Chapter 9 : June 2009
Claudia was despondent as she walked back to her car from John Andrews’ gallery. Through her lack of planning, she had blown it. She flopped into the driver’s seat and stared gloomily at the package she was still clutching. The only outcome of her otherwise fruitless journey was a huge dent in her credit card.
She needed somewhere quiet to sit and think. Looking at her map, she decided to go to Thirlmere, a few miles to the north.
For the next three hours she sat by the lake, staring across the water to the dramatic ridge of fells that rose behind it and the 950-metre peak of Helvelyn, a popular spot with hikers in all seasons. However, walking was the furthest thing from Claudia’s thoughts. She kept turning over the events of the morning in her mind, wondering how she could have gone about it in a better way. From what she’d seen and experienced of PC Jeff Roberts, she realised that Sally’s intervention had probably saved her career. But why had he softened? What had she said that had persuaded him to point her in the right direction?
Checking her watch, she was surprised to find it was five o’clock. She shivered and looked around. Clouds were increasingly disturbing the sky and adding to the lengthening shadows of the hills surrounding her on all sides. A breeze was starting to blow along the lake and the heat was rapidly going out of the day.
Tired and hungry, she couldn’t face the long drive back so she decided to find somewhere to spend the night. She’d head home in the morning. She took the road back into Grasmere and driving past the ‘Green Man’, she saw that as well as claiming itself to be a fine example of an English country pub, it offered ‘B&B’. She checked in and had an early dinner in the restaurant next to the bar. After, she sat idly sipping a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and tried to lose herself in a book.
As she got into her car the following morning to head home, her phone pinged to indicate an incoming message. It was from Sally: ‘what r visitg hrs in ur prison? xxS’
Claudia smiled and touched Sally’s speed dial number. She’d meant to call her the previous evening, but when she’d got back to her room, early though it was, the events of the day had caught up with her and she’d fallen asleep almost immediately she’d lain on the bed. She hadn’t even undressed.
“Claw, are you OK? When you didn’t call, I imagined Jeff Roberts had locked you up. Didn’t strip search you, did he?”
“No, he didn’t,” laughed Claudia. “I’m fine. I don’t know whether to shout at you for spoiling my chances with PC Doe-Eyes or thank you for saving my bacon.”
“Saved your bacon whichever way you look at it, given it was a choice between his roving hands or time in the clink. What happened?”
Claudia outlined her meeting with Roberts and then her visit to John Andrews’ gallery.
“Got any idea why he might have changed his mind, Sal?” said Claudia, referring to Jeff Roberts. “I mean, he was all ready to send me unceremoniously on my way, for which by then I was grateful enough, when he suddenly asked for the file number.”
“No idea. Most unlike him,” was the reply. “So this John Andrews doesn’t have two heads.”
“No, he’s just a quiet and seemingly gentle artist. He does have an amazing talent though. I’d be interested to know what Ced thinks about his work.”
“Well, why don’t you drop by and ask him? He’s at home today doing some work on his project. You could call in on your way down. Better still, stay for the weekend. We haven’t seen each other for a while. And there’s this friend of Ced’s you should meet–”
“Sal, I’d love to see you both, but I don’t need any more matchmaking. That last bloke you lined me up with was a complete jerk. But yeah, I’ll head off now and be down at your place in a couple of hours.”
“OK, I’ll call Ced and tell him you’re coming. He’ll have the coffee ready and the Chablis chilled for when I get home.” She paused, and then added, “I’m pleased you’re all right, Claw. I couldn’t stand by and let you jump in with both feet the way you were going to. I love you too much to let you do that. You understand, don’t you?”
“I’ll forgive you, Sal. Eventually.”
Claudia lightly tooted the horn as she pulled into the driveway of Sally and Ced’s modern terraced town house on the outskirts of Knutsford. Ced appeared at the door in running shorts and vest, a hand towel round his neck. He loped over to the car, his long legs ready for another sprint, despite having already run ten miles along country lanes at a blistering pace.
“I thought you were supposed to be working,” said Claudia leaning back from him, trying to avoid the sweating six-foot-four-inch body that was towering over her diminutive frame.
