‘A penny for your thoughts, Deborah. No, let me guess … you’re planning to go back and close the case. Am I right?’
Damn. Nothing, but nothing, slipped by him.
‘We-ell …’ I hastily changed the subject. ‘I thought I might drive down to Cornwall to look at some paintings.’
‘Hmm … no doubt you’re about to enlighten me as to the reason for this expense account trip?’
‘I’m going in search of a gallery called Avant-Garde Art so that I can …’ I paused, but infuriatingly, he didn’t say a word, just waited for me to finish. Another plane rumbled overhead. I caved in first. ‘… so that I can turn the key in the lock of Celia Haxby’s prison cell.’
His hand had been hovering over the expense account forms. Now he picked up a pen and started fiddling with the spring top. Click Click Click. Click Click Click. Click Click Click. A subtle way of reminding me that the time allotted for my interview was running out. Putting pressure on me.
‘Those paintings I found in Haxby’s hotel room,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I emailed the photos to our art fraud department. And the expert said that they appeared to be—’
‘Works by famous artists.’ Jim was disappointingly lukewarm, a decidedly wet blanket. ‘There’s nothing illegal about making copies – until or unless Haxby adds a counterfeit signature and attempts to sell them as genuine.’
‘But that’s exactly what she intends. I‘m absolutely sure of it. That picture of a giant pink teacup looming over a slab of fish is a copy of Still life with Kipper by John Byrne, worth a couple of thousand pounds.’
‘Hardly earth-shattering.’ Click Click Click.
‘Well how about a cool twenty-five thousand for a landscape of muddy green and grey hills by Sir William Gillies?’
The click click stopped. I’d caught his attention.
‘And,’ I rushed on, ‘recently someone shelled out one and a half million for the original Abstraktes Bild by Gerhard Richter.’ The canvas I’d thought Haxby had used for cleaning her brush!
That afternoon, expense account forms tucked away in my bag, I drove down to Cornwall, making good time down the motorway. Being a fan of Daphne Du Maurier, a stop at Jamaica Inn was essential – I’d just passed a ‘Tiredness Kills’ notice, after all. Though I was only halfway to St Ives, I believe in slipping into an undercover role early so that when the moment arrives it comes as second nature. To that end, I’d discarded my workaday trousers and trainers in favour of a modish jacket and calf-length dress bought in a charity shop in the Portobello Road after my early morning interview with Jim Orr. So it wasn’t DJ Smith of HM Revenue & Customs, but the Honourable Deborah Smythe of the landed aristocracy, who pushed open the door of the eighteenth-century coaching inn and with the other tourists soaked in the ambience of dark wooden beams and leaded windows.
While I worked my way through a pot of tea and wolfed down a Cornish pasty, I reviewed my strategy for approaching the art gallery when I reached St. Ives. In the boot of the car lurked an abstract work by the paw of Gorgonzola, feline artist. Life is stressful and we all need a way of unwinding – for some it may be alcohol, a cigarette, or drugs. For G, it was something rather out of the ordinary – for cats, that is. If presented with dishes of acrylic paint, she’d dip in a paw and daub a surface with the various colours, creating interestingly abstract designs that were, to my mind, decidedly superior to those in Celia Haxby’s hotel room. Three weeks ago, when I’d collected G from Funchal airport and brought her back to the gingerbread house, I’d pinned up sheets of paper to give her the opportunity to unwind in her special way. She’d produced two oeuvres, one a sombre arrangement of black streaks unrelieved by any colour, and two days later, another – a firework outburst of joyful colours.
With an approach to Avant-Garde Art in mind, I’d had the latter expensively framed before I left Madeira. My plan was to ask for a valuation at the gallery, with the explanation that G’s painting was a legacy from a recently deceased relative. Then I’d show an interest in buying one or two of the works on display. By means of a camera hidden in the frame of the plain-glass spectacles I’d be wearing, and a voice-activated recorder disguised as a silk rosebud pinned to a lapel of my jacket, I hoped to provide enough evidence for the HMRC’s art expert to reach a conclusion.
