by D B Nielsen
I expected that Renauld and his team wanted me to feel terrified. And I did feel terrified. But I managed to master it as best I could. I smoothed down my pleated woollen skirt where it ended above my knees and composed my cold, numb hands in my lap, willing them not to tremble. I hoped that Renauld would not mistake the pallor underneath my natural tan as fear but I suspected that Renauld, as experienced as he was, had recognised it and, in the same way that predators smelt the scent of fear on their prey, welcomed my reaction.
He seemed in no hurry to instigate proceedings, conversing in low tones with his subordinate in spitfire French, so that his attention, when it did come finally to focus upon me, was a surprise.
‘Well, Mademoiselle Woods,’ he began, his accent barely discernible as he spoke confidently in my native tongue, ‘perhaps it would be best if you tell us what you know about the artefact that has gone missing from the British Museum.’
There were no niceties. No introductions. Just this matter-of-fact, getting down to business.
Governed by something stronger than reason, I replied caustically, ‘It’s old. From ancient Mesopotamia, I believe ... or presume so, as my father is an expert in ancient Mesopotamian history and archaeology and the artefact was meant to be displayed at the museum’s Akitu festival held on New Year’s Eve. I think that’s what he said.’
Jacques Renauld did not look too impressed with my response but persevered with his line of questioning. ‘And did you notice anything unusual about the artefact?’
I fixed my mask in place before replying, ‘I’m not certain I understand your meaning. Is there something unusual about it? It’s pretty ugly.’
Renauld moved across to stand before the reflective glass panel, focusing on the fat manila folder he held open in his hands. He spoke without looking up.
‘Something that would make it worth stealing, Mademoiselle Woods,’ he clarified, ‘Something other than its monetary value.’
I was in the process of shaking my head in denial when he continued without as much as a pause.
‘Do you understand what happens to stolen art? Let me tell you,’ the voice from the opposite wall said quietly, ‘When one of Munch’s versions of The Scream was stolen in 2004 from a Norwegian museum, Interpol’s Stolen Art Section was called in to investigate. Such a well-known painting, worth so many millions, is hard to move on the black market. Most serious art collectors wish to display their art works ... it is a source of pride, you understand. But what could the thief do with a high-profile masterpiece? And would anyone buy it?’
His eyes were suddenly sharp as he looked up at me.
‘When the James Bond villain, Dr No, displayed Goya’s portrait of the Duke of Wellington in his lair, he launched the myth of artworks and masterpieces being stolen to order by criminal masterminds. While The Scream was recovered in 2006 after an extensive investigation and it was found, ironically, that there was indeed a criminal mastermind or organisation behind the theft, now, every time a famous, high-profile work of art is stolen, it is assumed that it has been stolen to order by a Dr No or Mr Big. But this is not the case at all.’ Renauld paused, assessing the folder in his hand again before continuing, ‘It does not happen in real life. This is not Hollywood. There are limited possibilities for a thief with a famous stolen painting on his – or her – hands.’
He broke off to flip back a couple of pages.
‘The most likely possibility is that the thief will hold the masterpiece for ransom, with demands for money in exchange for its return. Well-publicised art theft is almost impossible to sell legally ... as for the black market, we never know.’
‘Of course, the thief may simply wish to possess the piece because they like it.’ Renauld’s subordinate supplied, and I wondered at his daring in interrupting his superior officer.
But Jacques Renauld simply ignored him.
I’d learnt long ago that fear sharpens both the senses and perception. Glancing at the crew-cut, grey-haired male agent, at the small, self-satisfied smile hovering around his lips, I wondered if he was trying to put me at ease, or signal his sympathy for the position I found myself in, or was colluding with his superior officer in some interrogatory ploy. Good cop, bad cop.
Whatever the case, I didn’t trust him. I didn’t trust any of them.
And rightly so.
Tossing the folder closed upon the desk in front of me so that it landed with a resounding slap, Renauld now revealed the predator that he truly was.
