“I know what I’m doing,” Graver continued. “Altman won’t discredit the Rubens. Believe me, this is not just about the painting. I want to get my own back on that pompous bastard and stop the bloody Lamberts patronising my family at the wedding.” He breathed in steadily. “It’s fine, trust me.”

Graver waited for the professor, knowing he would be late. And he was. Smiling smugly as he walked in, he took a good look at Graver’s receptionist, who was stunning. She ignored him, just as she had been told to do. Altman was surprised: women never ignored him. He gave a shrug and heard Graver call out to him and invite him into the office. Martin Kemper was no longer there. He had left for his own gallery, his nerves jangling like unstrung piano keys.

“Michael,” Graver said, using Altman’s first name and smiling expansively. “You wanted to see the Rubens, and I want you to see it, but before you do could you have a quick look at a Corot for me? I’m pretty sure of it, but I would appreciate your opinion.”

Altman’s face lit up. “Of course. Mind you, I’d charge anyone else for my time. But, as we’re friends…”

Graver placed the landscape on the easel and Altman beamed. “This is a beauty. I would stake my reputation on this being genuine.” Examining it thoroughly, he asked for its provenance and stared at it for about three minutes, until finally nodding his head. “Yes, it’s genuine.”

Graver sighed, watching as Altman signed the back of the painting and made his cross on it. Then, with a flourish, he scribbled a handwritten note declaring the work genuine and signed it.

“Now, may I see the so-called ‘Rubens’?”

“Of course,” Graver replied, moving towards his desk and pressing his intercom. “Melissa, can you come in for a moment? And a bring sheet of paper, will you?”

As Graver knew he would, Altman stared at the beautiful receptionist, his attention fixed on her. She handed him a sheet of paper and he took out his pen. Graver glanced over at him.

“Could you just say, ‘I authenticate this work as being genuine,’ and sign it?” he asked. Melissa retuned Altman’s gaze, distracting him so much that he scribbled the note and handed it back to her absent-mindedly, while trying to start up a conversation with her.

And while she commanded his interest Graver pushed two unfastened canvases out from the back of the frame. Then, with one deft movement, he swapped them around and pushed them both back into the frame, sliding the holding clips in place. The Rubens was now on show, the Corot behind it.

Having no luck with the receptionist, Altman was reluctant to be drawn back to work.

“This is the painting I wanted you to see,” Graver said as Altman stared after the retreating woman. Melissa had timed it to perfection, Graver thought. He really must give her a rise. “This is the Rubens.”

The professor looked stern. “You know that if it’s inferior or a fake – and I can always spot a fake, my reputation relies on the fact –I am duty bound to tell you so.”

“I understand.”

“I must say, you’re being very magnanimous about this, Graver. I know you took it badly when I discredited that Turner of yours—”

“It was a mistake. The past is the past,” Graver said grandly. “Today is all that matters. We must bury the hatchet, Michael.” He moved towards the easel and lifted the cover off the portrait.

In all her slick prettiness, the female sitter looked back at them. Intrigued, Altman moved closer. He had to admit that it was a good painting, very Rubenesque, but that didn’t make it a genuine work by the Master.

“Where did you find it?”

“It was a sleeper. I spotted it in a sale.”

“So you have no provenance?”

“No,” Graver admitted. “But then, as you and I both know, some works by the Old Masters lack provenances. How genuine they are comes down to experience and opinion. Your opinion.” He could see Altman scrutinising the work, holding a magnifying glass to it and tilting his head from side to side. Grunting, he picked it up and moved it under the light.

Graver held his breath, praying that Altman wouldn’t turn it over and look at the back.

“I think it’s genuine,”

Irritated, Altman was quick to crush Graver’s suggestion. “It’s a dud.”

“What!” Graver said, shocked. “But I had it dated. It’s from Rubens’ time. Paints and canvas correct. I was sure it was a work by the Master.”

“It’s a very good portrait, but not a genuine Rubens. It’s either been done by one of his students, or by a copyist of that period. Rubens’ work was in such high demand, they were faking it in his own lifetime.” He looked smug as he said it. “Sorry, old boy. Looks like you got caught out again.”

Graver flushed. “How can you be so sure?”

“I am paid to be sure. My reputation depends on my certainty. Across the world, dealers and galleries have repeatedly relied on my opinion. This,” he said pompously, pointing to the portrait, “is not a genuine Rubens.”

“And you’re positive?”

“One hundred per cent certain,” Altman replied, moving towards the door. “I hate to disappoint you, but I stand by my word.” He couldn’t resist one a parting shot. “You’re not as good as you used to be, Graver. Don’t worry, everyone loses their edge eventually. Perhaps its time to think about retiring?”

SEVEN

Martin Kemper could not believe what he was seeing. In the Professor’s luxuriant hand was written:

I authenticate this work as being genuine.

Michael Altman

“My God!” he said, delighted. “This is staggering!”

“Should help you to get a big deal, Martin.”

Kemper narrowed his eyes. “But Altman’s opinion makes the portrait much more valuable. My offer—”

“Let’s raise it to five hundred thousand,” Graver replied, smiling. “I’m not greedy, I never have been. But that will do nicely for the wedding and keep our end up with the Lamberts.”

“That’s more than generous of you,” Martin said, taken aback and thinking that the dealer was beginning to lose his touch. Poor man, not as sharp as he used to be. “You are sure?”

“Oh yes,” Graver replied. “More than sure.”

EIGHT

Exactly one month later Antonia Hirst married Benny Lambert. The wedding was a plush affair, no expense spared. Pam was more than a little proud of her husband. She didn’t know how Graver had managed to pull off such a coup and she didn’t want to know. All that mattered was that their daughter had a spectacular wedding.

The Hirsts cheapskates? No way.

Merry on champagne, Graver stole off into the garden away from the reception. His plan had worked. And yet up until the last moment he wondered if he would manage to pull it off, or if something – or someone – would throw a spanner in the works. But no one did.

In fact Martin Kemper managed to sell the Rubens portrait for a remarkable amount, pitting the two brokers against each other in a financial bloodbath. Kemper didn’t know who they were bidding for – the identity of their employers always remained a secret – but the outcome was a delight for him. He pocketed a fortune – after giving Graver his paltry half million.

Believing he had cheated Graver once again, he felt no remorse. And Graver, in his turn, felt no guilt either. Of course the sale had been greatly assisted by Professor Altman’s declaration that the Rubens was genuine. After all, he’d never been wrong. Had he?

Smiling to himself, Graver thought back to the moment when Professor Michael Altman had arrived at his studio, apoplectic with fury.

“I told you that painting was a fake! And yet you’re saying I said it was genuine—”

“But you signed the back of the work, Michael. And you gave us your written confirmation.”

“For the Corot!”

“Oh dear,” Graver said with mock sympathy. “Then you’ll have to make an announcement to say you were mistaken. People will understand. You made an error, momentarily lost your edge…” The barb hit home like a returning boomerang. “It’s simple – just admit you were wrong.”