Still Life - Karen Pirie Series 06 (2020)

by McDermid, Val

  ‘What about Susan Leitch’s phone? Has that turned up in the system?’

  ‘No. I’ve got a shout out for it, but so far it’s a no-show.’

  Karen tutted. ‘It’ll be sitting in some evidence bag somewhere, some bottom-feeder paying no attention to their inbox. Luckily I’m not expecting much from it. What about James Auld’s laptop?’

  Tamsin groaned. ‘Gimme a break, Karen. We only got it this morning. I’ve not had time to fire the bloody thing up yet. Trust me, as soon as there is anything to pass on, you’ll know about it.’

  Karen held her hands up in a placatory gesture. ‘Sorry. I know I’m a greedy cow.’

  ‘That’s not a character flaw in my world. You’re like me, you can’t be doing with slow progress. I’m not in tomorrow, but I’ll make it a priority when I come on shift on Monday, OK?’

  ‘Thanks.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’d better make a move.’

  ‘Good to see you. Thanks for the biscuits.’ As Karen headed for the door, Tamsin called her back. ‘One thing. This virus thing in China? You might want to stock up on hand gel and wipes. And get yourself a box of face masks.’

  ‘Are you kidding me? It’s only like the flu, right?’

  Tamsin pulled a face. ‘That’s not what I’m hearing online. Just do it, Karen, it’s not like you can’t afford it.’

  Karen shook her head in amusement. ‘OK, I’ll go to the chemist on the way home. Anything to get you off my case.’

  ‘You’ll thank me if it turns out to be the big one,’ Tamsin said absently, already lost in her computer.

  On the train back to Edinburgh, Karen messaged Nora Brooke, the National Galleries of Scotland curator she’d worked with on a cold case series of art thefts.

  I know your working week is as ridiculous as mine, but can we meet for brunch? I need to pick your brains. (Though I think you might find it quite interesting too …)

  Nora messaged her back immediately. Make it Monday, I’m in Aberdeen till then, God help me.

  Karen smiled in satisfaction then turned to the email fragments Tamsin had salvaged from Susan Leitch’s deleted email conversations with Amanda McAndrew. Much of it made no sense on its own and most of it dated from the period before they broke up. It seemed to be about diary dates and domestic arrangements. After the break-up there was almost nothing. But one telling fragment from Amanda to Susan had survived … can trust … trouble to your door … help … pick it up when things …

  Karen was wary of reading too much into the gaps, but she couldn’t resist wondering whether the message had gone something like, You’re the only one I can trust. I’m sorry to bring trouble to your door but I need your help. I’ll pick it up when things calm down. It made sense, both in terms of what was there and the rest of the evidence. Slowly but surely they were beginning to make sense of the skeleton in the camper van.

  She had another call to make but she was conscious of other people’s ears on the train. As soon as she reached the platform, she found a quiet corner and called Fiscal Depute Ruth Wardlaw. Swiftly, she outlined the web of evidence she’d spun around Amanda McAndrew. ‘Can you get in front of a sheriff and get me an arrest warrant if I ping the details over to you right now?’

  Ruth chuckled. ‘For a cold case detective, you always manage to inject a high level of urgency into your requests.’

  ‘It’s a talent. What do you think? Can you fix it?’

  ‘Let me look at what you’ve got and I’ll decide if it merits a warrant.’

  ‘Harsh, Ruth.’

  ‘Maybe. But you are a chancer, Karen.’

  It was a judgement Karen couldn’t disagree with. Nor did she want to.

  36

  Monday, 24 February 2020

  Karen loved brunch at Aleppo. It was just what she needed to lift her spirits after a long evening grinding through the details of the James Auld murder case. She’d spent the day with her parents in Kirkcaldy, taking them out for a pub lunch then for a brisk and bracing walk round Ravenscraig Park. She knew she could have been with Hamish instead, but that still felt like a step too far after the complications of the previous week.

