but money had to be found, and if it wasn’t sitting there all green and glowing in the bank, you had to magic it up. And besides, it was only a picture. It wasn’t like he was killing anyone. He was doing it for his daughter. What father wouldn’t do the same?

So Graver looked at the picture again and then picked up the phone.

“Hello, Martin?”

“Graver!” the voice said happily. “How are you?”Graver resisted the impulse to remind Martin about the deal he had snatched out of his hands, hijacking the price at auction of a sculpture Graver had promised to a client of his. Red-faced, Graver had watched the bald Martin Kemper triumph and put it down to business. You win some, you lose some.

But you get your own back.

“We haven’t heard from you for a while now,” Martin continued. “How’s business?”

“Busy as always,” Graver said cheerfully. “I’ve got something I think you might like. Well, I’m sure you’ll like it. A portrait. It needs some restoration, but I think we’re talking Rubens here. And as you and I know, not many of them come on the market. Of course I could be wrong.” He paused, his conscience absolved by allowing a note of doubt to creep in. “It’s not signed, but my instinct—”

“Is usually sound.” Martin made a whistling sound between his teeth. “Rubens?”

“Might be School of.”

“Provenance?”

“It’s a sleeper. I picked it up at a sale in Holland,” Graver continued. “Black as pitch. Apparently the couple who had owned it had kept it above a fire, and they were both heavy smokers. If you like kippered Rubens, this is for you.”

“But no provenance? No papers?”

“Oh, come on, Martin!” Graver admonished him. “Now and again these paintings turn up at auctions and sales, out of the blue. The couple had no relatives and the painting was sold to pay off their debts.”

“What did you pay for it?”

Graver laughed. “As if I’d tell you!”

It was Martin’s turn to smile. “Not much, I bet, if you picked it up by chance—”

“I was wily enough to spot a sleeper when others didn’t. It’s my good fortune – and it could be yours.”

Martin was tempted. He had a clientele of collectors and a number of influential interior designers on his books. In fact he could think of at least four people who might be prospective buyers, all of whom were big spenders.

“I’d like to come over this afternoon and have a look at this so-called Rubens.”

“Of course,” Graver said with alacrity. “Be my guest.”

*

Hoping for a quiet lunch break, Graver moved into the flat above the gallery, only to be greeted by his wife standing at the top of the stairs. Her hair was freshly blow-dried, her forehead sculpted with Botox, her mouth a slot of crimson. And her voice was as soothing as hailstones on a tin roof.