at doctoring footage, both images and sound, Victor Litchenko described himself as a ‘digital artist.’ Few who’d worked with him disagreed.
‘It’s actually not a bad piece of work,’ the Russian said at last, sipping at the double espresso Jeff had brought him. ‘The most common mistake amateurs make is to go for something too complex. But here she simply doctored the time line and changed the lighting. Very easy. Very effective.’
‘So it is Tracy?’
‘It is Tracy. The footage itself is genuine, nothing’s been superimposed or patched together. All she did was to change the time clock in the bottom right-hand corner. You think this was shot at two A.M. because there’s a set of numbers there telling you so. If you strip those out, like so’ – he tapped a few keys – ‘and remove the superimposed shadowing she used like…so…’ Some more tapping. ‘Voilà! Now, what do you see?’
Jeff frowned. ‘I see the same exact thing but in the daytime. There’s Tracy, coming out of the hotel. And there’s her lover.’
‘Ah, ah, ah.’ Victor interrupted him. ‘Look again. What makes you think that’s her lover?’
‘Well, they’re…she kisses him. Right there,’ said Jeff.
‘On the cheek,’ said Victor. ‘How many women do you kiss on the cheek every day? And then what happens?’ He fast-forwarded the footage in slow motion. ‘They embrace. A friendly hug. They part ways. Shall I tell you what that looks like to me?’
‘What?’ Jeff’s mouth felt dry.
‘It looks like two friends having lunch.’
Jeff watched the footage again, slowly.
‘It’s the oldest trick in the book, and one of the best,’ said Victor. ‘I’ve used it in countless divorce cases. A man and a woman coming out of a hotel at two a.m. and embracing, after the woman’s told her husband she’s spending the night three hundred miles away? That’s an affair. But edit the circumstances just a little, and what have you got?’
Jeff’s voice was a whisper. ‘Nothing.’
Victor Litchenko nodded. ‘Exactly. Nothing at all.’
THE DESK CLERK AT THE BRITISH Museum smiled warmly.
‘Mr Stevens! Welcome back.’
Jeff hurried past her up to his office and pulled open the door.
His desk had been dusted but otherwise was exactly as he’d left it the day he stormed out. The day he last saw Tracy.
Rebecca’s desk was empty.
All her things were gone.
IT TOOK HIM TWENTY MINUTES TO reach Rebecca’s building. Ignoring the bell to her flat – no warnings, not this time – Jeff pulled a hairpin out of his jacket pocket and expertly picked the lock.
Once inside, he slipped upstairs, ready to break into the apartment itself and confront Rebecca. The bitch had deliberately deceived him, sabotaging his marriage and playing him for a fool. When he thought about how close he’d come to sleeping with her, he felt physically sick. But that was all in the past now. Now Jeff knew the truth. Now he was going to make her pay. He was going to find Tracy, and force Rebecca to tell her the whole truth. Tracy would still be angry, of course. She had every right to be. But when she saw how desperately sad and sorry he was for ever doubting her, when she realized what a Machiavellian, twisted young woman Rebecca Mortimer really was…
Jeff stopped outside Rebecca’s flat. The door was wide open.
He stepped inside. The place looked like a bomb had hit it, clothes and books and trash strewn everywhere.
An elderly Indian man looked surprised to see him.
‘If you’re looking for the young lady, she’s gone, sir. Took off last night and told the security guard she won’t be back.’ He shook his head bitterly. ‘No scruples, these young people. She still owed me three months’ rent.’
SHE OPENED THE BRIEFCASE AND LOOKED at the money.
‘Two hundred and fifty thousand?’
‘Of course. As agreed. Feel free to count it.’
‘Oh, I will. Later. Not that I think you’d cheat me.’
‘I should hope not.’
‘But people do make mistakes.’
He smiled. ‘I don’t.’
He had made mistakes, of course, in the past. Mistakes that had cost him dearly. The worst mistake he’d ever made had involved taking Jeff Stevens and Tracy Whitney at their word. Those two repellent swindlers had destroyed his life, once. Now, in some small way, he had returned the favour. Destroying their marriage wasn’t enough. But it was a start.
‘I didn’t enjoy this job,’ the girl was saying, emptying the contents of the briefcase into her own, tattered backpack. She’d cut her hair since he last saw her in London and now wore it short and black, in a sixties-style bob. He preferred it to the look she’d adopted for Rebecca Mortimer, all long tresses and freckles. Youthful innocence didn’t suit her.
‘Tracy Whitney may be a bitch, but Jeff Stevens is a nice man. I felt bad for him.’
The man’s upper lip curled. ‘How you felt is not relevant.’
It is to me, she felt like saying, but she didn’t bother. She’d learned long ago that arguments with this man were fruitless. Despite his brilliant intellect, or perhaps because of it, he had the emotional sensitivity of an amoeba. Come to think of it, the analogy was probably unkind to amoebas.
‘Anyway.’ He smiled that creepy smile of his, the one that always made her shiver. ‘You got fucked, didn’t you? Women all love getting fucked, especially by Stevens. Your little titties are probably tingling right now just thinking about it, aren’t they?’
She ignored him, zipping up her backpack and locking it. She had not slept with Jeff Stevens, as it happened. Rather to her annoyance, Tracy Whitney had interrupted them right at the crucial moment. But this was not information she intended to share with him. She’d be happy when they got back to robbing art galleries and jewellery stores.
‘I mean it,’ she said, standing up to leave. ‘Any more old scores you can settle yourself.’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ said the man.
FOR A MONTH AFTER TRACY LEFT him, Jeff went to ground. He rented a flat in Rosary Gardens in South Kensington, unplugged the phone and barely went out.
After more than ten unreturned voice mails, Professor Nick Trenchard tracked him down at the flat.
‘Come back to the museum,’ he told Jeff. ‘You need to keep busy.’
He tried not to show how shocked he was by Jeff’s appearance. Jeff wore a full beard, which made him look decades older, and his crumpled clothes hung off his skinny frame like rags on a scarecrow. Empty beer cans and take-out boxes littered the apartment, and the TV was permanently on low in the background.
‘I am busy. You wouldn’t believe how many episodes of Homeland I missed since I got married,’ Jeff quipped. But there was no laughter behind his eyes anymore.
‘I’m serious, Jeff. You need a job.’
‘I have a job.’
‘You do?’
‘Sure. Drinking.’ Jeff collapsed onto the couch and opened another beer. ‘I’m pretty good at it, as it happens. I’m thinking of giving myself a promotion. Maybe something in the Jack Daniel’s division.’