failed.’
‘I see.’
‘That’s more than I do, Stephen. Where’s your uncle been all these years? I reckoned he must be dead.’
‘He’s been in prison.’
‘Honest?’ She smiled. ‘Well, that’s something, I guess. What did he do? Murder someone?’
‘I don’t exactly know. But he’s just got out, after thirty-six years.’
‘Well, that’s almost as long as he deserved to serve, for cheating my mother out of her inheritance. But, does that mean he never got any of the proceeds?’
‘It does.’
‘Better and better.’
‘Listen, Miss Banner, I—’
‘Call me Rachel.’
‘OK. Rachel. You ought to know I had no idea about any of this until my uncle was released from prison. Like you, I thought he was dead. That’s what my father always told me.’
‘It figures. He was probably ashamed of him.’
‘Yes. He probably was.’
‘You should be too.’
‘Would it help if I said I was?’
‘No. Nothing would help. Except restitution.’
‘Well, maybe if we could—’
‘Do you know how much they’re worth? All told, I mean. Those eighteen paintings.’
‘Millions, I imagine.’
‘Yeah. That’s right. Millions, whether its dollars or pounds. And you’re telling me your uncle is trying to
prove
he and Cardale stole them from my family? Why doesn’t he just own up? Then we couldreclaim them and he could go back where he belongs: prison.’
‘It isn’t as simple as that.’
‘No. It never is, is it?’ For the first time since we’d started talking, she looked away, drawing exasperatedly on her cigarette.
‘Eldritch was arrested long before the Picassos were copied, Rachel. Technically, he didn’t steal them. Geoffrey Cardale did that all on his own.’
‘I know Cardale stole them. Every member of my family knows that. And we tried to prove it as soon as we found out. We employed a small army of well-paid investigators to prove it. Without success.’
‘None of them knew what Eldritch knows.’
‘I can’t argue with that.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and faced me again. ‘This … anonymous party … is offering some kind of a reward if Eldritch finds proof that will stand up in court, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of course. It had to be about money. How much? No.’ She raised a hand. ‘Don’t tell me. I really don’t want to know. I don’t think I could bear to. Do you know why I’ve come here almost every morning since I flew in? Let me tell you. So you understand. When my grandfather died, Mom and Grandma were suddenly hard up. All those paintings, those other paintings that were valuable in their own right, plus all the diamonds he was carrying, all his portable wealth, was at the bottom of the ocean. Within days, Germany invaded Belgium, cutting off access to his bank accounts. As a Jew, his savings were forfeit. There was nothing left. Except the Picassos, of course. Mom and Grandma just had to scrape by until the war ended. Then they could sell the Picassos. Well, they got them back in 1945 right enough. And they tried to sell them. Only trouble was, they turned out to be fakes. Good ones, it’s true. Good enough to deceive anyone who wasn’t an expert. But fakes nonetheless. Cardale said he was horrified. He had no idea. Grandma believed him. She burnt them in disgust. The whole lot. They were destroyed before I was born. I never saw them. I never saw the real ones either until recently. Now I like totake every opportunity to look at them, to sit in front of them, to imagine how life would have been if Cardale hadn’t defrauded us.’
‘How would it have been?’
‘Different, that’s for sure. Better, I can’t help thinking. For starters, my mother would never have married my father. He offered her security, which she badly needed after the Picasso safety net collapsed under her and Grandma. But it wasn’t worth it. He had his own business, which wasn’t anything like as stable and profitable as he’d pretended. It went bust. He hit the
‘I see.’
‘That’s more than I do, Stephen. Where’s your uncle been all these years? I reckoned he must be dead.’
‘He’s been in prison.’
‘Honest?’ She smiled. ‘Well, that’s something, I guess. What did he do? Murder someone?’
‘I don’t exactly know. But he’s just got out, after thirty-six years.’
‘Well, that’s almost as long as he deserved to serve, for cheating my mother out of her inheritance. But, does that mean he never got any of the proceeds?’
‘It does.’
‘Better and better.’
‘Listen, Miss Banner, I—’
‘Call me Rachel.’
‘OK. Rachel. You ought to know I had no idea about any of this until my uncle was released from prison. Like you, I thought he was dead. That’s what my father always told me.’
‘It figures. He was probably ashamed of him.’
‘Yes. He probably was.’
‘You should be too.’
‘Would it help if I said I was?’
‘No. Nothing would help. Except restitution.’
‘Well, maybe if we could—’
‘Do you know how much they’re worth? All told, I mean. Those eighteen paintings.’
‘Millions, I imagine.’
‘Yeah. That’s right. Millions, whether its dollars or pounds. And you’re telling me your uncle is trying to
prove
he and Cardale stole them from my family? Why doesn’t he just own up? Then we couldreclaim them and he could go back where he belongs: prison.’
‘It isn’t as simple as that.’
‘No. It never is, is it?’ For the first time since we’d started talking, she looked away, drawing exasperatedly on her cigarette.
‘Eldritch was arrested long before the Picassos were copied, Rachel. Technically, he didn’t steal them. Geoffrey Cardale did that all on his own.’
‘I know Cardale stole them. Every member of my family knows that. And we tried to prove it as soon as we found out. We employed a small army of well-paid investigators to prove it. Without success.’
‘None of them knew what Eldritch knows.’
‘I can’t argue with that.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and faced me again. ‘This … anonymous party … is offering some kind of a reward if Eldritch finds proof that will stand up in court, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of course. It had to be about money. How much? No.’ She raised a hand. ‘Don’t tell me. I really don’t want to know. I don’t think I could bear to. Do you know why I’ve come here almost every morning since I flew in? Let me tell you. So you understand. When my grandfather died, Mom and Grandma were suddenly hard up. All those paintings, those other paintings that were valuable in their own right, plus all the diamonds he was carrying, all his portable wealth, was at the bottom of the ocean. Within days, Germany invaded Belgium, cutting off access to his bank accounts. As a Jew, his savings were forfeit. There was nothing left. Except the Picassos, of course. Mom and Grandma just had to scrape by until the war ended. Then they could sell the Picassos. Well, they got them back in 1945 right enough. And they tried to sell them. Only trouble was, they turned out to be fakes. Good ones, it’s true. Good enough to deceive anyone who wasn’t an expert. But fakes nonetheless. Cardale said he was horrified. He had no idea. Grandma believed him. She burnt them in disgust. The whole lot. They were destroyed before I was born. I never saw them. I never saw the real ones either until recently. Now I like totake every opportunity to look at them, to sit in front of them, to imagine how life would have been if Cardale hadn’t defrauded us.’
‘How would it have been?’
‘Different, that’s for sure. Better, I can’t help thinking. For starters, my mother would never have married my father. He offered her security, which she badly needed after the Picasso safety net collapsed under her and Grandma. But it wasn’t worth it. He had his own business, which wasn’t anything like as stable and profitable as he’d pretended. It went bust. He hit the
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