Gauguin Connection, The (5 page)

“I only asked him if he could find out if there were any open cases in France and the rest of Europe with a SIG 226 nine-millimetre as the murder weapon.”

“And he didn’t ask you why you wanted to know?”

“Of course he did.”

“And?”

“I lied to him.” I was so proud about this achievement that my voice lifted with this admission. “I told him that I’m working on the side for a private investigator and that he asked me to do some research into this.”

“And he believed you?”

“After some time.” I’d had to use all my learned skills of deception to convince Jacques, but it hadn’t taken too long. Not only did people lie easily, they just as quickly believed a lie.

“Oh, dear. I don’t want to know the details. Just tell me what you found out.”

“Well, he told me that there are two unsolved murders in France, one in Italy and two in Greece where this type of weapon was used. The cases happened four to seven years ago and there’s been no reason to connect them whatsoever. I told Jacques that I was wrong and there obviously was no connection. I even managed to sound very disappointed.”

“Genevieve, lying is not something to be so proud of.”

“It is. It’s only the second time this year that I’ve lied, so I’m very proud that I was so believable.”

Phillip shook his head with a half-smile, but quickly sobered. “Tell me more about these murders.”

“Well, once I had this information, it was really easy to find out the rest. All five victims were artists. And not just any artists. They were highly regarded in their fields.”

“What fields?”

“This is another interesting anomaly. If there was a serial killer in Europe, he might have chosen something more fitting to a type. The only thing these people have in common is that they were artists. Their age, gender, social status, everything differs so greatly that it is difficult to imagine that this could be the work of a serial killer. Not one of the artists specialised in the same field. One was fantastic at the restoration of Renaissance art, the other was a sculptor, the other specialised in bronzes and the other one was a graphic designer. I think the last one was skilled in watercolours from the Romantic era, especially Turner’s works. They came from different countries, so why a serial killer would or could find them doesn’t make sense at all.”

“A serial killer with a Eurocorps weapon.”

“That is another reason that makes me think it’s not a serial killer. These murders were all committed with the same type of weapon, but not the same weapon. I’m sure if Manny requested the ballistic reports of these cases, he would be able to match it to the stolen Eurocorps weapons.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him about this.”

“You can also ask him why it is that the other cases didn’t register that they were Eurocorps weapons.”

“Maybe because the data was only entered in a local database. Or maybe these weapons weren’t Eurocorps’.”

“Oh, they were. Of that I’m convinced.”

“Genevieve, how can you be so convinced of your theory when most of it is conjecture?”

“It is not conjecture.” How dare he insult me like that? “I would never form a theory without the relevant information.”

“That’s just it. You don’t have enough information to make this a viable theory.”

“How can you not see it?” The censure in my voice caused Phillip to lift his eyebrows in a warning. Even though he was the only person totally accepting of who I was, I still couldn’t expect him to accept my intolerance of being challenged by those of lesser intellect. I took a deep breath and modulated my tone. “How can I explain this to you? I’ve gathered all these pieces of a puzzle. Putting it together can do no other than form this specific picture.”

“A picture that includes numerous murders on the continent with Eurocorps weapons. Manny will be so pleased.”

“Why would he be pleased? I would think he would be outraged at this.” It only took a look at Phillip’s face for realisation to dawn. “Oh, you were being sarcastic. I’m sure that Manny will not be pleased with this information either, but he did ask us to look into this.”

“Actually he asked us to find the connection between the girl and the painting.”

“And the connection between that, the Russian murderer and the EDA weapons.” I could recall every conversation verbatim, to most people’s utter frustration.

“Let’s assume that the girl is an artist. How does that connect her to the Gauguin painting?”

“I don’t know that yet.”

“And let’s assume the girl and the artefact are connected. How does that connect her to the poets?”

“Apart from the fact that it was the poet who discovered this artwork?” I gave it a moment’s thought to remember which connection I had not explained yet. “I didn’t mention the fact that there were poets and discoveries in the same areas as where three of the five unsolved murders took place, did I?”

