The younger brother behind the wheel answered as he smoked. “We have told you before. No harm will come to her so long as you cooperate. In twenty-four hours you shall see her again. Safe and sound.”
They had spent the remainder of the night at a three-bed apartment, property of the brothers’ uncle. Cooper was both amazed and appalled when he learned it was within half a mile of his own pad that overlooked Regent’s Park.
The journey had taken fifteen minutes. Leaving the Marylebone Road between the train station and Baker Street, Alain nipped along the rarely quiet street into the private car park of a grade II listed building less than quarter of a mile from Regent’s Park.
They were still there at 6:00am. The brothers bickered about leaving London straightaway, with François coming out on top. Cooper did his best to sleep on a three-piece couch in the lounge, but his mind refused to rest. News of the theft was unlikely to be known for at least four hours – more like twenty-four if he knew the gallery. François had predicted problems along the line, but even if they had been seen, he guessed they were unlikely to have been followed immediately. Cooper had overheard François refer to the operation as a calculated risk. More to gain than lose. Dangerous but necessary.
Cooper knew the reason the paintings had been stolen had nothing to do with art.
He awoke at 6am, surprised he had managed to sleep at all. A light had come on in the hallway, enough to bathe the open-plan floor in a mysterious half-light. He took a moment to reacquaint himself with the features: a character setting with Georgian décor mixed with a new settee and electronic equipment from Dolby Surround to a PlayStation 4. The brothers had disappeared into the dining room, taking the Hesilrige portrait but leaving the Van Dyck.
Cooper looked at the Van Dyck, rolled up in its protective cloth bag on the table where the bald-headed Frenchman had been up all night drinking coffee. The man had the image of a falcon tattooed across the right side of his neck, accompanied by orange flames. He stared piercingly at Cooper.
“What?”
Cooper shook his head. “Nothing.”
The canvas had come away easily. François had been prepared for something more difficult, but luck had definitely been on his side. The fine picture, that he now accepted was an original Robert Walker that dated back to the Civil War, had proven surprisingly flexible.
Yet also durable.
Removing the canvas from its temporary covering, François spread it out across the dining room table and placed small makeshift holders at every corner to keep it flat. Alain was standing by the window, waiting to turn on the lamp. With the curtains closed, the room was shrouded in total darkness.
The perfect place to put the picture under the microscope.
Even without extra time under the UV lamp, François was convinced he understood its secrets. The portrait was subtle, the majority of the key features invisible to the naked eye.
Had it not been for his great-aunt’s manuscript, he would never have understood its importance.
The similarities between the portraits of Hesilrige and Cromwell were obvious, but it was the differences that appeared most striking. Whilst Cromwell had been standing alongside a squire busily preparing him for battle, Hesilrige had been leaning against a stone column with a flat top that came up to around his waist. Cromwell’s left hand was down by his side, whereas Hesilrige’s rested on a black helmet, which had been placed on a small table draped with a red cloth.
Red, he thought.
Also a clue?
François looked at Alain. “Turn it on.”
Alain flicked the switch and light hit the canvas. François recoiled instinctively as his eyes adjusted to the purple tint that had left him momentarily blinded. When his sight returned to normal, he focused on the bottom left portion of the canvas, the area that included the stone column. He saw two lots of writing, one in yellow and the other in green, the green previously invisible to the naked eye. There were other markings close to the green text: triangles, squares, rectangles, and perhaps other shapes accompanied by further writing. For the first time things were beginning to make sense.
He was looking at a blueprint.
He moved to the other side of the table. The manuscript had indicated that the portrait of Hesilrige had been painted over another picture, and not on a blank canvas. Sure enough, traces of the earlier work could be seen beneath both the stone column and the man’s body. A second male had once been present in the position in which the column was now placed. The man, dressed in red, was bending over and seemed to be tying something around the subject’s waist.
François smiled to himself. The story in the manuscript was correct.
The painting of Hesilrige had originally been of Cromwell.
Alain was standing at the head of the table, arms folded and clearly annoyed. “Well?”
François invited him closer, concentrating on the area lit up by the lamp. The most interesting part of the painting was on the right side where Hesilrige’s left hand rested on the helmet. In the original, Cromwell’s hand was in the same place, the position of his fingers the only difference. In the gallery portrait, Cromwell was holding nothing with his left hand.
François now understood why the painting had been changed.
6
Gillian left her office and returned to the CCTV room on the same floor. The footage of the theft had made for unpleasant viewing, even before she’d learned of Cooper’s involvement. Seeing it for a second time, she noticed that Cooper seemed to be taking a backseat, operating in darkness, clearly satisfied that his knowledge of the security system would see them through.
The operation had worked without a hitch.
She fast-forwarded the video to 1:54am, by which time the thieves had made it to the storeroom. Entry to the room had been easy. In a bid to ensure security remained tight, the code changed on a regular basis. Gillian personally saw to it that every member of staff was informed of the change at the start of every month.
Cooper was no exception.
