Fakes and Lies Read online

  ‘And did you notice a Madonna? A mother and child with an older lady. It might have been sitting on the easel just before he died.’

  Danny nodded. ‘Yeah, he mixed up this horrible white gloop with rabbit skin glue. Some kind of medieval plaster, apparently. Stank to high heavens and sent dust everywhere. Dried hard as anything. Then he took it out the back and scraped it off with a piece of glass, brought it down, smooth as anything.’

  ‘And you know what happened to it, the painting? Because it seems to have gone missing.’

  Danny shook his head. ‘Can’t help you there,’ he said.

  ‘Interesting,’ Karen said as they drove away. ‘About Toby Elden being at Freddie’s studio. So what’s so special about some half-finished picture?’

  ‘You think Danny knows more than he’s saying?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s lying about anything he thinks might affect Bee, but who knows what Freddie Jones had lying around in his studio. Even his daughter didn’t seem sure so it’s not beyond reason that Danny, or his dad or brother, might’ve helped themselves to odd bits, thinking nobody would miss them. Does an artist have anything valuable in his studio? I mean, something that a casual thief would recognize as valuable? I suppose he might have left some money lying around, something like that. I think there’s something Danny is not telling us.’

  ‘He seems to have admired Freddie, but yes, I think you’re right. Maybe a little bit of pressure later on?’

  ‘More important business for the moment though, eh?’

  Vin was getting to like this colleague of his; it seemed a pity that she’d be going back to her own patch. He liked her ginger hair and blue eyes and her sense of humour. He also liked the way she just got on with the job.

  ‘Off to see what’s left of the Prices’ house, then,’ he said.

  The only thing that kept Bee sane was what she now realized was her increasingly ridiculous escape plan. She’d been working on the window with the end of the coat hanger hook, slowly removing the putty and damaged wood. The glass now rattled in the frame and she was genuinely frightened of it falling out, so she worked slowly and carefully, hoping to remove it in one piece, but not until she was actually ready. The cross brace on the window was proving to be much more difficult than she’d thought it was going to be. It separated the two panes and if that came away, together with both panes of glass, she had a chance of squeezing through. Then she’d have to do something crazy like tie the sheets together and lower herself down and hope for the best. She’d tried tearing the sheets into strips, but that too wasn’t nearly as easy as she’d thought it was going to be and she was also terrified of doing anything that might be discovered.

  Her only visitor was the woman, accompanied by a guard – though never Binnie, not since he had taken Sian away. Just some man who stood partly concealed by the doorway. She was aware of bulk and height, but that was all. She tried engaging the woman in conversation, but the woman just ignored her. She was always well dressed, this woman, in the kind of suit or smart dress people wore for the office, as if she was some kind of secretary. She even wore quite high heels and Sian fantasized about tripping her over and pushing her downstairs. The diet of sandwiches and fruit and orange juice was getting monotonous, but at least she was being fed. And the woman kept bringing painkillers. She wondered who had come up with that idea, doubted it was either Binnie or the man who had told him to break her fingers.

  She rationed the painkillers; it was still comforting that she had a final get-out clause.

  She was losing track of time; she thought it was Wednesday but she couldn’t be sure. And, weirdly, she was bored. She never figured that kidnap victims could get bored but her brain was desperate for something to do other than fantasizing more and more violent conclusions to this whole episode.

  She had no doubt that they would kill her in the end but she was obviously being kept alive for something. She had a use, she just couldn’t quite figure out what it was. The closest she could get was that maybe they were going to exchange her for something or someone and that made a kind of sense, but she couldn’t think what it might be.

  And, though she knew it was a selfish thing, she wished she hadn’t been left alone. She hoped that Sian was OK, wherever she was. That Binnie hadn’t hurt her.

