by Tana Collins
Carruthers studied the grey-haired woman. If her husband was the rooster, then, with her beady nervous eyes darting between the two of them, she was the hen.
‘We’ve already answered that,’ said Mr McMullan. ‘Why are you repeating the same questions? Why aren’t you out doing your job, catching whoever’s responsible?’
Carruthers was well used to this question. He also understood how the McMullans would be feeling – upset, vulnerable, violated and, no doubt, poorer. The Vettriano hadn’t been fully insured, according to Watson. The McMullans simply hadn’t wanted to pay the premiums. He kept his thoughts to himself. ‘It’s surprising what else people remember after the first interview. Well?’ he asked.
Mr McMullan sighed.
‘Can you think of anyone?’
‘No, except we had a leaky roof so we called someone in about that. We’ve already given the details. But they never saw the Vettriano, didn’t need to come in the house at all.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs McMullan, ‘I did make him a cup of tea so he came into the kitchen. But he didn’t come through the main hall,’ she added quickly. ‘He used the tradesmen’s entrance.’
‘Am I right in thinking the tradesmen’s entrance leads straight into the kitchen?’ said Carruthers, surprised that he hadn’t been asked to use the tradesmen’s entrance too.
‘Yes, it’s through that door, there,’ said Mr McMullan.
‘So other than the kitchen he didn’t come into the house at all?’ said Carruthers.
‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs McMullan.
‘What now?’ asked Mr McMullan who, Carruthers was realising, wasn’t the most patient of men.
‘I’ve just remembered he asked to use the toilet.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, woman,’ said Mr McMullan.
Mrs McMullan fiddled with her wedding ring as she said, ‘I think I may have forgotten to mention that in the previous interview.’
‘Where’s the nearest bathroom?’ asked Fletcher, standing up and disappearing to the door. She poked her head round the corridor.
‘Out of the kitchen, two doors down, on the left.’
‘So at that point he was unaccompanied in the house?’ asked Carruthers.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs McMullan, ‘but he was only gone a few minutes.’
‘But in those few minutes he could have done a recce of a couple of the downstairs rooms, including the living room where the Vettriano was hanging,’ said Fletcher. ‘Have you ever used that company before?’
‘No,’ said Mrs McMullan.
‘We’ll need the name of the firm before we leave, and some contact details,’ said Fletcher.
Mrs McMullan nodded.
Carruthers turned to Mr McMullan. ‘Who knew you owned a Vettriano?’
Mr McMullan shrugged. He picked up a wooden pipe that was lying on a sideboard. Opening a drawer, he extracted a packet of tobacco and started pulling the strands out. Maddeningly, he took what Carruthers felt was an age to respond.
‘Our friends, but we’ve already given you the names. Anyone who’s been here for a dinner party. Some of the people I know at the golf club.’
‘Why would you have told them?’ asked Carruthers.
Mr McMullan looked up. ‘You don’t seriously think anyone at the golf club’s responsible, do you, man?’
‘Why not?’ asked Carruthers.
‘Because they’re all vetted. Anyway, as I’m sure you know Jack Vettriano’s a local boy. Some of my friends at the club know him personally. He’s come up in conversation occasionally.’
Carruthers wondered if McMullan had seized the opportunity to brag about the fact he had an original Vettriano. Perhaps that had been his downfall.
‘You know much about Vettriano’s work?’ asked Carruthers.
‘Most of his paintings are in the hands of private collectors. He has some very famous fans,’ said Mrs McMullan. ‘Hollywood actor Jack Nicholson, composer Tim Rice and actor Robbie Coltrane have all got paintings by him.’
Owning an original would put the McMullans in good company, then, thought Carruthers. But once more kept his own counsel. He had a particular dislike of golf and golfers and knew of more than one career criminal who had membership of an exclusive golf club. In his experience, some of the wealthiest people made the most ruthless of criminals.
‘Which golf club do you belong to?’ asked Carruthers.
‘It’s very exclusive membership,’ said Mr McMullan. ‘You’ll be barking up the wrong tree.’