“Hi, Claw,” he grinned. “Yeah, well, I was feeling cooped up so I left a couple of programs to run and got some air. Tell me all about your trip.” He grabbed her bag from the back seat and they went into the house.
At thirty-two, Ced Fisher had carved himself an unusual career. Following a first in art history at Cambridge, he had surprised his tutors by registering for a second bachelor’s degree, this one in computer studies. Excelling at this, he’d gone on to complete a one-year masters in image analysis and programming and then joined Forefront Forensics. Once he’d learned the basics of forensic science, he focused his skills on developing programs for analysing paintings for evidence of forgery. It was a smart move: while many large galleries and auction houses had their experts, the non-subjective approach to image analysis that Ced’s work offered was becoming increasingly valued in the art world. It wouldn’t be long before all insurance companies would require a computer-based assessment of art works as part of their background analysis before determining premiums on art works – the world was simply too full of forgeries.
Ced’s spare time was spent on a research project on the computer analysis of paintings to identify the styles of artists. His art history studies had made him very familiar with the techniques of the old masters from the thirteenth century onwards. He was fascinated by the communal approach that had been used in the studios, the use of apprentices still honing their skills to undertake the routine parts of a painting – the backgrounds, parts of the clothing, shoes. It depended on the whim of the artist, but it was known that for many paintings, large parts were not painted by the master himself. He would have concentrated more on the most important areas: the face or faces, the pose, the use of light, the hair. The old masters, Ced knew, were like film directors. They controlled all the steps of production of a masterpiece and determined the final form of their work, using their brilliance to fine tune all the way. However, the number of hands contributing to the production of a painting could be many. Ced’s passion was to develop his image analysis program to identify and distinguish those different hands. Did some of them later become masters in their own right? How had their techniques changed, evolved and matured? Could the innate style of an artist seen in his early work still be seen at the end of his career, even though it may appear to have changed profoundly?
In the world of art forgery, the more highly skilled artists could change their technique to mimic that of the original artist. Such was their brilliance at doing this that experts relying on visual examination had often been fooled into attributing a work to a major artist when in reality it was a copy. Ced was impressed with the amazing skill of a forger to analyse a painting and adapt his hand – the ability to make instinctively the sort of assessments that took his program untold millions of complex operations to achieve. His goal was to fine-tune his image analysis software to see through a forger’s mimicry and detect the man’s hand: his style signature.
“Coffee, Claw?”
“I’ll make it, Ced. You go and shower and return your body to some sort of acceptable human condition.” Claudia shooed Ced from the kitchen while holding her nose.
“Hey, it’s not that bad. I think Sal finds it rather sexy.”
“Yes, well, I’m not Sal. She’s never happier than when she’s pumping iron and pouring with sweat.” Sally h
ad met Ced when she joined Forefront Forensics and found they had a common interest in triathlons.
Ced loped off to the shower while Claudia organised coffee, rolls, butter and marmalade, all organic since Sally’s arrival into Ced’s life.
Ten minutes later, Ced returned looking fresh, wearing tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt that would have reached Claudia’s ankles. He tucked into the rolls like a man possessed.
“Hungry, were you?” said Claudia, after a couple of minutes.
“Ravenous, Claw,” replied Ced through a mouthful, missing her sarcasm.
Ced wiped his mouth on a paper napkin. “Sal told me what you were up to, in strict confidence, of course. You worried her, Claw. Me too. You were really sticking your neck out, what with the confidentiality of the database and all that.”
“Yes, I know, but please don’t give me another lecture. I had a hard enough time from the PC in Ambleside yesterday.”
“It was lucky that Sal knew him and could get him to cut you off at the pass.”
“Yes, it was odd really. He was all for sending me off with a stern warning when he suddenly softened and gave me a bit of information that helped me track down the person I was looking for.”
“He didn’t give you his name, then?”
“No, but what he told me was enough to locate him, with a bit of detective work of my own.”
“And this guy with the rare DNA? Sal said he’s an artist. Sounds interesting. Is he any good?”
“Good? I think he’s brilliant. I know I’m no expert, but I found his work breathtaking.”
“What’s his name?”
“Andrews. John Andrews.”
