by Inga Simpson

 

My twin sister was always the better traveller. It’s the family irony that I’m the one dragging a suitcase around the world while she grows her kids in the suburbs. I hate the disruption to all my routines, can never sleep on the flight, arrive haggard and grumpy. Gena always stepped off the plane fresh and bright; an advertisement for business class. The cab dropped me in front of the airport.

“This better be good,” I’d said when Gena called in the middle of the night.

“Nev’s missing,” she said. “I need your help.”

I hung up and booked the next flight out.

I‘d never liked Neville much. He took Gena out of the theatre and disappeared her into The Hills District, north-west of Sydney. He was smart enough; a good solicitor, decent husband, good father. Dull though, rubbed the shine right off Gena. Made it easier for me, the conservative one. Born three minutes earlier, I had somehow adopted the older sister routine. And I’d fallen for it again, flying in to the rescue.

I checked in, cabin baggage only this time, and walked through to security. Moving with the compliant line,  got my lap top out, placed it in the tray, put my bag on the belt, and my shoes.  I put myself back together and walked on to customs.  There was plenty of time to have a drink or two in the lounge and finish my book before I hit the skies again. I placed my passport on the reader and answered the standard questions. It directed me to report to a customs desk. I looked at the queue, now coiling back up the ramp, and tried it again with the same result. Probably just a bad read.

The customs officer scanned my passport as the camera scanned my face. She studied her screen, frowning. Clicked a few keys. When she handed back my passport, she did not look at me. “If you could just wait a moment.”

I watched the arrival and departures screen, waiting. Two uniforms approached; Australian Federal Police. There were two plain clothes tagging behind. I looked around for the likely suspect.

“Katherine Darnell?”

“Yes?’

The older officer, spoke, bending his neck to address me. “Can you come with us to an interview room please?”

“Is something wrong?”

“Perfectly routine. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

They led me down a corridor, past a kitchen, to a white door with an inset square window panel at eye height. A tall man’s eye height, anyway. I sat on one side of the table, the plain clothes and older Fed sat on the other.

“Ms Darnell, I’m Federal Agent White, and these are Federal Agents Fingleton and Payne. They have some questions for you. It’s an informal interview at this stage but if, at any time, you wish to contact a lawyer, just let us know.”

I looked at the tired copy of the yellow pages on the shelf in the corner and wondered how many people actually took them up on that.

Fingelton, clearly at the end of a long shift, opened his note book. “So Ms Darnell, what’s the reason for your visit to Sydney?”

“To see my sister.”

“Gena Greenslade?”

I nodded, taking in the marked white walls, the camera in the top right corner.

“You live in Paris?” Payne had a barrister’s unreadable face and an open file in front of him.

I smiled. “I do.” For about 150 days of the year, anyway. The rest is divided between Europe’s major cities and too much time in transit.

“But you flew from Brussels?”

“That’s right.”

“Nice for some.”

The younger officer, Federal Agent Wadlin, according to his name badge, entered the room with a glass of water. He placed it on the table in front of me. I wanted to gulp it down but kept my hands crossed in my lap.

“Profession?”

My favourite question. “I’m an authenticator.”

“Pardon?” Payne raised an eyebrow.

“I’m an art authenticator. I specialise in French women artists. You know, like Louise Abemma, Juliette Bonheur.” A room of blank faces. And people wonder why I don’t live in this country.

Wadlin, leaning against the wall by the door, put it together. “I’ve seen that on the Discovery Channel. You check if paintings are real; looking at the type of paint and signature and stuff.”

Months of detailed work comparing, researching, analysing and testing reduced to a fifteen minute grab on cable. “Something like that.”

Fingelton’s eyes disappeared into slits. “So you know a bit about the art business then, Miss?”

“It’s Doctor.”

“Sorry, Doc,” he said.

“Do you know this man?” Payne slid over a photograph with one finger.

“My sister’s husband. Neville Greenslade.” No surprise that bloody Neville was at the bottom of this. When I first found out he was a solicitor for a small-time mob-member, I respected him a little more for a while. The connection got them a new pool, extension, and top of the waiting list in a good private school. It also brought them trouble. “Look, my flight boards in an hour. Would you mind telling me what this is about?”
Payne and Fingleton exchanged a look. “You were booked on a flight to Madrid on Monday morning. But here you are in sunny Sydney.”

I sighed and took a sip of water from the paper cup. “Gena called me. Said she was having trouble with Neville.”

“And you came to help,” Payne said.

I nodded. Gena figured if I could track a hundred and fifty year old painting, I could find her husband. And I’d found her more than once, when we were younger, dragged her home to face the consequences.

“And less than 72 hours later, you’re flying home.”

“I have to give a lecture tomorrow morning in London.”

“Where’s your sister now?”

“I don’t know.” When she wasn’t at the airport to pick me up, I took a cab to her house and found it empty. No note. Unlocked and completely empty. Not one post-it, bar of soap or hair band left behind. She hadn’t answered her mobile or her work number all night or the next day.

“Where were you at 11pm two nights ago?”

“A hotel in Darling Harbour. The Novotel.” Then dinner at Max’s place. We drank Riesling and ordered in Thai, called every hospital, public and private, looking for Gena. Stayed up half the night trying to figure it out. Decided that it would be better not to call the police for a few days.

“Popped over to Woollahra though, didn’t you, Doc?” He slid over another photograph. Gena was carrying a painting out the back door of Eva Breuer’s Gallery, looking straight into the camera. It was Dickerson’s ‘Two figures’; a dark portrait of the same woman from two angles.

