Artifice

by Patrick Gooch

  He phoned Mead Court. “Did you get that, McKenna? So where are they headed for? Somewhere on the outskirts of Birmingham, you reckon… Right we`ll keep on their tail for the moment.”

  I saw the signs for the A41, and took the slip road to the roundabout, turning east on the Birmingham road.

  The phone gave its usual burble, and John answered.

  “Right, thanks McKenna.” He closed the call.

  “Apparently in eight hundred yards we turn left onto Sandwell Road.”

  We made the turn initially onto a dual carriageway.

  The phone rang again.

  “I see… when it narrows after two hundred yards turn right… Good idea, we`ll keep the phone open.”

  Over the next ten minutes John relayed to me a series of lefts and rights, until we were told to pull into the kerb. We got out of the Range Rover and walked a short distance to witness the truck driving slowly into a warehouse. A black Mercedes sat on the forecourt.

  The first part of our plan was complete.

  *

  We bought toiletries and some magazines, and booked ourselves into the Radisson Park Hotel in West Bromwich. Sufficient distance from Handsworth to ensure we did not bump into Nicholls and his team. We had several long conversations with McKenna, and because the transponder unit did not work well beyond UK shores, came to the conclusion we would have to follow the truck to Munich. McKenna sent both our passports to the hotel by courier. We presumed Nicholls and his team would have done much the same.

  *

  We were eating an early evening meal in an Italian restaurant, when my mobile phone vibrated.

  “They`re on the move. At the moment heading east on the M6.”

  I hurriedly paid the bill, gazing forlornly at the half-eaten lasagna. John had finished his. Not only was he a quick eater, I had been doing most of the talking.

  We hurried back to the hotel.

  “Which port are they heading for, Harwich?”

  John stated what I was thinking.

  “Most likely Harwich, for the night crossing. When we`re in the Range Rover, book us a passage on the phone. Use my credit card.”

  *

  We caught up with them on the A14 on the outskirts of Kettering.

  McKenna told us we were a half mile behind them, and I slowed to maintain the distance.

  Nearing Cambridge, the truck and the accompanying Mercedes picked up speed, heading south on the M11 motorway.

  Turning off at the junction to Stanstead Airport, they were now on the road to Colchester, which confirmed our thoughts. They were about to take the Stena Ferry to the Hoek of Holland.

  *

  For much of the eight hour crossing we stayed as far away as possible from Nicholls and his team. Being almost last on the ferry, the Range Rover was also last off, and we were uncertain the route they had taken. Fortunately, the radio system still worked, and it was relayed to us from the truck, when one of the trio called out. “Come off here for the A4!”

  We also made the turn ten minutes later.

  I pushed hard on the accelerator, but they were still nowhere in sight on the five kilometre stretch of road south-west of Rotterdam. However, with the junction of the A15 coming up fast, they were hardly likely to go back to the coast, so I turned left for Nijmegen.

  The right call. In another three kilometres, just when I was getting concerned, I saw the Mercedes with the truck in the lead travelling at a steady eighty kilometres an hour.

  Crossing the River Waal, it was now obvious they were heading for Cologne. I needed fuel for the Range Rover, and I had not eaten, other than an early bacon roll, since the previous evening in the Italian restaurant.

  “I`m going to push on, John, and stop at the next service station. We can pick them up later.”

  I moved into the outside lane and was in the middle of a group of cars when we drove by.

  *

  We stopped at the filling station at Lokkant. The food they had on offer was limited, but armed with a couple of fischbrötchen – buns filled with fish, onion, pickle, and creamy horseradish sauce – I drove close to the exit. Fischbrötchen is commonplace in this part of Europe; but while John tucked into his with relish, it did not capture my enthusiasm as the first meal of the day. Not long afterwards the truck and Mercedes drove past, and we resumed our leisurely pursuit.

  They crossed the RodenKirchen Bridge south of Cologne, and resumed their south-easterly journey on the A3 Autobahn on the far side of the Rhine. They stopped for fuel and a food break south of Frankfurt.

