Fakes and Lies

by Jane A. Adams

  The sort of trouble that Binnie got into, the sort of trouble that had changed him, that wasn’t supposed to happen in a tiny village like this. It wasn’t supposed to happen in rural middle England. That was the kind of thing you heard about in the big cities where there were gangs and ghettos – not that this sort of thing had even happened in the city where she had gone to university and done her degree in fine art. Not, she admitted privately, that she’d have been likely to have noticed even if it had. All her time had been taken up with her university friends and they had gone only to those places frequented by other students.

  When she’d come back that first summer she had heard that Binnie’s mother had gone off to live in Spain, leaving Binnie alone in the family home, and Sian had gone over to see him but he wasn’t there. He didn’t return from wherever he’d been until after she’d gone back to uni.

  The second summer she’d been away on a placement and then stayed with friends. They’d texted a few times but that was all. Binnie was part of childhood; now Sian was embarking on her adult life it seemed there was no space for him and she realized with a shock that she had ceased even to miss him.

  Degree over, no sign of a job and no sense of where she wanted to go next, she had come back home. Her parents, realizing that she no longer fitted into their household, had allowed her to move into what had originally been built as a granny annexe but had in practice been used mainly for storage and the occasional guest. It was actually quite a tiny space containing a small bedroom just big enough for a queen size bed and a built-in cupboard, a living room-cum-kitchen and a tiny shower room, but truth be told Sian thought it was wonderful. No one disturbed her and she had use of what her mother called the summerhouse (actually a glorified garden shed) for her painting – not that she’d done much lately; her mind had been too preoccupied. She had managed to pick up a bit of work at the local pub and her parents weren’t charging her for the use of the annexe, just telling her she would have to buy her own food and contribute to bills, though the truth was her mum helped out with groceries and Dad always made sure there was petrol in her car. Sian knew how lucky she was but even so, coming back had felt like a betrayal of the past three years. Returning home had seemed like a step back into childhood and reconnecting with Binnie had been like putting a seal on the box that she had gratefully, if a little reluctantly, packaged herself inside.

  On bad days she wondered if she would ever leave again. On other days, hearing from university friends about their struggle post-study, she was incredibly grateful to have this bolthole and this much security and a little job at the pub, even if the pay was crap.

  She picked up the photograph of Binnie. She had been about fifteen, she remembered, when this had been taken, and Binnie just a year older. It was taken by friends when they had all visited the funfair. She could see the big wheel in the background and she and Binnie grinned out at the camera, heads close together. Happy. Uncomplicated. Kind Binnie – not the one she knew now.

  She’d asked her mum what had made him change and her mother just shrugged and said cautiously, ‘Sometimes people just do. I know you were friends once, love, but perhaps it’s best you keep away from him now?’

  Sian knew her mother would never try and insist; she knew that Sian was too headstrong for that. Tell her not to do something and guess what would come next? But now she wished that her mother had delivered much stronger advice, had given her more than a suggestion. That she had been able to lock Sian in her room or something.

  If her mother had done that, Sian would not have seen someone die. She would not have seen Binnie stick the knife into the woman’s ribs and then step back, watch her fall and smile that weird smile as though what he’d just done was the most wonderful thing in the world.

  And Sian knew she couldn’t tell anybody about it because this new Binnie, this Binnie who had changed, wouldn’t hesitate to do the same to her or to her family.

  She could hear her mother calling, standing at the back door and telling her that dinner was ready. It was Friday night and most Friday nights Sian’s dad got back late from work and he brought fish and chips in with him. This Friday night was no exception.

  She thrust the photograph back in the drawer and closed it with a bang. One thing was for sure, she needed to get away from here, and soon. Binnie already had her as an accessory to murder; fuck knew what else he had in mind. She thought, briefly, about confiding in her parents and then dismissed it. They would tell her to go to the police and then who could possibly know what might happen? The people Binnie ran with these days, they wouldn’t take kindly to that. Even if Binnie was arrested that would not make Sian safe, and it certainly wouldn’t make her parents safe. She knew her mother could sense that something was wrong and that she and her father had discussed this at length. They’d suggested she go and stay with her aunt for a few weeks, she’d barely left the village since she’d come back from university last June. Or, to be more precise, she’d barely left the village under her own volition. Binnie had taken her away a couple of times and the second time, he killed that woman.

