“If you must know, she’s the daughter of the Dutch ambassador to London. So you don’t have to worry about her stealing anything.”
“Didn’t even cross my mind, Daniel. And I’m disappointed that you should think that little of me,” Hart said quietly.
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it like that. She’s working on a thesis about the life of Vermeer for her art degree, and I just thought it would be really cool if she could actually get up close and personal with one of his paintings. That’s all.”
Hart poured out two single malts and added ice. He felt it unnecessary to ask his son what he wanted to drink, but handed over one of the tumblers and then walked outside onto the decked terrace and sat down. Daniel followed him, sitting on a wooden steamer chair a few feet away from his father. They sat in silence for a few moments, gazing at the magnificent view over Poole Harbour, towards Brownsea Island and in the distant the Purbeck hills; cutting across the horizon for a good ten miles from Corfe Castle all the way to the Jurassic Coastline of Dorset.
“So, tell me. What’s her name?”
Daniel was irritated by the question. “What does it matter?” It was the usual inquisition whenever he wanted to bring a friend home.
Hart looked over at his son and realised for the first time how abrupt it must have sounded to him. He was still preoccupied and shocked by what he’d discovered across town earlier that day.
“I’m sorry, Daniel. I have things on my mind at present. But I’m merely trying to show an interest in you and your friends.”
Daniel wasn’t convinced. “Freya Johansson. She’s a bit older than me, and from one of the oldest and wealthiest families in the Netherlands.”
Immediately, he saw his father tense-up, the glass tumbler in his hand held firmly. Charlie Hart didn’t like to be reminded that his family had originally come from one of the poorest council estates in East London before moving to India. And it was obvious that his father had not enjoyed the same high standard of education he’d provided for him.
“Sorry, Dad; I didn’t mean anything by that. What I meant to say was that she’s a really nice person who has a passion for fine art. And it doesn’t really matter about the other stuff, anyway.”
Hart showed no sign of relaxing; his son had hit a raw nerve, and it still hurt.
He stood up and walked to the edge of the decked balcony, raised his drink slowly and emptied the tumbler in one controlled gulp.
“Of course you can bring her around. You know what I’m like about the collection — it’s not that there are any secrets in there, but most of the paintings are priceless and people have a nasty habit of talking. But I’d be delighted to meet her, Daniel.”
Hart walked back inside and poured himself a refill. As he came out, he said, “So, is this one special?”
Daniel grinned. “Look, you’ll be the first to know if any of them are ‘special’, right?”
They were back to how it always was with them. Father and son; comfortable in each other’s company. Hart would usually work in his study for a while, and they would eat together around 8 p.m., unless either had made an alternative arrangement. Daniel, due to return to Cambridge after the weekend, then went his own way whilst his father largely stayed in to watch television or play around with his new toy — a luxury sixty-two foot power cruiser which was tied up at their private berth at the bottom of the garden. Sometimes his father went abroad for long periods, often at a moment’s notice; he kept a suitcase packed for such emergencies and his passport was always up to date.
She was a stunningly attractive girl and wore a colourful dress underneath a short jacket. Her blonde hair shone and was tied back in a single plait that highlighted her natural beauty, as did her eyes, which sparkled with mischief. She gave Daniel a wide smile as he opened the front door. To Daniel’s surprise, she had a woman with her, much older, and with a look of self-assuredness about her.
“This is my bodyguard,” explained Freya Johansson, in perfect English.
“Her orders are to escort me at all times. I hope you don’t mind, but she will have to see the paintings, too.”
It didn’t really matter whether Daniel minded or not. There was little that he could do that wouldn’t look churlish. Surely she could have ordered her to stay outside in the car whilst she came into the house on her own? Daniel smiled wanly in defeat, and led the way in. The bodyguard was almost certainly going to cramp his style. Perhaps that was why Freya appeared so impish — she had cut off any possibility of anything amorous taking place.
The bodyguard was dressed soberly, as if she was going to a business meeting. But she was pleasant enough and no doubt grateful that Daniel had taken such a charitable view of her presence. She spoke English formally, with a pronounced accent.
Daniel made coffee and afterwards took them to the gallery room, with Freya giving him a furtive smile, and a casual stroke of her hand across his backside as she stood alongside him. He placed his left hand on the flat biometric scanning pad, and after a short delay the door moved to the right and they all stepped into the air-lock. The outer door closed and he positioned himself in front of a small camera-like device that would confirm his retina profile. A moment later, all three of them were standing inside the darkened air-conditioned gallery. The elaborate lighting controlled by the computer system lit each painting to maximum effect and, as Daniel led them around the room, tiny star lights set in the marble flooring lit up like an aircraft runway.
Charlie Hart knew each painting intimately. He made it his business to know everything about the artists and the history surrounding each masterpiece hanging on his walls. But most importantly, he not only knew what he had paid for them, he knew exactly what each one was worth at today’s valuation. Unfortunately, Daniel was not so well-informed. His father had spent many years painstakingly putting the collection together and had acquired many rare pieces from all over the world. Most of them had been purchased anonymously through the large auction houses in London, Paris and New York and some through small elite dealers. In fact, the only item in the gallery that had no obvious place of origin was the life-size crystal skull, perched majestically on its pedestal of black onyx in the very centre of the room, dramatically lighted by tiny fibre optics from below, the intense light dashed up through the natural crystal in all the colours of the rainbow, through the perfectly carved eye sockets and bursting out of the skull in two separate beams of white light.
From the start, it was clear that the bodyguard knew very little about art in general, but Freya Johansson soon demonstrated that she had a deep knowledge of the subject, and was able to supply some of the background to various paintings. She was quickly absorbed, and went her own way, fascinated at what she saw, whilst Daniel patiently tried to explain to the thick-set woman what exactly was going on in a painting by Francisco Goya.
Every now and then, he would steal a look across the room at Freya, but to no avail, as she was totally fixated by the exquisite Vermeer hanging on the wall before her. After ten minutes, the bodyguard had just about had enough, and expressed her sincere thanks at being allowed to see the collection.
At the far end of the room, Freya leant forward, peering closely at one of the other Vermeer paintings. Suddenly, she felt faint, placed her hand against the wall to steady herself, and turned her head away from the others so that they wouldn’t see her expression.
Slowly she stood up, re-focussed, and took another look at the painting.
Vermeer called this one The Concert, and it showed three people in the scene, singing and playing instruments. Freya’s stomach churned. She would never forget the trip that her father had sent her on three years ago; the museum in Boston, the Vermeer paintings hanging on the gallery walls. However, this one hadn’t been on show, because this particular painting had been stolen in 1990. So was this the original, or was it an extremely good copy? She glanced quickly across the dimly-lighted room at Daniel, who was now standing in front of the crystal skull with the bodyguard, telling her about its history. Thank God, for she knew she wasn’t hiding her shock too well.