Fakes and Lies

by Jane A. Adams

  Naomi nodded. Dessert arrived and Alfie ordered coffee and told the waiter that they would take both through to the lounge. Once settled, Naomi asked him, ‘And who might be responsible – do you have a name?’

  ‘I have several, but that doesn’t mean they are all involved. My money is on someone by the name of Graham Harcourt. He is a collector but also a businessman with a finger in every pie you could care to mention. He has a big house out near Otteringham, a posh Georgian place. I’ve done a bit of surveillance but the security system extends to the perimeter walls around his estate. Put it this way, I’ve seen Category A prisons with less security. None of it is obvious, but it covers every corner. A robin couldn’t cross his garden without him knowing about it and if he could get away with putting notices on the gate telling people that trespassers would be shot, I think he probably would. There’s a gatehouse at the main entrance, used to be occupied by the gardener. Since Harcourt moved in the gardener’s gone and what looks like an extensive CCTV and security system set up in there is manned twenty-four hours. I had an associate of mine ask for directions and the guy he spoke to was polite enough, directed him back to the main road. My friend managed to get a couple of photos, one of the man and one through the window of the gatehouse, but he’d been told not to take risks and he didn’t take any more. I’ve added those pictures to the dossier. I know they’re not much use to you, but they might be of use to your friend. If she can make other connections.’

  Naomi ate her dessert, deep in thought. It was very good, far more sophisticated than the cake of her childhood and so drenched in kirsch that she thought she might be over the limit, had she still been able to drive. She felt the edge of the table and set her plate down with a deep sigh. ‘That was excellent; something that definitely needs to be revived. OK, I will talk to her and I think she’ll see the sense in at least having a conversation. Can I give her your number?’

  ‘My card’s in the folder with the rest of the stuff. It has my business phone number on it and a brochure for the company I work for, so she can see I’m all legit.’

  Naomi laughed at that. ‘Anybody can create a brochure,’ she said. ‘Anybody can even register their business at Companies House. It doesn’t make them legitimate.’

  ‘What does?’ Alfie asked.

  But she knew he wasn’t expecting any kind of answer.

  They chatted over coffee, random things, tacitly acknowledging that their business was done and they could now relax. Naomi called for her taxi and Alfie walked her out.

  ‘It was genuinely good to meet you,’ he said. ‘And I hope we meet again.’

  Naomi smiled as she drove away. She was hoping so too.

  FIFTEEN

  Naomi called Karen just after seven on the Saturday evening. It had taken all her self-restraint to wait until after seven and not try ten minutes before, though she’d been impatient all day. She’d spent Saturday going through the electronic version of Alfie’s dossier, using the read back facility on her computer. There was a lot of information, and it had taken her most of the day to start to get to grips with what he was finding out. She found it frustrating no longer to be able to take physical written notes which she could flick back and forth. The Dictaphone helped, but it wasn’t the same.

  Alfie described himself as a forensic researcher and that certainly fitted with what he had given to her. The level of detail was outstanding.

  Alfie had tracked down five works, and a possible sixth, that were known to be by Freddie Jones, from his early days before his arrest. He had since identified a possible half dozen more and these were much more recent. All had come up for auction in the last two years and all had sold for high prices. Old masters, or their followers, but not the most well known names. No Vermeers, she thought. Alfie described them as ‘second division’ but still excellent. And in all cases the provenance could be tracked back at least a couple of centuries with only small gaps in the paper trail. All the works had been referred to in the catalogue raisonné for each artist and they were works that were believed to have been lost. All had emerged in ways that were plausible and had raised no suspicion. They had apparently been miscatalogued. Some had turned up in the attic of some big house. One, it seemed, had been hanging in a public library for years before someone had noticed it and recognized it as the work of a possible follower of Pieter Bruegel the Elder – though the strange thing was that Alfie had interviewed a long-term employee of the library who did not remember the picture at all, even though it appeared in an inventory list for twenty-five years before.

  In each case, doubts seem to have been swept aside and only the evidence which supported provenance was emphasized. As Alfie had commented, there was a lot of money involved and no one wanted to believe that these paintings were anything less than genuine. Once appraised, reputations were on the line.

  Karen picked up on the third ring. Hearing her voice, Naomi was reminded that they had actually had a lot of fun together and she was glad that she had made the decision to make contact again, even if it had been driven by external factors.

  ‘It’s so good to talk to you,’ she said, genuinely meaning it. ‘I should have done this long ago.’

  ‘Nothing like the odd murder to rekindle a friendship,’ Karen said. ‘It’s good to hear from you too. I’ve often thought about you. God, what a day! You and Alec are well out of it, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘We regularly talk to ex-colleagues here,’ Naomi said. ‘I’m pretty sure Alec wouldn’t go back now, even if he could. I don’t actually have the option, but if I did, I’m not sure I would either. The workload seems to have got worse week on week. There seems to be a new form to fill in every month, and masses of paperwork to do. And people say that trying to get their TOIL time back is even worse than it was when we were in the job. There’s been money for new recruitment, but it’s getting the bodies. Nobody seems to want to know. And it doesn’t help that we’re pretty much in the back of beyond, up here; if you want a career path you go to one of the big cities.’

