He Made Me (Booker & Cash Book 2)

by Oliver Tidy

  ‘Is that how good Sigmund was?’

  ‘Lewis said his technical ability was only outdone by his originality of style. Apparently, he was very good.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But word takes time to get around. A fad or a fashion has to catch on.’

  ‘Like loom bands?’

  ‘Exactly. Nice analogy by the way.’

  ‘And people weren’t exactly fighting each other for the privilege of owning a “Swaine”?’

  ‘No. I suppose one of the attractions with loom bands is that they only cost a pound a pack. People, art collectors, are a little more circumspect when they’re being asked to part with a few grand for an as-yet-unknown. Lewis said it only ever needs a couple of the right people to hop up on the bandwagon and the rest start parting with their cash like cowboys on a Friday night in Dodge so they don’t end up kicking themselves for not getting in when prices were low, and, lo, the domino effect is born. That’s art for you. It’s driven by money, opinion and fashion.’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘Lots of things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘...so Lewis arrives on the scene. He calls himself an art dealer these days, by the way. Says there’s more money acting as a middle man and advisor to individuals and companies with money looking to invest in future art treasures as opposed to stocks and shares than there is in applying brush to canvas. And you get out more. He says the artistic life wasn’t for him. He says artistic lives are for autistic people.’

  ‘Fascinating stuff, David, but I haven’t slept for twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Lewis walks into Tate’s Modern one fine day – a new gallery he’s heard about on the grapevine – and a reunion is born. He likes Sigmund’s work, he says he really does. He convinces Nigel that he might be able to shift a few onto some of his clients and get that snowball rolling. But he needs a favour first.’

  ‘A fake.’

  ‘Yes. A fake.

  ‘A Paul Nash fake.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘So Lewis dangles the carrot of promoting Sigmund’s work with his clients if they knock out a good fake for him?’

  ‘Correct. This could be the saving and the making of Nigel Tate, financially speaking.’

  ‘Why a Nash?’

  ‘Because that was Sigmund’s style and Nash was as good an artist to copy as any for reasons I’ll get to in a minute.’

  ‘You just said Sigmund had originality of style.’

  ‘When he wasn’t faking Nashes, he did. His fixation with Nash and the constant influence of his paintings on Sigmund’s work was something they thought they could tap into and profit from.’

  ‘Are you saying they did more than one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Lewis didn’t say.’

  ‘How much did they go for each?’

  ‘Tens of thousands, and that’s an under-the-counter price. Lewis used his contacts in the art-collecting world to pass off the fakes as the real thing. They were a bit clever with the pricing, I think. It is a recognised principle with fakes of all sorts that the more expensive something is the more people are generally inclined to believe in its authenticity.’

  ‘Where did you get that nugget from?’

  ‘Actually, I think it was a John Le Carre book.’

  Jo rolled her eyes, even though I’m certain she’s never heard of John Le Carre. ‘Wouldn’t people in the art-collecting world have noticed?’

  ‘Apparently, there are many “missing” Nashes. Dozens of examples of his work that people know exist but no one knows where they are or who owns them. Nash had a habit of selling locally, wherever he was living at the time, to people he knew, friends and family. So they can pretty much churn out Nash-like paintings and claim that it’s one that turned up.’

  ‘So why not sell them openly?’

  ‘Haven’t you been listening? They’re fakes. Anytime a Paul Nash surfaces legitimately it can expect to be scrutinised by the best in the business. I doubt very much whether a fake, no matter how good it is, would stand up to that level of interest, especially if they keep turning up. Lewis would approach a collector with a story about knowing a man who has an original Nash for sale with a dodgy provenance. The “seller” is in need of some quick cash and is prepared to let it go for a very good price.’

  ‘And art collectors are interested in handling stolen goods?’

  I laughed. ‘Come on. I thought you used to be a copper. Don’t sound so surprised. People are people the world over. Someone offers you a brand new plasma TV still in its box for half price so long as you pay cash and don’t ask where it came from, what are you going to do?’

  ‘Report them. It’s probably stolen.’

  ‘Well most people would have it.’

  ‘I don’t agree.’

  ‘Maybe I’ve chosen a bad example. Do you collect anything at all?’

  ‘You mean like thimbles or fridge magnets?’

  ‘Christ, no. OK, you know I love books? If someone came to me and offered me a first impression, first edition of Casino Royale for a fraction of what it would cost me on the open market, so long as I paid cash and didn’t ask questions, I’d have it.’

  ‘That’s so wrong.’

  ‘Of course it is, Jo. But if it’s something that your heart really desires and you have an opportunity to acquire it for a knockdown price most people will go for it and wrestle with their consciences later if they have to. There are art collectors all over the world with private collections that have been stolen to order and that never see the light of day. They get stuffed into vaults or hung in private underground galleries where only the owner can appreciate them. You also have to factor in that with paintings, for example, there is only ever going to be one in the world of any particular example, unless it’s a Monet. Those paintings of the pond in his back garden are ten a penny. If you’re passionate about an artist and you get offered one and can afford the knockdown price or simply can’t resist the chance to possess an example of his work, you’ll have it. Do you understand?’

