Artifice

by Patrick Gooch

  “Where are you? London or Salford?”

  “London.”

  “I don`t think we`ll be there before nine this evening. We`ve also got to give statements to the police in Scarborough.”

  “It doesn`t matter. Come to the office. I`ll be waiting.”

  The line went dead.

  Not a good omen.

  *

  “Whatever way you look at it, John, it`s not our fault,” I murmured. “All we did was ask to film the painting. In hindsight, it must have been a planned operation. The thieves knew the painting was going to be filmed, they knew where, and they also knew the level of security being provided. I was thinking about it on the way down. It must have been someone well acquainted with the arrangements. Someone intimately aware of our plans.”

  “Or someone at the Gallery,” he added.

  “Hmm.. I don`t think so,” I mused. “Only the chief curator was party to the arrangements. I understand the driver and his mate were not told the meeting point or the timing until the last minute.”

  “You think it was a member of the crew? I can`t believe that. We`ve used the same people for years. Some items worth millions have been featured in our programmes without the slightest hint of a mishap. Anyway, whoever has the painting cannot possibly have it on display, it`s too well-known.”

  My heart missed a beat.

  “Do you think it was taken to order? To go into someone`s private gallery?”

  “I would think so,” remarked Beatty. “There are individuals where money is no object. They will pay handsomely just so they alone can gaze upon a work of art, an antiquity, a precious artefact. And their greed is fed by men who have little regard for the grief, for the despair their actions cause.”

  I knew one who fitted that description perfectly.

  Chapter 28

  The removal lorry turned off the M62, and threaded its way through Everton towards the Kingsway Tunnel.

  It had made good time after the transfer.

  The blue Transit van had taken the road crossing the North York Moors to rendezvous with the lorry in a disused farm track on the outskirts of Pickering. The crate had been quickly manoeuvred among the stack of furniture the vehicle was carrying. Then the van had been driven into Thirsk.

  Walking the mile or so to the main line station, the three men boarded a train for York. Meanwhile, the lorry had driven south on the A64 heading in the same direction, eventually parking in the lorry park at Murton, a suburb east of the city.

  Splitting up on arrival at the rail station, the trio used taxis and public transport to make their way separately to the park.

  Three hours later the lorry surfaced in Birkenhead, and took the Dock Road to the Ferry Terminal. Booked on the overnight sailing, the ship arrived in Belfast at six thirty the next morning. Heading out the city, the vehicle drove south towards Newry, where shortly afterwards they crossed the border. They were now in the Republic of Ireland.

  Two hours after leaving the port they arrived in Dundalk. Driving east, the coast road led them to an imposing house overlooking the shore south of Blackrock Cove.

  The removal lorry turned into the drive and came to rest on the forecourt. The main door was flung open and a tall individual came hurrying towards the vehicle rubbing his hands.

  “At long last, you`ve arrived! We wondered when the furniture we bought at the auction would be delivered.”

  It was spoken in a rich, upper class English accent. Close to, the gentleman, in his sixties, looked every inch ex-military. From the paisley cravat down to his highly-polished, burgundy-coloured Lobb brogue boots.

  For the next thirty minutes the men unloaded the furniture bought in Harrogate. Under his wife`s supervision, the Regency Davenport, two late Regency mahogany scroll end sofas, a pair of leather wing chairs, an early nineteenth century Biedermeier secretaire, a George the Third serpentine mahogany sideboard, and a painted satinwood Carlton House desk were carried to various rooms in the elegant building.

  Unloading complete, the leader was singled out by the military man.

  “First class job, thank you. Would you share my gratitude with your companions.”

  He pressed fifty pounds in assorted notes into an outstretched hand.

  “Thank you, sir. However, I have to collect from you the sum of forty thousand pounds.”

  “What are you talking about? I have already paid the auction bill. There`s nothing more to pay.”

  “Oh, but there is, sir. Come with me.”

  The main man led him to the rear of the lorry.