*

Last time I was home, when our mother died, our passports were up for renewal. Gena and I had got our first ones together, took a year off and did a trip round Europe’s galleries and pubs, and now were forever locked on the same cycle. It was the same with our licences, when I lived in Australia. We’d taken the test on the same day, after school. For a bit of fun, we’d swapped places for the photographs, so that I appeared on Gina’s and she on mine. No one noticed, even though I have a scar through my eyebrow and she has a mole I don’t have, right on her cheek bone.

After the meeting with the solicitors and a champagne lunch in Rose Bay, we’d had our passport photos done at a kiosk across from the restaurant. Nostalgic for our childhoods, and with only $10 left on us, we used the one set. Hers.

*

“Nice of you to smile into the camera for us. Didn’t you know the minute you swiped your passport, we’d have you? There’s a frigging microchip in it,” Fingleton said, slapping his hands on the table. “The rest of it was slick but…”

A laugh threatened to bubble out. I’d travelled through dozens of so-called Smartgates, and not once been pulled up for not being the person pictured in my passport.

“So where’s the painting?”

I didn’t answer. It was probably already sold and on its way out of the country, bubbled wrapped and hidden in a shipping container of legitimate goods.

Payne flicked through the file. “I see here that you used to work for Customs. Why isn’t that on your resume?”

That bloody job. Shift work at the airport while I was at uni. “It’s not relevant to the work I do now.”
“A PhD in Art History, Grad Dip in Art Authentication, Scotland Yard Graphology course, and a book on Cultural Forensics. We think this is all  very relevant to this job.” He tapped the photograph. “And, with your brother-in-law’s connections, your sister’s help,” he clapped his hands, “you had a nice little racket going on.”

“My work is about conservation and authentication, working against theft and fraud. I’ve assisted Interpol on many of their investigations.”

“We know,” he said. “Very clever way to learn their systems.”

I drank the rest of the water and rubbed my face, trying to think it through. Racket? I thought back to the conversations with Gina over the last year, her questions about my work. I’d thought it a good thing, renewing her interests. She’d studied Fine Art before going to NIDA, had been a decent printmaker.
I had to lean on the desk to keep myself upright. There wasn’t enough air in the room.

*

Gena had been angry at me for reasons I didn’t fully understand since long before our mother died. Seemed to think that I had the life she should have. Resentful of my profile, life in Europe, frequent flyer points, my freedom. She chose not to see that I was forty and still alone. Thay she’d made her own choices.
Mum’s will clinched it. I was made executor, Gena responsible for Dad. Mum hadn’t trusted Neville. I’m not sure that she knew about his connections but she always had good instincts. It made sense, I was out of the country and the nursing home was only a suburb away from her.

I’ve read about other twins who know what each other is thinking, when something is wrong. As children we had that; spoke as one. Mum used to say we had a little hive mind. For a long time we did, finished each others sentences, did everything together, liked the same art, the same men.

The Max thing was hardly my fault, he was in my class at uni and she dumped him. I suppose she expected me to know she would change her mind.  We didn’t speak for two years. It didn’t work out for Max and I either, she made sure of that.

I could no longer tell what she was thinking, what she would do. Not really. Sometimes it’s like watching a film you’ve seen on a flight but forgotten due to too much champagne and altitude. As the plot plays out, I recognise it, know I’ve seen it before, but am unable to remember how it ends.

*

Wadlin brought me another cup of water. I drank it.

“When was the last time you saw Neville?”

Our mother’s funeral. Two years ago.

Payne nodded, mouth closed, and turned the file around. He pushed it closer. Neville’s naked body was purple with welts.  A gunshot wound to the belly told of a slow death. He’d blabbed, or that’s how it was meant to look, anyway. Part of me felt glad for Gena. Relieved. She could finally get out from under his weight. Live the life she wanted

“You were the last person to call him, Doc,” Fingleton said.

“I was looking for Gena. You can check the message I left.”

“It was deleted. Round the time of his death.” He paused. “We have a witness that puts someone matching your description in the area.”

“Have you spoken to Gena?”

Payne and Fingleton looked at each other.

“Look. This wasn’t me. We’re identical twins. This is all a misunderstanding.”

Payne shrugged. “Looks to me like she’s done a runner. Left you to take the fall.”

“Way we see it, we’ve got enough to charge you with. Is there anything you’d like to add?”

Fingleton said. “If you can give us any information about the people you’re working with…”

Payne nodded. “We might be able to help you.”

“This is ridiculous. I was with someone at these times. Max Carter.” I picked up Payne’s pen and started writing his number on one of my business cards. “And this is the first time I’ve been in the country for two years.’

Fingelton smiled. “We know that you and your twin were both in Berlin six weeks ago.”

“She told us that you swapped passports. Swapped lives for a while. That you’ve always played this game.”

“What? I didn’t see Gena in Berlin. And that’s my passport!”

The four men looked at me.

“Check the stamps. Four days in Geneva, the weekend in Paris. Three days in Brussels. That’s my travel. My life.”

Fingelton cleared his throat and leaned over the table. “Your sister says that the plan was to swap back and for you leave the country. Once your mates got rid of poor old Neville.”

“She’s offered to cooperate,” Payne said. “To testify about your husband’s connections, the paintings, in return for our protection.”

“My husband?”

“Are you sure you don’t have anything to add?”

“I’d like to call my lawyer.” I reached into my pocket for my phone.”

“Fine. Tell him to meet us at the station, Gena.”

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Perilous Adventures in Olvar Wood. Queensland, Australia