Phillip only looked at me, waiting for me to continue.

“Going through all those local newspapers’ archives proved to be very enlightening. I discovered all sorts of interesting things. Did you know that in 2005 a hundred and twenty-one people died in a plane crash in Greece?”

“Does this have anything to do with the case?”

“No, it doesn’t.” I sighed at my own digression before going on with the determination to stay on point. “A month before the second Greek murder, William Strode, the archaeologist, discovered a long-lost Van Gogh.” I took a moment to locate the specific article on one of the monitors and zoomed in on it. “This is one of the cases where he declared it to be a forgery. In one of the French cases, another poet declared the artwork to be a forgery and it was soon followed by a murder. I couldn’t find any connection with him and the three other unsolved murders. What I do know is that this poet-man is somehow involved. To say that he’s involved in the murders would indeed be conjecture, but the fact that he’s the one discovering these pieces and then exposing the forgeries makes me wonder how he fits into all of this. There are simply too many threads connecting him to call it any kind of coincidence.”

“Not that you would ever call anything coincidence.” Phillip sat back in the chair, pinching his chin. I gave him time to process all the information I had bombarded him with. I had a lot of respect for how his mind worked. When it came to business and people, he far outranked me in natural skill. I could see patterns and make connections like the ones I had just made. Phillip would add the human element that I, even with my extensive training, sometimes missed. The silence stretched on. Just when I once again became aware of my embarrassing dishevelled state, Phillip spoke. “Manny told me about the things the killer shouted. Have you come up with any theories?”

“No. To be honest, I haven’t given the twenty-seven daffodils and the all-powerful red much thought.”

“Maybe you should. I’ve looked at it every which way and it still sounds like rubbish.” He glanced at the monitors. “I have quite a lot to tell Manny. I’ll meet with him today while you go home and rest.”

“Yes, I need to go home.” I needed to stand in the shower for an hour and wash away the zone I had been in. “While you speak to Manny, tell him to work harder at finding the girl’s identity.”

“I’m sure he and the local police have worked really hard in identifying the girl, Genevieve.” He lowered his head and gave me a warning look. “While you’re at home, do whatever you need to do to tune back into your social skills. Manny is not one to take too kindly to your special brand of honesty.”

I disagreed with him on that point, but kept my own counsel. The way I had read Manny, I strongly believed that he would prefer my total honesty, even if he did not always find it, or me for that matter, agreeable or likeable.

After another two warnings that I was to go home and rest, Phillip left me alone in the viewing room to face the mess I found myself in.

With a heavy sigh I gathered the coffee mugs to take them to the kitchen. It took another hour to tidy my viewing room enough to allow the cleaning crew to come in later and clean it to my exact specifications. All the while I berated myself for allowing this case to get the better of all the years of discipline.

Once I got into my little city car, I decided that I had had enough of the self-flagellation. As with most other experiences, I would consciously look at this as a lesson on how to, or in this case how not to, handle certain situations life threw at me. I had worked extremely hard in the six years that I had been with Rousseau & Rousseau to establish stability and control in my life. It should not have come as a surprise to me that I could not always be in control. I should have been prepared to handle such an unexpected situation better. The predictable stability in my life had made me lazy and unprepared. That would have to change.

I turned my car into the parking space under my apartment building and got out with a sigh of relief. The soothing spray of my shower would help me plot out how I would handle such a situation differently, were one to come up again. Hopefully the unexpected photo that triggered my almost blackout and then the zoning out were the last of these unwanted behaviours. Waiting for the elevator to whisk me up to my apartment, I was determined to regain every ounce of control.

It had been almost a novelty after so many years to once again feel the darkness closing in on me. I had forgotten what it was like to feel the whole world recede and just lose myself in that dark space, not aware
of any of my actions. Fortunately I had been able to keep myself from complete surrender to that darkness. Even still, it was certainly not something that I wanted to repeat any time soon.

I opened the door to my large loft apartment, relief to be in my safe haven washing over me. This was the place where I was totally in control.

