Artifice

by Patrick Gooch

  “He was the pillion passenger on a motorbike. The CCTV shows the fellow operating the machine easily evading the barrier, and once outside the dock area, they simply disappeared.”

  “I suppose they were wearing helmets and were unrecognisable?” muttered the PM.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, commissioner. I presume you are still investigating how it was done, and who must have helped him squirrel away the works of art until taken to the terminal?”

  “Yes, sir. We know they were stored in a container for the past seven days at a holding facility in Wales. They informed us that it arrived late on the fifteenth, and it was driven by their company to Southampton on the twenty second.”

  “So, the burning question is, where was it kept after the robbery, before it went to the storage facility?” murmured the PM.

  “Unfortunately, any idea where the container came from was destroyed in the explosion.”

  “What about the lorry that took it to the storage company?” asked the Minister of Culture.

  “Would you believe it was sporting false registration plates,” reported the commissioner. “In fact, they were the ones taken from the transporter used in the theft of the Turner paintings.”

  “So now we must discuss what you are going to say to the press about the incident at the docks, and the loss of the Turners to the nation.”

  The PM was looking directly at the Minister for Culture, Media and Sport.

  Chapter 50

  Twenty four hours later the complexion of the world changed completely.

  I phoned Mead Court and McKenna answered.

  “Seen the news?”

  “I`m watching it now. They haven`t stated who the dead man is, but it must be Engel. And that means, laddie, we are off the hook. Wait a minute the news reader is saying… can you hear it?”

  But I was silent, holding the phone, staring at the screen and hearing…

  `It would appear the stolen Turner paintings were being held to ransom, to be exchanged for the Elgin Marbles. The dead man had inspected the Marbles in their containers, and they were being loaded onto the ship. As he turned to board a shot rang out killing him instantly. However, he was holding a remote control, and in his death throes a detonator button was pushed, and the container, holding many of the works by Great Britain`s favourite artist, were completely destroyed.

  `Experts have indicated that the paintings had an auction value of close to five hundred million pounds. This is what the Minister for Culture, Media and Sport had to say.

  `I deeply regret the loss to the country of the works by one of our most respected artists. In truth, we should, perhaps, have been more diligent in our security; more aggressive in our search for the thieves; and more resolute in even allowing this affair to go so far. I take full responsibility for our shortcomings, and, as a consequence, have tendered my resignation to the Prime Minister.

  `I would just add… the Elgin Marbles as they are commonly known, are still safe in the British Museum. Thank you.`

  I turned the set off.

  A cold chill enveloped me. The stakes had been high with the theft of the Turners, but I didn`t know how high. Not at the level where they were being used to twist the government`s arm to release the Parthenon statuary.

  “Do you realise, McKenna, what we`ve been involved in? My God, what a situation! I`d better come down and chat it over with you and mother. I presume she will be coming back to Mead Court now.”

  *

  I was still in shock when the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Alan, it`s Sophie. Sorry I haven`t returned your calls. I`ve been away.”

  “I was only phoning to ask whether you cared to join me when they transmitted the documentary on the Newlyn School. But that went out a few days ago. Been somewhere nice?”

  “Not really. At least not exotic. I don`t know England that well, so I took myself off on a tour of your green and pleasant land.”

  “And?”

  “It was green and pleasant. Also wet at times. I suppose that`s why it`s green. Compared with home, which, because it isn`t wet, is more often a shade of brown.”

  “I always thought the area around Limasoll, where you come from, had a moderate amount of rain and was reasonably green all the year round. At least it was when I was there.”

  “I suppose I`m thinking of other places in Cyprus that don`t get so much rain. Anyway, do you still want to see me?”

  I laughed. “Tell me, are you free this week at any time?”

  “I could be on Thursday. What did you have in mind?”

  I wasn`t going to say I want to take you to bed, that`s why.

  “Dinner somewhere, and a chance to catch up on things.”

  The conversation closed with me saying I`d pick her up at her place in Battersea.

  *

  I kept up my weekly output for the Art Newspaper. In fact, I was able to devote more time to research, pose more in-depth questions, and generally cultivate a more fulsome style of reporting. The editor commented upon the material I was submitting, and offered me more opportunities to dig a little deeper, write in a more investigative style. Not just reporting what we were told, but finding out the underlying reasons why we were being told.

  *

  I picked her up on Thursday evening.

  The taxi waited while I rang her on the intercom. She came out the glass-fronted entrance and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

  “Bear with me a minute,” she said. “I feel cold, I just want to get something warm from my car.”

  I asked the taxi driver to wait, and joined her when she walked to the garage.

  Sophie pushed a button and the door automatically lifted. From the small car she took a stylish jacket from the back seat.

  “I`ll just slip it on.”

  “You don`t ride a motorbike as well, do you?”

  I had noticed the machine, with an astronaut`s helmet lying on the seat, parked in the shadow of her Fiat.

  She turned and glanced in the garage.

  “No, it belongs to my cousin Nikos Ioannidis.”

  “Is he still staying with you?”

  “Yes, though he`s off home soon.”

  “Where`s that?”