  ‘Failing that, to one of the small cities,’ Karen agreed. ‘But no, it’s not getting any better, although I think every generation of coppers must say that.’ She laughed. ‘But what else would I do? I came into this straight from university; I’ve never done anything else. And when I think about leaving I just hear the pension calling. I never thought I’d say this, Naomi, but I’m getting to the age where those sorts of things matter! Sad, or what? Anyway, down to business; what can I do for you? Or maybe what can you do for me?’

  Naomi grinned. This was the opening she had looked for, the opening she’d hoped that her friend would provide her with. ‘Well,’ she said, settling back on to the sofa, Napoleon’s heavy head resting on her knee, ‘yesterday I had lunch with a very interesting man. I couldn’t tell you if he was good-looking or not, but he had a nice handshake and apparently has dark curly hair – that’s when he lets it grow. But he’s got good taste in restaurants.’

  ‘And did he pay?’

  ‘He would have done, but we went Dutch. He said he could pass it off as a business expense, but you never know where that sort of thing is going to lead, do you?’ She giggled childishly, and Karen joined in.

  ‘And does Alec know about this other man?’

  ‘Alec is away. But yes, he knows.’

  ‘So this is the private investigator you were telling me about?’

  ‘Alfie Kounis, yes. He’s been good enough to put everything he found out into a folder and has given me an electronic copy so I can email it. I’ve not quite got the hang of zipping everything together yet, so you might get several emails with different files, but I’ll get it sent over later tonight. He’s sort of hoping you’ll agree to a meeting, pool resources. I’ve told him I’ll ask you.’

  ‘Have you now? I’m not so sure about that,’ but Naomi could hear the smile in her voice. ‘To be honest, if he’s got something to offer, I may be able to bring him in on a consultancy basis. The fact t
hat I’m saying that tells you I’m a bit desperate. There’s been nothing, and I mean nothing. The only leads I’ve got have come from looking into Freddie Jones’s background, and they’re pretty skimpy.’

  ‘Alfie reckons he was back to his old tricks,’ Naomi told her.

  ‘Alfie is probably right. I’ve come to the same conclusion. We’ve probably been chasing the same rabbits down the same rabbit hole, and believe me, it’s definitely Alice in Wonderland out there. But I wonder if he’s got this? I think Freddie was being blackmailed into it. I think he was being threatened and that it had been going on for quite a while and my sense is that he was ready to throw in the towel, maybe ask for help, but someone got to him before he could.’

  ‘Really? That would probably explain a lot of things. But I’m not sure it explains why Antonia Scott was killed. And it’s certain nothing else was taken?’

  ‘No, only the portfolio. Which makes about as much sense as—’

  ‘It does, doesn’t it? OK, so what do we do now?’

  ‘What do we do? Well, officially, you send me the stuff that you’ve got and I will look over it and I will decide what needs to be done.’

  ‘And unofficially?’

  ‘I thought we might have a meet-up, have a chat and maybe even meet this Alfie. Naomi, you realize—’

  ‘What’s it called?’ Naomi said, ‘Plausible deniability.’

  ‘Oooh, I like that. Yes, definitely that. So, when are you free and what the hell do I program into the satnav to get to you?’

  Naomi spent the best part of the next hour attaching files one by one and sending them to her friend. She felt excited, as though finally she was getting to do something she was good at again. She knew that there could never be anything but informal conversations about this, that they were off the record and Karen would have to be very careful about what she said, but she was still involved and that was important. Next, she called Alfie and told him that, in principle, DI Karen Morgan was interested in meeting with him and was now in possession of the information he had given to Naomi.

  After that she sat back on the sofa, feeling slightly bereft. She was on her own again, on a Saturday night, and had done all she could do. Now she had a choice: an early night or a late film. She was relieved when Alec called. He didn’t have much time but thought he’d say good night and ask about her day.

  ‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘I spoke to Karen this evening. We might be meeting up next week.’

  ‘And I take it this isn’t just a social occasion?’

  ‘You can take it that it’s also a social occasion. Look, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow – you’ll still be home tomorrow?’

  Alec assured her that he would be, although it probably wouldn’t be before five or six. He’d give her a ring the following morning.

  She felt even more bereft when he’d rung off. ‘Get a grip, Naomi. He’ll be back tomorrow,’ she told herself. She decided to combine the early night with the late film and took her tablet to bed with her, but fell asleep listening to explosions and gunfire.

  SIXTEEN

  Listening to the news on the Sunday morning, Binnie was interested to hear about a man who had been found on waste ground the night before. It was thought that he had lain there for quite some time; he was severely injured and in intensive care. Police were appealing for witnesses, particularly a woman who had phoned in anonymously to tell them about what she thought was a body. It was an area frequented by doggers, and it was thought that the woman had probably been involved in what the police referred to as ‘illicit sexual activity’ in the area. They assured anyone involved that they were not interested in this, but simply wanted to know what they had seen. They also suggested that the area was used by more innocent dog walkers in the daytime; had they viewed any suspicious activity or noticed what might’ve appeared to be a bundle of old clothes lying on the concrete, half concealed beneath rubbish?