I locked the five locks on my heavy front door and turned to the kitchen. My usual homecoming ritual of a cup of herbal tea before I took a shower would go a long way in helping me regain total control. My apartment had been a find that I still relished in. The spacious airy rooms with windows on both sides, large enough to bathe all the wooden finishing in natural light, always made me feel at peace. That and the fact that there was no one to move anything out of place or to leave their grimy fingerprints on the impeccable surfaces.

I walked through the long open-space living area, single-minded in my focus on making tea. The front half of my apartment was divided into four quarters. Directly to the left of the front door were two comfortable sofas facing a good-sized balcony on one side and a wall-length bookshelf on the
other. Next to that was the dining area. The wall separating my bedroom and the dining area was the only wall in the living area covered in paintings and masks. All the other walls were covered in books.

The kitchen was directly opposite the dining area. I stepped into the immaculate space without as much as a glance at the reading area behind me. All I wanted was to switch the cold kettle on to boil the water for my tea. Why was it then that a thin wisp of steam was coming out of the kettle? And why was there an aroma of camomile tea in my apartment? A cold hand of awareness clamped around my heart.

“Hello, Genevieve.”

I had no air in my lungs to scream in horror when I turned to the reading area to face the voice that had intruded in my safe space. I also had no time to consider my own safety. Not when the darkness was closing in faster than it had two days before. I barely had the presence of mind to pull my handbag from my shoulder and dig out empty music sheets and a pencil with stiff fingers. In the very far background I heard a concerned voice calling me, but it was not strong enough to pull me back. Only the music sheets in my hand and the notes floating around in my head were real. Nothing else.

How I made it to the dining table I had no idea, nor did it matter how long I was there. As long as I was focussing on Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 5 in D major, the darkness stayed peripheral. It closed in on me the moment I allowed my attention to be drawn to the other person speaking softly to me, moving around my apartment as if searching for something and then placing more empty music sheets in front of me.

I pushed the knowledge of his invading presence in my apartment out of my mind and focussed on the purity of the music notes on the sheets. In many of his letters Mozart mentioned that this Concerto had been his favourite. It was mine too. I loved his use of trumpets and timpani in the first and last movements. The horns, oboes and strings that served as the piano’s support were perfect. It was pure, safe, in harmony. I had to focus on this to regain my own harmony.

Slowly my mind returned to my apartment and back into my body. The threatening darkness had moved away, but the stranger was still in my apartment. I shook this knowledge off and looked at the table. The music sheets were neatly arranged next to each other, in two rows, from one side of the long wooden dining table to the other. There were twenty sheets. I had written a lot.

Still not completely back in control, I chose to finish the second movement, the Andante, giving myself time to assess my situation. Writing Mozart not only helped me through moments like this, it was also the most effective way for me to think things through. I never had any problems memorising the compositions and must have written each of Mozart’s works at least twice in my life. Others I had written countless times. This work especially had helped me several times to come up with solutions to seemingly impossible situations. Like the one in my apartment.

For some unfathomable reason he was still in my apartment. Who was he and what was he doing here? I didn’t want to chance looking at him in case he would think that I was available for conversation or maybe some more sinister activity he had in mind.

I had completed seven years of self-defence training, combining different disciplines to enable a woman to defend herself in all kinds of situations. All the years of training flooded my mind. I would have to assess my assailant to best determine what form of defence I might need, yet I was reluctant to look away from my safe music papers.

“I made you a cup of tea.” The intruder spoke quietly a few feet away from me. He had a deep voice and spoke with smooth confidence. My favourite teacup filled with camomile tea appeared next to my left hand. A strong hand made the fine porcelain cup and saucer look even more fragile. A quick glance revealed muscular forearms partially hidden by the pushed-up sleeves of a black sweater. “It looked as if you drink a lot of this tea, so I hope that I assumed correctly that you might like a cup.”

The temptation to look at the rest of the man was hard to resist, but I wanted more time to analyse my situation. The gentleness in his voice did not alert me to any violent intent, but he might just be trying to create a false sense of safety before he pounced. I almost laughed at my unprofessional analysis. Never had I used the word ‘pounce’ in any of the profiles I had created.

