He picked up his phone and called his old friend, Graham Harcourt.
‘Graham – Derek. How are you? Good. Now, I’ve got a bit of a delicate question for you. Just got off the phone with Bob Taylor. No, actually, I don’t know what he’s working on at the moment, heard he has another exhibition planned for next summer, though. But the thing is, Bob just passed on an interesting bit of gossip. Told me that when Antonia Scott was murdered, one of the things that was stolen was a portfolio from our old friend Freddie. Now I know you always keep your ear to the ground—’
He listened for a moment. ‘Oh, you’ve heard about it. Thought you might have done. Well, you know, if anything should come up … Good, yes, do keep me in mind. It’s a sorry business, I know, but nothing we can do to change that, is there? Poor old Antonia. Poor Freddie, for that matter, but every cloud, as they say.’
Derek said his goodbyes and rang off, well satisfied. If Graham heard of anything coming up for sale, he’d act as middle man. There’d still be commission, of course, but he could stand that. It would be less than the gallery would want, that was for sure.
EIGHT
Monday had been frustrating for Naomi. She had tried to get in touch with DI Karen Morgan but had only been able to leave messages for her one time colleague. She’d had to be satisfied with leaving her mobile number and email and hoping that Karen would choose to call back.
Tuesday afternoon found her at Bob and Annie’s house, for her promised meeting with Beatrix Jones. Patrick had driven her over. Harry, Patrick’s father, had suggested he then bring her back for dinner and maybe a film. This was something they had done every couple of weeks since Alec had started his new job. Sometimes Mari, Patrick’s grandmother, joined them too. Harry had been older brother to Naomi’s best friend when they had all been children. The sister hadn’t survived to adulthood but Harry and his family were close and very much valued friends.
‘So, what do you make of this Bee?’ she asked Patrick. ‘Have you talked to her since meeting her at Bob’s?’
‘Only on text and Messenger. I think I like her, but she’s a bit single track at the moment.’
‘I suppose that’s inevitable. She’s got a lot on her mind and she’s got to get this all out of her system, one way or another. I doubt she’s even had time to get over her mother’s death, never mind her father’s on top of that.’
‘Oh, I know,’ Patrick said. ‘But it makes it hard to get to know her, if you see what I mean. We just keep circling back to the same questions and as I can’t answer those questions …’ He shrugged. ‘But I think she could be nice, you know? And I want to help her.’
Naomi reflected that Patrick’s instinct was to help everyone. She heard Patrick indicate and take the sharp turn on to the narrow track leading up to Bob’s house. ‘I saw a couple of hares running down here the other day. Had to stop the car.’
‘Did you get any photographs?’
‘A couple of shaky ones on the mobile. They can really shift. It’s good to see them, though. Annie says there were loads when they first moved in but the farmer at the time used to shoot them. The new guy’s a bit more into nature, apparently. Annie goes on to his fields to shoot rabbits – she reckons they really do damage – but they leave the hares alone. Looks like Bee’s here already,’ he added, as they pulled up in front of the house.
Somehow, Naomi was not surprised about that.
Once in the kitchen, Napoleon settled down with Annie and Bob’s two dogs and introductions were made. Naomi could feel the young woman’s curiosity. Patrick had told her that Naomi was blind but being told and being confronted were, Naomi knew, two different things. Patrick was so used to her, knowing what she could do for herself and what she might need a bit of assistance with, that he didn’t even think about it any more. Annie and Bob had long since got past the anxious stage but Bee oozed uncertainty.
‘I’ll put your coffee just by your right hand,’ Annie said. ‘Bee, could you get me some biscuits? That cupboard behind you, grab a couple of different packs and put them on a plate so everyone can help themselves.’
Naomi heard the cupboard door open, the rustle of cellophane and the clink as the plate was set down.
‘Um, the biscuits are just in front of you? Is that OK?’ Bee said to Naomi.