Ced rubbed his chin. “John Andrews. Yeah, I’ve heard the name. Landscapes, I think, mainly of the Lake District. Don’t think I’ve ever seen his work, but these little specialist cliques do appear at exhibitions and auctions from time to time. They normally produce fairly standard views that appeal to the masses.”
“Don’t be such a snob, Ced. He could be a Turner or a Constable waiting to be discovered. And he doesn’t only do landscapes; his portraits are amazing. In fact, I was so taken that I bought one.”
“You bought one!” Ced’s eyebrows shot up. “How much did you pay? You should have talked to me about it first. These guys normally overcharge, you know.”
“Well, it wasn’t cheap, but I was very taken. It reminded me of my Gran. It’s really beautiful. Quite small. Do you want to see it? It’s in the car. I’ll go and fetch it.”
“Yeah, I’d like to. If it’s a load of derivative rubbish, we’ll take it back and demand a refund.”
“We certainly won’t! Just because you’re an art snob doesn’t mean we mere mortals can’t enjoy a work we really like, derivative or not.”
“I absolutely agree, with the personal taste thing, I mean, not with me being an art snob.” Ced pretended to look offended. “But liking it is one thing, paying over the odds is another.”
“I didn’t pay over the odds. I thought eight hundred quid was a good price, especially compared with some of the prices there.”
“You paid eight hundred! Christ, Claw, have you won the lottery? That’s a lot for a miniature from some unknown artist.”
“It’s not a miniature and he gave me a good discount. It was marked up at a thousand. And you said that you’ve heard of him, so he’s not unknown.”
“Claw, I’ve heard of an awful lot of the artists working in this country. I don’t necessarily know their work, but I know their names. So the fact I know the name ‘John Andrews’ doesn’t mean that he’s anything special. Why don’t you get the painting?”
Claudia got up and went to the door. “Not sure that I want to show you now; you’ll only rubbish it.” She pouted at him, turned and walked towards the front door.
“You’ll get an objective opinion, Claw, that’s all,” he called after her, clearing away the coffee mugs and plates.
As Claudia came back into the room, Ced sat down on the sofa and rubbed his hands. “OK, let’s have a look at this masterpiece.”
She handed it to him without a word and watched while he pulled at the knot and removed the string. Taking it from the wrapping, he held it up so that it caught the full light from the window behind him. He frowned, tilted it, put it close to his eyes to look at the fine detail and then held it at arm’s length. He pursed his lips as if he was going to speak, but didn’t – he merely continued to study it, his eyes darting around every detail.
Finally, Claudia couldn’t wait any longer. “Ced, speak to me. If you really think it’s a load of rubbish, say so!”
Ced still didn’t speak for a moment, but when he did, he slowly raised his eyes to her and whispered, “Load of rubbish?”
Claudia missed the questioning tone. “I thought that’s what you’d say. Well, I like it!”
She made to snatch the painting back from him, but he moved it to one side.
“Hey, careful, Claw, you don’t want to damage it.”
“What does it matter to you? You think it’s rubbish.” Claudia was beginning to get upset with him.
“I didn’t say that, Claw, I was questioning what you’d said, not agreeing with you.” He paused. “This portrait, Claw, is one of the most stunning of its type that I’ve ever seen. It’s really quite remarkable. The skill, the mastery that has gone into this is extraordinary. This man has a real talent, a gift. I’m amazed that he isn’t more well known, amazed that he’s working away quietly up there in the Lakes and that people aren’t beating a path to his door.”
Claudia looked at him suspiciously. “You’re having me on, right? You don’t mean all that; you’re winding me up. Christ, Ced, tell me what you really think!”
Ced looked adoringly at the painting and then he turned his head to Claudia. “I swear to God, Claw, I’m not taking the piss. I mean it; this work is amazing. Can’t you see it – the subtlety of these tones, the delicacy of the skin? The technique he’s used is like that of the old masters. A lot of people try it, you know, but only a few succeed. I’d bet he could copy anything. I’d love to see his landscapes.”
“Why do you assume that because he’s a good artist, he’s going to be a crook, forging other people’s work?” Claudia was indignant.
“Coz that’s where the easy money is these days, Claw. It’s really difficult to make serious bucks as an artist in your own right.”