St Ives, Mecca for artists and tourists alike, was living up to its picture-postcard image of golden beaches, sparkling blue sea and colourful boats bobbing in the little harbour. Since the holiday season was not yet in full swing, I found a parking place with only a little difficulty, then with G’s bubble-wrapped picture under my arm, wandered through the narrow streets that climbed up from the harbour. As in many other picturesque Cornish villages, art galleries, tearooms and souvenir shops outnumbered those premises devoted to selling the necessities of everyday living and I spent a very pleasurable hour window-shopping. All as part of my cover, you understand.
Though I assumed that Haxby was safely beavering away in Madeira at the production of yet another batch of oeuvres, I kept to my Standard Operating Procedure. I never take anything for granted. My approach to Avant-Garde Art for a valuation had to appear fortuitous, without arousing suspicion that I’d deliberately sought the gallery out. So I dawdled in front of various gallery windows and went into a couple to try out the legacy story and ask for a valuation: one of them mentioned a sum less than the price of the expensive frame; the other offered a surprisingly large amount that I resolved to conceal from Gorgonzola on the grounds that she would expect to be accorded celebrity status. After that piece of heady news, with the aid of the map provided by Tourist Information I was all set to tackle Avant-Garde Art.
The shop itself, like many of those in St Ives, was a converted fisherman’s cottage, and consequently by modern standards the display window was tiny, mostly taken up by a child-sized easel. Propped against it was a weirdly abstract painting. I walked past, then returned and studied it for a couple of minutes. I was genuinely intrigued. Could a tangle of black lines and a few red squiggles on a cream background be termed Art? Behind it in the brightly lit interior, I could see several other abstracts, equally bizarre. I hitched G’s oeuvre more securely under my arm, and went in.
At the sound of the buzzer a young man materialized through an open door at the back of the shop. Dark hair gelled to sleek perfection, dark suit tailored to a perfect fit, cuffs and teeth a startling white, to my professional eye he oozed conman from every pore.
‘Can I be of assistance to madam?’ The cut-glass accent conveyed that here was a man – and a business – that had all the integrity of the Bank of England.
Two could play at that game. I summoned up a haughty expression worthy of the Honourable Deborah Smythe. ‘Indeed you can.’ I didn’t add ‘my man’, but it hovered wraith-like in the air between us. ‘I have here an abstract picture for which I require a valuation.’ I let my eyes rove round the room. ‘Your establishment seems eminently suitable for that.’
His eyes roved over me, assessing. I clearly passed some sort of test, for he said, ‘Of course, madam. May I?’ He took the bubble-wrapped parcel from me and placed it reverently on a low table.
While he opened up the layers of plastic, I gave him the spiel. ‘It’s a legacy from my aunt, Lady Felicia. Can’t say I’ve taken to it, and if it’s not of much value, I’ve no room for it in my collection of abstract art.’
He held up G’s masterpiece at arm’s length, calculating its moneymaking potential. ‘Quite an interesting piece, but unsigned.’ He pursed his lips. ‘That takes down any value, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh dear,’ I tutted. ‘In that case, I’ll just have to donate it to the village auction in aid of the church roof fund. If you could just wrap it up again.…’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint, madam. A signature, now, that would have made all the difference. Unfortunately, all our clients require a signed work.’
Shit. That was something I hadn’t bargained for. That carefully thought out strategy of
mine had fallen at the first hurdle.
‘No chance of it being an unsigned Hodgson, I suppose? Haw, haw, haw,’ I brayed.
His hand reaching out for the parcel tape stopped in mid-action at the thought of the lucrative possibilities of a famous artist’s signature on that unsigned work.
‘No chance at all, madam. But … as madam is selling it in aid of the church … and to save the considerable inconvenience of carrying the picture all the way back home, perhaps madam would consider accepting twenty-five pounds in aid of the church fund?’
‘Well … I don’t know … oh, all right. I can’t bear the thought of Auntie’s picture not selling at the auction and ending up in a charity shop.’ My wrinkled nose and curled lip said it all.