‘It’s fine, thank you.’ Naomi smiled in the young woman’s direction. ‘Patrick’s told me a bit about your problem but maybe you’d like to fill me in properly?’
‘Right. OK. Look, maybe this isn’t such a good idea. I don’t want to bother you, I mean …’
Naomi sighed. ‘I lost my sight in a multi-vehicle pile-up on the motorway. It ended my career but I was already a detective inspector and I’ve not lost my interest in other people’s problems nor, I hope, any of my skills. Just my sight. I might not be able to solve your problems but I might be able to talk you through so you can ask the right questions, find out what you need to know.’
‘Sorry,’ Bee whispered. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘I know. Nothing to be sorry for. Now, you believe that your father was afraid of something before he died. What did he say to you? How did he behave? When did you first become aware that he had something on his mind?’
She reached for a biscuit while Bee gathered her thoughts. Discovering from the texture that it was oaty, she dipped it into her coffee and then sat back, enjoying the taste of coffee-soaked, sweet, flaky biscuit.
‘There are more of those,’ Annie said. ‘I’ll turn the plate around.’
‘Thanks,’ Naomi said. ‘But I’m supposed to be cutting down. Since Alec started this new job I seem to be finding too many excuses for tea and biscuits.’
‘This is coffee,’ Annie said. ‘Maybe it doesn’t count.’
Naomi heard Bee shift in her chair and then lean forward, as though she wanted to shut out the others and speak more directly to Naomi. ‘It was about eight weeks before he died,’ she said. ‘I got to the studio one day and he just seemed … odd. The phone kept ringing and he kept ignoring it, said it was marketing calls and he didn’t want to know, then when I went off to the loo he must have answered, because I could hear him talking when I came back up the stairs.’
‘Did you hear what he said?’
‘I stood on the stairs and listened,’ Bee admitted. ‘He was angry, telling the person that he didn’t have something or other. That even if he did he wouldn’t get involved with anything like what they were suggesting. I waited until he’d finished and then came up to the studio. He was upset, I could tell that. He was just standing there, staring at his work but not seeing it, you know? He hardly noticed I’d come back.’
‘And did you ask him about the phone call?’
‘No, I just asked if he was OK and he snapped at me and asked why shouldn’t he be. I got annoyed then and said there was no need to snap and he apologized and tried to pretend to be his usual self, but he couldn’t manage to. Not properly.’
‘And after that?’
‘He just seemed nervous, anxious. The only time he seemed happy was when he managed to immerse himself in his work, and he was finding even that difficult. I kept asking him what was wrong and whether there was anything I could do but he just kept saying it was nothing.’
‘And did you get anything else out of him?’
‘Only once. Look, you’ve got to understand, Freddie wasn’t the most organized of people. He’d remember to pay his bills when the red one came, he’d wash up when he couldn’t find a clean cup, he’d eat when he suddenly realized he was ravenous – but where his work was concerned he was absolutely different.’
She must have looked at Bob for confirmation because he agreed.
‘Never missed a deadline, so far as I know. Never gave anything less than his absolute best. He had a little blue book – actually he had a lot of them, always blue and roughly the same size. They were his journals where he’d log work in, log it out, keep numbers for galleries and a record of what he had where. Including prints
; he must have supplied a dozen galleries and he licensed a few of his designs for cards and the like. His best paying work was through Scotts and a couple of other places that dealt in his originals. Freddie always had fingers in as many pies as he could. He knew, successful as he was, he couldn’t rely on just one thing. I think the only thing he didn’t do regularly any more was teach.’
‘He’d do occasional workshops,’ Bee said, ‘but Freddie was all about drawing and learning what he called the basics. He was into old master techniques and he said most of the art schools didn’t bother with that sort of thing any more. He did summer schools at Ruskin and he’d go to Florence once a year to do a week at … I can’t remember the name of the school. Sorry.’
Naomi, thinking of Patrick’s experience in his first year of art school, understood Freddie’s sense that he didn’t fit into such seats of learning any more.
