Slowly, the intruder edged toward Hesilrige. He spent the best part of a minute studying it under torchlight before removing something from his pocket. Seconds later, a plethora of lights appeared on the canvas, the most dominant of which appeared to be purple.
Gillian was shell-shocked. “Is that an ultraviolet bulb?”
Cliff didn’t answer, choosing instead to concentrate on what the purple light was shining on. The light was having a strange effect on the painting, appearing on the screen as a distorted haze.
The footage lasted a total of three minutes and fifty seconds, during which time the intruders had pulled off the unthinkable. The man with the ultraviolet torch studied the area in purple for less than ten seconds before ordering the second man to step forward. What happened next left her mortified. The thieves used a scalpel to remove the canvas, and placed it inside a soft cloth bag.
Its heavy oak frame never once left the wall.
They appeared again in room six, next door. Gillian watched in horror as the intruders headed straight for the Van Dyck. They removed the special curtain that had been put up to veil it and repeated the process, spending even less time observing the painting. The purple light didn’t appear on this occasion, which was strange; Gillian wondered what purpose it had served for the Hesilrige that didn’t apply for the Van Dyck. The extraction took ten seconds, the canvas again deposited inside a cloth bag. A disturbing thought was running through her mind. A person operating so effectively in such darkness and aided by keys could only indicate familiarity.
“This must have been an inside job.”
There was one final port of call. The intruders took the stairs to the third floor via the restaurant entrance near room one and stopped before a blue door at the far end of the corridor. The door was also locked and required a four-digit code as opposed to a key. Again it was the intruder with the keys who achieved access, punching in the correct combination and pulling back against the handle.
They had entered the main storeroom, a large area furnished with a unique selection of silver filing cabinets used to store the portraits not currently chosen for display.
Gillian leaned forward, watching with intense concentration. The intruders were searching for something specific, apparently without much success. In total, they spent over three minutes searching through drawers before, seemingly, giving up.
They had left with nothing else.
“What the hell was that all about?” she asked.
“I’ve asked Hawkins to double-check the footage. As far as we can tell, nothing seems to be missing.”
Gillian nodded, her eyes following the thieves as they passed from monitor to monitor. Leaving the storeroom, they departed down the main stairway, heading for the ground floor. A security guard was standing by the main exit, their sudden appearance causing alarm. Gillian cringed as the guard put his walkie-talkie to his mouth, only to be jumped on and punched by the intruder with the torch. She saw blood escape from the side of his head, settling on the stairs.
“Wait for it,” Cliff said.
The intruders made it to the door, pausing by the glass. The intruder with the keys unlocked it from the inside before locking it again from the outside. They stopped for a second time outside the entrance, ensuring they were clear of passing traffic. London was London, but they couldn’t have picked a better time.
In the final monitor, a black Ford appeared by the curb, its glass dark but not tinted. They entered quickly, one through the nearside front door, the other the back. As they did, the intruder with the keys removed his balaclava, surprisingly early.
Cliff hit the pause button and pointed to the back seat of the car. The CCTV camera revealed the man’s face, a white male in his late thirties with long curly blond hair.
“Oh my God.” Gillian put her hand to her face. “Andrew?”
4
The man’s name was Andrew Cooper. Gillian and Cliff both knew him well.
When Gillian arrived at the National Portrait Gallery five years ago, she had inherited a well-established outfit that comprised nearly 200 staff, including over twenty curatorial. The majority had worked in the same roles for over ten years, and the most senior were respected worldwide.
Including the assistant curator of 17th-century art.
The existing curator was approaching sixty when Gillian arrived from the Tate. When he missed six months with a cancer scare, she recommended he turn part time before they mutually agreed it was time for retirement. The curator would stay on as a regular consultant. The main job would pass to his assistant.
Step up Andrew Cooper.
Andrew Cooper was exactly what Gillian had been looking for. While his predecessor had gathered a reputation for being remote and stuffy, Cooper was the exact opposite. His youthful looks, long blond locks and designer facial hair, mixed with a playful persona, had earned him a regular role as speechmaker on school-day trips, and even as he approached forty, he was famed for his regular stage readings at the poetry society at Convent Garden and acoustic guitar sets on the club scene. Gillian had never met a man with such a good work/life balance. He thrived on being the entertainer, even more so a husband and father. Exactly the type of person needed in the 21st-century art world.
She couldn’t believe what she had just seen.
Gillian’s instinctive reaction was to phone him, but she decided it was a bad idea. She knew the man’s name, age, and address…everything to his PAYE details. She’d even visited his apartment twice in the last four months.
The phone rang, and Cliff answered, “Hello? Cliff here.” He placed his hand over the receiver and passed it to Gillian. “Fenton. Says it’s important.”
Gillian took the phone. “Gillian McKevitt here. Yes?”
“Ms McKevitt, Mr Hawkins has just arrived. Wishes to speak with you in person.”