  “Step up here if you please.”

  Two of his fellow removal men were opening the crate. The top was freed, and slowly lifted from the frame. Packing material was removed, and then the final soft fabric, to reveal… The Beach, the classic painting by Dame Laura Knight.

  “My God! Not that! Not the painting for which a man has been killed! I want no part of it, do you hear? I didn`t expect you to go to such lengths to acquire it. Now it is tainted. I`m not going to be party to murder. Take it away… anywhere… do what you want with it. But leave me out of it!”

  He turned on his heel, walked back to the house and closed the door firmly after him.

  *

  “What do you mean, he doesn`t want it now? Did you get the second half of the payment? No? Then go back and force him to pay… No, wait… a change of plan. Bring it with you. Drive down to Rosslare and take the ferry to Fishguard. I`ll give you fresh instructions when you arrive on the mainland.”

  Chapter 29

  We were seated at a conference table in the Director General`s office.

  Formal, but not hectoring. He sat at an angle, his legs crossed, a cup of coffee by his right hand.

  “Thanks for coming up to Salford, John, and you, Alan.” He glanced in my direction. “I am aware you have spoken at length with our legal people, and was fully briefed before you went to Newcastle. They determined we have no legal obligation. However, I also understand from them that you confirmed to the curator the BBC would not discount the idea of a contribution to the widow`s pension.”

  He leaned forward and raised the cup to his lips. But before drinking, the cup hovering in mid-air, he said, “Of course, you realise they were furious you had committed us to shelling out the Corporation`s money. Dickinson, a stickler for the legal niceties, wants you hung, drawn and quartered.”

  He drank, and returned the cup to its saucer.

  This is it, I thought, the end of the road.

  “I happen to disagree with him. In my view, Alan, stating we would most likely help with the finances was absolutely right. We may not have been culpable, but there is a moral justification for helping out. Well done.”

  I glanced at John Beatty. Relief was spread across his face.

  “Do I presume we are continuing with the special?” he asked.

  “Of course, John. And I shall speak with the people at the Gallery myself to set up a small fund.”

  *

  We caught the three thirty five train back to London.

  Beatty sat opposite me, quietly staring out the window for some minutes before leaning forward and murmuring, “Why is it when with you I always feel I am stepping onto a plank? Whenever you do a special, I sit in the office in trepidation, waiting for the lid to blow off. I had a feeling I had walked to the very edge this time.”

  “But have I ever let you down? Not come up with the goods, or overrun on time?”

  He smiled, and shook his head.

  “OK, smart arse, where are we up to at the moment?”

  I grinned at him. “Virtually everything is in the metaphorical can. We have got some still photography to do, old pictures of what Newlyn was once like. We`ve even got hold of some movie footage of the Newlyn School artists relaxing outside the Tolcarne Arms, a pub in Newlyn, and a number of paintings we`ve got to shoot. Then it`s all studio work and voice-over.”

  “So when do you see everything being wrapped up?”

  “Ten
days… twelve at the outside.”

  Beatty nodded. “Good.”

  I was dozing when my mobile rang.

  The train had just rattled through Northampton.

  “Hello, Sophie. How are you?”

  “Fine. Listen, I`ll make this quick. Can you come over to my place this evening?”

  “Why, yes. I`ll bring a bottle of wine.”

  “I`d have liked that, but not this evening I`m afraid. I have to go out.”

  “Oh… right ho. What time shall I come?”

  “I get back to the flat about six thirty. Shall we say seven o`clock?”

  *

  The taxi dropped me off at the Old Swan Wharf in Battersea.

  I had picked her up at her place on several occasions, though she had always met me outside, on the pavement. If this is rented, I thought, as I took the lift to the third floor, it must cost a small fortune each month.

  She was waiting at the door.

  “Hello, Alan, come in. It`s a pity I have to leave soon, we could have enjoyed the evening. Anyway, let`s sit over by the window.”

