Secrets After Dark Read online

  ‘That’s the way it works when money is involved,’ he says, seeing my expression. I can’t help thinking that it makes a bit of a mockery of the laws the rest of us have to abide by. I could have just smuggled anything I liked into the country, but I keep quiet. That’s going to be my modus operandi on this trip.

  The weather is hotter and brighter than it was in London. The October day here is a bright shining blue, the sun low and dazzling in the sky. The cashmere sweaters that I brought already seem redundant and my red bikini more enticing.

  ‘How far away is the house?’ I ask Mark.

  ‘About an hour or so,’ he says. ‘It’s in a very beautiful place. You’ll love it.’

  ‘How long have you worked for Dubrovski?’ I ask, curious.

  ‘About five years now. Ever since he began to make really serious money. It’s impossible to have the kind of art habit that he has without it. He wants old masters and famous names. He wants to be like Francis I – with the Mona Lisa hanging in his bathroom. A Rembrandt in the hall; a Titian in the boot room. For him, it’s the ultimate way of expressing his success. And that is where I help him: I’m always on the lookout for the kind of work he’ll appreciate, and he calls on me for my expert opinion when he finds something he likes. It’s a good arrangement, as I understand his taste and he trusts me completely. He pays me a handsome retainer so that I can be at his beck and call, and of course a healthy commission too, on everything I purchase for him.’ Mark smiles happily. ‘Like I say, a good arrangement.’

  It sounds it. Is that something else about the world of the rich? I wonder. Vast sums of money changing hands for what seems like not much effort? Perhaps when you’ve got lots of it, money changes its character and value, and you start thinking that huge sums are really not much at all. That’s why wealthy people start tipping waitresses in the hundreds, and paying for meals in the thousands.

  ‘Do you like him?’ I ask boldly.

  ‘Of course,’ Mark returns. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘I read somewhere that he’s got a shady past.’ That’s what James hinted at least.

  ‘I don’t concern myself with that, and nor should you,’ Mark says a little strictly. ‘Our clients are accepted for themselves, and for their dealings with us. He’s always been very fair to me.’

  And to Dominic? I can’t help asking silently. What kind of a boss is he to him? I never knew much, just that Dominic’s employer is a very rich and powerful man. Mark isn’t aware of my connection to Dominic, although he knows Dominic himself. James went to visit Mark on business the day that he saw Dominic in Mark’s house. No doubt Dominic was sorting out something to do with Dubrovski’s affairs with Mark, and James overheard him telling Mark he was leaving for Russia that evening. When James passed this information on to me, I knew I had little time to see Dominic again, and I summoned him to the boudoir that afternoon – it was the last time we saw one another.

  For a moment, I’m back there. We are making love as tenderly and passionately as any couple could: the pain and misunderstandings are forgotten in the joy of his skin against mine, his body moving in me, our kisses and panting breaths and the climax of pleasure that engulfs us both. Then he’s explaining why he has to leave.

  But I’ve never really understood. I know he was appalled by his mistake, the night he really hurt me. But it was forgiven, and he’d changed. So why did he have to go?

  It wasn’t just because he needed some space. It was also because of this man. Dubrovski. He summoned Dominic away. And since then, I’ve heard nothing.

  The car draws to a halt before a pair of large iron gates. A guard emerges from a hut behind the gates and comes out to speak to the driver, inspect us through the window and then let us in. So we’re here, I think. And just for a second I get a marvellous rush of adrenalin at the thought that perhaps Dominic is waiting for me at the end of the driveway that curves away in front of us.

  The drive takes us between elegantly manicured bushes and perfectly arranged flower beds, and then the house appears: a vast, white villa, with that particular French nineteenth-century squarish grey roof edged in curling wrought iron. It’s beautiful but, somehow, unremarkable except for the fact it’s so big. Late flowering roses climb up white trellising as if arranged by an artist, lavender bushes sit in perfect rows: it’s all very pretty and perfect.

  A butler comes out to open the car door and we emerge on to the gravelled driveway. I stay behind Mark as he converses with the butler in fluent French. From what I recall from school French lessons, he’s asking if he is going to see Monsieur Dubrovski at once.

