Tracy Corbett - Secret Things and Highland Flings

Had the owner discovered the painting yet? And if she had, would she be fooled into thinking it was real, or would she simply assume it was a copy? Any decent curator would carry out a series of checks before making an assumption. It would take a while to scrutinise the materials used in the work, especially a sixteenth-century piece. They’d need to analyse the canvas and formulate a paper trail back to the artist. His mother had been thorough and had managed to fool the experts back in 2007, but whether her efforts would dupe current testing methods remained to be seen.

He noticed a side alley next to the art gallery. It led to a service area at the rear of the property. It was empty apart from a row of refuse and recycling bins. The large industrial doors leading to what looked like the gallery’s storage facility were ajar. The lights were on, indicating someone was working inside.

His heart rate increased. The painting might still be in its crate. Undiscovered. Supposing he could sneak inside and remove the painting without anyone ever knowing he’d been there? There’d be no need for elaborate explanations or lying.

So why did he feel so nervous? He normally enjoyed bending the rules. He’d spent his entire life fighting conformity, deliberately pushing boundaries, mostly to annoy his parents. Not exactly original behaviour. He didn’t need Freud to analyse his reasoning. But contemplating stealing a painting was hardly the same as boyish mischief.

But then he reminded himself the painting was already his. His family’s, at least. He was merely retrieving lost property. He wasn’t trying to con anyone, or cause anyone suffering. This was a mop-up job. A necessity to keep his family scandal-free, solvent and out of jail. All valid reasons intended to make the task easier, justify his actions and ease the guilt of deception. It wasn’t working.

He decided to take a closer look.

Dumping his rucksack behind one of the bins, he crept up to the doors. It was quiet inside. The rational voice in his head told him he was crazy for even contemplating entering, but the desire to retrieve the painting overrode logic. With a pounding heart, he checked the coast was clear and went inside.

The space was painted white. It was also chilly. He couldn’t see any unopened crates, but the walls contained rows of racking, so he went over. He discovered numerous quality copies of the classics. At least, he assumed they were copies. Botticelli, Raphael, Rubens, even Shouping and Cézanne. He liked the mix. It was unpredictable, random. But there were no signs of his mother’s paintings.

He spotted a smaller painting displayed on an easel. He read the card pinned to the wooden frame: Woman at the Window , circa 1510–1530, Italian, North. He peered closer. It was bloody good, the brushwork exquisite …

‘Stay where you are.’ The sound of a woman’s voice made him jerk forwards, knocking the painting off the easel. ‘Don’t you dare move another muscle.’

Shit . He’d been sprung.

He turned slowly, opening his arms in a suitably submissive gesture.

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting to see, but it wasn’t the gallery owner brandishing a Stanley knife. He recognised her from the website. In her photo she’d looked serious and businesslike. She certainly hadn’t been wearing a Fifties-style circle skirt with a cherry-patterned blouse and bright red lips. Far from looking old-fashioned, she looked like something out of one of Sophie’s style magazines.

She walked towards him, shaking her mass of pale blonde hair away from her face. ‘Wh … what do you want with that painting?’

‘What painting?’ He hadn’t found it yet. And then he realised she was talking about the Woman at the Window .

Her eyes darted nervously between him and the canvas on the floor. ‘Don’t play dumb. Who sent you?’ She edged closer, her hand visibly trembling. ‘My ex-husband?’

Ex-husband?

He bent down to retrieve the painting. ‘Listen, I—’

‘I said don’t move!’ She lunged forwards at the same time he held up his hands. He watched in horror as the knife sliced through the arm of his T-shirt and imbedded itself into his right bicep.

As she pulled the knife away, a splatter of red landed on the white tiled flooring.

She screamed.

He wanted to scream himself. The pain was excruciating.

The room began to sway. Flickering lights clouded his vision. He was vaguely aware of a rushing sound in his ears and then he dropped to his knees.

The woman rushed over. ‘Oh, God, what have I done?’ She looked frantic, torn between wanting to help him and steering well clear. ‘I need to call the police.’

‘Don’t call the cops,’ he pleaded, the blood from his arm smearing across the white tiled flooring.

She picked up the Woman at the Window and clutched it to her chest. ‘You were trying to steal my painting.’

He staggered to his feet. ‘I wasn’t. I have no interest in that painting.’ Which was entirely true … he was after a different painting. ‘Please don’t call the police.’

She waved the Stanley knife at him. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them.’

He lifted his hands, blood running down his right arm. ‘I’m really sorry if I frightened you.’ He opened his palms. ‘But I’m not here to cause trouble.’

She didn’t look convinced. Her pale complexion had drained of colour. She began to sway. Was she about to faint, too?

‘Are you okay?’

‘Funnily enough, no. A man just broke into my gallery, attacked me and tried to steal one of my paintings. I am far from okay.’

Indignation overrode contrition. ‘Hey, I didn’t attack you. And I didn’t break in – the doors were open. And I’m the one who’s bleeding.’ He pointed at his arm.

‘Well … what did you expect?’ She leant against the wall. ‘You were trespassing. Now get out, or I will call the police. And you can tell whoever sent you I haven’t got it. They’re wasting their time.’

He looked puzzled. ‘Haven’t got what?’

‘Don’t play dumb.’ She tried to sound tough, but her voice shook. ‘I won’t be intimidated. You hear me? You tell Marcus I’m made of sterner stuff.’ Her legs buckled.

‘You’re in shock. Let me help you—’

‘Get away from me.’ She batted his hand away. ‘If you think I’m—’

‘Hey, I was only trying to help.’

‘I don’t need any help from you, thank you.’ She backed over to the stairwell, taking the painting with her. ‘And stay … stay there. You can’t be trusted.’

Things were spiralling out of control.

‘Look, I don’t know why you think I’m after that painting, but I’m not.’

She hugged the painting tighter.

‘My name’s Oliver Wentworth. I’m here because my sister Louisa Musgrove sent you a painting by mistake.’

She froze. ‘Your sister?’

‘The collection from Rubha Castle? She sent you our late mother’s art collection, but another painting was included that shouldn’t have been. I’m here to retrieve it.’

She frowned. ‘And why should I believe you? You could be anyone. A con artist. A fraudster. Show me some ID.’

Why hadn’t he thought to bring ID? ‘I don’t have any formal ID, but I’m telling the truth. I was going to explain, but when I got here the place was empty, so—’

‘You thought you’d walk in and help yourself?’ She looked incredulous.

He shrugged. ‘Something like that, yeah.’

‘Do you make a habit of just taking things? I mean, is there anything else you’d like while you’re here?’ Her tone had morphed into sarcasm. ‘A lift home, perhaps? A couple of paintings on your way out? A cup of tea?’