  I held open the taxi door for her. When we were seated, she said, “It can be anywhere. He`s a wanderer. At the moment he is living in the south of France.”

  The taxi took us to a Greek restaurant in Chelsea. I had found it on-line, and all the reviews were positive.

  Sophie was delighted. “I never knew this place existed. What a clever man you are!” She added. “But then your name is Cleverden.”

  She had a smile on her face for much of the evening. It spread when musicians started playing traditional Greek music. She explained the instruments to me.

  “That`s a bouzouki, it always takes the lead in folk music. Over there is a santouri, a kind of dulcimer, played with something akin to a hammer. Then there`s the tzouras, a long-necked stringed instrument which has a twangier sound than the bouzouki. In front he is playing a floyera, a shepherd`s flute.” Sophie was in her element. She clapped loudly, cheered each piece of music, and drank a great deal of Assyrtiko.

  On the ride back across the river she leant drowsily on my shoulder. Though when the taxi came to a halt outside her apartment block, she kissed me, jumped out, waved and disappeared through the front entrance.

  And that, sadly, was that.

  *

  Ioannidis met the ship when it docked in Famagusta. Immediately he ordered the five containers to be unloaded onto the quayside.

  When the locks on the steel doors were forcibly removed, and dockworkers opened the crates, he inspected what he had obtained for the ten million Euros, the first tranche of the monies paid to Engel.

  As each container was opened and examined so his anger mounted.

  Finally, Ioannidis snapped. Shouting at the heavens, “I will have my revenge! No one, but no one, gets the better of me!” />
  When he walked away, the captain of the ship called, “What shall we do with these?”

  “Throw them in the sea for all I care!”

  On his yacht, a whisky and soda encouraged his temper to cool. Slowly, his mind turned to whom he could apportion blame now Engel was dead. How he could retaliate to this blatant insult to his prestige? First, he must identify a culprit. That`s the answer. Clearly, he would be found in Britain. His people must seek him out, and exact his revenge. I can then inform the others the action I have taken on their behalf.

  Chapter 51

  Frank McClean and Jim Timmings flew from Prestwick to Compton Abbas in a Hawker Beechcraft Baron. Cruising at two hundred and thirty miles an hour, it devoured the distance, and just two hours later it landed at the airfield in Dorset.

  Suddenly, finding who helped Peter Engel initially harbour the Turner paintings became top priority. Tight controls on budgets were lifted. The superintendent even asked if they needed more personnel. McClean did not think that would raise their chances, but mentioned that he and Timmings wanted to interview the people at an airfield in the south-west of England. A rented aircraft was quickly placed at their disposal.

  *

  As it taxied up to the operations building, an air ground operator came out to greet them, and guided them through to the restaurant.

  Coffee came in useful size mugs, and McClean started by repeating the question he had posed on the phone.

  “You told me, the last time we spoke, that the image could have been the man we were seeking. So, in the photograph I am about to show you, we`ve added a moustache and given the person brown eyes as you described these features. Now, picture in your mind`s eye the face you remember. Is it fixed? Right, how does it compare with this one?”

  He turned over the photo.

  “It`s the same man,” she said in a low voice.

  “Right,” said McClean. “Now can you tell me from your records the actual dates of his arrivals… and, for that matter, each time he left?”

  “I suppose, more to the point,” Timmings remarked, “Where he went on each occasion?”

  “I can`t answer that,” the operator replied. “I do know there were times he was met by someone in a car. At others, he took a taxi.”

  “Do you know the name of the taxi company?”

  “They are mostly run by private individuals. When asked, we usually phone a couple of them, and they come out from Shaftesbury. In fact, I do know the taxi driver that collected him on one occasion. I`ll get his number.”

  The driver was free and ready to come out to the airfield and take them around the area. McClean had already telephoned the area constabulary in Winfrith to announce his arrival, and that he had permission to be on their patch. However, as protocol so demanded, when the taxi came, the first call was to register their presence with the local station in Shaftesbury.

  “Ah, you`ll be meaning the police station in Angel Lane,” commented the driver.

  Fifteen minutes later they pulled into the car park.

  “You`ll have to ring the bell,” said the driver. “They`ve closed the front desk with all them cost-cutting exercises.”

  “We know what it`s like,” remarked Timmings, as they walked towards the front door of what looked like an extended family house.

  A police sergeant came from the rear of the building.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

  “My name is McClean, Chief inspector McClean… ”

  Before he could carry on, the sergeant stiffened and said, “Ah, Winfrith told us you were coming, sir. How can we be of help?”

  “At the moment, we are just looking around the area.”

  “Do you want a squad car at your disposal?”

  “No, we`re playing this low key. A taxi is running us around. But I would like to speak to you later in the day.”

  “Of course, sir. Normally, we shut at five o`clock, but I`ll stay here on duty until you arrive. Will that be all?”

  McClean raised an eyebrow. “Yes, thank you, Sergeant… for the moment.”

  “I suppose crime in this area is only committed between the hours of `nine `till five`,” grinned Timmings as they walked out.

  *

  In the car McClean said, “So where did you take the man in the photograph?”

  “I remember well enough, because I took him once to Mead Court when Michael Johns, the owner, was alive. The second time was to Johns` funeral at the local church. I drove him to the airfield afterwards.”