  ‘Oui,’ replies the butler. ‘Immediatement. Suivez-moi, s’il vous plaît.’

  My stomach plummets and I realise that I’m nervous about meeting Dubrovski. It’s all very well bravely kicking at Sid’s training pad, but now the real thing is so close, some of my bravado is melting away. What will he look like? A squat, mean-faced gangster? Spoiled, selfish and haughty? He comes from a world I can hardly imagine, and I remember James’s warning, that no one gets to where he is without being tough.

  I follow Mark, who seems completely at ease, as we are led through the large hallway and along a corridor. It’s decorated in unobtrusive hues of peach and apricot, the furniture modern and comfortable. It’s all done in very good taste, but there’s nothing unusual about it. I suppose I’ve been a bit spoiled by being around Mark: everything he owns expresses character and charm, wit and intelligence. But now I see it’s perfectly possible to have lots of money and like everything to be as bland as can be.

  We have stopped in front of a pair of large white doors inlaid with gilt. The butler is knocking discreetly, then pressing down the golden handle and the door is opening. He is stepping inside, murmuring, ‘Monsieur Palliser est arrivé, monsieur.’

  Then we are entering the room beyond. The first impression is of light. There are tall windows overlooking the garden through which the liquid sunshine spills in. I’m not accustomed to the brightness after the shady hall, and I blink. On the walls are blobs of colour, begging for attention. As my vision clears, I realise there are wonderful works of art on every wall, famous ones or else created by unmistakeable hands.

  Isn’t that a Renoir? And a Seurat? Oh my God...

  I resist the impulse to go over to them, and the next moment my attention is drawn to the heart of the room where there is a core of energy that cannot be ignored. A man is standing there, one hand pressing a mobile phone to his ear, the other in the pocket of his loose linen trousers.

  So that’s him. Dominic’s boss. Maybe that’s Dominic on the other end of the line... The possibility makes me feel trembly and loose-limbed. But he’s speaking Russian. I’m sure he’d talk to Dominic in English.

  Dubrovski waves at Mark and points towards the armchairs scattered around the room. He hasn’t noticed me at all, it seems, so I’m able to take in what he looks like. He’s taller than I imagined, not at all the short, stocky-looking mafia boss I’d painted in my imagination. Instead of a black suit and sunglasses, he’s wearing a summery white linen shirt over the baggy trousers and a pair of shabby deck shoes. He’s not dark but fair: hair once blond that’s darkened to gold-specked brown, with shards of grey at the temples. Mark leads the way and sits down, and I take the chair next to him. Dubrovski is talking away in Russian, his voice absolutely compelling despite the fact I cannot understand a word. It’s rough with a gravelly undertone, as though he’s smoked a million cigarettes, or sung so loudly and often that he’s cracked his voice into a permanent hoarseness. And it’s loud and commanding, the kind of voice that’s accustomed to being obeyed. He speaks, and people snap to it. No wonder he’s made such a fortune.

  His conversation comes to an end and he turns to face us full on for the first time. He has the most intense blue eyes I’ve ever seen: pale but fierce. I hardly notice the prominent nose, the broad expressive mouth and the jutting chin, I can’t take my eyes off that powerful gaze. But it’s so cold. Th
ere’s nothing tender or even smiling in it.

  ‘Mark!’ He walks towards us, his hand outstretched, still unsmiling. Mark leaps up and takes it, and they shake hands vigorously. His English is only faintly accented and sounds more American than Russian. I’d been expecting the full Bond villain voice, and he sounds more like the hero. ‘Great to see you. How are you?’

  ‘Wonderful, Andrei, and delighted to be here.’

  I’ve stood up too, mesmerised by the incredible energy that emanates from the man when he stands up close. He turns that brilliant blue gaze on me and I feel incredibly small and unimportant. A chill goes through me as I register how icy it is.

  Doesn’t he ever smile?

  ‘My new assistant, Beth Villiers,’ Mark says smoothly. ‘She’s my right-hand woman.’

  He grunts but doesn’t bother saying anything to me. He turns his attention immediately back to Mark and I’m relieved he’s taken that intense stare off me.