  Sian took a deep breath and readied herself for an evening with parents and fish and chips and television. An ordinary, normal evening. It might even be a bit boring. Sian had never realized before just what value there might be in such predictable and ordinary things as fish and chips and tea and a night in front of the telly.

  SIX

  When Alec returned on the Friday evening he found his wife engrossed in research, a half dozen tabs open on her computer and the Dictaphone in use as she recorded notes.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, bending to kiss her. ‘What’s all this, then?’

  Naomi stood so she could greet him properly, settling contentedly into his embrace. Napoleon’s tail beat steadily against Alec’s leg as he waited for his turn.

  ‘Mmm, it’s good to be home. This has felt like a long week. And I could eat a horse.’

  ‘Sorry, the supermarket doesn’t deliver equines but there’s steak in the fridge. Or do you want takeaway tonight?’

  ‘Steak,’ he said. ‘And some of those big fat chips, if we have them?’

  ‘We do. You want me to cook?’

  ‘No, I’ll do it. Help me relax into the weekend. You can sort out some salad? I’ll go and get the kettle on. What is it about hotel tea? It never tastes the same. What are you up to, anyway?’

  Naomi laughed. Giggled, more like, Alec thought. ‘I’m investigating,’ she said. ‘Patrick brought me a puzzle to look at and I’ve got to admit I’m rather enjoying it.’

  ‘Well, bring your investigating head into the kitchen while I cook and tell me all about it,’ he said. ‘Sounds more fun than my week. You know what, I’ve decided that most rich people have more money than sense. And talk about penny pinching. My God, do some people want the earth for nothing.’

  He’d wandered off to the kitchen and Naomi, smiling to herself, followed him. She’d let him rant about his week first and then fill him in on her little bit of investigation – that sounded better than research, she thought. One really interesting thing she had learnt was that the SIO in charge of the Scott murder investigation was someone she knew. Naomi had very fond memories of Karen Morgan, now DI Karen Morgan, and she hoped Karen would recall her with the same pleasure.

  She opened the fridge and started to remove the makings for the salad. She passed the package of steaks over to Alec. ‘So, what have you been up to down there in glorious Bedfordshire?’ she asked.

  Over dinner she filled him in on the Scott murder and the suspicions Bee Jones had about her father’s death. ‘I called Bob and had a chat,’ she said. ‘He thinks Bee may be on to something but he doesn’t want her to pursue this, just in case it leads her into trouble.’

  ‘Sensible,’ Alec commented. ‘The assumption is that Freddie Jones was creating forgeries to order, I suppose?’

  ‘Not sure about that. But Bob said his feeling was that Freddie must have stumbled into something t
hat wasn’t on his usual radar. Freddie did fake, there can be no doubt about that, but Bob said his usual MO was to create work, just to see if he could, then let it go into the wild and see what happened. He’d put something into auction or maybe sell to a minor dealer or, as he got to be a bit too well known, he’d get someone else to do it for him, with a story about dead relatives and house clearance, usually. Bob said he got away with a lot twenty years ago but it’s got much harder now because everything is so interconnected, what with the internet and so on. Years ago no one knew who Freddie was and he could take himself off across the country, sell his stuff through provincial auction houses and the like. These days it’s different, with catalogues for art auctions being online and no one being more than a mouse click away. Bob says Freddie mostly reinvented himself as an expert in old master techniques. Bob even got him consultancy work from time to time and he was lucky enough always to have sold OK in his own right. Bob reckons he never made a fortune, but he made a decent enough living, and that’s rare enough for an artist. He thinks Freddie started to reform when Bee was born. He wasn’t involved in bringing her up but he undoubtedly cared about her and made sure she never went without.’