Their search had begun among the silver filing cabinets, used by the gallery to maximise storage efficiency. Cooper and his accomplice had concentrated on one area in particular: searched it thoroughly and apparently found nothing. Lastly, they headed for the vault, a highly secure area located at the far end of the room. Access, again, required a code, but also the inserting of a key card – her key card. Unsurprisingly, entry was attempted, more so by the accomplice than Cooper. A row broke out, the accomplice resorting to violence.
Sure enough, damage had clearly occurred to the door.
Entry prohibited.
Gillian left the room and headed for the storeroom. Although she had seen the footage, she feared what she would find: damaged cabinets, several empty drawers…financial records scattered across the floor.
She inserted the code and entered the room, switching on the light as she passed. The interior seemed unchanged, the cabinets closed, security ensured. After checking the area the thieves had concentrated on and finding nothing amiss, she headed for the vault, inserted her key card and code before pulling the heavy door toward her.
The main vault of the National Portrait Gallery was accessible only to the acting director. Visually it was uninspiring, a cramped and cluttered room with lots of filing cabinets, adjustable shelving units and what appeared to be a forest’s worth of paper. A solitary infrared security camera watched over the room from the far corner; she’d been able to establish from watching footage of the heist that the interior had not been affected.
As best she could tell, the room had not been entered since her last visit.
Returning to her office, she logged in to her computer and brought up information on the lost paintings. The records on the Van Dyck were numerous and easily found: the painting had taken centre stage in her life since the day she’d bought it. The contract regarding transfer of ownership had been signed recently. Tests on the canvas had been frequent. Everything appeared in order
.
Next she tried the Hesilrige. According to the main file, the painting had been bought in 1998 from a grand estate in Leicestershire, owned by Hesilrige’s descendants. The fee was less than she expected, £400,000, indicating the estate had hit upon hard times.
As she attempted to access the accompanying files, something strange happened. Unlike the Van Dyck, the files were encrypted, accessible only by inserting a certain password. She tried again, access denied; strange considering her clearance was above any other at the gallery. She tried them all, no change. Access again denied.
Biting her lip, she picked up the phone and moments later a man answered.
“Hello? Nat? It’s Gillian here…
“I’m well, thank you…
“Nat, I was wondering if you could meet me. Say about an hour?
“Thanks.”
Alone in his office, the head of security had just got off the phone. The conversation had been frank and fraught; in ten years of friendship he’d never known the man to appear so hostile. He’d built an international reputation as a fine leader, and a gentleman. But needs must, as the saying went. The last time the man had felt this sort of pressure he’d avoided a heart attack and a divorce by similar margins.
Life had suddenly taken a bizarre twist.
7
Gillian found Cooper’s address among her records and decided to pay a visit. The location was as she remembered, a character building overlooking Regent’s Park with a white Georgian-style façade and five floors of leadlight windows.
His apartment was on the third.
Cooper was out, or at least not answering. There was no sign of his car in the car park, but she couldn’t see everything standing outside the gate. She thought about calling him on his landline, but decided against it. Even though she doubted Cooper was aware he had been caught on camera, she figured any phone calls relating to the gallery would alert him.
She got back on the Underground at Baker Street and alighted at Charing Cross. She hated the Tube, but she used it anyway – over thirty years living in the city had taught her it was the most sensible way of getting to and from her Kensington townhouse near Gloucester Road.
She left the Tube via the Villiers Street exit and headed southeast. There was a Starbucks on the right side of the road that she used every morning for coffee. She entered through the main entrance and headed for a window seat, ignoring the lengthy queues of Londoners ordering hot drinks and cakes at the counter.
A man was sitting at a two-seater table, drinking a tall latte from a takeaway cup. He rose to his feet as he saw her and smiled.
“Gillian McKevitt.”
Gillian hugged him and sat down opposite, placing her handbag on the floor. An espresso was already waiting for her on the table, a single sachet of sugar on the right side. She smiled.
The man always remembers the little things.
“Thanks for agreeing to see me, Nat.”
Nathaniel Johnstone was a striking figure of a man: fairly tall, slightly overweight, slightly bald and slightly eccentric. His whitening brown hair, combed at a side parting, gave off that rare distinguished air that just seemed to come more naturally to some than others. A smart grey suit brought out the best of his blue eyes and clean-shaven face that had barely changed after five years of retirement.
“That’s perfectly all right, Gill.” He smiled warmly. “It gets me out of the tower.”
Gillian smiled as she took the first sip of her coffee. It was the line he always used when his wife had him on housework duty.
“At least you’re not in danger of losing your head.”
“True. How about yourself?”
Gillian pulled her seat closer to the table and flicked her hair away from her face. “As a matter of fact, I have something of a situation on my hands, and I would very much appreciate your opinion,” she looked over her shoulder. “Would you mind if we did this back at the office?”