  “Right, take us to this place called Mead Court.”

  *

  To forget my disappointment, the next morning I caught an early train to Dorset. I was all too aware that with the cost of the dinner the previous evening, then the train fare, my credit card was taking serious hits.

  I had produced several worthwhile articles for the newspaper, so I wasn`t dropping everything in a fit of pique.

  I was chatting to my mother when a taxi came up the drive.

  Two men got out and tugged on the bell pull. It jangled several times in the kitchen.

  “I`ll go, mother.”

  “Is Mrs Cleverden available?”

  “May I ask who wants her?”

  “My name is McClean, Chief Inspector McClean of the Greater Glasgow police.”

  The man presented his warrant card.

  “My companion is Inspector Timmings of the Metropolitan Police. We would like to ask her a few questions, if she`s free.”

  “You`d better come in, gentlemen.”

  *

  Introductions were made, and we moved into the kitchen and sat around the long oak table.

  Mrs Dimmock provided us with coffee and slipped out of the room.

  “We are following up several leads relating to the theft of a quantity of paintings by JMW Turner, madam,” began McClean. “We have reason to believe that a man called Peter Engel conducted the theft, and we know that he visited this house on a number of occasions. I believe they were connected to Mr Johns, your father. I wondered if you could shed any light on their relationship?”

  “I was aware that this Mr Engel had meetings with my father, but I was never party to their discussions, Chief Inspector,” explained my mother. “In truth, I never liked the man. On the few times we conversed I found him both boorish and dismissive. The only thing I did know was they argued a lot. But I could not hear what was said, just the sound of raised voices.”

  “I see. Your father was a good age when he died, I understand,” commented McClean. “Was he still actively involved in the haulage business that he owned?”

  The policeman had picked up that snippet of information from the garrulous taxi driver.

  “Only from regular reports from John Fielding, the works manager there. The day-to-day running is in his hands, and in those of our general manager, Mr Jerry Mckenna.”

  “I understand, Mrs Cleverden,” said Timmings, in a gentle voice, “that it is quite a large company, which he bought soon after he was demobbed from the army. Now how, I wonder, did he manage to raise the money to make such a purchase, do you think?”

  “You are forgetting, Inspector,” replied my mother sharply, “in those days money was cheap to borrow, and at that stage the company had only one lorry, a small yard, and few facilities. Like many of his generation, hard work was the watchword. People rolled up their sleeves and got on with things. Not like the nanny state we live in today.”

  I could have hugged her. The perfect riposte.

  “Thank you, Mrs Cleverden. We won`t keep you any longer. Thanks for the coffee.”

  As we made our way to the door, McClean hesitated. “I`m sure you wouldn`t mind if we paid a visit to your haulage company in Blandford Forum, would you, Mrs Cleverden?”

  “Not at all, Chief Inspector. Tell them you have my permission to talk to whom you wish, and to inspect every corner of the premises.”

  He nodded.

  The policemen got into the taxi and it
drove sedately down the drive.

  “Quick, Alan. McKenna is there as well. Tell him and John the police are about to pay them a visit.”

  *

  “Mr Fielding, good afternoon. My name is Chief Inspector McClean. This is my colleague, Inspector Timmings. Could we have a private word?”

  “Certainly, Chief Inspector. Mrs Cleverden phoned to say you were coming.”

  McClean smiled to himself. He had expected a call would be made. But not to be told of it openly.

  “The problem we are facing, Mr Fielding, is this. A container of paintings by Turner arrived at the docks in Southampton, as you may have seen on television. Unfortunately, they were destroyed when someone shot the fellow who had masterminded their theft. In his last moments he created an explosion and turned all the masterpieces into so much confetti.

  “Now, our task is not to find who murdered the art criminal. No, our particular task is to discover where the stolen works of art were hidden prior to being stored at a site in Wales. Do you follow me?”

  “I believe so, Chief Inspector. But why are you telling me this?

  “We are raising it with those with the facilities who might, perhaps, in all good faith, have stored them for the art thieves. Such as Johns` Haulage Company, for instance. Of course, we shall be calling on other such companies in the area. They, too, may have been unwittingly involved.”

  John Fielding shrugged. “I see. Let me tell you, we keep records of everything that goes on here. Whether it be haulage, storage or repackaging. We would most certainly have been aware of a container of art on the premises. And I`ll tell you why. As yet, we are not a company that deals in container loads. That`s for the future. Something I shall be discussing with Mrs Cleverden and Mr McKenna.”

  “What if they came in a special transporter?”

  “No vehicle just turns up here. As I said, every activity, including arrivals and departures, are logged in our records. You`ll find no, what was it you said, a transporter, came here.”

  “I didn`t think we would find anything, Mr Fielding. That`s why I`m not bothering with a search warrant. But let us suppose, purely in theoretical terms, that a vehicle arrived after dark, few people are about, and drove straight into one of your warehouses. The goods were unloaded, out of sight of curious onlookers, and then loaded onto one of your vehicles. That could then have been driven to where a container was stored, a barn perhaps, and transferred to that. Is that how it happened?