The Head of Visitor Services and Security at the National Portrait Gallery was Edmund Hawkins, an early fifties, slightly thickset, serious yet usually jolly man with thinning brown hair, a neatly trimmed beard and large blue eyes that seemingly never missed a trick.
The man was famous in certain circles: a former soldier and Yeoman Warder at the Tower of London, who had made the jump to head of security after helping the former director recover two priceless Turners when he still worked for the Tate. In honour of his life of service and his role in the recovery of the masterpieces, he was awarded a CBE from the Queen in the last New Year Honours.
Hawkins arrived moments later, entering Gillian’s study-like office and heading for the nearest seat on invitation.
“Gillian, I appreciate you’re a busy lady, so I’ll try to keep this brief,” he said, his strong London accent sounding peculiarly rugged as he tried to fight off the early symptoms of a sore throat. “We’ve run through every second of footage and searched every room in the gallery. Besides minor damage to the storeroom, nothing else seems to have been taken.”
That was a new one. “Damage to the…excuse me?”
“As I’m guessing Mr Cliff has already shown you, the theft of the paintings was actually part one of a two-part operation. The original plan seems to have been to obtain something from the storeroom in addition to the two pieces. Their search caused minor damage to one of the drawers and to the door of the main vault, but fortunately they didn’t seem to find what it was they were looking for.”
A relief, she guessed. “What were they looking for?”
“Their attention seems to have centred on an empty drawer previously used to hold something called Unknown man and woman. As soon as they failed to enter the vault, they left the gallery. I assume you’ve seen the footage?”
Gillian nodded, her expression glum.
“Were you personally familiar with the pieces in question?”
She guessed that was a rhetorical question. “I’d have hoped everyone in the gallery would have heard of the Van Dyck by now.”
“How about the first piece?”
“An original
oil on canvas of Sir Arthur Hesilrige, artist unknown. Probably from around the time of the Civil War.”
“A particularly valuable piece?”
“Not compared to the Van Dyck.”
“How about compared to the others?”
In truth, she assumed it wasn’t. “I can think of more valuable pieces to take…Anne Boleyn and Catherine Parr near the stairs, for a start.”
Hawkins cleared his throat. “You’ll forgive me, Gillian, as you know I’m not a natural-born artist, and I don’t have your knowledge on the exact details of every face in the gallery. Who exactly was he?”
Gillian shrugged, completely baffled as to why the painting should have been specifically targeted. As director of the gallery and possessed of an inquisitive mind, she had made it her mission to learn the history of every piece in the collection, yet memorising the stories of a backlist of 11,000 portraits had proven almost impossible.
The bare facts had been easy to memorise. “Hesilrige was a republican, one of the main opponents of King Charles I during the Civil War and later of Cromwell when Cromwell became Lord Protector. He was born in 1601, sat in the Commons 1640–59 and fought for parliament in the Civil War. As an active soldier, the man had been instrumental both in Oliver Cromwell’s success and Richard Cromwell’s downfall,” she said. As she spoke she remembered once hearing a quote about him: ‘He was rash, hare-brained, devoid of tact, but his energy in the field was often of great value to the Parliamentary cause.’
“So the portrait wasn’t an obvious target for purposes of monetary gain?” Edmund asked.
“Like most of our pieces, it would probably fetch over a million at auction.”
Hawkins nodded. “I appreciate this is a distressing time for you, Gillian. Particularly as I understand one of the culprits is known to us.”
“Yes. I assume you’ve already checked his file.”
“Believe it or not, I actually had quite an interesting conversation with the fella not two days ago about the new U2 album. According to your staff records, he’s not missed a day sick in three years and has spent all but two workdays in the past six months here – the other two he was in Scotland. Not counting, of course, any times he might have entered as a visitor on a weekend.”
“How about yesterday? Presumably you were able to monitor his work patterns?”
“Mr Cooper arrived at work at 8:15am and remained here till eleven. Later CCTV footage confirms he returned to the building at just before 9pm, alongside a man wearing a black rucksack, jacket and baseball cap. Unfortunately the lower part of his face was well hidden by the cap and jacket. Both were seen entering his office just after and were not seen again till one fifty in the morning. And when they were, they were both dressed in dark clothing and wearing ski masks. Now, I assume he was supposed to have a set of keys?”
A thoughtful smile. “Well, he is the curator of 17th-century art.”
“And the storeroom?”
“The door is code operated,” Cliff answered. “A code he would have used most days.”
“And the vault?”
Gillian’s suspicions continued to grow. The vault was reserved for items considered top security, most notably documents relating to transfers of ownership and financial records. “Only the director has access to the vault.”
“I see.”
Gillian surveyed Hawkins from across the desk. Though she retained a calm façade, inside she was shaking like a leaf. She knew Cooper well – though apparently not well enough. The man had no track record of misdemeanours. There was no evidence of a criminal record, no record of misbehaviour…the man drove a Toyota Prius and was famed among the staff for having an obsession with recycling. He’d worked at the gallery for fifteen years and been trusted to work alone since day one. As a curator he’d been loud, confident, enthusiastic, easy to work with, and passionate about his profession.