  Jo nodded. She looked disappointed to her core.

  ‘We’ll never know how difficult it was for Nigel to persuade Sigmund to forge them. That’s gone to their graves, but because he did a few, I’d bet Sigmund got a kick out of passing off his own daubs as those of his highly famous “ancestor”.’

  ‘Sounds like a nice little earner.’

  ‘It was until they got found out.’

  Jo sat up. Once again I had her full attention.

  ‘Hayley is in an art dealer, too. Apparently she can walk a fine ethical line when she wants to. Quite by accident, she discovered that a couple of her clients had both bought “lost” Nashes. She did some sniffing around, some investigating and learned that Lewis had brokered the deals. She dug deeper and found that there were others. She had her questions and she confronted Lewis and threatened to expose him and ruin him if he didn’t introduce her to the source of the paintings.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say something when you came back to Hayley’s?’

  ‘It was a minor detail. It wouldn’t have made any difference. And Hayley wanted to hide behind it. Rebecca Swaine knew. Hayley wanted some Nashes for herself. Apparently, she has some very rich Japanese businessmen interested in art. Lewis said the Asian market is huge, awash with cash and greedy for western art. Lewis reckons she could have made a lot of money. Lewis said she paid fifty grand up front for four. That’s the money she wanted back, in case you hadn’t twigged.’

  ‘Thanks. I got it. So what happened?’

  ‘Sigmund stopped painting fakes. He’d started experiencing issues of conscience regarding what he was doing. Nigel couldn’t persuade him to do any more. Hayley threatened Nigel but it wasn’t up to Nigel, it was up to Sigmund and he wasn’t feeling the Nash vibe. Hayley was threatening to get people she knew to come round and encourage him. Nigel was beginning to panic.’

  ‘How strange.’
/>   ‘But he was strange, wasn’t he? And fickle and a drama queen, apparently. He became stubborn and uncooperative. Oh, my God! I just had a thought. You remember in the church Sigmund shouted, I know what you want. I know why you’re here?’ Jo nodded and her brow was creased, like she knew what I was going to suggest. ‘What if Sigmund thought we had been sent from Hayley to “persuade” him to get on with what he’d been paid for?’

  ‘Is that possible? He’d already seen us at Goldenhurst. We hadn’t threatened him then.’

  ‘But we don’t know what Rebecca Swaine told him about why were there, do we? She might have said something quite untrue but ambiguous and he put two and two together and made five.’

  Jo rubbed her temples, breathed out hard and said, ‘I don’t know. I’m getting a bit confused with all this now. I’m tired and I can’t think straight. Is everyone dishonest in this country?’

  ‘Most people, I would say, if there’s enough money involved. People are greedy. Before we arrived to rescue Rebecca Swaine, Hayley had revealed all to her, including the detail that if she didn’t get her original fifty thousand back she would go ahead and let the cat out of the bag.’

  ‘But what would it matter if she spoke out about it now? Sigmund and Nigel are both dead.’

  ‘Get ready for it: the effect on the Swaine name, her reputation. The shame of it. It’s where this started, remember? Rebecca Swaine wanting to hire you to find out about her husband’s secrets. It was all about her vanity. About protecting the family name.’

  ‘But they didn’t share a common surname.’

  ‘You know what I mean. They were married. It’s the way they are. It’s the mentality that made Britain great. It’s what the stiff upper lip is built on: pride, vanity, self-importance, their names.’

  ‘Why did Lewis tell you all this, do you think?’

  ‘I told you. We’re mates. He’s one of life’s natural gossips.’

  We sipped our coffees and I tucked into some cake for a quiet few moments.

  Jo said, ‘I can understand why they would have kept the forging business from Rebecca Swaine but why keep the harmless opening of a gallery from her when it was well intended?’

  ‘I wondered that with Lewis. He said that in the beginning Sigmund wouldn’t allow it. Just wanted it between him and Nigel. And Sigmund didn’t want the fuss. Apparently, Rebecca is such a controlling and domineering woman that they didn’t want her involved at all and the only way to make sure that happened was to keep it from her.’

  ‘They probably knew her better than anyone. Did either of them actually like her?’

  ‘Don’t ask me.’

  We supped and picked at our food.

  Jo said, ‘None of this really explains why both Nigel and Sigmund took their own lives.’

  I thought about it for as long as it took me to finish my mouthful and swill it down with the last of my coffee. Then I said, ‘Doesn’t it?’

  ‘No. Not to me.’

  ‘Suicide doesn’t always make sense, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Remember that footballer, what was his name? Gary Speed, Wales’ manager. His wife found him hanging in the family garage one morning. And no one had the first idea of why he did it. It happens.’

  ‘I know that better than you, but given everything involved here there must be a reason. I don’t get the feeling that Nigel was the sort to take his own life because he’d sullied the Swaine family name.’

  ‘Maybe it was because he was finished. No regular job, no hope of getting one in his industry, facing investigation by the FSA, and now his little sideline had been rumbled, which had the potential to have brought a shit-storm of trouble his way. Like I said, people have topped themselves for less and we don’t know what his strength of character was like. I have a question: are you going to shop them to the authorities? Laws have been broken. People have lost money, been conned out of big money.’

