Read Online The Rembrandt Secret by Alex Connor - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alex Connor
Tags: Fiction, Action & Adventure
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hand shaking, he felt for a pulse at his father’s neck.
‘ Dad? Dad? ’ he said softly, stupidly.
It was obvious from the angle of Owen’s head that he was dead, but Marshall kept talking to him, mumbling comfort as he reached up to try and release his father’s hands. When he couldn’t unfasten the bonds, Marshall stepped back, shaking uncontrollably, looking round for something to cut the rope. He could feel the blood sticky under his shoes, and feel the cold air coming through an open window, but he couldn’t take his eyes off his dead father. His murdered father. Tenderly he touched Owen’s face, then took off his jacket and placed it over his father’s head. But as he did so, the body slumped, swinging from its tied wrists as it turned round to face him.
All the elegant charm of Owen Zeigler’s face had disappeared under a coating of blood. His lips were drawn back from his teeth in pain, his scalp was split, his eyes stared out blindly, his rib cage caved in under the mottled flesh. And from the gaping cavern of his belly his intestines began, slowly, to slither to the floor beneath him.
Owen Zeigler had been gutted.
6
Rosella Manners stood by the door of the breakfast room of the Barnes house, watching her husband. She was standing barefoot, having kicked off her shoes moments earlier when she entered the house. It was a habit of long standing, a way to make her husband – shorter by three inches – feel less intimidated by her height. Her expression was unreadable, her coat unfastened, her bag on the hall table. Letting herself in, she had avoided any exchange with the housekeeper; keen that no one should overhear what she was about to say.
Mozart was playing, very quietly, the scent of the white lilies in the hallway was almost cloying. Fresh flowers twice a week. Rosella had insisted on it. Even when she was away. It was good chi, she would say mockingly, it keep the energy alive in the house. But looking at Tobar – who still had not noticed her – she realised that it was pointless to keep up any of the little pretences she had accumulated over the years. He was not a man susceptible to atmosphere. He was, she knew, immune to anything other than the materialistic. Rosella might try for an imitation of married life, but that was all it was – emotional costume jewellery.
She glanced over to the carpet under the coffee table. They had bought it in Tangiers, Tobar haggling with the dealer, flirting with him to get the price reduced. And she had stood in the background, silent behind her sunglasses, and suspected she had been taken for his secretary or a sister. Never a wife. Her gaze moved to the mantelpiece; to the cherubs nestling together amorously. Only both putti had male genitalia and their marble perfection was a frozen moment of homoeroticism. Everywhere was the language of the boy. Of her husband’s preference, of the late-night conversations in the study and the two separate mobile phone numbers.
It both distressed and amused Rosella that she might be pitied, that people would think her wasted. Why be a wife to a man who had no need of one? But then again, she thought, why be a wife at all? Motionless, Rosella kept staring at the back of her husband’s head. Gossip had tracked their marriage as day followed night, but she was a clever woman: she was well aware that to be perceived as a victim was her protection. Her own mock morality.
Throwing her copy of the Evening Standard over to Tobar, she watched as it struck him on the shoulder.
Irritated, Tobar turned round. ‘What the hell—’
‘Read the paper,’ she said, her mouth a thin line of disgust under the patrician nose. ‘See what your handiwork has done.’
Immediately he snatched it up, read the passage she had marked, and lost colour. ‘Owen Zeigler killed …? What the fuck happened?’
‘You cheated him with that Rembrandt—’
‘Now, look here—’
‘Don’t lie to me, you little bastard. I know you,
‘ Dad? Dad? ’ he said softly, stupidly.
It was obvious from the angle of Owen’s head that he was dead, but Marshall kept talking to him, mumbling comfort as he reached up to try and release his father’s hands. When he couldn’t unfasten the bonds, Marshall stepped back, shaking uncontrollably, looking round for something to cut the rope. He could feel the blood sticky under his shoes, and feel the cold air coming through an open window, but he couldn’t take his eyes off his dead father. His murdered father. Tenderly he touched Owen’s face, then took off his jacket and placed it over his father’s head. But as he did so, the body slumped, swinging from its tied wrists as it turned round to face him.
All the elegant charm of Owen Zeigler’s face had disappeared under a coating of blood. His lips were drawn back from his teeth in pain, his scalp was split, his eyes stared out blindly, his rib cage caved in under the mottled flesh. And from the gaping cavern of his belly his intestines began, slowly, to slither to the floor beneath him.
Owen Zeigler had been gutted.
6
Rosella Manners stood by the door of the breakfast room of the Barnes house, watching her husband. She was standing barefoot, having kicked off her shoes moments earlier when she entered the house. It was a habit of long standing, a way to make her husband – shorter by three inches – feel less intimidated by her height. Her expression was unreadable, her coat unfastened, her bag on the hall table. Letting herself in, she had avoided any exchange with the housekeeper; keen that no one should overhear what she was about to say.
Mozart was playing, very quietly, the scent of the white lilies in the hallway was almost cloying. Fresh flowers twice a week. Rosella had insisted on it. Even when she was away. It was good chi, she would say mockingly, it keep the energy alive in the house. But looking at Tobar – who still had not noticed her – she realised that it was pointless to keep up any of the little pretences she had accumulated over the years. He was not a man susceptible to atmosphere. He was, she knew, immune to anything other than the materialistic. Rosella might try for an imitation of married life, but that was all it was – emotional costume jewellery.
She glanced over to the carpet under the coffee table. They had bought it in Tangiers, Tobar haggling with the dealer, flirting with him to get the price reduced. And she had stood in the background, silent behind her sunglasses, and suspected she had been taken for his secretary or a sister. Never a wife. Her gaze moved to the mantelpiece; to the cherubs nestling together amorously. Only both putti had male genitalia and their marble perfection was a frozen moment of homoeroticism. Everywhere was the language of the boy. Of her husband’s preference, of the late-night conversations in the study and the two separate mobile phone numbers.
It both distressed and amused Rosella that she might be pitied, that people would think her wasted. Why be a wife to a man who had no need of one? But then again, she thought, why be a wife at all? Motionless, Rosella kept staring at the back of her husband’s head. Gossip had tracked their marriage as day followed night, but she was a clever woman: she was well aware that to be perceived as a victim was her protection. Her own mock morality.
Throwing her copy of the Evening Standard over to Tobar, she watched as it struck him on the shoulder.
Irritated, Tobar turned round. ‘What the hell—’
‘Read the paper,’ she said, her mouth a thin line of disgust under the patrician nose. ‘See what your handiwork has done.’
Immediately he snatched it up, read the passage she had marked, and lost colour. ‘Owen Zeigler killed …? What the fuck happened?’
‘You cheated him with that Rembrandt—’
‘Now, look here—’
‘Don’t lie to me, you little bastard. I know you,
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