  She’d passed the whole evening fretting at what she knew like a child picking a scab. Was Verity Foggo’s identification reliable? And if so, what did it mean? Did the Dover House forgeries even have anything to do with her case? She’d eaten the leftovers from her picnic with Hamish while she covered the ground from every direction and still Karen felt there was something she was missing. The one thing that had lifted her frustration had been the arrival in her inbox of an arrest warrant, courtesy of Ruth Wardlaw.

  She’d woken with a surge of excitement at the prospect of Aleppo. She always chose the baked eggs with mushrooms, spicy nduja and aubergine, accompanied by feather-light flatbreads.

  When she arrived, Nora opted for a basket of pastries with butter and fig jam. ‘I’ve never enjoyed a savoury breakfast,’ she said, her round pink face evidence of her love of sweet treats. She swept her long wavy brown hair back from her face and wrapped it into a loose knot on the back of her neck. ‘Don’t want to get jam in it,’ she muttered. ‘This is a real treat, Karen.’

  ‘You don’t know what I want from you yet.’ Karen burst an egg yolk with her fork and mixed it with the rest of the dish.

  ‘Is it another cold case? More paintings stolen from castle walls?’

  ‘It’s a cold case that has a very warm element to it. A murder this week that ties into a suspicious disappearance ten years ago.’

  ‘Ooh, that sounds like an episode in that series where Trevor Eve gets all shouty.’

  Karen chuckled. ‘If you have to get that shouty, you’re not doing it right.’

  ‘So what’s all this got to do with the wonderful world of fine art?’ Nora broke apart a croissant and moaned softly. ‘Oh, my lucky stars.’

  ‘A bunch of paintings came back to the galleries from the Scotland Office in London that turned out to be fakes. Do you know about this?’

  Nora froze with a chunk of pastry halfway to her mouth. ‘How do you know about it? It was all hushed up. We were told not to talk about it on pain of death. Well, maybe not actual death, but you know what I mean?’

  ‘I think it might have a connection to the case I’m investigating. What can you tell me about it?’

  ‘We never had this conversation, Karen. I mean it, I can’t be associated with this.’ Nora put down the piece of croissant, all ease gone from her face.

  ‘You have my word, Nora. This is background, there’s nothing that will come back on you. Tell me what you know.’

  Nora gave a sharp glance to either side then focused on Karen. ‘There were, I think, six paintings. They were all Scottish artists, which is why they’d been chosen for the Scotland Office. But they covered a wide range in terms of period and style. They were all quite valuable – low six figures, mostly. Apart from the Peter Doig, which would sell at auction for upwards of five or six million. None of the originals has turned up, which means they’ll be sitting in some rich bastard’s private collection. Whoever painted the copies will have made a killing.’ Her hand shot to her mouth. ‘I didn’t mean that literally.’

  ‘I know. Tell me, how good were the copies?’

  ‘Now, that is possibly the most interesting question you could have asked. People talk a lot of guff about knowing instinctively that a piece is a fake. Me, I think that’s pretentious nonsense. What they attribute to instinct is actually subconscious knowledge acquired from a lifetime of studying a lot of art very closely. Now, these six paintings were, from a technical point of view, very skilful. Looking at them by itself didn’t set off alarm bells. Whoever did the copies managed perfect matching on colour and brushstrokes. But they weren’t designed to stand up to close scrutiny. When they came back to the galleries, we could see right away that they were not the originals. The materials were all wrong. A forger whose principal aim is to get away with it will research their materials painstakingly. They�
��ll source canvas of the right age. They’ll grind their own pigments so that they match what was available when the work was made. They’ll make their own glue so even that matches. These copies weren’t like that. They looked authentic but they didn’t examine authentic.’

  ‘How does that make sense? If you can make something look that good, why would you take all those other shortcuts?’

  Nora readdressed her croissant. ‘Because they weren’t intended to convince. They were placeholders while the criminals disposed of the originals. It bought them time.’

  Karen drank some coffee and pondered. ‘It’s almost as if they’re thumbing their nose at you,’ she said slowly. ‘As if they’re saying, “You see, I can fool you. And if I wanted to, I could completely fool you, but I can’t be bothered.”’

  Nora frowned. ‘Maybe. Or maybe they’re just lazy. Doing it thoroughly is time-consuming and difficult. Knocking off superficially convincing copies is pretty straightforward.’