  ‘I’m glad you could come, Mark,’ he says. He seems agitated. Perhaps that’s normal for him. ‘I’ve got some interesting news, very, very interesting, and I need your help on it. Immediately.’

  ‘Yes?’ Mark says, smooth as ever, his eyebrows raised. I get the feeling he knows exactly how to handle Dubrovski, and how to play his role of courtier in the presence of the all-powerful king.

  Dubrovski sits down in one of the pale armchairs and immediately we sink back into our own. It really is like being in the presence of royalty. Stand when they do, sit when they do, wait to be spoken to. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with all this subservience. What, apart from money, gives him the right, after all?

  He says in that gravelly tone, ‘I’ve heard of a very exciting find. My people were approached by a representative of a monastery in Croatia. They claim to have discovered a completely unknown Fra Angelico in their possession. It’s unbelievable, of course, and yet they insist that it is completely genuine. They’re prepared to sell it me without taking it to the open market.’

  Mark puts his head on one side as if considering and says gravely, ‘That is a little suspicious, if you don’t mind my saying. And a previously unknown Fra Angelico is practically impossible. Since the missing panels of the San Marco chancel piece were located a few years ago, I believe everything is accounted for. What is it they claim to have?’

  ‘It’s the central panel of an altarpiece,’ Dubrovski says impatiently. He’s leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, staring intently at Mark. ‘And let’s say it is what they claim – it’s an amazing opportunity. They want a fortune for it, of course, but only what I imagine they could hope to get on the world market.’

  A look of uncertainty flits over Mark’s face, but only for a second. I don’t think Dubrovski has even noticed it. The Russian goes on without pausing.

  ‘So we will go together and assess this painting, okay? I want you to see it right away.’

  Mark is immediately the consummate art expert. ‘Of course, Andrei. When shall we leave?’

  ‘We’ll go tomorrow first thing, stay overnight at the monastery, then return.’ His gaze slides to me for a second. ‘You come too.’ Then he’s focused on Mark again. ‘That’s my plan.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Mark replies. ‘I’m looking forward to it immensely. If what they claim is true, it’s extremely exciting.’

  I stare at him. A trip to Croatia? This is a surprise, to put it mildly. Mark avoids my gaze for the moment.

  Dubrovski’s mobile phone rings again. He picks it up, looks at it and immediately rises to his feet, snapping something in Russian. He waves his hand at us and we’re dismissed.

  I follow Mark as he stands up and walks quietly out of the room, leaving Dubrovski to his telephone call. The butler is waiting for us in the hall and immediately steps forward, speaking English this time.

  ‘Follow me, I will show you to your rooms.’

  ‘How was that? What you expected?’ Mark says under his breath as we’re led back to the hall and up the curving staircase to the first floor.

  ‘I don’t know. Sort of.’ I can’t really explain how pale and unformed my imagined Dubrovski is next to the pulsating strength of the reality. But all that rippling power, that extraordinary focus, is compelling but not endearing. ‘I certainly wasn’t expecting an unscheduled trip to Croatia!’

  Mark smiles. ‘That’s what it’s like around Andrei; you never know what’s going to happen. Once we’re settled in our rooms, I want you to fire up your laptop and prepare me a full report on Fra Angelico – I’ll need my memory refreshing before tomorrow. Goodness knows what we’re going to find when we get there. He badly wants it to be genuine but it will be my neck if he buys it and then it’s revealed to be a fake.’

  I can’t believe that no sooner have we got here, than we’re leaving again. Croatia? It doesn’t sound quite as glamorous as the South of France. And yet... my imagination is tickled by the idea of a monastery and a lost masterpiece. How incredible if I was among the first people to see this painting since its discovery – assuming it’s the real deal, of course. I’m sure Mark will have the expertise to know.

  The butler is opening a door, indicating that this is my room, and I step inside. It’s like a plush, luxurious hotel room, everything perfectly nice but without character. My case is already in there; in fact, it’s been unpacked and everything tidied away. I wonder if the kind soul who unpacked it will mind redoing it for me in the morning, seeing as we’re off again first thing. A wash of relief passes over me when I think that I almost brought my vibrator with me in case the glamour of my surroundings awakened that kind of a mood.

