Masterpiece Read online

  The painting measures 69 centimetres high by 63 centimetres wide but the gilt-edged frame is a cheap replica. I turn it over in my hands noting the state of the canvas and the old stamps – evidence of its provenance.

  I turn it to the front again and take a deep breath. The detail is exquisite. The two paintings hanging on the wall behind the trio are symbolic of the scene played out; a rough Arcadian landscape contrasts with the ladies’ genteel beauty in the foreground and a resplendent tree represents Mother Nature, all typical themes of popular 17th century’s songs and poems.

  I frown and tilt the canvas to the light for a closer look. The second painting behind the trio is, The Procuress by Dirch van Baburen. It shows a young prostitute, a bearded client and an older procuress with an open palm who is soliciting payment. It is a work of art, typical of Utrecht Caravaggism. I smile. I am Caravaggio’s greatest admirer.

  The Concert is simply a work of genius and I’ve seen enough authentic pieces of art to spot a fake. This is genuine. It was one of the thirteen pieces stolen from the Isabella Stuart Museum in Boston and worth over $200 million only to turn up in a back street in Bruges two years ago.

  Now it’s in my hands and I have no intention of returning it to America or anywhere else but I must be patient. I hang the painting back on the wall. I never imagined I’d have to save her. That was never part of my plan but now I must wait – Mrs Green deserves that much.

  I will move on and prepare for the next stage of my plan. I don’t know how much time is left but I will be thorough and meticulous. With my heart beating wildly and my body racing with adrenalin, I return home to fetch my cameras and my props. My dream will come true. I will make sure of it. My future is about to change.

  Less than a week later my head is throbbing – too much prosecco last night, my mouth is dry and I’m tired.

  ‘You’ve been standing at that window for the past five minutes, Javier. What are you waiting for – a lover – or divine inspiration?’ I finish adding blue mascara and then add pink lipstick.

  ‘Neither. It’s Salman.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Aaron’s youngest boy from the shop – I didn’t expect to see him delivering milk and The Daily Telegraph to Mrs Green this morning.’ Javier checks his watch.

  I slap my mirror shut and walk over to stand beside him. We both peer through the white wooden shutter that Javier tilts to disguise our spying.

  Salman pushes open our neighbour’s gate and takes four strides to the front door. He places the newspaper and milk on the ground and as he closes the latch gate behind him, he digs his hands in his pockets and whistles, Sam Smith’s Stay with me.

  ‘She must be back at home,’ I say.

  ‘We’ll soon see,’ Javier replies. ‘Wait a minute.’

  The Thames Road is misty. It’s waking up slowly, stretching into life with early joggers and slow moving cars with yellow lights glowing like beacons at sea. A dog walker is dragged across the street by an excited terrier and they disappear down the small alleyway to the river. The buildings opposite are the back of the two story houses, mews and outhouses that face the Strand. In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century, Strand-On-The-Green was a fishing village with fisherman’s cottages and boat-building sheds. As the residence of the Court at Kew became more fashionable, riverside public houses became popular. Some of the best barley grew in the thriving Parish of Chiswick and at one time there were five malt houses nearer the wharves where barley was loaded for transportation.

  Sometimes when I walk along the towpath I close my eyes and imagine I’m transported back in time. I hear the workmen calling out and the banging of crates and boxes as they slam them onto the decks of the waiting boats.

  ‘Look,’ Javier whispers.

  We both lean forward as our neighbour’s door opens. A white head appears and a papery thin hand reaches out. Just as stealthily she is gone.

  ‘I wonder if she is better,’ I say.

  Javier smiles triumphantly. ‘She’s back in her old routine. As regular as a clockwork mouse collecting the cheese.’

  ‘You’re turning into a stalker.’ I walk over to the kitchen and toss the remains of my coffee into the sink. ‘And it’s quite worrying.’

  ‘On the contrary, it’s my meticulous attention to detail – a tribute to the powers of my observation and accuracy. It’s why I’m such a great artist.’

  ‘You’re nosey.’

  ‘No, merely a professional – I notice everything.’