“Well, some make it. Look at Hockney! Look at Hurst!”
“Yeah, but for every Hockney and Hurst, there are hundreds, no, thousands, who are probably as talented, possibly more talented, who never get more than a pittance for their work.”
“I’ve just remembered something,” interrupted Claudia.
Ced looked up at her.
“You can look at his landscapes, or at least a few. I snapped some on my iPhone. Probably another reason he doesn’t like me; his daughter caught me in the act. I don’t know if she realised, but if she did, I expect she’s told him.”
“I doubt it’s the first time it’s happened, Claw. Let’s have a look.”
Claudia took her phone from her bag and called up the photos.
“Here, they’ve come out quite well. There are, um six, no seven.” She passed the phone to him. “You swipe the screen, like this–”
“I know how it works, Claw.”
Ced looked quickly through the images and then again more slowly.
“Would you mind if I downloaded these onto the computer? The resolution of photos on this model is only 2 Meg, which isn’t brilliant, but we should be able to see more on a bigger screen.”
“Go ahead. Oh, I haven’t got the cables with me.”
“Not a problem,” said Ced, heading off to the study to connect the iPhone to his computer.
Two minutes later they were looking at the twenty-seven inch screen of Ced’s iMac. He enlarged the photos to their limit, enhanced them and then sat back to take a look. Claudia looked from Ced to the screen and back again, expecting a
comment or two, but all she heard were a few ‘mmms’ and grunts.
Finally, Ced rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.
“Amazing, Claw, quite amazing. It’s not so easy to see the detail on these photos; I’d need to see the real thing, but even from these, it’s clear that this man’s talent isn’t only in his portraits. I’m sorry if I was dismissive earlier. It’s just that you see a lot of mediocrity, especially on sale to tourists. But this stuff. Wow! The style is really interesting. There’s a huge number of influences, from Renaissance art onwards, you can see it in here.” He pointed at one of the images. “Where there are figures, the attention to detail is there like it is in the portrait. But the overall style of these is quite modern, the last century anyway. The style reminds me of someone I’ve seen, but I can’t quite place it.”
“So you think I haven’t wasted my money?”
“On the contrary, Claw,” replied Ced, missing the mockery again, “I reckon you’ve quite an eye. Listen, tell me about this guy’s DNA. Is it really super rare?”
“Yes, Ced, it is. This man is his own collection of unique alleles. He shouldn’t exist. That’s why I was so excited about wanting to follow it up. It’s a real shame that he doesn’t want to play. Odd really, don’t you think? I mean, if I came to you and told you that quite by chance I’d examined your DNA profile and found it to be very different from anything that’s ever been seen before, wouldn’t you jump at the chance to find out more? I mean, who knows what further research might lead to?”
“Course I would, Claw, but I’m a scientist, of sorts. This chap’s an artist and they tend to have no interest in science. I can understand where he’s coming from. I mean, he’s probably very embarrassed about the fact that the police took his sample in the first place. And to be frank, it doesn’t sound like you gave him a great sales pitch.”
“No, I could kick myself. I could’ve explained it so much better.”
“Interesting that he’s got this rare profile and that he’s also a very talented artist. Reckon there’s a connection?” mused Ced.
“Who knows?” replied Claudia. “Perhaps I should follow it up. Test a few artists. You haven’t got a sample of Michelangelo’s saliva secreted away somewhere, have you?”
“There’s a whole rack of his swabs in the freezer. Seriously, Claw, there could be a future in looking at some of these old paintings. They must have handled them a lot – they’d have their DNA all over them.”
“Theirs and a million other people’s,” shrugged Claudia, “I think we’d better establish a stronger link before we start taking swabs from old masters.”
They heard the front door slam. “Hi guys!”
Sally burst into the room and gave Claudia a huge hug. “I took the afternoon off. Didn’t reckon I should leave you two together with Ced showing you his etchings. You look great, hon, considering you’ve been through the mill with our friend PC Roberts.”
“Oh, he’s a pussy cat really,” said Claudia dismissively.
“Yeah, right. One with sharp claws.”
“Wanted to get his claws into Claw, did he?” said Ced, laughing at his own joke until he saw the withering look the two girls gave him.