  We continued for another forty kilometres coming off the autobahn at the Rasthaus at Spessart. This time I ate a good breakfast. So, to my astonishment, did Fielding, after eating two fish buns earlier. I spent time in the service station shop, buying chocolate, some postcards, and a cheap, pay-as-you-go mobile telephone.

  We strolled out to the vehicle, and this time John took the driver`s seat. We had a good view of the southbound traffic, and twenty five minutes later, the Gurlitt truck and the Mercedes rolled past our vantage point at a sedate speed.

  We crossed the River Main south of Würzburg. It was shortly after that I fell asleep.

  *

  The change in speed, or the gentle swaying of the Range Rover, woke me.

  “Where are we, John?”

  “Nuremburg. We`ve just swung due south on the A9.”

  “Mm… about a hundred miles to Munich. What do you reckon, two and a half, three hours, at their speed?”

  “Yes, about that. Why?”

  “I`m trying to gauge when I should make a phone call.”

  He nodded. “Our mini-convoy is about a kilometre ahead of us. When do you think I should close the gap?”

  I played with the SatNav.

  “I would say around about fifty miles from Munich. I`ll also use the phone I bought.”

  *

  As we crossed the Danube south of Ingoldstat, John increased speed a fraction and I dialled a certain number.

  “Guten Morgen, Abteilung für Kunst Kriminalität, bitte.“

  “I didn`t know you spoke German,” John murmured.

  “Yes, Grandpa Johns taught me. Guten Morgen, Ich habe eine wahre Information für euch. In neunzig Minuten wird ein LKW außerhalb der Amalienstraße zweiundvierzig, München anhalten. Er trägt eine Sendung von gestohlenen Gemälden mit erheblich größerem Stellenwert als diejenigen erholt im Jahr 2012. Verpassen Sie diese goldene Gelegenheit nicht!“

  I closed the call.

  “What was that all about?”

  “I have just informed an officer in the art crime department of the Federal Criminal Office, the Bundeskriminalamt, that in ninety minutes time a truck will pull up outside apartment eight, at forty two Amalienstrasse, with a load of paintings that would outshine those they discovered in 2012. The irony is, the BKA, as it`s known, is based in Wiesbaden, where my grandfather was stationed during his time with the MFAA.

  *

  We overtook the truck and the Mercedes, and headed for the centre of Munich. It was our good fortune to find a parking space in the Tiefgarage in Amalien Passage, no more than two hundred metres from Gurlitt`s place.

  We sat at a pavement table of the Black Bean coffee house next door to number forty two, sipped our lattes, and waited.

  There was a discreet, but noticeable increase in vans parking in the one-way street; and more people seemed to be simply standing around. Several official-looking types sat at other tables near us. Was it my imagination? I glanced at John as we continued to take our ease.

  He looked across at me, and said, “I think I`ll have a slice of that delicious torte I saw someone eating. Do you want anything?”

  How could he eat at a time like this? My stomach was in knots. Supposing I had got it hopelessly wrong? Nicholls had found another more lucrative outlet. Perhaps across the border into Austria, in towns such as Innsbruck or Salzburg. It was now well over the ninety minutes since I had phoned the BKA. They are probably thinking it was a
hoax call, and ready to call it a day. Perhaps, they even thought it a joke when I phoned, and ignored me completely.

  The official-looking types asked for the bill.

  I could feel the perspiration on my forehead. Damn! It had all gone pear-shaped.

  A black Mercedes pulled in at the kerb the other side of the road. I could not see the number plate. Was it them?

  Nicholls got out the car, and waved to someone up the street. Only, when I turned my head it was not to a person. He was waving to the truck!

  He then got into the car and pulled away so the truck could take its place.

  A few minutes later he returned and parked nearby. He must have phoned Conrad Gurlitt on his mobile. A few minutes passed, and suddenly the entrance door to the apartment block opened, and Gurlitt stepped out onto the pavement.

  Once more, Nicholls got out of the car and walked towards him. There was a brief shaking of hands, and they crossed the road and went to the rear of the truck. The trio joined them: one of them operated the tail lift.

