by Simon Brett
‘Like what?’
‘Something related to the case on which we are working.’
Not before bloody time, thought Sergeant Hughes. But he didn’t say it. Though his exasperation had been mounting with every minute they spent together, he still recognized that certain professional courtesies had to be observed. He waited, allowing Wilkinson to make his revelations at his own pace.
Being Wilkinson, that pace was a pretty slow one. ‘For some years now, Hughes,’ the Inspector began, ‘I have been trying to make connections between a series of crimes. They’re all art thefts. I have been going through the files in considerable detail, checking similarities of method, finding other parallels and comparisons. I’ve read through extensive witness statements, and conducted follow-up interviews. I have collated masses of data, and am very close to identifying the common thread which links all the individual crimes.’
He was silent. Sergeant Hughes waited an appropriate length of time, but since nothing else was apparently forthcoming, asked, ‘And is this common thread a person?’
‘It is, yes.’
‘A criminal mastermind?’
The Inspector winced. ‘I don’t like the use of that expression. It engenders defeatism. A mastermind is, by definition, someone of superior intellect, but no criminal has an intellect which is that superior. There is no criminal so clever that he cannot be caught out by the painstaking, methodical police work of a good copper.’
Sergeant Hughes was not convinced of this assertion – at least in relation to Inspector Wilkinson. If it was him, Hughes, conducting the case, things’d be different. He had flair, intuition, skill, subtlety – all the qualities his boss so patently lacked. Still, it wasn’t the moment to argue. The Inspector was finally giving him some facts about the case they were working on, and it would be foolish to divert him. So all the Sergeant said was, ‘Right, sir.’
‘Oh yes . . .’ Wilkinson nodded slowly. ‘Oh yes, all the information seems to lead back to one name.’
‘And do you reckon you’ve got enough solid evidence to arrest him?’
‘Well . . .’ The Inspector grimaced. ‘Well, I might have, but there are certain logistical problems inherent in the idea of arresting this particular individual.’
‘What kind of logistical problems?’
‘Well, the main one is – he’s dead.’
‘Ah. Ah, yes. Well, I can see that might slow you down a bit, sir.’
‘However, in the case of theft, the death of the perpetrator does not necessarily close the case.’
‘No. The case is still open until the stolen property has been recovered and returned to its rightful owner.’
Inspector Wilkinson looked slightly miffed at having his narrative hurried along in this way. He gave his junior a sour look. ‘Yes, Hughes. Precisely.’
‘And you reckon, in this instance, the stolen property is in Chastaigne Varleigh?’
But this was going unacceptably fast. However far his own conjectures might have progressed in that direction, Wilkinson certainly wasn’t yet ready to share them with an underling. ‘No, Hughes,’ he said. ‘I am still investigating their precise whereabouts.’
‘But if they’re not in Chastaigne Varleigh, then why are we spending all this time watching the place?’
‘I have my reasons,’ the Inspector replied loftily. ‘Remember, Hughes, you are the junior member of this team. I am the strategist. I work out what we do, why we do it, and when we do it. The case we are involved in here is one of enormous complexity, which will not respond well to being rushed. I will decide when the moment is right for all the individual threads of the case to be pulled together. And that moment is certainly not yet.’ A finger rose to his nose for the trademark tap. ‘One of the secrets of being a good copper, Hughes, is to have an infallible instinct for timing.’
‘Yes,’ the Sergeant agreed flatly. Then, after a moment’s silence, he ventured, ‘You did say you were going to tell me something related to the case we’re working on.’
The Inspector was affronted. ‘I have told you something.’
‘Not much.’
‘I’ve told you the case involves a series of art thefts. And I’ve told you that all of these art thefts seem to lead back to one man.’
‘One dead man.’
‘Exactly.’ Wilkinson was appalled that the Sergeant wasn’t more appreciative of the generosity with which this information had been shared. ‘What more do you want to know?’
‘The man’s name perhaps . . .?’
The Inspector shook his head, very slowly. ‘Need to know, Hughes, need to know. Why do you need to know that information?’
‘Well, it might help me help you with the investigation, mightn’t it?’
This prompted another, even slower, shake of the head. ‘We have no proof it would do that.’