  We walked over to a panoramic view of the River Thames.

  Sophie sat down and patted the space next to her on the settee. Though, for a moment, I was totally absorbed with the scene before me.

  “This is remarkable. I didn`t picture you living in a place like this,” I said hesitantly. “How do you manage it on a conservator`s salary?”

  The question was out before I could stop myself.

  But she was unfazed by my remark.

  “It`s not mine. Well, not exactly. I suppose you could say it`s part mine. It belongs to the family, and they use it whenever they are in London. In fact, I`m meeting one of them later, an uncle of mine,” Sophie explained. “Though, this trip, he is staying at the Four Seasons Inn on The Park.”

  I sat down beside her, still mesmerised by the view.

  “Look, Alan, Those paintings from the apartment. From what I have been able to determine, two appear to be the real thing, but Blossom Time by Claude Monet, and The Fire-Eater by Marc Chagall are very clever fakes.”

  Fascinating, I thought, two of the four. Horst Schendler had declared all to be the real thing and wanted them back. For all his supposed know-how, he had slipped up there.

  “Which means,” she continued, “you are adding more to the other paintings your grandfather acquired when with the MFAA.”

  The dilemma of what to do was growing all the time. What is more, the burden grew by leaps and bounds a little later that evening.

  Chapter 30

  The taxi dropped Sophie off at the hotel, then continued to St George`s Square. I had just pushed open the door to the apartment when my mobile phone uttered its cheerful cheep.

  “Yes, McKenna. What can I do for you?”

  “More likely what you can do for yourself… and your mother. A removal lorry turned up this afternoon at Mead Court. Luckily, I was there. A fellow got out and baldly declared he had a delivery.

  “Then three other men climbed down from the lorry. Heavies, and all too ready to enforce their leader`s request I took possession of something. I had little option but to accede to their demands. It`s in the nearby store. Do you follow what I`m saying?”

  *

  I caught the nine fifteen from Paddington. At that hour I had to make two changes. One at Reading, the other at Basingstoke. The train pulled into Gillingham station close to eleven thirty.

  He was waiting in the forecourt.

  “Thanks, McKenna, taxis are few and far between at this time of night.”

  “Aye… well we`ll get you back to the house. If you don`t mind, I`ll come in and tell you why I called.”

  “Can`t you tell me now?”

  “Alan, I think your mother should hear what I`ve to say. She is waiting up for us.”

  Twenty minutes later we turned into the drive, and came to a halt by the front door.

  As McKenna and I got out of the Land Rover, my mother walked across to greet us.

  “I`ve prepared you a sandwich if you fancy it, Alan. Your favourite, cheese and pickle. You too, McKenna. Shall we go into the kitchen, it`s warmer there?”

  We followed her across the hall and down the few steps to the kitchen. She put the sandwiches on the table, and poured tea into three mugs.

  I had the distinct impression she was busying herself to avoid the moment McKenna told us something neither of us would like.

  She filled the kettle, then went over to the Aga and placed it on a hot plate.

  “Suzanna, I`d like you to sit with us. It`s important.”

  It was the first time I have ever heard him call my mother by her forename. Hitherto, she had always been Mrs Cleverden.

  She came over and sat on the bench next to McKenna.

  “I`ve told you about the arrival of the lorry.” He glanced quickly at both of us. “There was little point in arguing with them when they demanded I store a crate with the German truck in the warehouse on Dinah`s Hollow Road. They took me with them, one on either side on the bench seat behind the driver. I suppose they thought I might make a run for it.

  “At the warehouse they unloaded a crate. Tucking it in the space between the lorry and the wall. The store was locked to their satisfaction, and the main man pocketed the keys. A few minutes later, the lorry, which appeared to belong to an auction house in Harrogate, drove off. When I walked back to the house, I mentioned the incident to you, didn`t I, Suzanna, and we decided I best speak with you. Any guesses as to what they might have brought us?”

  I shivered, although it was not cold.