  Fielding and I just sat at the pavement table watching it all unfold.

  “Mehr Kaffee, Herren?” asked the waitress.

  We ordered the same again. Our eyes riveted to the unloading of the first paintings.

  Clutching the crates to their chests, Nicholls` henchmen marched in a line across the road, and through the open door. Five minutes later they came out the building to carry the next consignment lot of crates.

  It was then I noticed Nicholls talking urgently to Conrad Gurlitt, who was gesticulating with his hands, and shaking his head.

  “He has just told Nicholls he didn`t send any letter,” I said to John.

  That was the moment the police moved in.

  Two police cars, sirens blaring, blue lights flashing, came up the one-way street, as two more came down the right way. The containers were dropped, and the three quasi-porters started to run in different directions. They were rapidly caught by law enforcement officers who emerged from doorways, shops and from pavement tables along Amalienstrasse. It was the official-looking types next to us who captured the leader of the trio. Nicholls was an easy catch. He just stood there dumbfounded.

  John and I had front row seats to the arrests. Over the next hour, and several coffees later, I had taken numerous photographs of the whole affair: from when the two vehicles arrived, to the capture of Nicholls and his team, to the opening of various crates to inspect their contents.

  My satellite phone rang. It was the editor of the Art Newspaper in London.

  “Alan, where the bloody hell are you? I`ve just had a tip-off. Another Gurlitt has been arrested for handling stolen paintings.”

  “I know.”

  “What the fuck do you mean, you know? Anyway, answer my question, where are you?

  “In Germany.”

  “If you`re in the north, I`ll get someone from the Turin office to cover it. How close to Munich are you?

  “Pretty close.”

  “Don`t play games with me, Alan. Where are you?”

  “I`m sitting at a pavement table next door to number forty two, Amalienstrasse. The home of Conrad Gurlitt.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, I`ve got the whole thing, plus plenty of photographs.”

  “How the bloody hell did you manage that?”

  “It`s a long story. Tomorrow morning I`ll find out what the actual charges are, finish writing my piece, then use the hotel we shall stay at to email everything to you. You`ll have the full story plus photographic evidence by tomorrow night.”

  Fielding looked over at me.

  “Who was that?”

  “The editor of the Art Newspaper I work for. He wanted me to get to Munich pronto.”

  He laughed out loud.

  *

  I phoned my mother and McKenna. I could almost feel the loud exhalation of breath when I told them all had panned out exactly as we had hoped.

  We dined well that evening, and stayed overnight at the Hilton Hotel, the other side of Tucher Park by the River Isar.

  Chapter 57

  We drove almost in a straight line across Germany and France.

  Taking it in turns behind the wheel, we crossed the French border south-west of Karlsruhe, and joined the A4 near Strasbourg, where we broke our journey for several hours.

  Then on to Metz, through Rheims, and around Paris. The autoroute, A11, led us to Chartres, Le Mans, and Rennes, where we turned north for St. Malo, and the morning ferry to the UK.

  Our dash across Europe slowed markedly when on board the ship, which took almost nine hours to reach Portsmouth. I dropped John off at his home in Blandford Forum, and twenty minutes later rolled to a standstill outside Mead Court. Mother came running out the house to embrace me, followed by McKenna, who patted me gently on the back.

  “Well done, laddie,” he grinned.

  Chapter 58

  Suddenly, the wall in the long gallery looked dismally bare.

  All that showed from previous times were the shadowy outlines of where paintings had once been hanging.

  “It`s sad, isn`t it, to see it like this.”

  My mother had come up behind me as I stood surveying the lifeless corridor that once vibrated with colour and so much artistry.

  “Don`t worry, mother. I shall paint replicas to fill the spaces. They won`t necessarily compare with what was once there, but at least it will bring back the impression of a gallery, rather than an uninteresting passageway.”

  “Would you dear? That would be nice. I`ve always liked Vermeer`s Girl With A Pearl Earring. . . perhaps a van Gogh, even a self- portrait of Rembrandt.”

