Artifice

by Patrick Gooch

  I sat on the kerb and pulled off my boot. Liquid sludge ran into the gutter.

  The policemen caught the smell and backed away.

  “Christ, it is like that all the time down there?” said one.

  “Worse. At the moment the flow and the smell are light. You want to be down there during the day. When the flow broaches the walkway, and the stench is overpowering.”

  “What’s the hardest part of the job?”

  “Restaurants pouring fat down the drains. We check the sewers under the West End most days for serious fat blockages. Also, baby wipes. Toilet paper dissolves, baby wipes don’t.”

  I waved my boot. The stench was formidable.

  “Get me a sock and another right boot from the truck somebody!”

  Time to retreat.

  “Well, we`ll leave you gentlemen, to it,” said the other policeman. “Got to get back on our beat.”

  They headed for the squad car.

  “Anytime you want a guided tour of the sewers, just let me know,” I called after them.

  They pretended not to hear.

  *

  We had brought a number of wind-up lights with us, and these were placed at strategic points.

  We took the largest crates first. Manhandling them down the steps and the ladders, along the walkway, through the gap in the north-south tunnel, finally emerging in the café. It was slow going, but after that initial scare the notion we might be caught evaporated.

  By three o`clock we had finished. I was last out of the café, carefully closing the trapdoor, and those along the way. McKenna locked the double doors in the bridge wall, and we were packing our clothes in the rear of the truck, when the same police car came to a halt alongside us.

  “Manage to fix the problem?” came a voice through the side window.

  “Yes, all done. Now it`s back to the depot to clean up, and wait for the next callout,” I replied.

  An arm came out the window and waved as they drove rapidly away.

  No wonder. We all smelt to high heaven. John and I stripped down to our underwear in the Range Rover; but the miasma stayed with us, and made for a miserable journey.

  Chapter 61

  Everyone stayed at Mead Court for intensive showers, and a generous breakfast produced by Mrs Dimmock.

  I noticed that my partners in crime had also indulged in the use of aftershave, body lotion, and other fragrances to rid themselves of the clinging odour endured during the night`s work.

  My mother walked into the kitchen.

  “Good Lord! This must be what a brothel smells like the morning after.”

  “Och, the mingin stays with you long after you`re clean, Suzanna,” declared McKenna. “It`s in your head, and you cannae get rid of it.”

  Roger looked up. “What`s a mingin, McKenna?”

  “Roger, it`s an old Scottish word meaning to give off a strong, unpleasant smell. Only this time it`s psychological. At least I think so,” he grinned.

  “OK, then tell me,” demanded my mother, sitting down next to McKenna. “I presume you were successful. Otherwise I would be finding out about visiting hours and hiring expensive lawyers.”

  “We did have the police for company at one stage,” John replied. “And that was starting to make life difficult, until Alan joined us with a wet leg.”

  “Wet leg! What were you doing, Alan?”

  “I fell into the sewer, and got a rubber boot full.”

  “Mm… typical.”

  “Anyway, when I came out to the truck two policemen were questioning the others what we were all about. The sight and smell of me, with wet clothes and dripping waste all over the pavement, was an answer in itself. They rapidly backed away, and drove off in their squad car when I told them we had an almighty blockage in the main sewer pipe.”

  “It was lucky you smelt and looked the part, Alan,” Roger added, laughing at the memory.

  “Still, despite the tricky access, and taking longer than we ever imagined,” John Fielding commented, “All the Turner paintings are safe in the Courtauld Institute of Art, Mrs Cleverden. Just wait until Monday morning when they find them,” he chuckled.

  Chapter 62

  The news broke Monday afternoon.

  I was still at Mead Court. Much of the morning I had been sitting in the orangery, ostensibly working on an article for the Art Newspaper. Though, in truth, my mind was more attuned to the news on my iPhone. Periodically, I glanced at the images on the small screen; but it was the predictable offering of flight controllers on strike in France, petrol prices rising – or were they falling? - the government tying itself in knots over the NHS, and weather forecasters spreading gloom rather than glee.