  ‘Yeah, a regular Inspector Clouseau – your talents are wasted Javier – you should have been a detective.’

  ‘Did you notice her ring?’

  ‘No,’ I lie.

  ‘It looks like a huge diamond. Do you think it is real?’

  I shrug and he continues speaking.

  ‘Are you going to call around to her? You saved her life.’

  I ignore him and busy myself checking my bag for cameras and my light meter calibrated to match the sensitivity of my digital camera.

  My head is thumping and it reminds me of my first job in the El Museo de arte Thyssen–Bornemisza where I worked cataloguing and documenting fine art. Javier and I regularly got stoned and drank copious amounts of alcohol. Once, we even ran out of a restaurant without paying the bill and legged it across the Plaza Mayor.

  ‘I’m getting too old for hangovers,’ I say.

  ‘She never goes out. Never speaks to anyone.’ Javier turns back to gaze out of the window. ‘She reminds me of you.’

  ‘I go out.’

  ‘Only to work.’

  ‘We went out last night.’

  ‘That was only with Oscar and me for dinner. Mrs Green must have money to wear that ring. Was she ever married?’

  I don’t want to answer him.

  ‘Was she?’

  ‘We’ve been through all this before. Why are you so fascinated with her?’ I zip the bag shut.

  ‘I’d like to help. You know what it’s like in Spain – families look after the older members – look at my grandmother. She practically lives with us–’

  ‘She’s old and she’s frightened of falling, and besides, it takes all her energy to come round here for a cup of tea.’

  ‘What’s her house like inside?’

  ‘Old and dusty.’

  ‘Where are her friends and family?’

  ‘I don’t know. Old people get like that, Javier. They don’t have many friends. Most of their peers have passed away. They lose confidence, they don’t trust people – especially strangers.’

  ‘That sounds like you,’ he smiles. ‘Old and crabby and you don’t trust anyone either.’

  I swing my bag onto my shoulder. It’s heavy, stuffed with lights, small props and my cameras. Javier walks with me and opens the front door.

  ‘I was thinking about this place,’ he says. ‘It could do with a good paint. The walls in this lounge are – well they look – simply terrible. Apart from my creative masterpiece on the wall.’

  We both gaze over to the far wall near the kitchen counter that divides the open plan room. It’s a dusky Argentinian street scene that he drew with charcoal one drunken evening a few months after he met Oscar in South America.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If I get the portrait commission and if Josephine comes to London–’

  ‘I’ll think about it – if you get it.’

  ‘She’s a mega–’

  ‘She’s just an opera star, Javier. She’s not the bloody Pope,’ I interrupt.

  ‘If it was the Pope then we would have to consider the ceilings and maybe replicate the Sistine Chapel,’ he laughs.

  ‘It’s a rented flat. I might not be here that long.’

  ‘What? We’ve moved three times in the last eighteen months. You were obsessed about finding a place in this area. We can’t move out so soon. What do you think will happen – we’ll win the Lottery – and live in Mayfair?’ He casts his hands wide in a dramatic gesture. His eyes are rimmed w
ith thick black lashes like mini sweeping brushes and I smile.

  ‘Just open the door for me and get dressed. You’ve got work to finish just in case you get your famous commission.’

  I hitch the bags further onto my shoulder. I’m used to carrying their weight but it’s a decoy. I don’t want him to see the look of excited anticipation on my face. Who needs the Lottery? Stealing the painting next door is a far bigger challenge and much more exhilarating.

  ‘I was thinking ochre and pistachio green,’ he persists.

  ‘Feel free. Paint away, Picasso.’

  ‘I don’t do walls, my darling, only canvas.’

  ‘Maybe you should–’

  ‘What? Paint a portrait of your pretty wide mouth and bewitching grey green eyes on the wall?’

  ‘Yup! That should do the trick. Should scare off any burglar.’

  He laughs and my bag bangs against the doorframe on my way out.

  ‘Don’t be late home,’ he calls. ‘It’s your turn to cook and you need all the practice you can get.’