  ‘Nobody’s ever been arrested, have they?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Were there any suspects? Any names come up?’

  ‘The Scotland Yard Art and Antiques squad did look at a few people. But the squad was disbanded in 2017 after the Grenfell Tower fire. Their work was deemed non-essential and the Met needed all the bodies they could lay hands on. We haven’t heard anything since. I think the stumbling block was access to Dover House. We were of the view that not all of the copies were of the same age. The availability of different paints at different times made it possible for that judgement. And wholesale replacement of six canvases in one go would have been a very risky enterprise. Much safer to take six small risks than one massive one.’

  ‘I guess. So no names in the frame? Not even hints?’

  Nora shook her head then brushed crumbs from her generous bosom. ‘I’m not holding out on you.’

  ‘What kind of value are we talking about here? Millions? Tens of millions?’

  Nora laughed. ‘Not tens of millions, Karen. Added together – and this is a rough estimate – the Raeburn, the MacTaggart, the Redpath, the Eardley and the Crawhall would probably fetch somewhere between quarter of a million and three hundred thousand. The cherry on the cake is the Peter Doig. At auction, like I said, north of five million. Maybe as much as ten.’

  ‘For one painting?’

  Nora nodded. ‘Doig is a star.’

  ‘So, they could have made upwards of ten million for their not-so-little scam?’

  ‘Not on the black market. They’d be lucky to make half of that.’

  ‘Maybe not enough to retire on, but still a pretty good payday.’

  ‘I don’t know, I think I could cheerfully retire to some lovely Caribbean tax haven on five mil. Getting to that point would be high risk, though. You’d have to trust whoever was dealing the paintings for you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t do it yourself?’

  Nora picked out a raisin whirl and took a bite while she considered. ‘I don’t think many fakers would have those direct connections to collectors.’

  ‘What if it wasn’t someone known primarily as a fraudster?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘OK. I’ve promised to keep your secrets. Now I need you to promise to keep mine. I want to talk to you about something that you absolutely can’t share with anybody.’

  Nora raised her eyebrows, intrigued but also pleased. ‘I promise on my cat’s grave.’

  ‘You’ll be familiar with David Greig?’

  ‘Wow. If I’d made a list of the top one hundred possible artists we’d be talking about this morning, I doubt David Greig would have made it. You do know he’s dead?’

  ‘Yes, Nora, I know he’s dead.’ Karen rolled her eyes and scooped some more baked eggs into her mouth, deliberately keeping Nora on tenterhooks. ‘Do you know how David Greig paid his way through art college?’

  ‘Are you talking about his witty portraits? Oh yes, I know all about them! There’s a very famous painting in the Louvre called Gabrielle D’Estrées and One of Her Sisters, where they’re sitting in the bath, naked from the waist up and one is pinching the other’s nipple. Greig did a version of that for one of the Portrait Gallery curators and her girlfriend who commissioned it. It was one of those moments where everybody pretends to be scandalised when they’re really highly entertained. But you’re surely not suggesting David Greig had anything to do with the Dover House frauds? He’d been dead for years before they turned up.’

  ‘They’d been hanging there since well before he actually died. The timeline wouldn’t be a problem. What I want to know is whether you think David Greig could have perpetrated that fraud.’

  Nora stared at Karen, open-mouthed. She expelled a long breath, puffing out her cheeks, then said, ‘Fuck, yes.’

  37

  Jason had done exactly what he’d been told, with the single addition of a long FaceTime chat with Eilidh, mostly consisting of a detailed discussion about which box set to binge next. They’d eventually settled on Narcos. Jason had argued that it might be a bit like bringing his work home, but Eilidh had pointed out, not unreasonably, that the Historic Cases Unit didn’t involve a lot of shoot-outs, stake-outs and high-octane car chases.

  Isherwood Studios looked as if it had been designed in the sixties by an architect exacting revenge on the neighbourhood. Built from concrete panels, steel struts and glass, it squatted between an imposing red-brick church and a row of undistinguished local shops. A signboard announced ISHERWOOD STUDIOS: STOCKPORT’S ARTS AND CRAFTS HUB. Jason couldn’t think of anything he’d seen that was less hub-like.