  ‘Greedy people. People who thought they were buying something knocked off. I don’t have any sympathy for them.’

  ‘So you won’t then?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m going to think about it. We’ve still got a missing young woman to think about, remember?’

  ‘Natalie.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Lewis had anything to say about her, did he?’

  ‘Not a dicky bird. And now I’ve spent some time with the bloke, I don’t think he’d hurt a fly. Believe it or not, he was all right. I liked him.’

  ‘Wouldn’t hurt a fly? So who put misery guts in the hospital?’

  ‘Lewis said the bloke was pissed, tripped up the threshold, fell over and banged his head on the floor. That’s when they cleared off. Lewis said no one touched him; they just frightened each other.’

  I stifled a big yawn, which incited Jo to do her impression of a lion roaring silently. She didn’t even cover her mouth. I had.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ she said.

  She disappeared off to her pit and I cleared away the crocks. Then I went to bed too.

  ***

  49

  I was awake again by lunchtime. And I felt OK. Sleep’s much like many other things in life: it’s the quality that counts, not the quantity. I’d had a solid five hours of battery charging. I was ready to go again, but I quickly remembered that there was nowhere left to go. Not with Jo’s case, anyway. It was all done and dusted. Mrs Swaine had locked herself away with her new-found knowledge about the only two real people in her life and probably she’d be quite happy if she never laid eyes on Jo or me again. Ever. That meant that I was back to running a coffee shop and planning my empire building. Things could have been worse. I’d had my little bit of excitement.

  And then I remembered that we still had sixty thousand pounds in cash to deal with and I got a bit excited all over again.

  I wanted to ring Jo to see if she was up but I didn’t want to wake her. I dressed and went downstairs to see how the ladies were surviving without me.

  Jo was there, drinking and gossiping. Clearly I wasn’t the only one who could recharge quickly.

  I said my good mornings all round and then with a little bit of eyebrow wiggling and nodding let Jo know that we should find some privacy and discuss what to do with our windfall.

  ‘You didn’t sleep long,’ I said.

  ‘I couldn’t, not with all the loose ends this case has got going on. I couldn’t really switch off. Same for you?’

  ‘No. I was out like a light and slept like a log for five hours. That was enough. It’s like twenty-four hours without sleep never happened.’

  Jo looked disappointed in me and I couldn’t work out why. ‘Lucky you,’ she said.

  I smiled at her. ‘What are we going to do with the money?’ She opened her mouth to say something but I indicated with my raised palm that I wanted to say something first. ‘Before you answer that, remember this: One – no one alive knows it exists. Two – you can’t give it back to any of the people who were duped because we don’t know who they were. Three – you could hand it in to the authorities, I suppose, but what good would that really do? You’d just cause them problems. Four – I’m not sure Mrs Swaine would want the dirty money with the blood of her kin on it.’

  ‘What’s that noise?’ said Jo. ‘Oh, I know. It’s the bottom of the lame reasons barrel being scraped.’

  ‘Just trying to bring a perspective,’ I said, unperturbed. ‘So, what are you going to do with it?’

  ‘Consult with my employer. Technically, it’s her money.’

  ‘I knew you’d do that.’

  ‘What, the right thing? Come on, David. I can’t keep it.’

  ‘What about half of it? Or how about giving it to charity?’

  ‘Haven’t we been through all this once when it was all there?’

  ‘Fine. Can’t blame me for trying. So when will you cross that bridge with your employer?’

  ‘I thought I’d give her a ring this afternoon.’

  We finished our drinks
and then Jo asked me if I wanted to treat her to a late breakfast down at the Martello Cafe. I put my ire over the money to one side and said I would.

  Jo surprised me by agreeing to have a walk along the sea wall after our great British fry-ups. There was a keen easterly breeze gusting in off the Channel and into our faces but the sun was out and the overall effect was something resembling bracing. It certainly blew away the cobwebs.

  We walked in the direction of Hythe as far as the converted Martello tower on the outskirts of the village, talking about this and that and inevitably aspects of the case. It was good natured and I was determined not to spoil my happiness at strolling out with my new best friend by being a broken record over the money. In fact I didn’t mention it again.

  We were leaning shoulder to shoulder on the railings looking out to sea when Jo’s phone started up. She answered standing next to me but it wasn’t until the call was finished that I learned who it was.

  Jo said, ‘You’ll never guess who that was.’

  I said, ‘In that case, give me a clue.’

  ‘Missing person reappears.’

  I thought. ‘Natalie?’

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘Where’s she been?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘To know why I was looking for her.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She’s agreed to see me.’

  ‘Does she know about Nigel and the gallery?’

  ‘She didn’t sound like it and I didn’t want to frighten her off.’

  ‘So what did you tell her?’

  ‘I said I’d been trying to trace her because I had some money for her.’

  I laughed. ‘Did she ask how much?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘I said I couldn’t discuss that over the phone and that I’d need to check her identity before I could disclose any details.’

  I was shaking my head and smiling. ‘You’re quite devious sometimes, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m learning, David,’ she said with some seriousness.