Priceless (25 page)

“All right, all right! I’m coming,” Julian shouted, having no idea whether anyone on the front step would be able to hear him. “Keep your hair on.”

He rose reluctantly from the warm bath and groped in the direction of the towel rail. He had one slightly damp leg in his jeans when the front door quite simply popped open.

“What the …” Julian looked over the banister in horror.

“Oh,” said his visitor. “You’re in.”

“Yes, I’m bloody well in. And who the hell are you? I’ve got my mobile in my hand. I’ll dial the police.”

“I wouldn’t bother if I were you. You’ll only get us both into trouble. Finish putting your clothes on. I’ll make myself at home.” The stranger waved Julian away as though he were an old friend who had turned up slightly too early for supper.

Julian hurriedly pulled his jeans up. This was no time to be persnickety about the fact that he wasn’t quite dry, though there’s nothing worse than stiff denim on damp skin. A complete stranger had just broken into his house! Well, that would have been bad enough, but as Julian tugged a shirt over his head, it dawned on him that the man now “making himself at home” wasn’t a complete
stranger at all. His face had been somewhat recognizable. Which meant that this was more than a mere burglar. It had to be worse.

Julian toyed with his mobile phone. The sensible thing would have been to call the police right away, but the sensible option wasn’t something that immediately appealed to someone with a past like Julian Trebarwen’s. Instead, he tucked the phone into his pocket and headed downstairs. He’d risk it.

Julian’s visitor was in the sitting room, standing at the mantelpiece. He had a silver-framed photograph in his hand.

“Your children?” he asked.

“My brother’s,” said Julian. “They live in Singapore.”

“Lucky.”

“Do I know you?” Julian asked.

“Anyone as active as you are in the art world should know me. Yasha Suscenko.” He extended his hand.

“Ah,” said Julian. The name gave him no further clue.

“I was lucky enough to buy one of your paintings through Ludbrook’s nineteenth-century Victorian auction.”

Julian tried not to betray any concern.

“And more recently, I bought another of your paintings at the old masters sale.”

Julian’s mouth dropped open, and his lips worked silently as he tried to think of a response to that bombshell.

“Nat Wilde didn’t tell me, if that’s what you’re thinking. I worked it out myself.”

“Which one?” asked Julian.

“The
Madonna and Child.”

“Shit,” said Julian involuntarily.

“Not at all,” said Yasha. “It had Nat Wilde fooled. And me, for a while. As did the Victorian portrait. Though
when you see them side by side, it’s obvious. You might have thought the artists used the same model.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Perhaps we should have a drink and talk about that?” Yasha suggested.

He settled himself in the leather chair by the fireplace. Julian’s favorite chair. One of the few things he had salvaged from Trebarwen before everything else had gone under the hammer.

“I’ll have a whiskey if you have any.”

Julian uncorked the decanter with shaking hands and poured out a measure.

“You could take the painting back to Ludbrook’s,” said Julian. “They’re insured against this kind of thing.”

“And make it a victimless crime?”

“I didn’t know they were fakes.”

“But you did. That much was clear by your initial reaction. However, while we’ve established that you knew the paintings were fake when you sold them, what I really want to know is whether you knew the paintings were fake when you bought them. Where did you get them? Are there others?”

Julian’s mind flitted to Serena’s sun-filled studio. He could see her standing at her easel in the paint-spattered man’s shirt (her father’s) that he found so peculiarly alluring.

“Because if there are, then I would like to see them. And if they’re good, then perhaps you and I could do a deal.”

“There are no others,” said Julian.

“You’re lying,” said Yasha. “I can tell from the way your eyes flicked to the left when you said that. You were thinking about the person who paints these pictures for you. I know it isn’t you. You don’t have an artistic bone in your body.”

Julian swallowed. Was this Russian bloke bluffing?

“Look. You really don’t have a choice. You are going to tell me who painted those pictures or I will go to the police. You haven’t long been out of jail, I understand. I imagine a judge would view quite unfavorably such well-organized attempts to defraud.”

Julian felt his bowels shift at the mention of the time he had spent at Her Majesty’s pleasure. As a fraudster, he knew he’d had an easy time of it in the British prison system, but it hadn’t been
that
easy. The general public thought it was all color TVs and day trips. They’d never shared a room with a seven-foot-tall homosexual with a taste for public-school boys. The mere thought of going back there was as effective as a knife at his throat.

“That’s the choice. And if you do tell me who your artist is, I might make it worth your while. How much have you been making on these things? A few thousand a time? I’m offering you the opportunity to go big-time.”

“How much?”

“More than you could possibly imagine.”

Yasha had said the magic words. Julian buckled.

“The picture was painted by a woman down in Cornwall.”

“That’s better.” Yasha nodded. “I think we should visit her. We’ll take my car.”

“It’ll be the middle of the night by the time we get there.”

“This is a very urgent commission.”

CHAPTER 34

W
ith his hair still damp from the bath, Julian joined Yasha in the back of the Bentley. The car was driven by a man the size of a quarterback. His neck was as thick as one of Julian’s thighs. Yasha spoke to the driver in rapid-fire Russian. The driver grunted a response, and soon they were on the A3.