According to the twenty-four sheets of music in front of me, I estimated that I had been writing for at least three hours. Questions started gnawing at me. I finished the last notes, drew the bold double bar line to indicate the end of the second movement, and stilled the nagging questions in my mind.

I looked up from the table and found the intruder.

The unwelcome fiend was in my reading chair, a chair no one but I had ever used. He was immersed in a newspaper. My newspaper.

He appeared in his mid-thirties, maybe a few years older than me. Taller than average, he had the build of a gymnast. Very muscular, but not bulky. This was important to know in case I had to defend myself. His dark brown hair was just a bit too long to qualify as short. It looked finger-combed, a bit messy. Stylists needed a lot of product and time to give male models that look.

His square jaw was darkened by stubble and his skin had the tone of someone who had just returned from a Mediterranean holiday. The fingers holding my newspaper were long, the nails neatly clipped. Everything about him stated relaxed elegance, from his quality dark clothes to his demeanour.

His crossed ankles and relaxed torso showed that he had no concerns about his safety. Not like I did. I studied him intently for any cue that he might be a threat to me. I found none. I did, however, sense something familiar about him.

“Who are you?”

“Oh, hello.” He looked up from my newspaper that I now would not be able to read. He had destroyed the creases. “Glad to have you back.”

“Who are you?” I maintained an even tone, not willing to let him see any more vulnerability than he had already witnessed.

“You have a cool collection of artwork here.” He got out of my chair and walked to the wall behind me. I had chosen and bought the fourteen masks that took up a quarter of the wall after extensive research and consideration.

I took the time to assess him further as he passed me. I would have to be quick and smart to get the better of him physically. He was light on his feet and moved with the kind of grace attributed to boxers, gymnasts and athletes. And thieves.

His English was flawless with no accent to place him in any particular region. I continued watching him for possible clues to his identity or purpose in my apartment while he perused my collection.

“I especially like this Inca funerary mask from Peru. Ah, Peru. I loved travelling there.”

I refused to be drawn in into his reminiscing, but I was dying to know how he was able to identify that mask. It could’ve been from any South American country.

The way he held his body while facing my favourite mask oozed self-confidence. I was looking at a man who very seldom tasted failure. It seemed not to have made him arrogant, but rather self-assured, if not overconfident. And he was trying to distract me from my question. So I waited.

It didn’t take too long for him to turn back to me with a half-smile. “Do you really have the IQ of a genius?”

I clenched my teeth to refrain from responding. I had watched enough interviews to know that one should never reveal too much about oneself. Nor did I think it prudent to be pulled into a conversation with someone who had broken into one’s house.

“Who are you?” I asked again in the same controlled tone.

“What happened earlier? It looked like you had some kind of autistic blackout.”

That was it. I had had enough of people asking me about my state of mind. And I was bored with explaining it to complete strangers. I pushed my chair back with uncharacteristic force and placed both my hands flat on the surface of the dining table. “I am going to have a shower. The bedroom and bathroom doors are reinforced, so don’t even think to enter. When I come out, you will not be here.”

“And if I am?”

I straightened myself slowly to my full average height and gave him my most severe gaze. For a few seconds we were locked in a battle of fixed stares before I turned around without a word and walked to my bedroom as if the matter was settled. I knew that it was all but settled, but I was not going to allow some common criminal who had broken into my sanctuary to dictate the direction of any conversation.

My security paranoia in a very safe city at last became useful as I bolted my bedroom door. Only after I turned the third lock did I allow myself to slump against the door. How he had managed to enter my secure apartment was a mystery that I would have to solve before I went to bed. Wherever the gap in my security was, it had to be filled, else I would never have another good night’s rest.

He hadn’t seemed to have any harmful intent and I could only hope that he would respond to my warning gaze and leave. I shook my head as I made my way to my bathroom. The way I had read him, I knew that he was still going to be in my apartment when I finished my shower.