‘Art and antiques worth up to £500 million are stolen in the United Kingdom alone every year and, according to your National Criminal Intelligence Service, most of the theft is committed by low level criminals. But the size of the global art market is also attractive to organised gangs. And stolen items can be moved around the world with a low risk of detection. We know that organised criminals steal art and antiques to raise funds for other crimes and, if cash is not forthcoming, gangs have been known to use stolen art in deals for weapons or drugs.’ Again Renauld paused, looking at me assessingly through his dark, deep-set eyes, ‘So, I will ask you one more time, Mademoiselle Woods, what would make this artefact worth stealing?’
I licked my lips, sought the right words.
I had long ago recognised that the art of deception was not so much in the ability to lie or in the omission of the truth but, instead, to tell as much of the truth as was possible.
‘I don’t know...’ I began hesitantly, ‘I don’t know what the artefact is worth. To me, it’s old and ugly. I’ve never been particularly interested in history or items of historical significance. I like art. I like photography. But you seem to be suggesting that a rare artefact or antique or painting would be worth more than money to someone ... like drugs or weapons. Are you suggesting that a piece of art or an artefact, no matter how rare or precious, could ignite a war? Is that what this is about?’
I ended on a note of scorn yet held my breath awaiting his response, knowing that I was flirting with danger in coming so close to the truth. Because a war was brewing, but not the type he imagined.
But Renauld ignored my questions in the same way he had dismissed his subordinate’s suggestion. Instead, he listened in silence while, at his request, I recounted the sequence of events between my first viewing the artefact in the museum’s Conservation rooms and its mysterious disappearance.
There really wasn’t that much to tell. I had learnt from Sage all I could about the day she had spent at the British Museum taking photographs of the artefact – from her chit chat with the security guard through to her encounter with St. John in the corridor – and, for good measure, I emphasised my motivation for the visit which was to create a special photo album for my father. I had already handed over the collection of photographs and negatives and they were spread out on the desk before him. From time to time, as I quietly related my tale, Renauld shifted them about as if searching for some meaningful pattern or for some reason for why this artefact held such importance or value to the thief.
I was glad I wasn’t wired up to a lie detector machine as I’m sure the needle would have leapt erratically every time I claimed to be my sister. I tried not to elaborate too much as I’d learnt from watching too many police procedural television programmes that this was a sure sign a person was lying. Instead, I kept to the facts without any need of explanation unless asked directly for it by Renauld or the other male agent.
They made me go over my story again and again, particularly pressing me about the photographs. How did I know that the artefact would be in Conservation that day? How did I manage to gain access to the room? Was I absolutely certain that the door to Conservation had locked behind me when I exited? At times I wondered whether they were deliberately trying to confuse me, pretending to be obtuse, pretending that they couldn’t quite understand my accent.
I was increasingly aware of my hunger and tiredness as I hadn’t slept well the previous night. I found myself staring at Renauld’s gaunt face, the dark hair of his bea
rd kept well-trimmed, the stark whiteness of his shirt collar which made it seem as if somehow his head had been severed and was floating above the rest of his body like Nearly Headless Nick. And every now and again, the other agent shifted in his chair or turned a page of the notepad he was writing upon; his pen scratching its surface. I must have been there for well over two hours before he finished the long interrogation and both my voice and the officer’s pen finally fell silent.
Then Renauld said suddenly, as if rousing himself from a state of disinterest or boredom, ‘So you see yourself as a photographer, Mademoiselle Woods?’
‘I’d like to be ... but I’m not good enough yet.’
‘I agree. Your photographs of the artefact are the work of an amateur. You have a long way to go if you wish to become a professional.’
I couldn’t tell whether he was deliberately taunting me into confessing. On the instant, I was too affronted to reply immediately. Yet when I did, trying hard not to show peevishness, I aimed for a suitable note of humility.