He looked back at Claudia’s painting.
“Claw,” he said. “I was wondering. I know you’ve only just bought this, but before you give it pride of place in your cottage, would you mind if I ran it through my latest imaging routines? All nondestructive, I promise. I’d need to take it to the lab, but it would only be for a week or so.”
“You put one mark on it or damage it in any way and I’ll feed that six-foot-four frame through the mincer, Ced Fisher. Understand?”
“Deal,” said Ced, picking up the portrait and staring at it again. “Look at this, Sal.”
“You bought a painting, Claw?”
“Yes, a John Andrews.”
“A John Andrews, huh,” said Sally, taking the portrait from Ced. “Wow, even I, with the artistic appreciation of a prune, can see that this is really something. It’s beautiful, Claw. I didn’t know you were into art.”
“It’s the first piece in what one day will be my extensive collection,” said Claudia, with mock haughtiness. “Actually, I wanted to keep him talking because he was trying to kick me out of the gallery. Fortunately his family came in and his wife gave me a sales pitch. I’m glad she did, even though I’ll be surviving on bread and water for a few months to pay for it. I’m thrilled with it.”
Ced announced that he wanted to study the portrait a bit more and to see if he could find anything about John Andrews’ work online. “I’ll leave you two to natter and then we could go down the pub for a late lunch.”
“Great idea, hon,” said Sally, reaching over to peck him on the cheek.
Back in the living room, Sally sat down with Claudia.
“Look Claw, I want to explain again about me interfering. I know you told me not to talk to Jeff Roberts but after you called, I got really worried about you just turning up there and trying to appeal to his better nature. Apart from the fact I don’t think he’s got one, I thought there was a great chance that he’d arrest you on the spot. So I called him. I told him what you were after and how important it was to you and the pursuit of knowledge etc, but he didn’t really listen. All he heard was that you wanted to break the confidentiality of the database. I didn’t think it was worth pulling the threatening to tell his wife trick so I tried a different tack. I told him that in my heart I didn’t want you to go ahead with it coz I was so worried about the possible consequences. I turned a bit soft on him, muttered a bit about what a good time we’d had and said that what I really wanted was for him to stop you before you got in too deep. Ced doesn’t know all of this, of course, even though what happened was before his time. Anyway, that seemed to appeal to his control freak nature and he agreed that if you turned up, he’d read you the Riot Act and send you on your way. Fortunately, you called to tell me when you were going.”
Claudia nodded ruefully. “Yes, well, he certainly read me the Riot Act and all its appendices and annexes. One thing that really puzzles me though, as I said on the phone, is why he softened?”
“What did you say to him?”
“I can’t remember exactly, but I mentioned genetic diseases and that there was always a possibility that these alleles could have some significance.”
“I see,” Sally nodded. “That could explain it.”
“What do you mean?”
“As it happens, there was a PC in from Carlisle this morning delivering exhibits. I was chatting to him about his case and then we got talking, you know, about people we knew and so on. I casually mentioned that I’d met Jeff when he’d been on a course in Chorley some years ago and the PC gave me a real knowing look. Anyway, he then said that Jeff was a really nice guy at heart and that he was worried about his son.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“It seems that there’s Huntington’s disease in his wife’s family and that his son might have inherited the gene.”
“That doesn’t mean that he’ll automatically get the disease.”
“I know, but there’s a chance. It seems he only found out recently and they haven’t finished all the tests. You know what the NHS is like. So when you mentioned genetic research, maybe he thought that it could help.”
“Christ, I wouldn’t want to get his hopes up.”
“Of course not, but if these alleles do have some significance, then it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that it could help PC Roberts’ problem. Anyway, you didn’t mislead him; he made that decision off his own bat.”
Claudia looked glum. “Well, whatever it was, it hasn’t worked because John Andrews isn’t playing ball. So that’s the end of it.”
Although she understood her friend’s frustration, Sally was sure that this was the right outcome. The risks to Claudia’s career had been too great – both PC Roberts and John Andrews had been quick to bring up the possibility of reporting h
er. It was only luck that Andrews had chosen not to. Or so she thought.
Rare Traits (The Rare Traits Trilogy Book I) Page 10