‘So if madam will give me a moment … as you will appreciate, our business is normally transacted not with cash, but by way of banker’s draft or credit card.’ He dematerialized through the door at the back of the shop.
I took the opportunity to snap several of the paintings on the wall with the tiny camera hidden in the frame of my glasses, then wandered over to study the picture in the window. I leant over the painting to bring it in range and took a photo of it. At the discreet cough behind me, I turned to see him advancing, cash in hand.
‘Now, this here is rather an interesting work.’ I indicated the abstract of tangled black lines and red squiggles.
He slipped the money into my hand. ‘Emilio Vedova.’ Each syllable was deferentially caressed.
‘Vedova? The Italian Jackson Pollock?’ This was the wildest of wild guesses, a stab in the dark.
‘Vedova – a pioneer of abstract revolutionary art, sadly no longer with us.’ He cast his eyes to heaven as if seeking a nod of agreement from the illustrious departed. ‘This powerful painting is one of the works from his Protest Cycle No. 4.’
‘It’s certainly powerful,’ I agreed. ‘But perhaps a little too large for my collection. Now that one there—’ I darted over to a garish painting illuminated by two spotlights on the back wall. ‘Yes, this is more what I’m looking for.’ I peered at the signature, taking a snapshot with the concealed camera as I did so. ‘A Patrick Heron. Jan 14:1983.’
An odd title for an odd painting. On a background one third basically blue, two-thirds a washed-out red, a large lime green oval liberally smudged with red floated in a ferment of bright green bubbles. I studied the work with the rapt contemplation of an admirer. Was it an abstract of sunrise viewed from outer space – the sun taking a bite out of the darkness of planet earth? Or … I tilted my head on one side. If the picture was rotated one turn, perhaps, just perhaps, it represented the head and shoulders of someone in a blue top.
Genuine or counterfeit? I said slowly, ‘Well, that’s certainly strange….’ Frowning, I tailed off. I waited for his reaction. It might give me a clue.
The immaculately manicured hands rubbed together in sudden unease. ‘Madam has a question?’
‘That title. The date is the title, is it?’
He stepped forward, disguising his relief with extravagant gestures.
‘This particular artist, madam, favours titles of this type. We have Greens and Grey (Red Line): June 1983. Or Violet Disc in Lime Yellow: June-December 1982. Then—’
I prepared another ambush, stemming the flow with a sharp, ‘It comes with a certificate of authenticity?’
‘Naturally, madam. Supplied by an expert from—’ He named an establishment of impeccable reputation.
That seemed to be that, then. Oh dear, everything had seemed to fit so well. I’d been so very confident that the signature on the certificates supplied by Avant-Garde Art would be a name unknown in the art world.
I nodded as if reassured and, to buy time in case my disappointment showed, pretended interest in a nearby picture. I was staring at the image of a weird blurred face. I blinked and looked again. It was as if the artist, in a moment of pique, had taken a rag and smeared it across the wet paint.
Behind me the salesman murmured, ‘Perhaps not to everyone’s taste, but we do have a most enthusiastic core of collectors.’
Well, I certainly wasn’t one of them. I turned away. I couldn’t resist bolstering his hopes by casting a lingering look at the blue and red abstract with the lime green oval. ‘I must say I prefer this one, Heron’s Jan. 14:1983.’ Then cruelly dashed those hopes by adding, ‘But it’s not a decision I can rush. If you’ll give me your card, I’ll be in touch.’
Enveloped in a black cloud of disappointment, my carefully constructed theories blown sky high, despondently I made my way back through the picturesque streets of St Ives. On the drive to London I gave the delights of Jamaica Inn a miss. That was an item on my expense account that, alas, couldn’t now be justified.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I handed over the voice-recording and digital photos from the hidden camera to the tech guys for further investigation, not holding out any hope. So next day, when I received a summons from Jim Orr, I was convinced that it was to tell me that he was taking me off the case.
You could have knocked me down with the proverbial feather when he waved me to a chair and said, ‘Send in an expense chit for that little excursion to St Ives yesterday, Deborah. I think there’s every chance you’ll soon be turning that key in the lock of Celia Haxby’s cell door.’