Nat ate a muffin as they crossed the road and placed the wrapper in a bin as they approached the main entrance of the gallery. He followed Gillian inside and up the staircase to the second floor. The gallery was still closed to the public and would remain so for a further forty-five minutes. The rooms where the thefts had occurred had been shut off, even to the staff. A white sign with black lettering crossed the doorways on both sides, reading ‘closed for refurbishment’.
Gillian held open the door to her office and offered Nat a seat. He sat down on the visitor’s side of the desk, his eyes immediately scanning the surroundings.
The director’s office differed from the one he’d left behind. Though the interior remained largely unchanged, white walls decorated with pieces from the collection, a soft soothing fragrance frequented the air, its scent undeniably feminine. In five years Gillian had left her mark on the office with changes more subtle than extreme. A photograph of her daughter stood at an angle next to the telephone, and a shopping catalogue was still open on the desk.
Nat smiled but didn’t comment.
“So. What’s this all about?”
Gillian sat down opposite and leaned forward, elbows against the desk. “The gallery was robbed last night. By one of our own.”
Nat raised his eyebrows, causing every line on his forehead to thicken. “Good heavens! What on earth happened?”
Gillian filled him in, starting with the removal of the portraits and finishing with the CCTV footage of Cooper and his accomplice escaping through the front door.
“Judging by the footage, he didn’t expect to be filmed,” she finished. “Of course, I can’t totally rule out he revealed himself on purpose.”
If so, why?
She looked at Nat from across the desk. He had a sorry, yet serious, look in his eye that twenty years of friendship told her meant he was genuinely stuck for words. She remembered Nat as a rare breed, the type of person never prone to fidgeting and somehow capable of standing completely still. During the time she had been speaking, Nat had listened attentively, barely touching his coffee. She knew he was the perfect man to trust. Someone who had experienced what she was going through and come out on top. He had taken her on at the Tate and taught her everything she knew before finally handpicking her as his successor as Director of the National Portrait Gallery.
“May I assume from what you’ve told me that you’re still to contact the authorities?”
“Yes,” she said, still struggling to decide whether she’d made the correct choice. “I discussed it with Daniel, and we decided we might try the personal route first. Our grand opening is scheduled for Monday. The last thing we need is for word to get out.” She sipped her drink. “In any case, I’m not interested in sending a man to jail. All that concerns me are the paintings.”
Nat smiled. Fair enough. “So what have you done?”
“I tried calling by his apartment just now. He was either out or not in the mood for visitors.”
“You tried phoning?”
“No. I thought that also unwise.”
Nat winked and nodded simultaneously. Years of acquaintance told her that was code for ‘sensible girl’.
“I thought you might be able to offer some advice. I know you went through hell and back when those Turners were stolen from the Tate. Besides, you knew him better than me. Did you ever…”
“Suspect he was capable?” He raised his palms flat. “Andrew is a professional art handler. I’ve seen his apartment, too; he has several impressive pieces himself. He knows the history of every painting in those rooms and what they’re worth. If he was looking for a piece to profit from, he chose poorly. The Van Dyck is too well known to be considered sellable, assuming, of course, he doesn’t already have a buyer lined up. But there are others on that floor whose value is around the same.” He prepared to sip from his latte. “You’re quite certain nothing else is missing?”
“Absolutely. They entered the storeroom, but nothing was taken.”
“You say the accomplice was holding a special torch?�
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“Yes. I’m no expert on art robbery, but even from the security camera it was clearly something ultraviolet. He used it on the Hesilrige portrait but not the Van Dyck. He paid particular attention to the lower left corner. It was as if he was looking for something beneath the painting.”
Nat bowed his head. “You’re quite certain?”
Gillian detected a distinct change in his tone. “Yes. Furthermore when I tried to access the files I got nothing but a series of encryptions. The Hesilrige was bought in 1998; according to this, you personally oversaw the purchase,” she tailed off. “I’ve never seen anything like this. What gives?”
Nat took a deep breath and tried to relax his shoulders. Gillian sensed the question had made him uncomfortable, as if she was opening a previously locked door that he hoped had been closed forever.
“I take it you know something,” she pressed.
“About ten years ago, we began what became a thorough four-year period of research and analysis of our entire catalogue. Prior to that time, most of our works had never been subjected to x-ray or infrared examination, and with the advances in the Internet, it was decided that every portrait in the collection would also be scanned and photographed with copies and prints made available for public purchase.”
“Okay,” she said, fully aware of the project. Even before she took the job she remembered the use of the photographic reproductions of the gallery’s portraits had caused controversy when certain other websites started sharing them for free.
“Initially, we chose only a handful to be x-rayed – those considered the most important. Of those selected, all were subjected to further examination, mainly under infrared light. Those of the Tudor and Stuart eras were given top priority,” he began. “About six years ago it was the turn of the Hesilrige…would you mind logging me in?”
Gillian interrupted the screensaver by moving the mouse and typed her password into her desktop computer. Nat, meanwhile, had left his seat and joined her on the opposite side of the desk.
The Cromwell Deception Page 4
