Chapter Fifteen
A week later, Aster woke up smiling. Immediately after interviewing the girls, she had got to work. As the days progressed, she found a sense of satisfaction as her plan fell into place. Chatting with the other girls, she discovered a strange strength in bringing them together. She knew they were in touch with each other and she hoped that this would be the first step in their recovery.
Last night she had spent a few hours accessing her fake online profiles. Like her e-mail server, there was no trace back to her sitting in a house in London. Any attempt to track her posts or e-mails down ended up pinging around VPNs set up in the Bahamas and Taiwan. There was still a long way to go, but last night she had uploaded all her evidence to the online channels. She had also submitted the evidence anonymously to the police. Now she would wait and see who dealt with the situation faster. The police or social media.
She bounded out of bed, her mind already buzzing with the final details of her scheme. Her hand drifted to her phone, itching to check the status of her video. She had spent hours piecing it together, exposing that vile bastard, Barrie. Meticulously edited and distributed through channels that ensured maximum impact and minimal blowback on the victims, it should be detonating across the internet any moment now.
She had also been busy digging into the business peddling the imitation muslin and had yielded some very interesting leads that she was eager to follow up on. But those projects would have to wait. Today was all about the painting.
Today was the auction and the fate of the painting was in her hands. No conman looking for a quick profit was going to get the better of her. Today it would be back in the hands of its rightful owners, if Aster had anything to say about it. And she had quite a lot to say.
She dressed with care, selecting an outfit that struck just the right balance of affluent art aficionado and unassuming blender-into-the-crowd. The key was to be memorable for her words and actions, not her appearance. She’d leave the peacocking to Otto’s plants, the carefully selected actors she’d peppered through the auction attendees to help sway opinion in the desired direction. As she looked in the mirror, she was pleased with her appearance and wondered if the man from the nightclub would also be present. Should she approach him? He would recognise her without her burqa to disguise her. Would he remember her? Would he approach her? It was a variable she couldn’t control. In the end, she decided there was nothing to be done but see how things played out. She had no active role in today’s proceedings, Otto was in charge. Aster was simply there to get the ball rolling and see that everything went according to plan.
Aster arrived at the auction house with plenty of time to spare, melting seamlessly into the milling crowd of prospective buyers, curious spectators, and self-important art snobs. She exchanged pleasantries and air kisses with a few familiar faces, the picture of a well-connected junior collector excited for the day’s offerings. The one thing she didn’t know was the identity of Otto’s people. It was best for all parties to not know who was involved, but each party had their own brief. They even had allowances to submit bids later in the day to cover their presence.
A group of people were standing in front of the large painting. Aster sidled up to a cluster of intent viewers, and prepared to insert herself into their conversation. However, an older woman was chatting to her companion, allowing the others to eavesdrop.
‘It’s a striking piece, isn’t it?’ said Aster. ‘Such a shame about the provenance, though. I heard a rumour it might not be all it seems.’ She let the words hang in the air, an unsubstantiated seed of doubt that would spread like a weed through this particular grapevine.
One of the men in the group, a portly gentleman with a monocle, turned to her with a raised eyebrow. ‘What do you mean, not all it seems? Surely the auction house has done its due diligence.’
The woman looked him up and down.
‘This was a private conversation.’ Tapping her companion on the arm, they drifted away, leaving everyone else frowning. The man with the monocle harrumphed loudly.
‘Some people say the most ridiculous things, Spencers is the finest of establishments. Their probity has never been questioned.’
‘Well, not in the past twenty years, anyway,’ said Aster with a shrug. ‘Before my time, obviously, but wasn’t there an issue with a Lowry a few years back?’
He blinked and inhaled deeply. Aster could tell a lecture was incoming when a couple walked past and the woman tapped on her brochure.
‘Lot Fifty-Eight, darling, don’t you want to look at that?’
Her companion laughed. ‘Absolutely not. Proper cut and shut that one. All that dirt, someone’s trying too hard. If that’s an old master, I’ll give in and sell the bloody Mondrian and buy you the place in St Kitts.’
‘Oh darling, will you really?’
The pair drifted off and Aster simply looked at the man and shrugged, her expression artfully neutral. ‘One would hope. But you know how these things go. Corners get cut, paperwork gets “lost”. I’m just saying, I’d want to be very sure of what I was buying before I raised my paddle, that’s all.’
She drifted away before he could press her further, leaving the little knot of collectors to murmur and speculate amongst themselves. She could practically feel the doubt radiating off them now, the first threads of uncertainty unravelling their confidence in the lot.
Aster meandered over to another group, this one clustered around a severe-looking woman with an imperious air who was also opining on the painting. She was holding forth on the Madonna’s brushwork, dissecting its composition with the cool assurance of an expert.
‘And of course, the use of chiaroscuro here is simply masterful, the play of light and shadow elevating the piece from mere religious iconography to true artistic sublimity. It’s a prime example of the Baroque style at its most transcendent.’