  “I quite favoured that painting of Toulouse-Lautrec`s, At The Moulin Rouge. Perhaps, even have a stab at painting Dame Laura Knight`s work, The Beach. That reminds me, I must phone Roger Tamworth.”

  As we walked towards the sitting room, as if by some ethereal process, the phone rang in the hall.

  “Shall I answer it?” I glanced at my mother, who nodded.

  “Hello?”

  “Ah, you`re back. I`ve got some of the items you asked for. It cost me a pretty penny I can tell you.”

  “Hello Alan. Did you have a successful trip? Have you recovered? Perhaps we could meet sometime?” I responded acerbically.

  “Right.”

  In a voice I did not recognise, he said. “Hello, Alan. Did you have a successful trip? Have you recovered? Perhaps we could meet sometime?”

  “Very funny, Roger. Who was that supposed to be?”

  “Don`t you recognise your own voice, my friend?”

  “I sound nothing like that on the television.”

  “You do on the phone.”

  “Absolute nonsense. Repeat that to my mother.”

  I called her to the phone. “Listen to Roger for a moment.”

  “Hello, Roger. I`m listening… Remarkable, have you been working on it? Do it again… A dead ringer, I would say.”

  I looked at her suspiciously as she handed back the receiver.

  “So?”

  “I would have sworn it was you talking to me,” she said laughingly.

  “Bugger… do I really sound like that?”

  But she had walked away.

  “OK, so when can I collect them… and pay you?”

  “Look, Alan, why don`t I deliver them to your Blandford site? Perhaps we could meet there. I want to ask you something.”

  *

  “You know that company I`ve spoken about, Restitution, well my contact there was asking if I had had any luck discovering the whereabouts of Dame Laura Knight`s, The Beach, and the van Gogh, the one he painted from his bedroom window.”

  We were sitting in John Fielding`s office. At that moment he was in the yard, supervising the loading of an earth-moving digger onto a low loader.

  Roger had brought the clothing he had acquired, and we were drinking mugs of coffee provided by John`s secretary.

  Roger continued. “I told him I might well be able to get hold of both p
aintings. Just give me a week or so to see what I can come up with.”

  He looked searchingly at me.

  “You did mention the possibility before you went off on your holiday in Germany.”

  “Holiday indeed!”

  I recounted the happenings in Munich, and how I got a close-up of the arrests of Conrad Gurlitt, and significantly, of Nicholls and his team.

  “How did you manage to be on the spot at that very moment?”

  “I tipped off the art crime department of the German Federal Criminal Office. So they knew almost to the minute when the paintings would be returned to Conrad Gurlitt. Including those from the long gallery at Mead Court.”

  He grinned.

  “Well done. But back to my question. What about the Laura Knight and the van Gogh?”

  Fielding came into the office rubbing his hands.

  “John, Roger has brought a couple of boxes that I like to store in the back of the lorry we are painting. Is that OK?”

  “Of course. Do you want to do it now?”

  “I suppose there`s no time like the present.”

  Roger drove over to the warehouse and the three of us unloaded the boxes.

  While John locked the doors, I said to Roger,

  “Why not come back to Mead Court. We can continue our chat over lunch.”

  *

  Mother greeted Roger with a smile and a kissed cheek.

  We sat in the kitchen, and McKenna joined us. Halfway through the meal, I excused myself and went to the cellar. When I rejoined them, I asked Roger to spare me a minute.

  He followed me across the hall into the sitting room. I pushed open the door, and allowed him to pass. He stopped abruptly… staring at the paintings on their respective easels. van Gogh`s, Lovers, The Poet`s Garden lV, and The Beach by Dame Laura Knight.

  He stared hard at the van Gogh.

  “My God! Just look at that! It looks nothing in a sombre black and white photograph. How did you get it?”

  A predictable question. I gave him a predictable reply.

  “It was retrieved from Conrad Gurlitt`s place after he`d been arrested.”

  “Brilliant! Now we can deliver them both to Restitution.”

  “We?”