Carruthers’ eyes narrowed. Exclusive membership. He knew what that meant. No black people or women. And if it had been based down south, no doubt stuffed full of UKIP voters. He wondered if he was being unfair. He knew he could be judgemental. It was something he was trying to change. Old habits died hard, though. ‘The name of the golf club?’ asked Carruthers.
‘What the hell’s that got to do with anything?’ asked Mr McMullan, laying his pipe down on the side.
‘Mr McMullan, I can chase the criminals you want caught or I can waste time chasing down your background, which would you rather?’ said Carruthers. But then he thought, Go easy on them. They’re bound to be feeling rattled.
‘I’m a member of Carrockhall. Your superior’s Superintendent Bingham, isn’t he?’ asked McMullan. ‘I’ve met him a few times at clubhouse functions.’
Carruthers groaned inwardly. Hairs had prickled as soon as McMullan said Carrockhall. Carruthers knew Bingham was a keen golfer and not his greatest fan. All he needed now was to fall foul of the golfing buddy paradigm. Great.
‘Can we see the rest of the house, please?’ said Carruthers.
Mr and Mrs McMullan stood up.
‘This won’t just be a random burglary,’ said Carruthers as they were led by Mr McMullan out of the kitchen through the hall. ‘Whoever’s responsible will have carefully targeted you. They will at some point have gained entry to the house, possibly taken photos of your works of art and gone away and done their research. This is the third property to have been targeted in the last few weeks.’
‘Yes, and what are you actually doing about it?’ asked Mr McMullan.
Carruthers sighed. Looking up and ignoring the question he said, ‘Have you got any other valuable paintings?’
‘Why do you ask? Looks like they got what they wanted. None of the others are as valuable,’ said Mr McMullan. He directed them into a large airy living room which led through glass doors to a smaller conservatory. This smaller room was a mess. Carruthers surveyed the scene. In the middle of the ripped carpet still lay the stone bird bath that had been hurled through the glass conservatory doors allowing the thieves entry.
Carruthers stepped back into the living room and looked around him. His eyes settled on the dirty bare wall where the frame of the Vettriano had been. There were two smaller paintings on the walls. Rural scenes. Both looked like originals. Even the gilt-edged frames looked original. ‘My advice to you would be to get your other paintings fully insured. And don’t talk about them at the golf club,’ he added. ‘You never know who’s listening.’
‘Oh yes, I suppose you’ve got a point, man,’ said Mr McMullan. ‘There’s always staff around.’
Walking away out of the room Carruthers stopped for a moment and turned round. ‘I wasn’t thinking about the staff. It’s the club members I’d be worried about.’
No sooner had they returned to the station than Detective Constable Brown walked towards Carruthers waving a slip of paper.
‘Four-by-four’s been reported stolen outside Cupar. Owners were on holiday. Just back lunchtime today.’
‘Pretty shitty homecoming,’ said Carruthers, taking the slip of paper out of Brown’s outstretched hand. ‘That could be our burnt-out vehicle. Round the team up, will you.’ Carruthers looked at his watch. ‘We’ll start the brief at four.’ He calculated he just had time to get himself a coffee and make a phone call to the boys at the National Crime Agency.
Carruthers rolled up his shirtsleeves before he beg
an the brief. He wished he’d bought a fresh shirt to work with him. His collar felt grubby and the acrid smell from the fire still clung to his clothes.
‘OK, listen up,’ he said. ‘Four-by-four’s been reported stolen just outside Cupar. What’s the betting it’s the same vehicle? And before you ask, there’s nothing back from the SOCOs yet.’ There was a collective groan. Carruthers put his hands up for silence. ‘It’s not, however, all bad news. I’ve spoken to pals at the National Crime Agency and this has all the hallmarks of a gang currently operating out of the South East of England. MO’s virtually identical. Targeting elderly people in isolated spots for their valuable works of art. Stealing a different vehicle for each job then abandoning and torching it.’
‘Shite, that’s all we need,’ said Harris, ‘more English folk in Scotland.’ He yelped as a paper dart thrown expertly by Fletcher hit him squarely on the nose.
‘Anyway, like I mentioned,’ said Carruthers, ‘if it is them, the boys at the NCA have talked me through a probable modus operandi.’