‘But, for heaven’s sake . . .!’ Sergeant Hughes burst out in exasperation. A look at the Inspector’s expression, however, deterred him from pressing further. He sank back grumpily into his seat. There was a very long silence.
The last exchange had triggered a decision in the Sergeant’s mind. The frustration engendered by working with Inspector Wilkinson had been building all the time, and Hughes had been increasingly tempted to begin investigating on his own. Their most recent exchange had made his mind up. The files of Wilkinson’s previous researches were bound still to be around the station. It would be easy to dig out the relevant ones and go through them.
Sergeant Hughes was sure that a mind of his quality would very quickly overtake whatever progress his dinosaur of a boss might have achieved. Hughes visualized the satisfaction of sewing the whole case up on his own, the accolades he would receive, the recommendations for promotion – above all, the expression that would appear on Wilkinson’s face when he saw that he’d finally been relegated to the rank of yesterday’s man. Oh yes, thought the Sergeant, I am bloody well going to crack this case – on my own.
His boss’s voice invaded these gleeful fantasies. ‘Try a bit more of the Wagner, shall we?’
Hughes met this suggestion with an almost inaudible grunt.
‘No, perhaps not,’ Inspector Wilkinson decided.
Chapter Ten
The room looked like the first attempt of a tyro set designer to produce the studio of a tortured artist. There was a bit too much of everything – too much paint spilled on the floor, too many dirty buckets, battered paint pots, spattered palettes, cracking easels and paint-hardened rags. The room seemed to boom out in over-elaborate shorthand: I reflect the image of a nonconforming bohemian.
The actual artwork on display amidst the cluttered chaos confused the image even further, prompting the suspicion that perhaps this was not the studio of one individual artist, but of a collection of artists, all working in different styles. Every school of painting from the old masters onwards seemed to be represented. Pietàs and altarpieces rubbed shoulders with blurred impressionists; Russian icons faced up to pop art swirls; titled ladies in eighteenth-century frocks stared dubiously at twentieth-century abstracts. All the paintings looked to be genuine representatives of their schools; the only detail that cast doubt on their validity was that most of them were unfinished.
The artist whose personality these conflicting images presumably reflected also looked a bit overdone. One might have accepted the wild matted hair, the beret, or the filthy smock; the presence of all three seemed a bit over the top. His manic-depressive manner, in which moods of gloom alternated suddenly with wild bursts of elation, was also a little too studied. As he sat at a paint-spattered table, a half-empty bottle of red wine clutched in his desperate hand, he seemed an assemblage of artistic clichés rather than someone whose eccentricity was a spontaneous expression of personality.
He looked across at his guests with malevolent despair. Mrs Pargeter and HRH perched gingerly on dilapidated armchairs. Though she had shown no qualms about sitting on the dust in Thiffler Mason’s office, Mrs Pargeter looked less
certain of the hygienic standards of this place. She had no wish to add further smudges of colour to the vibrant pattern of her fine silk dress.
‘So . . . I’m “VVO”. Welcome to my humble studio.’ The artist flung out a despondent gesture which encompassed the whole room, and slopped more of his wine bottle’s contents into a chipped enamel mug.
‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Pargeter politely. ‘One thing HRH wouldn’t tell me . . . he said I should ask you myself . . . is what “VVO” stands for . . .?’
Hamish Ramon Henriques smiled quietly, as the artist shrugged another gesture of despair. ‘Huh,’ he grunted bitterly. ‘It’s a joke that was made at my expense by some of . . . some of the people HRH and I work with from time to time.’
‘Yes?’ Mrs Pargeter prompted.
The bitterness grew deeper, as VVO went on, ‘Just because I take my art seriously . . . just because it matters to me . . . they nicknamed me after one of the great geniuses of my profession – Vincent Van Gogh.’
‘I see.’ Mrs Pargeter was silent for a moment before asking the inevitable question. ‘Then why aren’t you called “VVG”?’
‘I told you. They made a mockery of me.’ The misunderstood one took another angry slurp from his mug, as he spelled out the detail of his humiliation. ‘They called me “Vincent Vin Ordinaire”.’