  I don’t turn around and I don’t look back. I just raise my middle finger as I walk away down the path.

  I get as far as the corner shop then on impulse I turn back and walk up Mrs Green’s pathway and press the doorbell.

  I stand in the cold, humming Iron Maiden’s El Dorado, wondering if she heard the bell chimes when I hear the turn of her key and the door opens.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Green, I saw Salman deliver your milk this morning. I’m so pleased you are home. Are you alright?’ I smile.

  ‘Mikky! Hello dear, will you come in?’ She opens the door a fraction and her woolly yellow dressing gown flutters in the breeze. She pulls the collar to her throat and shivers. Her pale face and rheumy eyes make her look old and ill.

  ‘I’m late for work. I just wanted to make sure you are okay. When did you get home?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon but I was so tired I went straight to bed.’

  ‘Can you manage? Is there anything you need?’

  ‘I telephoned Aaron yesterday and Salman is going to run some errands for me later today.’

  ‘If you need anything, just call me.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s so kind of you, Mikky but my son, Roy, is coming home to look after me. He’s moving in with his wife Annie and son Max.’

  ‘Oh…that’s good. Well, close the door, Mrs Green. Don’t lose all the heat. I left my phone number beside the telephone for you – just in case.’

  ‘I saw it my dear and I’ll settle up for the window pane.’

  ‘No worries, Mrs Green, I’ll speak to you later.’ I wave and walk away, anxious for her to go back inside the house and stay warm. I need to think.

  My son, Roy, is coming home to look after me.

  I am distracted gazing at my feet thinking about the implications that their arrival could have on my plan. I don’t see the bus and it passes inches from my face. I jump back away from the road cursing London traffic and the arrival of my new neighbours.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘A painter should begin every canvas with a wash of black, because

  all things in nature are dark except where exposed by the light.’

  Leonardo da Vinci

  ‘Landscape with an Obelisk is being examined by Sotheby’s for authenticity.’ Phyllis Laverty’s voice comes from over my shoulder. ‘But I doubt the experts will agree. They rarely do.’

  I bend my knees and lean forward focusing on the painting in front of me.

  ‘Wasn’t it stolen?’ I ask.

  I focus the 50mm lens of my Nikon D7000 digital SLR camera to give me a sharper image.

  ‘Yes, it was in the haul of the largest art theft in history. You know, the one from the Isabella Stuart Museum in Boston, back in 1990. The thieves stole thirteen pieces that were collectively worth more than $300 million. Would you believe they found it in a garden shed somewhere in Kent?’

  ‘I hope your security is better here.’ I smile and lean closer to examine the painting on the easel. It’s the latest painting by a new artist, Marcus Danning known for his flamboyant dress sense and wide girth.

  ‘Do you like it?’ she asks.

  ‘He focuses on the exploration of illusion and has an exceptional eye for detail,’ I reply, hiding my dislike.

  ‘I think it’s very theatrical,’ Phyllis Laverty says. Her eyes squint from behind round tortoiseshell glasses and she holds a dangling string of pearls to her flat chest. Her voice is clipped and her vowel sounds are rounded. ‘It’s a style borrowed from the past – a productive kind of retrospection – lavish costume and a complex set design. I think his exhibition will be a great success.’

  ‘Each figure has been sympathetically re-imagined,’ I agree. ‘It’s interesting, although I prefer Old Masters and in particular Caravaggio.’

  ‘You don’t look the type for classical art.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I suppose…your wild hair and the black–’

  I continue taking photos. ‘My early days as a Goth,’ I interrupt.

  ‘You could be very pretty with a little makeover. They could tone down your wide eyes and large mouth. I could get you a sitting as a model if you like?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  My mobile vibrates and Hosier’s, Take Me To Church echoes through the gallery.

  ‘Sorry, Phyllis.’ I turn my back and answer irritably. ‘What is it, Javier? I’m busy.’

  ‘I got it, Mikky! Nico Vastrano just called. I got the commission. They want the portrait to hang in their gallery – in the theatre Il Domo on Lake Como.’