There was a momentary pause while I mentally shifted gears. I stared at him. Had I heard right?
‘Yes, Deborah,’ he was saying, ‘a pat on the back for taking those close-ups of the paintings in St Ives. I’m confident you’re onto something. Our art fraud boys examined the artist’s brushwork in the photos you took yesterday. Brushwork is as individual as a signature, and extremely difficult to forge well enough to fool an expert – unless you’ve the skill of that celebrated forger, Van Meegeren, of course.’
‘So they are copies then?’ With difficulty I suppressed the urge to do a little victory dance.
‘Yep.’ He slid my close-up photos of Vedova’s Protest Cycle No. 4 and Heron’s Jan. 14:1983 across the desk. ‘As you see, they’ve indicated the discrepancies with the real McCoy.’
I studied the annotated red circles with interest.
‘They’ve also made discreet enquiries about the expert who authenticates Avant-Garde’s pictures. And—’ He tugged thoughtfully at his lower lip.
After a few moments I prompted, ‘And?’
‘And he’s conveniently dead’.
So, it was in an entirely different mood that, two days later, I sat in the 757 looking down on the spine of the dragon-shaped São Lourenço peninsula as the plane made its steeply angled approach to Madeira’s runway. Celia Haxby, though she didn’t know it, was painting her last pictures as a free woman. We’d arranged for Passport Control to alert Customs when she arrived at Gatwick Airport. Undercover agents would hopefully be able to link her and her paintings with the art gallery in St Ives. And once we’d done that, the photo evidence from her hotel room at the Massaroco should be enough to slam the cell door shut on the Flamboyant Artist for a very long time. That floppy yellow sun hat and Picasso artist’s smock would certainly brighten up one of HM’s prisons. There was only one niggling little loose end to be tied up – why had she gone to the expense of travelling all the way to Madeira when she could be tucked away in England daubing merrily at her canvases?
I thought about it as we touched down. The roar of reverse thrust engines filled the cabin, and the hillside of red-roofed white houses rolled past the window, slowed and came to a stop. Was it as simple as Haxby hankering after a holiday in an exotic location, thus combining business with pleasure? Or did the answer lie in a link with that upper-class English lady abroad, Dorothy Winterton?
I undid my seat belt and collected my holdall from the overhead locker. I’d established that Haxby was most probably selling fake masterpieces. In spite of failing to get video evidence of Winterton’s connection with the well-known drug dealer Gonçalves, and in spite of the comandante rejecting my theory out of
hand, I was more convinced than ever that Winterton and Haxby were partners in the business of laundering money.
I thought about this as the bus transferred us from aircraft to terminal. After all, Avant-Garde Art was an ideal channel to convert drug money into what would appear, on the surface, to be legitimate profit. A few of the paintings in the gallery had displayed the red spot denoting a sale, and in due course those paintings would disappear off the wall, the sum ostensibly paid appearing in the income column of the gallery’s accounts. Yes, it all fitted.
Though I didn’t think it would occur to the comandante that the summarily deported Sshmit might return to Madeira, I was just a little bit on edge as I shuffled in the queue towards Passport Control. I needn’t have worried. The bored policeman gave me only a cursory glance before thumbing lazily through my passport and pushing it back under the glass screen. Unchallenged, I re-entered Madeira.
Yesterday I’d telephoned Victoria Knight to let her know that I’d be arriving on today’s flight. ‘I’ll come straight to you from the airport, so I should be at the villa around midday,’ I’d finished.
‘Oooh, that is a lovely surprise, dear. Now before you even ask, Gorgonzola’s just fine, hasn’t really missed you—’ She’d paused and hastily rephrased. ‘Oh, what I mean is that she hasn’t pined, isn’t off her food, or anything like that.’
‘She and Blackie are er … getting on all right, then?’
‘Oh yes, dear. They’re nearly always together. She’s taken quite a fancy to him. Any chance she gets she tries to mother him.’
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