Aster waited for a lull in the woman’s pontificating before chiming in, her voice pitched to carry to the surrounding hangers-on. ‘It is a marvellous effect, isn’t it? Although I did hear someone just mention that this should be Lot Fifty-Seven, as it’s a bit of a mutt.’
The self-styled expert whirled on Aster, her eyes narrowing in displeasure. ‘And where, pray tell, did you hear such scurrilous gossip? I can assure you, I have it on good authority that this painting has been treated with the utmost care and professionalism.’
Aster widened her eyes in affected chagrin, holding up a placating hand. ‘I’m sure you’re right. It’s just some chatter I overheard, nothing substantiated of course. Far be it from me to impugn anyone’s integrity. Still, one wonders where all the documentation is, the provenance trail. A bit thin for a work of this supposed importance, don’t you think? There’s no attribution. It’s been in a religious establishment for donkey’s years and yet has no paperwork? I thought that lot had paper files going back to the Reformation.’ She laughed at her own joke and was pleased to see others laughing along. ‘Still, you’re the expert. I’ll just go with my gut, and my gut says I don’t have that sort of money for a punt.’
Heading away, the crowd had broken up around the self-proclaimed expert and she had returned to the painting to stare at it more closely. Her frown was a picture in its own right.
‘There’s a lot in interest in that picture, isn’t there?’
Aster turned and looked up to see a man in his late twenties was talking. He was wearing a quarter-zip, blue chinos and brown brogues. If he wasn’t a city trader, Aster would eat her hat.
‘It’s quite large, isn’t it? You get a lot for your money,’ said Aster artlessly.
‘Art’s not about size, you know,’ he winked at her, ‘not that I’ve ever been bothered!’
Biting her cheek to avoid sneering at him, she smiled, fluttering her eyelashes.
‘Really? Only I heard,’ she dropped her voice and leant towards him, ‘that that painting is a sleeper.’
She was rewarded with a patronising chuckle. If he patted her on the head, she would roll up her catalogue and impale him in the eye with it.
‘That’s not the sleeper. That’s a ringer.’
‘A ringer?’
‘Something pretending to be what it’s not.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Swear down.’
Aster almost winced. Swear down. Who did he think he was, some sort of city gangster?
‘You mean it’s a fake?’ she whispered, looking around the room.
‘Wouldn’t swear to it, but ask the mug that buys it and then cleans it what they find.’
‘Wow. So, which one is the sleeper?’
He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Now, that would be telling. Why don’t we go and grab a drink after the auction, and I’ll show it to you?’
She smiled and giggled, trying not to vomit, told him she would catch him later, and then drifted off to look at a small painting of a blue apple on a red chair.
‘Like this one, do you?’
Aster counted to three. If he was intent on following her around, it might not be a bad idea. He would act as a camouflage. No one would pay attention to her when he was talking. She knew the sort. She turned and smiled at him brightly.
‘I like it. It’s funny.’
‘Come on, let me show you the good stuff.’
Taking her elbow, he steered towards a small Caravaggio, the star piece of the auction.
‘See that woman over there?’ He pointed to the woman who had been declaring Aster’s painting a masterpiece earlier. ‘That’s Hortense Jones. Well-respected art critic. You could pick up a few tips from her. Let’s see what she says about the Caravaggio.’
As they approached, he stepped ahead of Aster and greeted Hortense fulsomely.
‘A bit tame for you, isn’t it?’ he said and pointed to the image of the Caravaggio. It was a study of some flowers, rather than the usual grisly depictions for which he was well known.
‘If the price is right, I’d be happy to add it to my collection. Plus the attribution and provenance are excellent.’
‘Unlike some!’
‘Indeed,’ she laughed. ‘I was just saying that I pity the fool that drops fifty k on that eyesore over there.’
Everyone turned to look at the large painting that now seemed to be shunned by most of the room.
‘Not a fan?’ asked Aster’s companion.
‘Please,’ said Hortense languidly, as if she hadn’t been extolling its virtues only minutes before. Deciding she had done as much as she could, Aster made her excuses and headed towards the ladies before the auction started. As she passed an older couple, she saw the man draw a line through his catalogue and was delighted to see the nuns’ painting being scratched from their selection. In the ladies’, two women were chatting about the Lowry incident.
‘If they’re not careful, Spencers are about to get burnt again.’
The damage was done. The gleaming facade of credibility had developed a hairline crack. Fixing her lipstick in the mirror, Aster headed back into the showroom.
By the time Aster made her final round of the room, the very air seemed thick with intrigue and insinuation. The painting still drew the eye, but now it was with morbid fascination rather than covetous awe. Like rubberneckers at a motorway pileup, the punters couldn’t look away from the impending disaster, even as they speculated gleefully about the carnage to come.