Something had clearly changed.
“The Van Dyck is extremely valuable,” Gillian said, breaking the silence. “We had almost no chance of affording it without the grant. I honestly can’t think of a single reason why the Hesilrige piece should have been specifically targeted.”
Hawkins folded his arms, contemplating. Seven years as head of security at the gallery had given him a solid education on the subject of art theft. He’d co-written a book with the previous director, cataloguing the disappearance of the two Turners and the gruelling process that eventually led to their recovery.
“Gill, you’ve been director here for a number of years. You must have learned a great deal about this sort of thing. Why does someone steal a piece of art?”
A no-brainer. “Money, usually; either that or extortion. Except for the odd occasion when someone just really likes the piece.”
“And on this occasion which would you say is the most likely?”
She shrugged. “I really have no idea. The Hesilrige has been here for almost twenty years; Cooper himself has worked on it more than most. If money was the objective, the Van Dyck was an obvious choice. If you’re going to steal two, there were far more valuable pieces nearby.”
Edmund nodded. The more he thought about it, the more money sounded an unlikely motive. “How had you found Mr Cooper recently? Any changes in his attitude?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Did you speak with him yesterday?”
“Briefly,” Cliff answered.
“Anything specific?”
“Not really. Andrew liked to keep in touch. He’s a friendly guy, excellent with the schoolkids. Before he got the job as curator, I actually spent some time training him as my understudy. When it came to 16th- and 17th-century art, the man’s knowledge was an asset.”
“Do you think it’s possible he knows something about the paintings others don’t?”
Gillian answered, “The identity of the Hesilrige artist is unknown. I suppose any revelations regarding the identity of the artist could have a positive effect on its value, but it’s not something I’d put my house on. Even if it was proved to have been the work of one of the greats, it’d be unlikely to be worth more than the others in that room. In any case, as you well know, our gallery is unlike others in the city. Our purpose is to honour historical figures. The prestige of the artist is almost immaterial.”
“But not necessarily to a thief?”
“I didn’t say that, although the National and the Tate would be better targets for an outsider. We have over 195,000 pieces in our collection. Of these, very few are the work of household names. We have some, of course. Peter Paul Rubens, Anthony Van Dyck, William Hogarth…forgive me if I’m getting too technical.”
Hawkins smiled. “How about Sir Arthur? Is he an historical figure deserving of particular recognition?”
“In comparison to people such as Charles I and Oliver Cromwell, I’d consider him something of a minor player for the time.”
“How would it fair in insurance terms?”
“Our portraits are not insured. You know that,” she said, considering for the first time the real scale of the loss. It was the one government policy she had never fully agreed with. The official stance on the national collections had been consistent across the board for decades: it was better to spend more to ensure security was maximised than pay sky-high premiums to insurance companies. Over the years, savings to the gallery had been substantial.
But now, she was looking at a £12m write-off.
“Okay,” Edmund said, rubbing his beard. “How about if it had been on loan somewhere? Would it have been highly valued?”
Gillian looked back at him with a fixed gaze. “It’s valuable in the sense that it’s a rare portrait of an esteemed historical soldier and politician who, had it not been for the Civil War, would almost certainly have been forgotten by history. Nevertheless, it is a fine example of an oil on canvas portrait of a Roundhead from the mid-17th century. In insurance terms, though, we could be talking less than a million.”
“I see,” he replied.
Gillian stared at him. “May I ask you a frightfully boring question?”
“Of course.”
“If you were me, and your gallery were to be hit by someone you know well, how would you go about getting your paintings back?”
5
The thieves had made their getaway at 1:58am. Cooper knew it had been around two because he had heard Big Ben chime the hour within moments of getting into the back seat of the car, its mellow toll resonating soothingly across the deserted square.
He was used to living in London, but never remembered seeing it the way it currently appeared, or the way he currently felt. Though it was quiet, the city was never totally deserted. Cars passed by at regular intervals, citizens and visitors walked in both directions, some heading toward Westminster, the nearby Trafalgar Square or St Martin-in-the-Fields. He remembered hearing once that the hardest part of a heist was to leave without looking conspicuous. The awkward movements, increased perspiration and breathing were all common effects, almost unavoidable.
Even at 2am there were potentially plenty of people to witness their exit.
The getaway car had been driven by François’s brother, a twenty-eight-year-old dark-haired brute named Alain. The man was a dead ringer for François from his wavy thick hair to his French phonetic pronunciation of English words. The only difference was the tone of authority.
There was no doubting François was the boss.
A third man was sitting on the back seat, a thickset bald-headed prop forward who was holding a semi-automatic pistol. Cooper recognised him from earlier.
“What have you done with my daughter?”
The Cromwell Deception Page 3