‘Which is?’ said Fletcher.
‘Stealing art to order. Most likely shipped off to a buyer in the US via the Republic of Ireland.’
‘Ireland?’ asked Harris.
‘Apparently Ireland is the gateway for stolen art between Britain and North America.’ Carruthers rubbed a sooty smudge he spotted on his shirt. It got worse.
‘Do you seriously think a gang from the South East of England would be operating north of the border?’ said Fletcher.
‘We can’t rule it out,’ said Carruthers. ‘What we do know at this stage is that this will be a huge operation, no doubt involving some seriously wealthy and influential people.’ He cast his eye over to Harris. ‘Not the redistribution of wealth from rich to poor that you imagined, sergeant.’
Harris shrugged.
‘And let’s not forget,’ continued Carruthers, ‘that although my friends at the NCA have told me this particular gang are not interested in hurting people, which is good news, if indeed it is the same gang, we’ve been lucky that so far there’s been no physical harm done to the victims. Let’s not underestimate how ruthless criminals like this can be. Art theft is often used to fund other criminal activities. Gangs often have links to money laundering, guns and drugs and, according to the NCA, are becoming increasingly violent.’
‘Did your pals down at the NCA tell you anything else?’ asked Harris, repairing the bent nose of Fletcher’s paper plane.
‘The annual theft of art and antiques in the UK is estimated to be worth £300 million,’ said Carruthers. ‘More costly than vehicle crime and second only to drug dealing in terms of criminal proceeds.’
Harris put down the paper plane and looked up at Carruthers.
‘To answer your question, as a matter of fact they did,’ said Carruthers. ‘Told us to check out the local flying schools and private airfields.’
Harris frowned but the dawn of recognition lighted on Fletcher’s face.
‘They could be taking aerial photographs of the homes they’re going to rob, although you could get that information from Google Earth,’ she said. ‘Anyway, either way, they’d be looking for the most isolated spots. Places furthest away from police stations. Roads leading in, roads out, that kind of thing. Where best to ditch the vehicle. In fact they’ve probably got a map of Fife marked with potential locations. If we’re smart, we might even be able to predict the next robbery.’
‘The NCA are going to send details of this gang,’ said Carruthers. ‘They know who they are, just don’t have enough evidence to arrest them. The gang members live in Kent. But, like I said, let’s not assume it’s the same gang just because the modus operandi is similar, could be a copycat. The geography is against the Kent gang doing this. They’ve never been known to travel this far north before. And there is one other thing. This gang from Kent have been stealing works by lesser-known artists. They haven’t stolen any big-name stuff.’
The brief continued for another hour, at the end of which Carruthers’ stomach growled, reminding him he’d not stopped for lunch. He thought of the sausage roll he’d picked up on the way to work but hadn’t yet eaten.
‘How likely do you think it is to be this gang from down south?’ asked Fletcher, as other members of CID filed out of the room, leaving just the two of them.
‘Well,’ said Carruthers, ‘there’s a couple of things bothering me. I said in the brief the MO was almost the same. But I also said the group down south go for lesser-known artists.’
‘So?’ said Fletcher. ‘Perhaps they got lucky up here.’
‘Let’s take this to the coffee machine,’ said Carruthers, leading the way.
A few minutes later he was blowing on his coffee, back against the coffee machine in the hall. Fletcher sipped hers.
‘One of the boys at the NCA said something interesting,’ said Carruthers. ‘He said the true art to a heist isn’t the stealing, it’s the selling.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning criminals who steal high-value artworks tend to be better thieves than businessmen.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means the better known the artist, the less likely the thief will be able to sell the picture on. According to this guy at the NCA, the rate of recovery of a masterpiece is ninety per cent, whereas for a lesser-known work it’s a paltry ten per cent, so it makes sense for the professional art thief to target works by lesser-known artists. Apparently these works are less likely to be registered on international databases and don’t make headlines when they go missing.’ He took a sip of coffee, stared into the cup thoughtfully.
‘I have to admit I know very little about art theft,’ said Fletcher. ‘I’ve never worked on a case like this before. I always thought the criminal would have high-end artworks stolen to order to furnish his or someone else’s ostentatious home.’