‘I don’t claim to be a professional ... and I realise I have a lot to learn. But I enjoy photography – in fact, it’s something I’m passionate about. Even if I don’t become a professional photographer, there are alternatives ... I wouldn’t mind being an art critic ... or perhaps, if I gain the qualifications, I could join Interpol’s Stolen Art Section.’
I was aware that the two men were looking at me intently and lapsed into silence, hands folded in my lap, eyes lowered. I waited for Renauld to break the silence and, when he did, I thought I could detect a different note in his voice – it could have been respect, but I suspected it was cynical amusement.
‘There’s more to investigating art theft than listening at keyholes and gaining access to secure areas, Mademoiselle Woods ... but I surmise that you know that already.’
Bloody hell! This is what it must be like to be in the witness box, I thought. There was an unshakeable atmosphere of tension and suspicion in the room brought about by the careful questioning, the guarded answers, the remarks laced with innuendo, the longing to be released and finally permitted to go home.
But I was made to sit before them through a long silence during which I was scrutinised like a lab rat. Then Renauld said, his voice expressionless, ‘Thank you, Mademoiselle Woods. You’ve been ... helpful. Though not, perhaps, as helpful as I’d hoped, but helpful. We shall be in contact with you to clarify some points in your statement, but you may return home for now. Sergeant Demy will escort you out.’
The female agent in the corner rose and held the door open for me to pass through. And, just like that, I was dismissed.
I kept what little of my composure that remained as I walked out of the interview room, retracing my steps back down the narrow corridor to the elevator. Sergeant Demy either had been instructed not to talk to me or preferred not to speak in English as my polite, automatic words of thanks while she allowed me to precede her into the lift fell on deaf ears. Later, I could barely recall her features despite standing in such close proximity to her within the confines of the lift, as she and every other Interpol agent I passed by that afternoon seemed blandly nondescript compared to Jacques Renauld’s overwhelming presence. His was the only face I could recall with any clarity.
Before I was to pass through the metal barriers again, I excused myself to make use of the ladies’ lavatory, feeling an urgent need to splash my face with cold water. I felt distinctly light-headed as I made my way carefully towards the end of the gallery where I’d spotted the sign “Toilettes Publiques”. As I approached there was another sign directing me towards the universal symbol for “woman” and I pushed open the door to find the room empty.
Walking to the sink, my stiletto heels clacking against the floor tiles, I turned on the tap and splashed cold water on my face, trying to calm my rapidly accelerated pulse. But the adrenalin was still flowing and it took several moments for me to get myself under control again. Harsh fluorescent lights glared off the stark white tiles and the room smelled of hospital-grade disinfectant. I couldn’t wait to get out of this place.
As I slowly towelled my hands dry, operating on automatic pilot as I stood beside the sinks, lost in reverie, I heard a noise – a movement – coming from the cubicle at the end of the room.
I had thought that I was alone, that the room was empty.
I was wrong.
I spun around, facing the end cubicle in horror. My heart fluttered and then picked up its pace, pounding faster and harder than it had moments before. My first instinct was flight, but I couldn’t seem to operate my limbs and didn’t have the willpower to move. I could taste the fear in my mouth rising with the foulness of bile and, despite having already faced one predator in the form of Jacques Renauld, there was no escaping from the predator which I feared was stalking me now – this one was the true monster. Some small part of my mind registered the insane reaction I was experiencing; I wanted to laugh and cry hysterically at the thought that I was about to be butchered in the ladies’ lavatory at the headquarters of Interpol with hundreds of trained agents within shouting distance yet unaware of my predicament.
Then I heard the all too familiar sound of dry retching followed by soft, low sobbing. I felt my eyes widen and the trembling began; my legs threatening to give way beneath me. I’d just dodged a bullet.
But rather than leaving, there was something in that sound that compelled me to investigate, to offer my assistance. It was the sound of a human being in need.
‘Excusez-moi, Madame? Mademoiselle?’ I murmured hesitantly, approaching the end cubicle warily. It was then that I realised that I had no idea what I was going to say next as my French by any standard was so basic, so limited, as to be almost non-existent.