  Thank goodness I didn’t! Imagine the embarrassment... I shudder inwardly. I don’t have the insouciance to carry off that sort of thing very well.

  ‘Why don’t you stay here and have your supper in your room?’ Mark suggests. ‘I’ll take on Dubrovski on my own over dinner. I think it would be tiring for you.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I say, gratefully. I’ve had enough excitement for one day. I don’t know if I can take Dubrovski’s fierce energy for a couple more hours, especially as we’re heading off for more adventures tomorrow. Now that I’m here, my silly fantasy that Dominic might be waiting for me with open arms is revealed for what it is. I need to get on with reality. ‘I’ll start on that research for you and find out all I can about any lost Fra Anglicos.’

  ‘Excellent. I’ll see you in the morning. Set your alarm good and early. Dubrovski barely sleeps. He’ll want to be on the road sharpish.’ Mark smiles. ‘Sleep well.’

  ‘You too.’ I close the door behind him. The butler is taking him to his suite nearby. I lean against the door and sigh. Then I say out loud, ‘Dominic, I’m running out of patience. You’d better keep your promise soon, or I’m going to consider us over.’ It sounds strange spoken out loud but the minute I do, I feel happier. It’s the waiting that’s been killing me. Well, how about if I just stop waiting?

  Seems like a good idea to me. And I’ve got plenty of other things to be getting on with.

  I unpack my laptop so I can get started.

  Chapter Four

  If I thought yesterday marked a high point in my life experiences, I’ll have to rethink.

  Oh my goodness. This is incredible.

  We’re in a helicopter, soaring out over Italy and onwards to Croatia. It’s a beautiful craft, cherry red and as sweet and round as a bell pepper. I’m in the back, next to Mark, buckled firmly into my seat by an X-shaped belt and with a pair of headphones that block out some of the engine’s roar yet still transmit the conversation between Dubrovski, Mark and, occasionally, the pilot. I have a mic attached to my headphones, but I don’t expect to be using it. I’m too busy drinking in all the impressions I’m getting. This is my first helicopter ride, and it’s amazing. It’s not like being in a plane, where you look out on the outside world through those little oval windows, well insulated from the outside by the dense fuselage. I think this might be as close as it’s possible to
get to feeling as though I’m actually flying. The view curves from above our heads to below our feet and the world seems astoundingly close. The craft is so nimble and responsive as it dips and turns and noses up and down that it’s almost as though we’ve been sprinkled with fairy dust so that we can fly like Peter Pan himself.

  Mark, next to me, seems calm as usual. All this must be old hat to him. He’s read the report I emailed him late last night, the one that said that actually there is a likelihood of unknown Fra Angelicos being discovered. Mark already knows that only a few years ago, a pair of lost panels was found; they’d been hanging on the wall of a modest Oxford house since the sixties, when medieval art, even Florentine Renaissance masterpieces, was deeply out of fashion. It’s possible that there are other panels or copies of altarpieces in existence. And with Croatia so near to Italy, its trading and religious links entwined over the centuries, it’s not at all unlikely that something could turn up there. After all, it was ruled by the Venetian Republic for three hundred years.

  I spent a few happy hours last night roaming through the catalogues of art collections around the world, getting my eye accustomed to the religious art of the fifteenth century, with one foot in the Gothic era, flat and gilt, and one in the early Renaissance, when perspective and naturalism began to appear. I soaked in the azure blues, vermilions, arsenic greens, carnation pinks and glittering golds of Fra Angelico’s glorious creations. With that God-given talent to create such beautiful art no wonder he became known as the Angelic Brother. I’m looking forward to seeing whatever these monks have uncovered.

  We’re flying over blue crystal waters over the narrow channel of the Adriatic Sea. Islands sit green and grey in the bright water, and land stretches out before us, where Eastern Europe begins: Croatia before us, Serbia, Bosnia, Romania and Bulgaria beyond. Just names to me before but now approaching in massy reality – cities, hills, forests, mountains and roads.