Carruthers laughed. ‘That’s a popular misconception the public hold, I’m sure. I blame Ian Fleming for that.’
‘What’s Ian Fleming got to do with it?’
‘Have you never read Dr No? He bragged to Bond he’d stolen a Goya to order. In fact the storyline of the stolen artwork was based on a real life theft from the National Gallery the year before.’ Carruthers enjoyed a good Bond book, much preferring them to the films. ‘Apparently the public loves the idea of the super-villain stealing priceless works of art to order. But what the guy at the NCA said is that in reality no international criminal would really want the attention a missing masterpiece invites.’ Having said that Carruthers had a vague memory of a heist in Paris some years back. Hadn’t it involved stealing a Picasso and Matisse to order for dishonest collectors? It clearly did happen, but must be rare.
‘How do you know that stuff about James Bond and the missing Goya?’
‘I went to an Ian Fleming exhibition in London a few years ago,’ said Carruthers. He remembered the occasion well. He’d taken his then wife. They’d rowed. He couldn’t even remember what the row had been about now. Something small, no doubt. Stupid. He put all images of his ex-wife out of his mind. ‘I’m just wondering if it’s a different gang. Not a gang of professional art thieves at all but ordinary criminals involved in other types of criminal activity, like drugs or guns. Then one day they realise what big money’s involved in art theft. They decide to give it a go. They’ve heard about the gang down south and decide to copy their tactics.’ He looked up at Fletcher. ‘Sorry, just thinking things through.’ They walked back to his office. Somewhere in the distance he heard a phone ringing.
Carruthers sat down behind his desk and gestured for Fletcher to pull up a chair. Fletcher put her coffee down on his desk, took the proffered chair. Smoothed her black skirt down before sitting. ‘Surely they’d already be on our radar. I don’t know any gangs that would fit that description in Fife, do you?’ said Fletcher. ‘Or elsewhere in Scotland. Nothing on the database. And we’ve registered the stolen artworks on the stolen property index in case they turn up in othe
r parts of the country.’
Carruthers continued, ‘There’s just one other problem with this theory and that is that the art heist usually involves stealing from public galleries, not private collections. Anyway, like I said, the NCA are sending us details of the Kent gang. At least it’s a start but I think it would be dangerous to just assume it’s them.’
‘I’ll say one thing,’ said Fletcher, ‘if they’re not pros they’re certainly doing a good impression of professional art thieves. So far, they’ve left no clues, there’ve been no descriptions of the perpetrators. It’s been a textbook heist.’
Except it isn’t, thought Carruthers. After Fletcher had left his office he looked at the congealed remains of the sausage roll and pushed it away. Still hungry, he headed to the canteen, picked up a limp looking ham sandwich and another black coffee and went back to his office. He was three bites in and thinking that it tasted every bit as bad as it looked and that he should have just finished off the cold sausage roll when Fletcher put her head round the door again.
‘What is it?’ he asked. He noticed she had her handbag on her right shoulder and her lightweight jacket over her left arm.
‘We’ve just received an anonymous phone call. Woman’s body’s been found on Kinsale beach over at a secluded part of Pinetum Park Forest.’
Taking another bite of his sandwich, Carruthers stood up, dumping the remains in the bin. ‘You’d better fill me in as we go,’ he said, with his mouth full. He sighed, thinking of yet another evening lost to the job. ‘Hope you didn’t have plans tonight?’
Fletcher raised her eyebrows. ‘Not anymore.’
2
The waves were about thirty metres away from the edge of the cliffs and the tide was coming in fast. Despite the blue sky the wind was gusting from the north, making it feel much colder than the balmy twenty-one degrees. Although Carruthers felt his eyes smart, the cool air was a welcome relief from the heat of the office.
He was standing on a clifftop with the first uniformed PC on the scene, a short woman, blonde hair in a bun, who was pointing down the beach. Carruthers followed the line of her hand through the heather and wild rose. His heart jumped when he saw the woman’s body lying on the sand. There was something in its awkward position that told him she was already dead.