‘You told Bob and Annie that Freddie insisted he was only producing legal work now. Do you think he was being pressured to go back to his old ways?’
‘Of course I do. Bob doesn’t think he ever stopped,’ she added bitterly.
‘I knew what drove him, Bee. He’d have found it hard to give up the challenge, but – and please let me finish,’ he added, as the girl tried to interrupt – ‘Freddie never did anything with what he saw as criminal intent. Freddie’s way was to produce something, then let it into the wild to find its own place. Oh, he might suggest a provenance for it, but it was rarely anything specific or even really traceable. At least not recently, so far as I know.’
Naomi was intrigued. ‘And previously? You say not recently.’
‘Freddie made money any way he could in the early days and part of that challenge was to, shall we say, create history, back story for his pictures. Freddie was careful, clever, assiduous. No one knows for sure what he got away with or how many times but eventually he found himself in court and did a few months in prison about sixteen or so years ago. I think that was enough for him. He swore off the fakes and lies after that – at least he said he had.’
‘You never believed him.’
‘As I say, as far as I know he stopped creating the provenance; there’s no law against producing something in the style of, or doing a copy or near copy of a known work. There’s no law against researching a lost picture and creating something that looks like the description, and Freddie rarely went for the big names.’
‘Lost pictures?’ Naomi asked.
‘Most established artists have their work listed in what’s called a catalogue raisonné,’ Patrick told her. ‘It’s like a master list, compiled by an expert. For some artists it’s a bit sparse but contemporary artists might have something that fills several big books. Usually the list includes works that the expert knows were produced but which might have been mislaid or destroyed or sold on, and no one knows where they are or even what they looked like.’
‘And Freddie liked to fill in the gaps?’
‘Sometimes, yes,’ Bob confirmed. ‘He saw it as a personal challenge. These days I think most of his work involved making legitimate copies for the collectors who either already owned the originals or wanted a close copy.’
He must have looked to Bee for confirmation because she answered grudgingly, ‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘And there are perfectly legitimate reasons for that kind of work. Sometimes owners wanted the picture on their walls, but didn’t want to risk taking the original out of the bank vault. Other times, they might actually have sold the original but not wanted to go public about that. And some people just like the frisson of having a really good copy of something they know they could never afford to own. Something better than even the best print.’
‘So, why do you think he made that painting you’re talking about?’ Bee wanted to know.
‘Because I saw a half-finished picture he had on his easel, just a few days after his death.’
‘You went to the studio? I didn’t know that. Why didn’t I know that? Anyway, he might have been making it for the owner. Or maybe Freddie just wanted to make a copy of the Bevi Madonna for his own pleasure? Maybe he wanted to own a copy?’
‘Totally possible,’ Bob agreed, ‘and I spoke to the owner to see if Freddie had asked him about it, but the owner of the Madonna had never made direct contact with Freddie Jones. He had no suspicions about the painting until after Freddie’s death and I’m afraid the fact that he began to entertain those doubts in the first place was down to me.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. As I said, I went to Freddie’s studio shortly after his death. Antonia Scott was concerned. Freddie had a couple of pictures at the studio that he’d been restoring for her. She contacted the police, and after a couple of calls from her solicitor they arranged for her to go to the studio and I went with her. The Madonna Freddie had been working on was still on the easel at that point. We collected Antonia’s property and I took a few photographs of the studio, and of that particular picture, and then we left.’
‘You recognized it,’ Naomi said.
Bob laughed. ‘I know it well. The owner of what we believed to be the original is someone I’ve advised on occasion. I know his collection.’
‘But you didn’t advise on that one?’
‘As it happens, no. It came up for sale as part of an estate clearance in a provincial auction house. The owner at that point was a retired solicitor. His heirs took what they wanted and left the valuation of the rest to the discretion of the auction house. There was nothing suspicious, Naomi, and there was a receipt for the purchase that led back to a now defunct gallery somewhere on the south coast. Might have been Bournemouth, I don’t recall.’