  I joined my mother and McKenna for a brief lunch.

  Immediately afterwards I returned to my seat among the palms and leafy foliage just in time to catch the newsflash.

  A newscaster was saying, `We have just received vital news about the Turner Collection, which disappeared when in transit to the Kelvingrove Gallery in Glasgow. It was feared the paintings had been destroyed when the attempt to hold them to ransom in exchange for the Elgin Marbles was a disaster.`

  `Once thought lost to the nation, earlier today, the hoard of paintings, sketches and watercolours by William Turner, Britain`s favourite artist, suddenly reappeared in the Courtauld Institute of Art in London. The then Minister of Culture, Media and Sport witnessed the explosion, and was so convinced of their loss, he resigned his post over the affair. Our correspondent is at the scene now. Jeremy, what can you tell us?`

  `Good afternoon. With me is a spokesman for the Institute. Tell me what you believe the situation to be.`

  `Frankly, it`s a complete mystery. We are at a loss to understand how all Turner`s many works got here. They were found in the Students` café by the kitchen staff when they arrived on duty this morning. Everyone truly thought they had been destroyed. That so many of his works were lost forever. It is absolutely remarkable. Whoever brought them, and by whatever means they were deposited here in the Institute, I for one am not going to question. The very fact that they survived is sufficient in itself. I am delighted they are back with us.`

  `There will be more on this remarkable development during the day as the tale unfolds. Now back to the studio.`

  *

  “Get the Secretary for Culture in here. I want to know what`s going on. First I`m led to believe that Turner`s works were destroyed,” said the Prime Minister. “Then they turn up in the Courtauld Institute. In fact, get Mark, the former Culture Secretary, and that police commissioner, the one who sat in on our deliberations last time, in here as well.”

  *

  Five of them gathered round a conference table.

  “What I want to know is,” the PM declared, “if you saw them blasted to kingdom come, Mark, how is it they reappear in the heart of London? Was this man holding us to ransom fooled into believing he had the Turners? That, in actual fact, someone else had them all the time? From what I`ve seen on the video he gave every indication, in his manner, in his speech, that he possessed the Turners.”

  “I think, Prime Minister, as strange as it sounds,” said the former Culture Secretary, “it is more likely someone swapped the paintings in the container without this fellow Engel knowing. It was our good fortune that the originals were taken elsewhere.”

  “Perhaps,” murmured the PM. “But that still does not answer my question. Where is elsewhere? And how did they resurface in Courtaulds? Commissioner, do you have any views on the matter?”

  “As you know, sir, we used our top investigators to find out how the theft was executed, and where they were stored before the abortive exchange. They had their suspicions, but no more than that. Nothing concrete, nothing that would lead to an indictment. I reviewed the case with them, and frankly, I came to the conclusion that their hunches, they were no more than that, didn`t hold water.”

  “I can confirm that,” added the previous Culture Minister, “I took the unprecedented step of
checking what the commissioner had told me about the people concerned. My PPS used the services of an agency, versed in art theft, to do a little undercover work.”

  “And?” queried the Prime Minister.

  “The agency, it`s based in Salisbury, gave them a complete all-clear.”

  “So, in effect, we can only pin the original theft on this fellow Engel and his cohorts. There is no evidence, or the slightest idea among you where they were taken. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, that`s correct, Prime Minister,” was the reply from all three.

  “Hmm… so what do I say to the House when asked about this sorry affair at Question Time on Wednesday? Tell me that!”

  *

  The evening news broadcasts on all the radio and television channels were focused on the Turners.

  Roger phoned. “Are you seeing what I`m seeing? Traffic has come to a standstill in The Strand. The press are laying siege to the Courtauld Institute, wanting to get the full story. The vehicle from Tate Britain, which went to collect the works, is still stuck in the Somerset House courtyard.”