  Binnie knew instinctively that this was his man. He was quite impressed that he was still alive. Tough little bleeder, aren’t you? he said to himself. Whoever the fuck you are.

  He was, however, quite surprised that his boss hadn’t finished the job that Binnie had started. He wondered if whoever dumped the body had assumed they were just disposing of a corpse or at the very least someone about to become a corpse.

  Binnie finished his second cup of tea and thought about getting some more toast. His phone rang. Binnie recognized the number and wondered if he was about to be rebuked for not actually killing the man in the stable but not a word was said about that.

  ‘Job for you,’ his employer told him. ‘Listen up, this is what I want you to do. How is up to you.’

  Binnie listened, smiled and hung up. He checked the time. More toast, then he would go and collect Sian. They would both go and see what Freddie’s daughter was getting up to this morning.

  Alec phoned just after eight and told Naomi that he was going to get a bit more sleep and then drive back. He would try and be with her for five o’clock and suggested they find somewhere to go and have dinner together. He’d be at home for all of the next week, including the weekend, and was clearly looking forward to it.

  Patrick called to collect Bee at ten and they drove to Annie and Bob’s. Bee told him she’d had a really good time at the family wedding, that it had been so good to reconnect with people. She seemed much more cheerful and Patrick was glad about that. He didn’t have much in the way of family, but what he had he valued greatly and it was good to hear that Bee now felt that she had much more of a support system than she’d thought.

  He noticed a blue car across the road from her flat, a Volkswagen Golf, with two people sitting in it. The only reason he noticed was that the street was still quite empty on a Sunday morning and the man turned to look at him as Patrick drove away, but he soon forgot about it.

  They were going to go to Bob’s first, to compile a list of things that Bob thought might be worth looking out for in Freddie’s studio. He’d suggested going with them, but he was already way behind with work and Bee had assured him that she and Patrick would be fine, that all she needed was a bit of guidance on what to bring back. Patrick was really quite glad that he and Beatrix were going on their own, especially as she seemed in such a buoyant mood. He liked her anyway, but being with somebody who was totally introspective could be difficult and he felt that this morning he was seeing another side of her. He asked a lot of questions about the wedding, wanting to keep the mood alive.

  The buoyant tone continued when they got to Annie’s. Bee had a whole stack of photos on her phone and she and Annie spent a happy half hour looking through them and admiring the dresses and the cake and laughing at the drunk uncles and the daft hats. Bob and Patrick compiled the list and then they were off again.

  They were halfway to the studio when Patrick noticed the blue car with two people inside, and there was something about it that bothered him. He realized it was because he’d seen a blue VW Golf, like this one, also containing two people, outside Bee’s flat, and the coincidence seemed odd but the car turned off a couple of miles before they had reached the studio and so he stopped worrying. He did make an effort to memorize the number plate, though. He parked up where Bee instructed and as they got out he took a good look around but there was no sign of that light blue car, or any similar ones, and so Patrick was able to reassure himself that he was imagining things. Even so, the back of his neck prickled and before they went into the studio he texted Annie and mentioned it to her. He knew she’d be out walking the dogs, so he probably wouldn’t get a quick response. He told himself it probably wasn’t even worth the response; there were a lot of blue cars and probably a lot of blue Volkswagens in the world.

  As it was Sunday, the industrial estate was practically deserted. Here and there vans and cars were parked up but there was no sign of anyone working. Patrick assumed that there would be folk around, but there was no one in view. For such a built-up area it was astonishingly lonely and he was
surprised to find how little he liked it; how uncomfortable it made him feel.

  Lately, he had been very sensitive to the way places felt and more than a little suspicious of people. His recent experiences had taught him that even the most benign seeming individual might be hiding secrets he’d rather not know about and he had recently come into contact with someone who, although outwardly very respectable, turned out to be a serial killer. Patrick reflected that he had been shaken far more than he had at first admitted by his brush with death. He had never felt uncomfortable around Gregory or Nathan, even though he knew exactly what they were and what they were capable of. Ridiculously, perhaps, they made him feel safe – though he supposed that was not so ridiculous, considering what he owed them: he would not have survived without them. But they were not people he talked about except to Naomi and Alec, and of course Bob and Annie. His was a strangely compartmentalized life, he supposed. Of course Harry, his father, knew all about Gregory and Nathan and even called them friends. A most peculiar state of affairs if you actually thought about it, Harry being one of the most truly respectable people Patrick could think of.

  ‘Penny for them,’ Bee said as they mounted the stairs to the mezzanine floor.

  ‘Shouldn’t you lock that door?’ Patrick nodded towards the small side entrance they had come through.

  She frowned. ‘I never really bother. You can if you like, if it makes you feel better.’

  Patrick went back down the stairs and threw the bolts top and bottom. He didn’t like the fact that he couldn’t see out.

  ‘I think we should hurry up,’ he said as he rejoined Bee in the studio. Then he took a look around and whatever nagging instinct had dominated his thoughts so far faded back into insignificance. This was Freddie Jones’s studio. Freddie’s work was everywhere: drawings, small paintings and art materials under the two great big skylights.