  The sandwich turned to ashes in my mouth.

  “Unfortunately I… I have a very good idea. Almost a certainty. Ye gods, why on earth did they bring it here? We really are in a desperate situation.”

  “What do you think is in the crate?” asked my mother.

  “Dame Laura Knight`s stolen painting!” I muttered

  *

  In the morning, our worst fears were confirmed.

  I must admit once the crate was opened and the wrappings removed, even in the half-light I was captivated by the painting. It was a joy to behold.

  “We could be in serious trouble, Alan,” muttered McKenna, bringing me down to earth. “If the faintest whiff of its location ever came about, all three of us would likely serve time for theft, and possible involvement in murder.”

  Chapter 31

  A taxi whisked Engel away from the Gare de Lyon.

  He was about to be paid, handsomely, for the provision of a jungle painting by Henri Rousseau. A week ago it had been delivered to the home of Monsieur LeMâitre by his agent in France, Gustav Martin.

  Today, he was about to boost his rapidly dwindling coffers. In the past weeks he had paid out considerable sums of money to acquire specific objects for his clients; but, for various reasons, a number of key transactions had crumbled to dust.

  Engel had masterminded a clever theft from the Penn Museum in Philadelphia, which houses a permanent Egyptian display. His attention, however, had not been on the numerous exhibits on show to the public, but on the Artefact Laboratory. A room tucked away behind the museum’s Special Exhibitions Gallery.

  More specifically, it was on a large slab of wood covered in hieratic writing. The texts were incantations for the afterlife, spells for the dead. The five thousand year old item had been coveted by an avid collector in Munich. Someone who was prepared to pay three million dollars for the singular pleasure of adding it to other priceless artefacts in his private salon.

  The heist had been easy to accomplish. Whereas the museum was alarmed with every conceivable security system, it was relatively straightforward to break into the laboratory on the third floor. Total cost of the operation, one million dollars. The expected profit, two million dollars.

  However, disaster struck when the freight plane was re-routed through Heathrow Airport in England. The crate was inspected prior to loading onto another aircraft. The contents did not appear t
o match the manifest, and were confiscated by UK Customs officers as a foiled smuggling attempt.

  In his former work life, as a Russian working for Berezovsky, Engel had had contact with Chechen militants. Often supplying arms in exchange for works of art. Involved, once more, in the trade, he had found discreet, willing buyers, prepared to pay substantial sums for such treasures.

  The route to the west lay via Latvia and Germany. Engel`s top agent in Europe was based in Amsterdam. Using the guise of an art dealer, he had his own gallery on Pieter Cornelisz Hooftstrat, close to the Rijksmuseum, the Stedelijk and the van Gogh Museum.

  Unfortunately for him, the Art and Antiques Crime Unit of the Netherlands police had been taking particular interest in the art dealer`s activities. Their suspicions were justified when they raided the premises, and found him in possession of a priceless Russian icon painted by Andrei Rublev. The work, which had cost ten million roubles, was also lost to Engel.

  Paying off the taxi driver on Avenue Foch, he made his way through the tall gates. The door was opened by LeMaitre`s manservant, and he was shown into the salon.

  “My master will be with you shortly,” he was informed.

  Ten minutes later the door opened to admit the short, full-figured man.

  “I presume, Herr Engel, you have come to receive the agreed amount for the genuine Rousseau?”

  “Correct, M. LeMâitre, as we agreed.”

  “Perhaps you would care to follow me, Herr Engel.”

  It was more a command than an invitation.

  His limp was more pronounced than on the last occasion, thought Engel, as they walked down the wide, carpeted corridor.

  LeMâitre stopped by a door, and removing a key from his pocket, inserted it in the lock. It turned easily, and the door was pushed open wide.

  “Step inside, Herr Engel.”

  Engel frowned, but did as he was bid.

  In the centre of the salon, surrounded by numerous artefacts, statuary and works of art was a pile of broken wood and board.