  I was holding the satellite phone and staring at the television.

  The spokesman for the Institute, who had appeared earlier in the day, was again in front of the BBC camera. The correspondent posed the question, `Have you anything further to add to how you became the recipient of the Turner paintings? Have any clues come to light about their deliverer? Such as fingerprints, or elements of DNA?”

  `Frankly, I`m not sure we want to place too much emphasis on seeking out the person, or persons, who returned our national treasures. We`ve got them back. May we be thankful for that. I suppose the only clue we might have to the deliverer is a faint outline of a drawing on one of the crates. It looks like a hippopotamus… it might be a rhinoceros, but there again, even a pig.”

  “Roger!” I roared.

  Chapter 63

  Having finished the article I was writing about the Swedish art movement, on Tuesday I went back to the apartment in London, to find Sophie had left a message on the landline telephone.

  “Alan, I really do need an answer to whether or not you are going to sell me the Chagall. If you like, I`ll come down to Mead Court and collect it. Phone me when you receive this message… please.”

  I had kept it back from the Gurlitt collection, though I could not say exactly why I had done so. Was it to please Sophie? Perhaps, subconsciously, thinking it might stand me in good stead with her… even lead to other things.

  At the same time, I was slightly put out by her persistence, and the petulance she had shown when I told her I had yet to make up my mind over its ownership. OK, she had declared it was a fake. But, an exceedingly good fake, one that might well be valued highly by a dealer. Clearly, she wished to impress an important relative.

  *

  I did not phone her back.

  Something, I know not what, suggested itself to me.

  The next morning I visited the London Graphics Centre in Shelton Street, behind the original Covent Garden. This store has the widest range of art materials in London. I spent several hours there, buying rolls of canvas, supports, brushes, and the best quick-drying oil paints on the market. Normal oils take ten to twelve days to dry. Ideal, if you want to make periodic changes to your work. I wanted something that dried fast, yet still retained the character and richness oil paints bring to a work of art.

  Then I drove to Mead Court.

  Taking the Chagall from its frame, I carefully measured the size of the canvas, and made up a stretcher, thirty five centimetres by twenty seven centimetres, and fixed the canvas to it. Next, I applied a coating of gesso to the canvas, a white paint primer comprising a binder, most often rabbit skin glue, mixed with chalk or gypsum. Gesso protects the fibres of canvas, making the work surface softer as well as protecting the brushes.

  Two hours later it was dry. Then, I underpainted the canvas in Chagall`s favourite colour, Cobalt blue mixed with a little Thalo blue and a hint of black. For the moment I could do nothing more. With time on my hands, I drove over to Blandford Forum to see John Fielding.

  “Alan, come into the office. I`m about to have coffee, care to join me?” he glanced over his shoulder, making sure no one could overhear. “By the way, that policeman phoned me this morning. You know the one… McClean. Wanted to know my movements last weekend. And had any of our vehicles been anywhere near London.”

  I smiled. “What was your reply?”

  “That I was here both days, Saturday and Sunday. We had a number of rush jobs to fulfil. Staff can vouch for my presence. And no, no vehicles of ours were anywhere near London.”

  “What was his answer to that?” I prompted.

  “His words were, `I expected you to say that. Thank you Mr Fielding`. I got the impression, Alan, that he was asking his questions, but had no real interest in the replies. He was going through the motions, as if he were resigned to coming to a dead end. I reckon his superiors have told him not to pursue it any longer. The Tate has got back its Turner Collection,” he shrugged. “Leave it at that.”

  I breathed a deep sigh. “Good. Let`s have that coffee.”

  We were sitting in companionable silence when McKenna put his head round the door.

  “You`d better come out here, laddie,” he said to John. “People from the Enviromental Health Office have turned up, wanting to inspect the premises. And would you believe, the Fire Brigade are here as well, wanting to check the diesel fuel installation and our provisions in case of fire on the site. They`re on what they term `a familiarisation visit`.

