just stopped herself laughing out loud.
We will be all right, she told herself, once he and David have shaken down and I’ve stopped trying so hard to keep them both happy at the same time.
Chapter 8
The Hieronymus Bosch didn’t look too bad, Toby decided as he passed it for the fourth time. He could probably bid for it without raising too many suspicions. If he hadn’t known it was a fake and had been thinking of buying it for real, he would have had it X-rayed to examine the under-drawing. Given Bosch’s habit of constantly changing his mind as he painted, it should have been easy to see whether this was genuine or a copy. Then to be absolutely sure, he would have taken the panel to the Prado to compare it in detail with the real thing. As it was, he hoped there was no one else interested enough to take any such precautions.
On the other hand, he thought as his breakfast muesli churned in his stomach, if no one else were interested at all, he would never be able to get the price high enough to satisfy Ben’s boss. You couldn’t go bidding in millions when no one else was prepared to offer more than a few hundred quid, which was probably all this wretched fake was actually worth.
He wondered who had painted it, and where they’d got the panel itself and the paints. There must be a mini-factory somewhere, breaking up rotten old coffers for wood of the right date, and making their own paints to ensure they used only ingredients known at the time the pictures were supposed to have been painted.
Ben had promised from the start that they’d be fed on to the
market slowly enough to look convincing. Even he had been able to see that one ‘lost’ painting might come up every so often but that if you put two or three into every old master sale you’d lose all chance of persuading buyers they were real.
All in all, it wasn’t such a bad plan, Toby told himself, trying to make it seem ordinary and bearable so that he could forget the threats to Mer. At least Ben’s team had had the wit to pick a dullish subject that might well have escaped notice in some church or other over the past five hundred years.
Toby walked on and stood for much longer in front of a very dubious Dürer drawing, peering and shaking his head, before ostentatiously checking the glossy catalogue.
‘You’re not really interested in that bit of old tat, are you, Toby?’ said a voice from behind him.
He turned to see the arts correspondent of the Daily Mercury, a waspish man called Mark Sapton, who was always on the hunt for gossip and scandal. Toby felt faint with relief that he hadn’t been standing in front of the Bosch when Sapton arrived.
‘God no!’ he said, sharing a cheerful sneer. ‘I just couldn’t believe the catalogue description.’
‘I know. Standards are slipping horribly, aren’t they? I can never decide whether it’s wishful thinking or straight dishonesty. You busy? What about lunch?’
‘I wish I could,’ Toby said, lying easily, ‘but I’ve got to get back. Too much to do. Next time, maybe.’
‘Sure. See you.’ Sapton walked on in search of an easier target.
This was definitely not the time to have another look at the Hieronymus Bosch, Toby thought. He hoped he’d spent long enough in front of it to satisfy whomever Ben had sent here today to spy. Now all he had to do was bid for the wretched thing, and pray that he could push the price up high enough to please Ben and so keep Mer and Tim safe.
As he walked down towards the Embankment so that he
could pass Blackfriars Prep on his way back to the gallery, Toby tried to persuade himself that Ben’s threats hadn’t been serious. It was ludicrous to think that anyone, however criminal, would really torture or kill a child just to get a better price for a faked old master.
There was no sign of anyone in the school courtyard, so Toby rested against the broad granite balustrade and stared out across the river at the Oxo Tower, trying to hold on to hope.
We will be all right, she told herself, once he and David have shaken down and I’ve stopped trying so hard to keep them both happy at the same time.
Chapter 8
The Hieronymus Bosch didn’t look too bad, Toby decided as he passed it for the fourth time. He could probably bid for it without raising too many suspicions. If he hadn’t known it was a fake and had been thinking of buying it for real, he would have had it X-rayed to examine the under-drawing. Given Bosch’s habit of constantly changing his mind as he painted, it should have been easy to see whether this was genuine or a copy. Then to be absolutely sure, he would have taken the panel to the Prado to compare it in detail with the real thing. As it was, he hoped there was no one else interested enough to take any such precautions.
On the other hand, he thought as his breakfast muesli churned in his stomach, if no one else were interested at all, he would never be able to get the price high enough to satisfy Ben’s boss. You couldn’t go bidding in millions when no one else was prepared to offer more than a few hundred quid, which was probably all this wretched fake was actually worth.
He wondered who had painted it, and where they’d got the panel itself and the paints. There must be a mini-factory somewhere, breaking up rotten old coffers for wood of the right date, and making their own paints to ensure they used only ingredients known at the time the pictures were supposed to have been painted.
Ben had promised from the start that they’d be fed on to the
market slowly enough to look convincing. Even he had been able to see that one ‘lost’ painting might come up every so often but that if you put two or three into every old master sale you’d lose all chance of persuading buyers they were real.
All in all, it wasn’t such a bad plan, Toby told himself, trying to make it seem ordinary and bearable so that he could forget the threats to Mer. At least Ben’s team had had the wit to pick a dullish subject that might well have escaped notice in some church or other over the past five hundred years.
Toby walked on and stood for much longer in front of a very dubious Dürer drawing, peering and shaking his head, before ostentatiously checking the glossy catalogue.
‘You’re not really interested in that bit of old tat, are you, Toby?’ said a voice from behind him.
He turned to see the arts correspondent of the Daily Mercury, a waspish man called Mark Sapton, who was always on the hunt for gossip and scandal. Toby felt faint with relief that he hadn’t been standing in front of the Bosch when Sapton arrived.
‘God no!’ he said, sharing a cheerful sneer. ‘I just couldn’t believe the catalogue description.’
‘I know. Standards are slipping horribly, aren’t they? I can never decide whether it’s wishful thinking or straight dishonesty. You busy? What about lunch?’
‘I wish I could,’ Toby said, lying easily, ‘but I’ve got to get back. Too much to do. Next time, maybe.’
‘Sure. See you.’ Sapton walked on in search of an easier target.
This was definitely not the time to have another look at the Hieronymus Bosch, Toby thought. He hoped he’d spent long enough in front of it to satisfy whomever Ben had sent here today to spy. Now all he had to do was bid for the wretched thing, and pray that he could push the price up high enough to please Ben and so keep Mer and Tim safe.
As he walked down towards the Embankment so that he
could pass Blackfriars Prep on his way back to the gallery, Toby tried to persuade himself that Ben’s threats hadn’t been serious. It was ludicrous to think that anyone, however criminal, would really torture or kill a child just to get a better price for a faked old master.
There was no sign of anyone in the school courtyard, so Toby rested against the broad granite balustrade and stared out across the river at the Oxo Tower, trying to hold on to hope.
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