The sobbing stopped momentarily on a shuddering breath.
I tried again.
‘Madame?’
And again there came a breath sucked sharply in on a rising sob.
I was beginning to regret my hasty action.
I thought that the woman would deliberately choose to ignore me as I was intruding on her privacy and I felt slightly shamefaced for having done so despite my good intentions. If it had been me, I would have ignored the enquiring voice on the opposite side of the cubicle door or, more likely, would have said something rude in an effort to make them go away and leave me alone.
But then the woman in the cubicle spoke from behind the closed door.
‘Je suis désolée ... Please ... I’m fine. Je vais bien ... It’s nothing.’
I stood utterly frozen outside the closed door of the cubicle, staring at it in bewilderment. The accent was pure English. The voice familiar.
‘Dr Jacobi?’ My voice rose in absolute disbelief, ending on a sharp, jarring note. It sounded oddly harsh and strained, even to my own ears.
There was a hitch in her breathing.
‘Who’s there?’ came the whispered response.
I paused before answering. ‘Please, Dr Jacobi ... It’s just me – Saffron Woods – Professor Woods’ daughter. We’ve met.’
As soon as the words had left my mouth, I winced, feeling like an absolute idiot. Well, of course we’d met! The woman had virtually accused Sage and me of breaking into the British Museum and absconding with a priceless artefact! Why the hell was I sticking around to help her?
‘S-s-saffron?’ Her voice wavered in confusion.
I was tempted to leave then and there and be done with it. The last thing I needed today was to confront Ellen Jacobi after enduring hours of police interrogation by a suspicious Jacques Renauld. And I didn’t feel that I had anything left in me to put up any sort of defence – I was tired of the accusations, the innuendoes, the lies.
But it was too late.
‘Don’t go ... Please...’ was all she had to say, and I found myself arrested by the note of fear in her voice.
There was some slight movement within the cubicle which I could make out from the smallest of cracks in the door and the sound of the toilet
flushing. And then, unexpectedly, the door creaked open.
I stood there facing Ellen Jacobi and wondered what to do now.
She looked like hell. Her breathing was erratic, still catching in her throat and it was obvious that she had been crying. Her eyes and nose were an unsightly red. She was not a pretty crier like some women I knew who could affect a dainty, vulnerable pose while bawling their eyes out and still look as perfect as a pin-up after mopping up their tears. Instead, the strong, authoritative air which Ellen Jacobi normally exuded seemed to have left her and in its place was a fragility that I had not expected and had never seen before. Gone was the woman who had once stood before me in my father’s library playing the role of inquisitor alongside Dr Porterhouse. Gone was the woman, so self-assured, who had toyed and flirted with the seemingly much younger Finn and had felt she had every right to order a Rephaim about at Satis House.
I felt my apprehension rising as I assessed this strange creature before me.
‘Dr Jacobi, are you all right?’ I asked uncertainly, feeling slightly lost under the circumstances.
Red-rimmed, chocolate-brown eyes looked at me mournfully. ‘I’m fine. Truly, I am. I’ve just caught this dreaded flu-bug that seems to be doing the rounds...’
Her voice petered off uncertainly.
And we both knew that she had just lied.
It suddenly dawned on me that if Ellen Jacobi was here in Lyon then perhaps Louis Gravois was also here. Then I chided myself for being so stupid.
Of course, Louis Gravois was here!
Maybe not present in the ladies’ lavatory but perhaps here at Interpol and definitely in Lyon. And sooner or later our paths would cross – of this I was in no doubt. I didn’t know exactly what Ellen Jacobi was doing in Lyon but Louis Gravois would certainly be orchestrating the action from behind the scenes.
But I was not without my own protection in the form of the silvery-grey eyed Anakim waiting for me to return unharmed outside the building. And I also knew that whatever Louis Gravois had planned for me, he was somehow being restrained by Finn who needed my help in attaining the second part of the map. So I allowed Ellen Jacobi her deception – after all, I had my own secrets to keep.