  THIRTY-ONE

  It was about an hour’s drive from the warehouse to Graham Harcourt’s hall at Otteringham. It was possible to see the house for quite a while before you actually got to it, long and low and set into the valley. Palladian, Vin thought, but he was never totally sure about his architectural knowledge. He made the suggestion and Karen said she thought it was Georgian, then admitted that she didn’t know either.

  They both agreed that it was just big.

  ‘Imagine rattling around in a place like that,’ Karen said.

  ‘I think I’d rather like it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like the heating bill.’

  A long drive led down to the house, but they could get nowhere near that without going through the gates and that meant reporting to the gatehouse. The gates were wrought iron, heavy and black and beautifully made, decorated with ornate curlicues and gilded flowers. A bit over the top, Vin thought.

  He sounded his horn at the gatehouse. He remembered what Alfie had told them about the security cameras. They’d spotted a couple as they’d driven round and another on the gate itself. A man dressed in blue shirt and dark trousers came out, pulling on a uniform jacket. Graham Harcourt obviously liked his employees in livery.

  Both officers showed identification and said they wanted to talk to Mr Harcourt. They were told that it might not be possible; the man said he would phone to the house and see if Mr Harcourt was free.

  ‘Let’s see if we’re granted an audience,’ Karen said as the man went back inside the gatehouse and closed the door. ‘How long do you reckon he’ll keep us waiting?’

  Vin glanced at his watch. It was nine forty-five. ‘At least fifteen minutes,’ he said.

  ‘I reckon it’ll be the full half hour,’ Karen said.

  They had intended to visit the burned-out house first, but had changed their minds on the way here. Vin was curious to see how long it would take to get from Otteringham to the Price house.

  Naomi and Alfie’s research had provided them with a cover: the identification of a number of pieces of artwork that had been sold with seeming legitimacy by Toby Elden to Graham Harcourt. They had arranged to interview or visit (or have colleagues visit) several other customers, to make their cover complete.

  Neither of them expected to get much out of this visit. They worried that if they were right and Bee was at the Otteringham house they might be placing her in further danger. It was equally likely that their visit might precipitate further action on Graham Harcourt’s part; perhaps he might move Bee or release her.

  It was also possible that she was dead already.

  Of course, there was a chance that Harcourt was in no way involved – though neither of them really believed that.

  In the end, they were kept waiting twenty-five minutes and then given permission to drive down and told that they would be met at the entrance.

  ‘Your boss likes his privacy, then,’ Karen said.

  The man just nodded and opened the gate.

  The drive curved around the shape of the hill. Vin clocked it; it was almost a mile long. ‘You wouldn’t make a fast getaway from here, would you? Look, you can make out a stable block at the side, and what looks like servants’ quarters above. It’s possible, isn’t it?’

  ‘Most big houses have something similar. But Sian gave quite a good description of the front of the house and the stable block. If we can get some pictures, we may be able to get her to confirm.’

  Vin pulled up in front of the house and they got out. A man stood on the steps holding the door open. It was a small door set into much larger and more impressive doors, and it reminded Vin slightly of the warehouse entrance. The man did not introduce himse
lf, simply led them through the hallway and into a room on the left.

  Karen looked around, pausing to admire the stained glass. ‘Beautiful window,’ she said, but their guide merely held the door open for her and beckoned her through.

  She and Vin found themselves in a study-cum-library with a big fireplace, an oxblood red chesterfield and two matching chairs. A man stood by the fireplace with a cup of coffee in his hand.

  ‘Take a seat, officers. Would you like some coffee? And what can I do for you?’

  ‘Not for me, thank you,’ Karen said. Vin also declined; he’d been up half the night drinking the stuff and couldn’t stomach any more.

  Karen produced a photograph of Toby Elden and showed it to Graham Harcourt.

  Harcourt examined the photograph and then shrugged. ‘So?’

  ‘You may or may not know that Mr Elden is in hospital at the moment,’ Karen said.

  ‘I didn’t. But then, why should I?’