Hamish Ramon Henriques ran a hand through the luxuriance of his moustache to prevent his smile from becoming too overt, and Mrs Pargeter was glad she wasn’t in eye contact with him, as she soothed the injured genius with the meaningless words, ‘Oh. Oh well, that’s nice.’
But VVO’s well of bitterness was far from dry. ‘They’re always making fun of me,’ he moaned on, ‘laughing at my aspirations to be a great artist . . . dismissing my paintings as mere imitative daubs . . .’
‘Oh, come on,’ HRH protested. ‘We always respected what you did best.’
The artist was incensed. ‘No, you didn’t! You respected my hack work!’ Fuelled by anger, he rose from his seat and started to circle the room. ‘You respected me when I produced a Rubens.’
As he spoke, he picked up a canvas of a buxom nude whose bottom blushed appealingly. Mrs Pargeter, who had seen a similar sight in the bathroom mirror earlier that morning, could not restrain herself from murmuring, ‘Oh, that’s very good.’
‘Or a Goya,’ VVO went on vindictively, picking up a lady wearing a black mantilla whose authenticity was only let down by an unpainted patch of canvas in the top corner.
Though this picture struck no personal chords, Mrs Pargeter could still recognize the skill of its execution. ‘That’s smashing too,’ she said.
‘Or a Jackson Pollock.’ On this third canvas, however, she could express no opinion. Mrs Pargeter had always found it tricky to tell a good Jackson Pollock from a bad one – or indeed from an accident in a paint shop.
The tortured genius let all three canvases clatter to the floor, as he struck his chest in impassioned misery. ‘But what happens when I express myself . . . when I do a painting that is a true Reg Winthrop?’
To reinforce his words, he picked up a picture which had stood facing the wall. It was fixed in a gold frame, and was quite definitely the ugliest work of art Mrs Pargeter had ever seen. No weekend painter, suffering from a terminal overdose of sentimentality, could ever have produced worse.
A black Scottie dog, with an anthropomorphic smile and a tartan bow about its neck, sat coquettishly in front of a little humpbacked bridge over a tinkling stream. Spotted toadstools poked up through the grass. Bluebirds circled aimlessly overhead. The painting could have won a Queen’s Award for Winsomeness. Even a chocolate-box manufacturer would have rejected it as too coy.
‘Hmm . . .’ said Mrs Pargeter awkwardly. ‘Well, yes . . .’
‘See!’ VVO let the painting slip from his hand and hurled himself histrionically back into his chair. ‘You’re just like all the others. You can’t appreciate what I’m really trying to say. You can’t see through to the soul of my art. Ah, is it always the fate of genius to be misunderstood?’
Hamish Ramon Henriques decided that pursuing such speculation would be fruitless. It was time to get down to business. ‘VVO, in fact the reason we are here is that—’
But the artist’s list of grievances was not exhausted. ‘Not only does nobody appreciate my painting, I’m also excluded from all the exciting bits when we’ve got a job on. I’m always left on the sidelines. While the rest of the lads are having fun, out and about breaking and entering, I’m always stuck back here knocking out another Rembrandt.’
HRH waved an impatient hand. ‘Yes, VVO, I’ve heard all this before. Listen, we need your help for a job.’
‘Painting again, I suppose?’ the artist sneered. ‘No breaking and entering. No immobilizing burglar alarms. I’d be good at all that! You’re wasting the talents of a criminal genius, you know!’
But HRH was impervious to these demands for sympathy. ‘The job,’ he confirmed, ‘is, as you guessed, painting.’ At these words, VVO slumped even deeper into his chair. ‘Quite a lot of painting. Some old masters and some more modern works of art need to travel abroad. We want cover paintings for them.’
The artistic worm turned. ‘Oh, no! Have you really got the nerve to ask me to do that kind of stuff again?’
‘It is,’ HRH pointed out discreetly, ‘for Mrs Pargeter.’ He let the words sink in before adding, ‘Widow of the late Mr Pargeter.’
Her husband’s name worked its customary magic. After a baleful look at HRH, the artist conceded, ‘Oh, all right, I’ll do your pathetic little job – even though it’s a prostitution of my art.’ Then he slumped back again with his eyes closed.