‘A defunct gallery?’
‘Again, nothing suspicious. I think the owner retired, sold up. It was bought by an antique dealer – again, all above board.’
‘But Freddie’s MO was to sell through provincial auctions or small galleries.’
‘It was indeed.’
‘You said,’ Patrick interrupted, ‘at that point. At that point the picture was still on the easel.’
‘I did,’ Bob agreed. ‘Because by the following day it had gone. We only know that because the solicitor representing Bee’s interests contacted us and asked if we’d removed it. He had the original police photos and had gone along to check that we’d only taken what was on the list Antonia had sent to him.’ He laughed. ‘Antonia was not best pleased. She felt he was accusing her.’
‘I didn’t see him working on a Madonna,’ Bee said. ‘The last thing I saw him do was a landscape with horses. He was reproducing one that had been damaged in a fire, one of a pair. He was working from photographs.’ She shrugged. ‘That was about a fortnight before he died. I didn’t see him after that.’ She sounded terribly sad about that, Naomi thought.
‘What I don’t understand,’ Patrick said, ‘is why was Freddie working on a copy of the Bevi Madonna now? Bob, how long ago was the original – or whatever it is – bought?’
‘By its current owner, about nine years ago. But you’re right.’ He sounded surprised that he’d not considered this before. ‘Why decide to produce another one now? That’s assuming Freddie produced the one I’ve got here.’
‘And who took the half-finished picture, and why would they bother?’ Bee sounded really puzzled now. ‘I mean, if someone wanted to hide the fact that Dad had been working on that picture, they’d have had to remove a whole load of other stuff. He’d sketch everything, then work the sketches up into preliminary drawings and … well, you know how he worked. He was meticulous.’
‘Then maybe we should go and get whatever we can find from the studio,’ Patrick suggested. ‘See if his preliminary work casts any light. It might be as simple as someone seeing the Madonna and wanting one of their own. It might all be dead simple. And you don’t even know that the picture Bob saw is really missing. It could have been moved, put away. The police and Bee’s solicitor have been in and out of the studio. Someone might just have wanted to keep i
t safe.’
‘It’s possible,’ Naomi agreed. ‘But the police and CSI would not normally move things out of position.’
‘Even if they’d photographed everything?’ Patrick asked. ‘Anyway, Naomi, you’re thinking about a crime scene. So far as the police are concerned Freddie died of natural causes, so the normal rules might not apply.’
‘I don’t remember seeing it,’ – Bee was steadfast about that – ‘but I think it’s a good idea to go and collect anything that looks important. And I’d be glad of the company,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t know if I’d be sure what to look for.’
‘When do you want to go?’
Naomi smiled at the sound of Patrick’s eagerness.
‘I can’t do anything for a few days; I’ve got to go to a wedding. A cousin of my mum’s. Her daughter’s getting married and I’ll never hear the last of it if I don’t turn up. I’m heading to Sheffield tomorrow. I’ll be back on Saturday.’
‘Sunday, then?’
‘Yes, OK. Sunday afternoon. I’ll pick you up and we can drive over in the one car and then bring everything back here. If that’s OK?’
Bob made no objection to his home being used as a rendezvous point, Naomi noted. She figured he was as interested as everyone else and besides, he knew Freddie’s work and practice better than anyone.
And so it was agreed and Bee left only a little after this, obviously more content than when she had arrived.
‘Thanks for coming over to meet her,’ Bob said.
‘Welcome, but to be honest, I don’t think I did anything.’
‘You took an interest. I think that’s what she needs at the moment.’
‘Hmm, maybe. But I’ve discovered one thing that might be important. To you and Annie anyway. I happen to know the SIO of the Antonia Scott murder. We’ve been playing phone tag since yesterday, but I’ll catch up with Karen eventually. Maybe I’ll be able to find out how the inquiry is really going.’
Fakes and Lies Page 5