  ‘But he still wasn’t there,’ Alec said. ‘He wasn’t a father. If I had a child I’d want to be involved, you know?’

  Naomi nodded cautiously. They’d talked about having children from time to time and it was a bit of a sensitive issue; one she’d rather not get into just now.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘when Bee was fifteen she demanded to meet him and so her mother arranged it. She and Freddie hit it off. They became very close. But you’ll never guess who’s SIO on the Scott murder.’

  ‘Surprise me.’ She could hear the smile in his voice.

  ‘You remember Karen Morgan?’

  Alec laughed. ‘Who could forget? Seriously? I never thought she’d stay the distance.’

  ‘Well, she did.’

  ‘Karen Morgan. My God. All ginger hair and freckles and, boy, she could drink anyone under the table.’

  He sounded far too impressed and far too fond, Naomi thought. ‘Yes, well, she’s now a DI, and that was a long time ago, Alec.’

  ‘Yes, of course it was,’ he said, obviously making an effort not to smile, but she could hear the grin that must have spread across his face at the thought of their old friend.

  ‘You go and have your shower,’ Naomi told him curtly. ‘I’ll see to the dishes.’

  But Naomi couldn’t feel too mad with him. Her own reaction had been similar. Karen had seemed like anything but officer material back then. She’d admitted she’d only joined the police to please her father and that she’d no intention of seeing it through. ‘Wild’ was probably the best word to describe her. Wild and funny and very pretty. She and Naomi had been close for a while. Naomi had to admit she was looking forward to making contact again. She just hoped that Karen would have equally happy memories of her.

  SEVEN

  The owner of the Madonna that Bob had been tasked with studying had called Bob on the Sunday. He was back in the country, between business trips, and thought he’d check in with the artist. Suspicions about the painting’s origins had only arisen after Freddie’s death when the police had become involved. The attending officers, not knowing if Freddie Jones had died of natural causes, had followed procedure and treated this as a possible suspicious death.

  Photographs were taken and the landlord and his sons questioned as a matter of routine. It was a chance remark from Danny that had raised initial questions. He’d been asked to take a look at the studio, see if he thought anything had been disturbed, and he had spotted the Madonna and child, half finished, on an easel.

  ‘So, he’s doing another one of those, is he? You should have seen the last one, awesome.’

  That alone might have meant nothing but a routine background check had revealed that the deceased had a record for forging old masters. Documents in the studio led to several galleries and a couple of auction houses being alerted and eventually to the owner of the so-called Bevi Madonna. The painting that now sat in Bob’s safe.

  Derek Bartholomew was a collector Bob knew well. He had occasionally gone with Derek to view potential purchases or to bid at auctions and so Bob had been first port of call when the suspicions had been raised.

  The two men exchanged pleasantries. Derek asked after Annie and told Bob that he’d just come back from Kuwait and was about to fly out to Canada.

  ‘So, have you reached a conclusion, my friend?’

  ‘Almost,’ Bob told him. ‘Or I had almost. Derek, did you ever meet Freddie Jones?’

  ‘No, never did. I knew him by reputation, of course. But I believed he was out of the game, and from what I could ascertain the provenance of the painting was rock solid, so …’

  ‘We all thought that – his friends, I mean. His family too.’

  ‘I didn’t know he had family. Confirmed bachelor, I thought?’

  ‘He had a relationship some years ago. Fathered a child. She’s now nineteen and made contact with him properly a few years back.’

  ‘That must have been a shock.’

  ‘No, he knew about her but the mother made it plain she didn’t view Freddie as stable father material. She knew full well he’d start out with the best of intentions and then something would distract him and he’d forget he was supposed to be a family man. Freddie contributed financially but left the rest to his ex.’ Bob paused. ‘I’m making the arrangement sound very cold; it was anything but.’

  ‘Must be very difficult for the family,’ Derek said.