The desired half an hour under the spray of a hot shower was cut short with the uncomfortable knowledge of a stranger on the other side of the wall waiting for me. At least I was comforted by the fact that there was no way he could penetrate the two steel-reinforced doors leading to my bathroom. I went through my routine as quickly as possible and felt much better by the time I pushed my fingers through my short, dark brown hair to give it a natural messy look.

In my bedroom, I gave myself a last inspection in the mirror and approved. My dark jeans fitted my slim legs snugly, but gave me enough room to manoeuvre in case of a physical altercation. The dark brown boots would do some serious damage if they connected to any part of the human body. I inhaled deeply and on the exhale relaxed the muscles around my eyes so that my emerald-green eyes wouldn’t look so disturbed. Once I was satisfied with the image in the mirror, I unlocked the door, fully expecting the intruder to still be there.

I found him perusing the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf in the reading area. He had a first-edition Kipling in his hand and was paging through it with unadulterated awe etched on his face. How could a common criminal appreciate art and literature like this? The same sense of familiarity pulled at my consciousness. I inched closer.

“You have exquisite taste, Jenny.” He must have sensed my presence, because he only looked up from the book after he had spoken. And he had shortened my name. “Your art collection is small, but chosen with an obvious eye for quality and substance. Your music taste is an interesting jump between genres, but this”—he pointed to the books—“this is something I would give my big toe for.”

“Why would you—” I stopped myself from inquiring why he would sacrifice a digit, knowing that it probably was one of those senseless things people said. “Why don’t you just give me your name?”

He carefully replaced the book and even managed to align it the right distance from the edge of the shelf before he turned to me. “If I give you my name, will you sit down with me and have a conversation?”

“Why would I want to do that? You broke into my apartment and have overstayed your welcome by a few hours.”

“I would consider it a huge favour.” His smile used all those facial muscles indicating insincerity. Most likely he used it to charm his way around other hapless victims. This was the first time that I felt him to be a threat. I moved away from him to a small wooden table I had bought from a Cambodian art dealer.

“What are you doing?”

“Phoning the police.”

“I’m afraid that won’t work.”

Without taking my eyes off him, I picked up the receiver of my home phone only to be met with a dead instrument in my hand. I shook it slightly towards him. “What have you done?”

“Played it safe.” Surprisingly he looked apologetic. “I’ve also switched on a scrambler that won’t allow you any reception on your mobile phone.”

My life had been in such controlled harmony until two days ago. Now I had to deal with a lapse not only in my carefully cultivated control, but also in my home security. All of this had started with that blasted Manny and his case. Not being one to believe in coincidence, I was leaning towards the intruder’s visit having something to do with the photo and Manny’s case.

“I don’t want to frighten you, Jenny.” The intruder turned his palms outwards, but it was the true concern on his face that had me convinced. This time.

Using a shortened version of my name grated on my nerves. I desperately wanted to release all the pent-up frustration of the last few days in a lecture about respecting people’s names. But this might not be the wisest move. I considered all my options and sighed. “Your name and then we talk.”

“Fantastic.” He took a step closer and stretched out his hand in introduction, but immediately stopped when I stiffened. His hand floated to his side. “Sorry. My name is Colin Frey.”

The little time I had already spent with this intruder had been enough for me to have established a baseline. This enabled me to know that at that very moment he was telling the truth. I replaced the dead receiver and gave my reading chair a look of disgust. I stepped to the left and sat down on one of the two wingback chairs that completed my seating arrangement in the reading area. Colin took his place again in my chair, much to my dismay. I would have to disinfect my entire apartment.

“What do you want, Mister Frey?”

“Colin, please.” He looked unsure how to continue.

“Please just state your business so that you can leave.”

“You work for Rousseau & Rousseau. It is not quite stated what you do there, but it seems that you’re working in the fraud detection department.”

“Your business, Mister Frey.” I was not going to allow him the pleasure of drawing information out of me. I studied every movement of his facial muscles and found my eyes continuously drawn to his lips.