  ‘That’s fantastic but I’m working,’ I whisper, watching Phyllis Laverty circle the painting, stepping over lights and cables, hoping she doesn’t upset the balance of my re-creation.

  ‘Do you know what this means?’ Javier insists in my ear. ‘The fact he’s phoned me personally. This could be my big opportunity–’

  ‘Tell me about it later?’

  ‘This is the breakthrough I need. This could get my work noticed at last. I will be famous–’

  I hold my breath. Phyllis Laverty totters on maroon high-heels and she reaches out to the stone wall for support. She regains her step. Her eyes never leave Marcus’s painting and I exhale with slow control.

  ‘The other sponsor of the Teatro Il Domo is Dino Scrugli. Do you know who he is? He’s probably the most famous patron of art in the whole of Europe and he likes my portfolio.’

  ‘Okay, so now I’m impressed. That’s fantastic.’

  ‘What if they don’t like it?’

  ‘Don’t be crazy–’

  ‘I was up against DiFusco from America and a Dutchman, Vanderflute who painted Caroline of Monaco.’

  Phyllis Laverty looks over at me and waves a hand impatiently.

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he purrs.

  ‘Well, you like opera and that crap music…’

  ‘It’s better than your rock rubbish. But why me, Mikky?’ he asks. ‘Why would they ask me? How did they hear of me? I know that my last portrait – Lady Rushworth – was reviewed in the Sunday Times but that was last year. They wouldn’t have seen that, would they?’

  I shake my head trying desperately to ignore the glassy tortoiseshell gaze from across the room. ‘I have no idea, Javier. But it could be to do with the fact that you have an amazing talent and you’re beginning to make a name for yourself in the art world.’

  He groans. ‘My hands are trembling, Mikky. I’ll never be able to paint her. She’s my idol. My talent will vanish at the very sight of her.’

  Phyllis coughs and combines it with another irritable wave in my direction.

  ‘Look, man-up, Javier. Stay focused,’ I hiss into the phone. ‘You can do it and you will do it. Listen, I really have to go now, Phyllis is waiting but I’ll be home by seven and don’t forget it’s your turn to cook – I’ll be starving – so get something decent for dinner unless you are taking me out. We’ll
celebrate.’ I turn off my phone and toss it into my camera bag.

  ‘Will you finish the work on time?’ Phyllis Laverty’s voice is crisp in the cavity of the empty gallery. Her purple lips move up and out, reminding me of the paper fortune–teller I made as a child.

  ‘The programme will be finished a week before the exhibition.’ I do not add that I am a perfectionist and plan meticulously.

  If only she knew.

  ‘Your reputation is excellent and your references from the National Gallery were exceptional.’

  I smile.

  ‘And, by the way, Mikky, I’ve been thinking while you were on the telephone and I want to reassure you that, unlike the Isabella Stuart Museum, neither our security guards nor our security system will be fooled so easily. I can confidently say nothing will be stolen from here.’

  When I arrive home Javier is standing at the door. He has on his coat.

  ‘Mrs Green, called in. She left this for you. ’ He thrusts an envelope into my hand. ‘She said, it’s for the window.’

  ‘Did you ask her in for tea?’

  ‘Yes but she wouldn’t stay without you.’

  ‘Are you cooking or are we going out for dinner? It is Friday – are we celebrating?’ I take the cash from the envelope and stuff it in my purse.

  ‘Indian takeaway – come with me. We’ll go and get it together and I’ll tell you what Mrs Green said to me.’

  ‘What did she say?’ I close the door behind us.

  He hooks his arm through mine and pulls me playfully into the street. ‘She talked about Roy and the bait she’s used to lure him back into her life.’

  ‘What do you mean? He’s coming to look after her, isn’t he?’ I match Javier’s long stride and snuggle my nose under the collar of my coat.

  ‘Yes, but not because he loves her – it’s far more devious than that. It’s because she’s pretending she got an authentic Vermeer hanging in her house.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s so funny. He’s moving in to get his hands on her money. He thinks her house is full of antiques. But she’s a shrewd old woman, she knows exactly what he’s like.’