  ‘Probably no reason, but in the course of our investigations into who put Mr Elden there, it’s come to our attention that you and a number of other people have bought artworks from him in the last few years. It’s also come to our notice that Mr Elden has a reputation for dealing in stolen antiquities and artwork.’

  Harcourt studied Karen and then smiled. ‘And you’re worried I might have bought something in good faith that he sold to me in bad faith,’ he said.

  ‘Pretty much.’

  Harcourt pursed his lips. ‘When you buy art and antiquities, it really is a case of “buyer beware”. You have to do your research, and you have to be convinced that what you’re buying is the real deal. Of course all collectors will be fooled at some point, that almost goes with the territory. Even the experts don’t get it right all the time. I’ve bought work from Elden, yes. But I’ve always managed to get it verified. I never made the mistake of buying anything where I couldn’t consult with the artists themselves. You see, I only deal in contemporary pieces. Pieces where the artist is either still alive or very recently deceased.’

  ‘So you only deal in modern art?’

  ‘No, my dear. I didn’t say that. When people say “modern art” they mean something very specific. I’m assuming you mean abstract and semi-abstract pieces. The Young British Artists and that sort of thing. Frankly I leave that side of the collecting to the likes of Saatchi. Ten years down the road and my feeling is that it will be almost all forgotten. I and a number of other collectors … if you’re interviewing people who bought works from Elden you’ll no doubt be contacting them?’

  Karen nodded. ‘I’m sure we will. You understand I cannot tell you their names. Neither will I reveal your name to them.’

  Harcourt smiled at her and shook his head. ‘There are a number of us who like art to be figurative. Who care about the draughtsmanship and the quality of the paint. We may be considered old-fashioned in a way, but we like to buy quality.’

  ‘I believe you own some work by Freddie Jones?’

  ‘If you’ve done your homework, then you will know that I bought my Freddies from Toby. But with the artist’s full authentication. I also own a piece by Bob Taylor, and a David Inshaw. If you have the time, I’d love to show them to you.’

  Karen smiled. ‘Actually, I’d really like that. Do you mind?’

  Her enthusiasm was so obvious that both Vin and Graham Harcourt were taken aback. Harcourt laughed. He sounded delighted. ‘Absolutely. Come with me.’

  He dumped his coffee cup on the tray and led them through another door into a much larger room. Vin stood in the doorway and watched as Karen accompanied their host inside.

  The paintings were displayed like the pictures Karen had seen at the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition. It was a little overwhelming, she thought. She paced slowly along the length of the room, listening as Graham Harcourt expounded.

  Vin’s mobile rang. ‘Sorry to spoil your fun, but we’ve got to go,’ he said.

  Karen shrugged. ‘Pity. This is amazing.’

  Harcourt himself showed them out.

  ‘So, what have we learnt from that?’ Vin asked as they drove off. ‘You reckon she’s there?’

  Karen was flicking through some images on her phone.

  ‘You took pictures? How the hell did you manage that?’

  ‘Pictures of the hallway and the study, yes. I managed to grab four, and a couple of the front of the house as we came down the drive. I wasn’t sure how good they’d be as I was shooting from the hip.’ She grinned at him and he liked the way it made her freckles dance. ‘You were standing between us for a few seconds when we came back into the study and then I took a chance in the hall, when I had my back to him.’ She studied the pictures critically. ‘Not too bad,’ she said. ‘I’ll email them to you for when you go and see Sian.’

  She frowned then, the little victory not making up for the rest. ‘Yes, I think Bee’s there. Still alive, I hope – though what he wants her for … information, maybe, in which case, who knows what he might have done?’

  ‘Prepare for the worst, but hope for the best, as my dad always says.’

  ‘This the dad that grows dahlias?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve only got the one, so far as I know.’

  She nodded. ‘Dahlias can make you fatalistic,’ she said. ‘I had an uncle who grew them. He reckoned if it wasn’t the slugs it was the earwigs. He used to fill pots with straw and put them on bamboo sticks in amongst the flowers. I think the earwigs were supposed to prefer the straw.’ She paused. ‘I think he’s planning a move.’

