‘Can you think of anyone else involved in the art market whom Harry might have been working with?’
‘I certainly can,’ Abigail Nathan said with emphasis, then hesitated as though trying to bring herself to utter an indecent word. ‘That wretched woman who wrecked my son’s life. Sonja, whatever she calls herself now. I can tell you that if there was any kind of irregularity going on, that woman was behind it. She is a person without moral sense or scruple of any kind.’
‘I have recently interviewed Sonja Nathan,’ Lorraine said, keeping her voice expressionless. ‘She denies having any sort of contact with Harry since they got divorced. The separation was not amicable, I understand.’
‘No wonder.’ Mrs Nathan snorted. ‘Sonja couldn’t stand the fact that Harry finally realized that he should have married a nice, sweet, normal, natural girl.’ God knows how he ended up with Kendall in that case, Lorraine thought privately, but the older woman was in full flow. ‘Sonja was a completely unnatural woman from the day and hour Harry met her, and she simply got worse with age. I blessed the day Harry got that woman out of his life, and it broke my heart when he started seeing her again.’
‘What makes you think he war seeing her again?’
‘He used to telephone her from here,’ Abigail Nathan said, and Lorraine felt her pulse quicken. At last: someone had stated that Harry and Sonja Nathan had indeed remained in contact, but whether it was an indulgent mother’s attempt to cover up her son’s wrongdoing and incriminate a woman she disliked remained to be seen. ‘It was the only time Harry ever lied to me. That woman had a hold over him of a kind I’ve never seen.’
‘What sort of untruth do you mean?’ Lorraine asked.
‘He said he was talking to some business associate, fixing up meetings, but I knew it was her.’
‘How did you know it was her?’ Lorraine asked.
‘Because I called the phone company and got a record of the long-distance calls made on my line,’ Mrs Nathan said, giving Lorraine an arch look.
‘I don’t suppose you still have these records anywhere in the house,’ Lorraine asked, glancing around the room — it looked as though nothing had been thrown out in a decade, and it struck her suddenly that if Nathan had been in regular correspondence with his mother, those letters, too, were in all probability nearby.
‘I might have,’ Mrs Nathan said, looking carefully at Lorraine, as though her appearance might yield some clue as to whether or not she could be trusted.
‘Mrs Nathan, if Sonja is responsible for a substantial fraud and perhaps a more serious crime,’ Lorraine said, meeting Mrs Nathan’s eyes with what she hoped was a frank, honest gaze, ‘then I will naturally be handing over the matter to the police.’
‘I told the police that I suspected that woman was mixed up in my son’s death and they pretty much told me to go home to my patty-pans. Just an old lady with a bee in her bonnet. They didn’t have to say it, but that’s what they were thinking.’
No doubt they were, Lorraine thought, and the fact that Harry Nathan had called his ex-wife a few times must have seemed innocent enough. But in the context of so many other circumstances that seemed to point to Sonja, and in particular the flat denials Lorraine had received from both Sonja and Arthur that there had been any contact between her and Harry after they divorced, it was important evidence. Though Nathan could, of course, have been calling to speak to Arthur — the two men had known one another for years, and it was possible that Arthur was helping Nathan with his forgery scam without Sonja’s knowledge. Lorraine realized she had never asked Arthur if he had had any contact with Harry Nathan. But that had seemed unlikely — Harry Nathan had to be the last person with whom Arthur would secretly have been best buddies.
‘I’m afraid that the police often take such allegations lightly when they’re made by a member of the public,’ she said, ‘but they might be more inclined to take it seriously against a background of other evidence coming from a... more professional source.’
‘You mean from you,’ Abigail Nathan said bluntly.
‘Yes, I do.’
There was silence for a few moments while the old lady weighed up the pros and cons of trusting Lorraine. ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘I could go and look upstairs, if you have time to wait.’
‘I’m in no hurry,’ Lorraine said. ‘Or I could come and help you, if you’d like.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Abigail Nathan. ‘You wait right here. You can look around my collection.’
She got up, and Lorraine heard her slow footsteps climbing the stairs. Look around the collection was exactly what she would do, and particularly the collection of papers in the ginger jar. She waited until she heard the woman’s footsteps overhead, tipped it out and flicked through the contents — Abigail Nathan had kept all sorts of junk, matchbooks, photographs, dinner menus and letters, but the most recent was from a woman friend, dated 1994.
There were papers all over the house, and Lorraine decided to investigate further. She opened the door to the next room noiselessly and found herself in a den full of trinkets and toys, bursting out of cupboards and balanced on a number of little spindle-legged tables. Looking round the room, her eye was caught by a most unusual display of carved red wooden devils, no more than a few inches high, with hideous faces and cloven hoofs, holding a pack of miniature playing cards. Lorraine bent down to look closer, genuinely interested, and saw, tucked into the corner of the cabinet, an airmail envelope with a German stamp. She eased it out, recognizing Harry Nathan’s large, untidy handwriting. The postmark was a few months old.
‘Mrs Page?’ Abigail Nathan called. ‘Are you down there?’
Scarcely thinking what she was doing, Lorraine reached under her jacket and slipped the letter into the back of the waistband of her skirt, then walked smartly out to see the old lady making her way downstairs.
‘Yes, I’m here, Mrs Nathan. I just went to the bathroom.’
‘I see. I have what you wanted here — I never throw anything away.’
She held out two sheets of paper. Lorraine’s hand almost trembled as she took them. ‘Thank you, Mrs Nathan,’ she said. ‘May I take these back to LA?’
‘You take them wherever you like,’ Abigail Nathan replied, ‘if it’ll help to get justice for my son.’
Lorraine placed the sheets of paper in her briefcase, and said, ‘I’d better be on my way now, I’m afraid. Can I call a cab?’
‘Certainly,’ Mrs Nathan said graciously, waving her hand towards the filthy kitchen as though ushering Lorraine into a palace. ‘Phone’s through there.’
Lorraine found a card for a cab company pinned next to the phone and made a quick call. ‘It’ll just be a few minutes,’ she said, hanging up. ‘One last thing, Mrs Nathan. I don’t suppose you know anything about a man named Arthur? I don’t know his last name, but Harry knew him as a young man and he’s living with Sonja now in the Hamptons.’
‘You mean Arthur Donnelly. He and Harry were in college together. He was a painter, he said, but I knew he’d never get anywhere. Masterly technique, of course, but simply nothing of his own to say. I told him he ought to count his blessings and join the family firm.’ She laughed at the recollection.
‘What was that, Mrs Nathan?’ Lorraine asked curiously.
‘Oh, an outfit in the antique trade. All reproduction.’
Another piece of the puzzle slotted into place, Lorraine thought, recalling the sticker Cindy had found inside the fake antique jar. It looked like Arthur had indeed taken Mrs Nathan’s advice.
The doorbell rang and Lorraine picked up her briefcase. She thanked Mrs Nathan profusely.
‘So glad to have been of assistance — if I have — and if you hear anything you will contact me, won’t you?’