The drive was a long one. Even at that time of night, with hardly any traffic once you got outside the M25, London to Cornwall was a four-hour trip. And despite the luxury of the Bentley, Julian was growing increasingly uncomfortable. This Yasha Suscenko seemed to know more about Julian’s past—and current—misdemeanors than his probation officer did. Obviously, Suscenko knew people in some very low places.

All the way down to Trebarwen, Julian tried to think of a way to keep Serena out of this business. He tried to negotiate with Yasha, with the optimistic thought flickering at the back of his brain that perhaps he might even be able to make money out of this mess.

“How about I don’t take you to meet her but you tell me what you want and I deliver it to you?”

“You want to be her agent?” Yasha smiled.

“I suppose I could be something like that.”

“Let’s see how she feels about it first.”

They arrived at the gates of Trebarwen at three in the morning. Julian considered suggesting this Yasha man and his goon stay at the big house for the night. They
could see Serena first thing in the morning. But Yasha was insistent.

“I have to fly to Moscow tomorrow morning. We need to conclude this business of ours right now.”

With what seemed like a casual gesture, the Russian driver hooked his thumbs into his waistband, lifting up his jacket and revealing a gun as he did so.

Still, it took a while to get Serena up. Julian had tried to phone, but she’d obviously turned off her mobile before going to bed. He didn’t have the number for her landline. Who used landlines these days?

Yasha’s goon went to hammer on the door.

“Gently,” said Julian. “She has a kid. We don’t want to wake her daughter up.”

Julian tossed pebbles at Serena’s window until her face appeared at the pane, confused and creased with sleep. She smiled at the sight of her lover but the smile quickly faded when the two other men stepped into the light of the porch.

“Julian,” said Serena as she opened the door to him and brought him inside. His companions hung back, sitting on the hood of the car. “What are you doing here? What is this about? Who are they?”

“He’s some Russian art dealer. He wants you to do a painting for him.”

“What?” Serena parted the kitchen curtains just enough to get another look at the unwelcome visitors.

“He needs something copied. Something Renaissance. He bought the Madonna and the milkmaid. He knows they’re fakes.”

“How the fuck?” Serena rounded on Julian.

“I guess he knows his art.” Julian shrugged. “He got my name from Ludbrook’s. He turned up on my
doorstep. He was quite insistent that I tell him who my artist was.”

“And so you told him? For Christ’s sake. You promised me that you would keep me out of it! You said that no one would ever be able to make a link between us, and now you turn up in the middle of the night with some Russian mafioso!”

“But you could do it. You know you could. You’re the best artist I’ve ever met, Serena.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere. I don’t want to do it. How dare he come around here at three o’clock in the morning? How dare you let him? Tell him to fuck off and find himself another artist.”

“It’s not that simple. He could go back to Ludbrook’s. Make a big fuss. It could get us both into a lot of trouble. If, however, you do this one painting for him, he’ll see you right. There’s money in it. I’m sure you could name your price.”

“No way. I have a daughter to think about. I got mixed up in your crazy scheme because I wanted better things for her. It was just going to be you and me. Now this is getting out of control.”

“Don’t try to tell me that there isn’t a tiny part of you that would quite like to take up the challenge …”

“No, there isn’t.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.”

“We have no idea who that man is! You read about Russian oligarchs having each other assassinated all the time. You don’t think he’d quite happily get rid of us the moment I finished his painting?”

“Now, that would be killing the golden goose,” said a voice.

Serena and Julian froze. Yasha was leaning against the door frame.

“Don’t worry, Miss Macdonald. I really am not in the
business of having people assassinated. I would have thought that it would be enough of an incentive for you to know that if you work with me, I will keep you out of jail.”

Serena clutched at her forehead. Her eyes pierced Julian’s, leaving him in no doubt whatsoever that she thought he was a complete and utter bastard for bringing this trouble to her door.

CHAPTER 35

W
ith great reluctance, Serena admitted Yasha and his driver into the kitchen. She leaned against the sink with her arms crossed tightly across her chest while Yasha explained the plan to her again, reiterating in a very soft voice the hard fate that could befall her and Julian if she disagreed.

“I will arrange for you to have everything you need,” he told her. “I will also arrange for you to be taken somewhere quiet in the Italian countryside where you can work on the painting in peace. You’ll need to be there by the end of this week.”

“That’s ridiculous. I can’t. I have a daughter. The school holidays are about to start.”

“Her father could look after her?”

“You’ve got to be joking,” said Serena.

“Then I’m sure she will enjoy a few weeks in Italy. The weather is far better than here. Think of it as a paid
vacation. You’ll be doing what you love in beautiful surroundings. And you’ll be very well remunerated.”

“What about me?” asked Julian.

“We don’t need you anymore,” said Yasha. “I thank you for introducing me to this most talented lady and suggest that you choose a more honest profession for your future life.”

“I can’t do it,” said Serena. “I won’t.”

Leonid the goon stretched so that the butt of his gun showed clear above his belt.

Serena noticed at once. As she was supposed to.

“He’s got a bloody gun,” she shrieked, pointing at the thing as though the man might not have realized what he had tucked into the waistband of his trousers. “You brought a gun into my house.” Serena leveled this accusation more at Julian than anyone else. “Get him out of here. Get him out.”