ONE
London
The present day
David Gerrald had been waiting for a while before, finally, the door opened and the man he was about to interview entered. The art dealer was precisely what David had expected – which surprised him. His urbanity and relaxed charm were intact, and his handshake was pitch perfect.
Sitting down at the table the two men faced each other.
‘Do you mind if I record what you say?’ David asked. ‘I used to take notes, but this is easier. I can get a better connection if I don’t spend my whole time scribbling.’
The other man nodded, unconcerned, as David set up the recorder and placed it on the table between them. It was a model that only recorded when someone was speaking. If there was a silence, it stopped suddenly, like a bore that had been caught out at a party.
‘In your letter you said that you’d be willing to talk to me,’ David continued, then paused. The red light went off on the recorder. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Absolutely.’
The red beam flickered again, like a fire trying to catch light.
‘Ok,’ David said. ‘So, if you’ll just tell me what happened. In your own time.’
‘What happened? Well you’ll have to concentrate because it’s complicated. Fooled me totally, I can tell you. Roped me in before I had chance to see what was coming. But I’m hurrying on and I need to slow down, and explain.’ The man paused, stared at the recorder. It seemed to amuse him, clicking on and off. ‘As you know, I’m an art dealer. Forty-nine years of age, medium build, more healthy than I should be after the way I’ve lived.’
David nodded, as though to encourage him. Which he didn’t need.
‘My ascent into the upper echelons of the London art scene was fast, helped along by my mentor, Samuel Hemmings. He became rather notorious with regard to the “Rembrandt Secret”.’
‘But he’s dead now?’
‘Oh yes, Samuel’s long gone.’ The man continued, sipping at the glass of water which had been placed next to him. His hands were large but well formed, the nails cut short. Uniform. ‘I’ve been lucky, I can admit that. I don’t pretend that I was especially gifted, but fate took a liking to me and – for almost ten years – I was guided to the right places to meet the right people. I became lucky at finding sleepers too.’
David frowned
. ‘Sleepers?’
‘The paintings no one realises are the work of a Master. My speciality is the art of the Netherlands. Late Middle Ages.’
‘Are there many of these sleepers?’
‘Oh, you’d be surprised. They come on the market out of ignorance, or because someone has inherited a painting on their parents’ death, which they never liked. So they sell it. They’re usually dirty, sometimes badly framed; often the varnish has darkened so much the face is clouded in a nicotine haze. Or they might have a tear in the canvas.’ He paused once more, reached for a packet of cigarettes and shook one out. Then, methodically, he began to take it apart. ‘For laymen, any cracking of the paint surface can put them off. They see these fusty landscapes and waxen portraits and find them dull. So they put them up for sale – often in obscure country auctions. And that’s where I spot them.’
‘But not other dealers?’
‘Of course, sometimes they beat me to it. But I had a number of people working for me and I usually got there first.’ He smiled. A likeable man. ‘I’m fond of the term sleeper
.
It has a fairytale quality about it. Like the painting is drowsing, waiting to be found and loved again. I was a romantic, you see, that’s what having an easy life does for you. Seems incredible now, but that’s how it was . . . then.’
He stopped talking, David still watching him. He had pulled off the cigarette’s filter and was unravelling the paper that held the tobacco inside.
‘But not now?’
‘No, not now,’ the man agreed, without rancour. ‘I was invincible. Until Bosch.’
‘As in, Hieronymus
London
The present day
David Gerrald had been waiting for a while before, finally, the door opened and the man he was about to interview entered. The art dealer was precisely what David had expected – which surprised him. His urbanity and relaxed charm were intact, and his handshake was pitch perfect.
Sitting down at the table the two men faced each other.
‘Do you mind if I record what you say?’ David asked. ‘I used to take notes, but this is easier. I can get a better connection if I don’t spend my whole time scribbling.’
The other man nodded, unconcerned, as David set up the recorder and placed it on the table between them. It was a model that only recorded when someone was speaking. If there was a silence, it stopped suddenly, like a bore that had been caught out at a party.
‘In your letter you said that you’d be willing to talk to me,’ David continued, then paused. The red light went off on the recorder. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Absolutely.’
The red beam flickered again, like a fire trying to catch light.
‘Ok,’ David said. ‘So, if you’ll just tell me what happened. In your own time.’
‘What happened? Well you’ll have to concentrate because it’s complicated. Fooled me totally, I can tell you. Roped me in before I had chance to see what was coming. But I’m hurrying on and I need to slow down, and explain.’ The man paused, stared at the recorder. It seemed to amuse him, clicking on and off. ‘As you know, I’m an art dealer. Forty-nine years of age, medium build, more healthy than I should be after the way I’ve lived.’
David nodded, as though to encourage him. Which he didn’t need.
‘My ascent into the upper echelons of the London art scene was fast, helped along by my mentor, Samuel Hemmings. He became rather notorious with regard to the “Rembrandt Secret”.’
‘But he’s dead now?’
‘Oh yes, Samuel’s long gone.’ The man continued, sipping at the glass of water which had been placed next to him. His hands were large but well formed, the nails cut short. Uniform. ‘I’ve been lucky, I can admit that. I don’t pretend that I was especially gifted, but fate took a liking to me and – for almost ten years – I was guided to the right places to meet the right people. I became lucky at finding sleepers too.’
David frowned
. ‘Sleepers?’
‘The paintings no one realises are the work of a Master. My speciality is the art of the Netherlands. Late Middle Ages.’
‘Are there many of these sleepers?’
‘Oh, you’d be surprised. They come on the market out of ignorance, or because someone has inherited a painting on their parents’ death, which they never liked. So they sell it. They’re usually dirty, sometimes badly framed; often the varnish has darkened so much the face is clouded in a nicotine haze. Or they might have a tear in the canvas.’ He paused once more, reached for a packet of cigarettes and shook one out. Then, methodically, he began to take it apart. ‘For laymen, any cracking of the paint surface can put them off. They see these fusty landscapes and waxen portraits and find them dull. So they put them up for sale – often in obscure country auctions. And that’s where I spot them.’
‘But not other dealers?’
‘Of course, sometimes they beat me to it. But I had a number of people working for me and I usually got there first.’ He smiled. A likeable man. ‘I’m fond of the term sleeper
.
It has a fairytale quality about it. Like the painting is drowsing, waiting to be found and loved again. I was a romantic, you see, that’s what having an easy life does for you. Seems incredible now, but that’s how it was . . . then.’
He stopped talking, David still watching him. He had pulled off the cigarette’s filter and was unravelling the paper that held the tobacco inside.
‘But not now?’
‘No, not now,’ the man agreed, without rancour. ‘I was invincible. Until Bosch.’
‘As in, Hieronymus
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