‘Everyone has to make compromises in this life, VVO.’
All that got was a ‘Huh.’
‘And I’ll tell you what . . . the modern art covers can be anything you want . . .’ One of VVO’s eyes flicked open. ‘You could even make them Reg Winthrops, if you like . . .’
Though it went against the character he had created for himself to show it at all fulsomely, this news clearly pleased the artist.
Hamish Ramon Henriques rubbed his hands together briskly. ‘Anyway, you’re forgetting your manners. Aren’t you going to offer us a drink?’
VVO looked at his guests with renewed truculence. ‘Do you want something?’
Mrs Pargeter didn’t want to put her host to any trouble. ‘I’m happy with some of that wine if you—’
‘No, no!’ As if his artistic integrity was being impugned, the painter clutched his bottle to his chest. ‘The wine’s mine, all mine!’
‘Oh very well. A cup of tea’d be nice then.’
VVO immediately shouted to some unseen presence outside the room, ‘Tea, woman! Bring us tea!’ He turned grumpily to HRH. ‘When will you bring me the paintings?’
‘Next couple of days. There are more than thirty of them. You think you’ll be able to do the covers within the week?’
After the animation of the shouted tea order, the artist had slumped back into apathy. ‘What does it matter what I think?’ he asked from the recesses of his chair. ‘Of course I can do them. Like any true genius, I work fast.’
There was a silence. Mrs Pargeter wondered who would bring the tea. With what kind of woman would someone like VVO cohabit? Which stereotype of the artist’s muse would it be? Some sluttish student with fiercely dyed hair and nose-jewellery? A former life model, blowsy and gone to seed? A hippy trailing scarves and wispy skirts?
The interior door opened to reveal none of the above. The woman who stood there with a neat tray of tea things was neatly dressed as a neat, ultra-conventional suburban housewife. The decor revealed behind her showed a neat, ultra-conventional suburban sitting room.
‘Good afternoon,’ said the woman politely. ‘I’m Deirdre Winthrop, Reg’s wife.’
She cleared a space on a cluttered table, put down the tea tray and turned with hand outstretched.
Mrs Pargeter shook it. ‘Good after
noon. I’m Mrs Pargeter.’
HRH went through the same social routine. Shaking his hostess’s hand, he identified himself as Hamish Ramon Henriques.
‘Pleased to meet you both, I’m sure.’ Deirdre Winthrop smiled graciously. ‘Tea was it you said you’d like?’
‘That’d be lovely, thank you,’ said Mrs Pargeter, with an equally gracious smile.
Deirdre lifted the wine bottle out of her husband’s unprotesting hands. ‘And you want some more of your blackcurrant juice, love?’
Reg Winthrop grinned at his wife, very calmly and with great fondness. ‘Yes, please, my angel,’ he replied, the picture of meek suburban domesticity.
Mrs Pargeter and Hamish Ramon Henriques exchanged looks, but made no comment.
Chapter Eleven
Mrs Pargeter’s customary shadow of desire had been anticipated again that evening by Leon the barman. The champagne was on ice, the two crystal glasses waited in readiness. And, standing over her favourite table as she entered the room, massaging his hands in unctuous delight, stood the proprietor of Greene’s Hotel, Mr Clinton. ‘Mrs Pargeter,’ he oozed, as he filled one of the glasses with swelling bubbles. ‘How delightful to see you. I trust you have had an enjoyable day.’
‘Very pleasant, thanks. Met an artist by the name of Reg Winthrop. Do you know him, by any chance?’
‘Winthrop . . . Winthrop . . .?’ the hotel manager mused. ‘No, I don’t believe the name means anything to me.’
‘He’s also known as “VVO”.’
‘Ah.’ His expression cleared. ‘Yes, of course. Another employee of your late husband.’
‘So I’m given to understand, yes.’
‘And in fact someone who has worked for me in the not-too-distant past.’
‘Really?’
The hotel manager smiled. ‘The artwork in some of the more expensive suites – like the Gainsborough in your own, Mrs Pargeter – well, with the best will in the world, one would of course like them to be genuine . . . but the fact remains that, if they were the real thing, certain of my guests – not of course you, I hasten to add – might be tempted to purloin them.’