  I stared at McKenna. “I`ll bet the police have asked them to check over the premises. They can`t get a search warrant, but these people don`t need one. Christ, John, is the fake council truck still here?”

  “Yes.. but I spent the whole weekend, after I got back, stripping off the signage, and painting white over the blue and yellow parts of the vehicle… and replacing the registration plates.”

  I could have hugged him.

  “What is more,” he added, “I also washed down the inside with industrial cleaner, just in case there were minute fragments left behind that might show up in forensic tests.”

  *

  The two services left several hours later, having combed the buildings, assessed potential fire hazard, and the precautions we should take. The environmental people had examined every nook and cranny to ensure conditions met their standards.

  John was quite forthright in demanding signed documents that showed Johns` Haulage Company had passed with flying colours.

  But I felt it had been a close run thing. No doubt, orchestrated by Chief Inspector McClean. Most probably an attempt, if not to catch us out with something significant hidden away, to let us know he was continuing to pry into our affairs.

  Chapter 64

  I phoned Sophie, apologising for not responding sooner.

  I had been away, I said, on Art Newspaper business. I added that I would be down at Mead Court the coming weekend, and, yes, she could have the painting, The Fire Eater by Marc Chagall, a key work in his circus series.

  “Great! Can I come down on Friday afternoon and collect it?”

  “Perfect,” I replied. Thinking, that would give me sufficient time to finish the painting, and for it to dry. But things do not always turn out the way you plan.

  Roger phoned. “Alan, we`ve got a commission. They want us to locate an early Egyptian basalt bust of Tuthmosis lll. It`s no more than five inches tall, but would you believe, it`s worth a cool two hundred and fifty thousand dollars!”

  “How does the `we` come into it? I wish you well, Roger, but count me out. Anyway, I`m busy right now.”

  “So, I help you out and this is the thanks I get? I can still smell myself after umpteen showers, you ingrate. Come on, help me out with this one. I promise I won`t ask again.”

  “Roger, where would you even start looking? I bet you haven`t a clue where to begin, have you?”

  “Restitution have told me it`s
somewhere in France.”

  “Well that narrows it down considerably,” I replied acidly.

  It`s true, he had helped me a lot. And endured some of the antics I`d been up to. Could I really turn my back on him now?

  “Just this once, you say?”

  “Promise.”

  “Well… OK. When could you come over to Mead Court to discuss what you`ve got and where we go?”

  “Friday. I can definitely make Friday.”

  “What, in the morning?”

  “No, it will have to be the afternoon, I`m afraid.”

  *

  I was up early the next morning, and almost bumped into McKenna leaving my mother`s room. I just managed to ease the door shut as he headed for the stairs. The sooner they were married the better, I thought.

  I followed him some minutes later, to hear the sound of his car pulling up outside the back of the house.

  I went through to the kitchen and greeted Mrs Dimmock, as he walked into the lobby kicking off his outdoor boots.

  “It`s chankin the day, and no mistake.”

  “What on earth does that mean, McKenna?” I asked.

  Mrs Dimmock translated for me.

  “It`s cold out there this morning, he means, Alan. You wouldn`t believe he has lived most of his life in Dorset. He still clings to his Scottish ways.”

  I did not add, how would he know it was cold, he has just come downstairs.

  *

  I had set up my easel in the long gallery, with the Chagall on another, angled towards me. Immediately after breakfast I worked away at the canvas. First, doing a rough outline of the principal elements of the painting in chalk. The basics were completed just before lunch.

  By late afternoon I was moving into the detail. The artist was known for his fondness of blue, and the stylised orange flame issuing from the figure`s mouth was in powerful contrast. Inevitably, a donkey`s head featured in the painting, below and to the right of the fire-eater; as were flowers and several indistinct outlines of other circus performers. When I stopped for the day, I was quite pleased with the way it was shaping up.