  ‘Yes, but that’s by the by. What I do want to run by you is, have you had any unusual enquiries about the painting? Anything you’d view as suspicious, I suppose. Phone calls, emails, anyone hanging around …’

  ‘Bob, you’re worrying me! What’s this about?’

  ‘In truth, probably nothing. The daughter came to see me, said that her father was very worried in the weeks before he died. Frightened, even, as though someone had threatened him.’

  ‘You think someone he conned?’ Derek chuckled softly. ‘Can’t say he didn’t deserve some of that. A lot of people might lose a lot of money if it turns out they’ve got Freddie Joneses in their collections. He potentially pissed off a lot of people.’

  ‘People who might threaten to kill him? Who might actually go through with the threat?’

  There was a beat of silence. ‘You think someone might have?’

  ‘Derek, I don’t know. Let’s just say that his daughter is convinced of it, and I’m starting to wonder. You heard about Antonia Scott being murdered?’

  ‘Of course. I was due to meet with her last week. She’d said she had some new work I might be interested in. Lovely woman. You think there’s a connection?’

  ‘Derek, I don’t know. The truth is, all this that I’m telling you might turn out to be just wild speculation, but what is true is that a portfolio of Freddie’s work was stolen from Scotts Gallery. The police are keeping quiet about what was taken, but I’m willing to bet money that was all that went missing.’

  Again that moment of silence while Derek absorbed this. ‘I have a couple of his drawings,’ he said finally. ‘Antonia sold them to me a couple of years ago. That man could draw and no mistake. But why take the portfolio? I paid a few hundred each for the drawings; you’re looking at a few grand, tops, for a portfolio. When you think what Scotts regularly have hanging on their walls …’

  ‘My thoughts exactly. Anyway, as I say, it’s probably coincidence, but I’ve got to admit it’s got me thinking about the painting. I’d like to hang on to it a little longer, if that’s OK.’

  ‘No rush, Bob. I just thought I’d touch base today, I’m off again in the morning and if you try and get hold of me in the next few days it could be difficult. I’ll be picking up my emails, of course. And my secretary can let me know if you need to talk.’

  Bob thanked him and Derek said his goodbyes.

  Bob re
placed the phone on its cradle and stared at it thoughtfully. He hadn’t intended to talk to Derek about the things that Bee had told him; he had acted on impulse. Something about the coincidence of the phone call coming so close on the heels of Bee’s visit had niggled and he’d wanted to prod. He hadn’t known that Derek owned any of Freddie’s drawings or realized he had been so interested in the man. Had he knowingly bought one of Freddie’s false provenances? Freddie never called them fakes; he would always just claim that the attribution was misinterpreted. As far as Freddie was concerned, it was always a case of ‘buyer beware’.

  One thing he now knew about Derek Bartholomew that he’d not been aware of only weeks before was that Derek had been party to some very suspect business dealings. The enquiries that Bob and Annie had quietly set in motion had turned up a number of occasions when Derek had stepped across the line.

  Bob shrugged. Paying bribes didn’t equate to knowingly buying stolen or forged artworks and for all Bob knew, that might be just an everyday way of oiling the business wheels in some countries.

  But it had got him thinking.

  Bob had always got along fine with Derek Bartholomew but he knew Annie had no time for him – though she’d been pleasantness itself the odd times they had met. Bob had asked her why.

  ‘The man is a predator and a liar,’ she had told him. ‘I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could spit.’

  Derek Bartholomew was equally thoughtful when he ended the phone call. He hadn’t known about the portfolio; that probably meant that there were some Freddie Jones drawings ready to come to the market and probably at a cheaper rate than he’d reckon on paying, once you took the gallery commission into account, and there was one man he could think of who would be in the know, who always had an ear to the ground.

  As he’d told Bob, he’d only spent a few hundred on the Freddie Jones drawings, but that had been years ago and the prices had risen dramatically in the intervening decade. Not only that, but since Freddie’s death – inevitably a well established dead artist generated far more revenue than a living one – the prices had shot up.