  ‘Oh? What did I miss?’

  ‘Just a tiny glimpse of something. You didn’t come far enough into the picture room to see. There’s, like, a little room off the main one and the door was part open. It was filled with packing cases and bubble wrap. I mean, filled. And all heavy duty, not your “bought it from the local stationers” stuff.’

  He nodded. ‘Look, we need to get some surveillance on the place. I noticed a farm and a barn; we passed them on the way. I reckon they’ll have a view on the house.’

  ‘If they cooperate. He’s a big landowner around here, he might even own their farm.’

  ‘If we have to, we’ll get a court order. But it has to be done, and we need to apply for a warrant to search the place.’

  ‘There’s a lay-by up there – pull in.’

  ‘Why?’ But he did so anyway.

  ‘So I can drive, and you can phone. I can’t set any of that up, it’s not my patch. But no reason we can’t be getting on with it.’

  There was no arguing with that. Vin stopped the car and they swapped round. It took a couple of minutes to adjust the seat, Karen being quite a lot shorter than he was. Then she unfastened her ponytail and tied it back up again. It was something he’d noticed she did when she was trying to make a decision, or think something through. He rather liked it. And he definitely liked that tangle of curly ginger hair. The one thing stopping him from asking her out was that her rank was higher than his. But was that insurmountable? And it wasn’t necessarily going to be a permanent state of affairs.

  They took off again and Vin made his phone calls. He wished that Tess was around – she could usually be relied upon to push things through – but she was still on her course. The DCI listened sympathetically, however. This was a big case – though, as the DCI warned Vin, Harcourt was also an important and prominent businessman. He’d start work on it now but it wasn’t going to be easy or quick.

  Vin rang off, knowing that surveillance took time to set up, and warrants too.

  ‘Most frustrating part of the job, apart from the paperwork,’ Karen said. ‘There are times when I get tempted to turn vigilante, you know that?’

  ‘What, full mask and cloak, or more Charles Bronson?’ He sobered. ‘What are the odds of her being alive?’

  Karen didn’t even bother to answer that.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Bob and Annie slept late and it was almost ten when they finally woke. She was due to teach an evening class at
a local college, but had nothing else to do that day. They lay in bed discussing their plans. Bob had some phone calls to make and he had some drawings with him that he would work on later on. They had brought the painting with them and the Bevi Madonna was now in a box, propped up on a chair in a corner of their hotel room. He’d have to let the owner know, he supposed. They were bound to get wind of the break-in at his house, sooner or later.

  ‘I’ll go across to the hospital this afternoon,’ Annie said, ‘see if Harry needs anything.’ Not being family they could not take a turn sitting in with Patrick. Naomi seemed to have got an exemption to that rule and it turned out that everyone had assumed that she was Harry’s sister. No one had bothered to disabuse the authorities.

  Bob announced that he was hungry and that they should order room service, breakfast in the dining room being over by then.

  ‘It’s a bit like being on holiday,’ Annie said. ‘Not that we’ve done holidays very often. We ought to start.’

  While they waited for breakfast Annie took a shower and Bob phoned the painting’s owner, Derek Bartholomew, to apprise him of the situation. Bob didn’t say a great deal, only that there had been an attempted break-in at the studio and the police were still taking fingerprints and suchlike, so they’d moved out for a few days.

  ‘No, in a hotel. But the painting is quite safe, under lock and key,’ Bob lied, eyeing the package that sat on the chair opposite him. Somehow he’d felt safer with it in his room, but he supposed he ought to ask the hotel if they could put it into their safe. Maybe later.

  Annie came out of the shower just as room service arrived and Bob got off the phone. Before she opened the door he picked up the painting and slipped it into the wardrobe. Then, when the waiter had gone, he put the ‘do not disturb’ notice on the door. He didn’t want housekeeping poking around and seeing what might look like a suspicious package.