  The entrance was around the back of the building, through a pair of shabby maroon doors. They led into a large square foyer where a young woman in paint-stained overalls, hair in a tie-dye turban, was working on a mural of what appeared to be an urban landscape seen through a fish-eye lens. Jason cleared his throat. ‘Hiya,’ he said.

  She turned and gave him a friendly grin. ‘Hiya yourself. Are you looking for somebody?’

  ‘I was wondering if Dani was around. Dani Gilmartin. Scottish lassie.’ He gave her his best smile.

  ‘Not this morning, mate. What were you after her for?’

  ‘I just wanted to look her up.’ Inspiration struck and his face brightened. ‘We used to share studio space back in Scotland. At Tullyfolda? She maybe mentioned it.’ She gave him an incredulous look. Jason supposed he didn’t look much like an artist, even though he’d taken off his tie.

  ‘I don’t know her that well. I’m Orla, by the way.’ Although it appeared as a friendly gesture, it was clearly a demand.

  ‘Jason. Look, I’m only around for the weekend, do you know where I can maybe find Dani?’

  Orla sized him up again. ‘She runs a class on Saturday mornings. Watercolours for beginners. In the church hall up by Morrisons. You’ll catch her there until noon.’

  Jason grinned. The boss would be proud of him. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Really appreciate it.’ He sketched a wave and headed back to his car.

  He was completely unaware that before the door had swung shut behind him, Orla was already making a phone call. Whoever the Scotch guy was, she’d have bet her Norton that he wasn’t any kind of artist. Except maybe a con artist.

  ‘Up by Morrisons’ covered an annoying number of side streets, Jason discovered. But at the third or fourth try, he found what he was looking for. The hall was a long brick building with a pitched roof and diamond-paned windows with protective metal gratings. He watched as half a dozen women and one man of indeterminate age gossiped their way inside, then cautiously followed. He paused by the noticeboard which announced, among Brownies, Cubs, Slimming World and Senior Choir, ‘Watercolours for Beginners with Professional Tuition from Dani. Saturdays 10-12. All welcome. £5 on door.’ He’d found the right place.

  He walked the length of the street to consider his next step. He couldn’t just assume he’d found the right person. He’d need to see her, to compare her w
ith the photographs. Nothing less than absolute confirmation would do for the boss. He turned back in time to see another trio of women enter the hall. He followed, but not too close. As he approached the tall wooden doors that stood open, he could see far enough inside to spot a pair of interior swing doors with small windows at head height. If he waited till the class started, he could peer through and with a bit of luck, get a good enough look at the teacher to make a positive ID.

  He killed a few more minutes by walking to the end of the street again. Seven minutes after ten, he cautiously made his way back to the hall. This time he entered the stone-flagged vestibule and crept towards the windows in the door. He’d barely reached them when an elderly woman appeared at his elbow. ‘Don’t be shy, lad,’ she exclaimed. ‘We don’t bite, you know. Everybody’s nervous the first time.’

  Jason stepped back, panicked. ‘I’m not … I didn’t …’

  But the woman was not to be put off. Now she had a hand in the small of his back, pushing him towards the door. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t wrestle a pensioner, and already she had one half of the doors open and was shoving him firmly forward. ‘We’ve got a new recruit,’ she called out. ‘A nice young lad, he’s going to give you a run for your money, Tony!’

  Every head was turned towards him. Jason felt the heat rising in his face. He half-raised his hand in greeting and said, ‘Hello,’ in a squeak that surprised him. It wasn’t warm in the hall, but he could feel sweat springing out on the back of his neck. He looked around and saw a dozen people standing in front of simple easels with sheets of paper fixed to them. Sitting on the edge of the stage with a sardonic smile on her face was the teacher. Her hair was longer than in the photos, but there was no doubt in Jason’s mind that he was in the presence of his target.

  ‘Welcome to the group,’ she said, her Scottish accent still evident. ‘I’m Dani.’

  No, you’re not. You’re Amanda. ‘I’m Jason,’ he said. ‘I’ve never done this before.’