Artifice

by Patrick Gooch

  The guard was the first to find his voice. “It`s impossible! There were always two of us in the vehicle! And we checked it every hour!

  Though the thought came to mind that he had not stirred after the three o`clock inspection. He had fallen into a deep sleep. He wondered if the fellow from the insurance company had checked the vehicle on his own.

  The relief driver murmured. “How could anyone possibly steal all those paintings?”

  Not believing his eyes, he clambered into the transporter, putting out his hands where Turner`s works had been secured.

  The curator told one of the staff to phone the police.

  All the while the press photographers were making the most of the situation. Capturing the dumbfounded stares; the vacant interior of the transporter; and the utter dejection mirrored on each one of the faces of the quartet who had accompanied the paintings.

  Roger Melville told the cameraman to pan across the audience, on the vehicle, and notably the relief driver groping for invisible works of art.

  “Quickly, focus on the chairman of the trustees,” he muttered into the cameraman`s ear. “Get the shock, and the dawning humiliation.”

  It was twenty minutes before the police arrived.

  *

  The communications unit was buzzing repeatedly.

  The driver broke away from the people crowding round the rear of the transporter, and opening the cab door, climbed into his seat.

  “Reg, what`s going on? Why haven`t you started unloading? You shouldn`t leave the vehicle unattended while those paintings are on board.”

  “It doesn`t matter anymore.”

  “What are you talking about? Tell the Gallery to get a move on. We`re still responsible for their safety while they`re in the truck.”

  “Derek, listen to me. We haven`t unloaded them because they`re not in the transporter.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Don`t play games with me, Reg. Just get them inside the building.”

  “I can`t Derek. I repeat, they`re not there. They`ve been stolen!”

  *

  The Scottish police were at a loss to understand how, when the occupants had, seemingly, never left the truck unattended, the paintings had disappeared.

  Chief inspector Frank McClean, who was leading the investigation, was increasingly frustrated at the insistence of each of the four who had travelled in the vehicle, that they had no idea how or when the theft occurred.

  “How, in all that`s holy, could they have been completely unaware the paintings were being stolen from under their noses? It just doesn`t make any sense.”

  “Perhaps, it was an inside job, Guv,” remarked his sergeant.

  McClean shrugged. “If it were, they are all exceptional liars. No… I have to accept the works were taken without their knowledge… but how was it done?”

  *

  The director of Tate Britain was notified of the theft just before the event featured in the midday news bulletins on all the TV and radio stations. Melville`s film was transmitted, showing the doors of the vehicle being flung open onto an empty interior; incomprehension on the faces of the team that had been with the transporter; and the abject dismay of the Kelvingrove people. It was played and reported throughout much of the day and on the evening news programmes.

  Chapter 36

  The booking had been made earlier.

  When they arrived, the coach driver merely showed the parking ticket and was waved through. At this time of year, when only open three days a week, it was a busy time for every member of staff.

  The driver manoeuvred the vehicle round to the parking area, and reversed it into a remote corner. There it remained until the middle of the afternoon, when coaches, from more distant parts, began their return journeys.

  It was close to five o`clock, and growing dark, when they joined the last of the cars, buses and other coaches making their slow exit from Longleat Safari and Adventure Park.

  Then, the vehicle was driven thirty miles into Dorset, and parked in the Brickfields Industrial Estate in Gillingham. The trio changed into casual, nondescript clothing, and while two always stayed with the vehicle, each of them, in turn, went in search of a pub or restaurant for an evening meal.

  At eleven o`clock they were once more on the move.

  They passed through Shaftesbury, taking the A3081 which merged into Dinah`s Hollow Road. As they pulled into the yard, the large, sliding doors were opened, and the vehicle eased into the interior of the storehouse.

  Lights were extinguished: the doors silently rolled back and carefully locked.

  Chapter 37

  Editing the Newlyn School special was forgotten when I heard the news.

  I phoned Murdoch, made some lame excuse, and caught the first available train. I ran out the station and a cab took me to Mead Court.

  McKenna and I watched the television in the study for most of that fateful day.

  Each time the newscast was transmitted, so the dread of exposure had grown.

  In one newsreel a photographer had captured looks of horror on all the dignitaries. Even the cameraman, alongside Roger Melville, looked shocked. Strangely, in that fleeting moment, Melville had a semblance of a smirk on his features.

  *

  Early the next morning, my mobile phone rang. I grabbed it from the bedside table.

  “Hello?”

  “I am told by my people that everything is safely tucked away,” murmured Engel. “And there should be little likelihood of the goods being disturbed. However, they will be returning tomorrow to install some equipment. As a precaution, you understand.”

  There was a click, then the dialling tone. He had rung off.

  *

  Chief Inspector McClean flew down to London to interview the people at Tate Britain and Travis Fine Art Services.

  He spoke at length with the forwarding and packing departments, trying to understand their methods, the materials they used and the manner in which the paintings were installed in the metal carrying boxes.

  At the Travis` warehouses he went through a similar exercise. Asking detailed questions of how the crates were loaded, how they were secured, and their relative placement within the vehicle. After that he questioned Derek in the operations room.

  “We`re called `watchers`, here, at Travis,” he explained. “When they are carrying valuable cargoes, we monitor each of our transporters, with the utmost care. There`s a communications unit installed in our vehicles that relays a constant flow of information. We know where a vehicle is at any given moment: if it`s travelling at the correct speed, if it`s stationary, if any of the doors are open. We also inform the drivers what the road conditions ahead are like. Moreover, on jobs such as the one in question, we send a guard, and regularly invite a representative of the insurance company to travel with the transporter, to oversee the precautions we take. We would know immediately if our people were attacked when on the move. We have a panic button on the steering column, which if pressed, ensures instantaneous reaction on our part, and alerts the police to likely danger.”

  McClean nodded, and thanked the watcher.

  “I have one more question for your despatch people. Could someone escort me back there?”

  “Allow me,” responded Derek. “I`ll show you the way.”

  After walking the length of several corridors, descending three flights of stairs, they went through a door into the department. Derek called over the foreman.

  “I should have asked you earlier,” remarked McClean. “Would you mind giving me samples of the internal packing materials you use, also the ropes, expandable ties, and could you spare a typical crate that will fit the boot of a car?”

  McClean called in at New Scotland Yard to discuss the theft with the Art and Antiques Unit. He remembered talking about a spate of antique thefts some years ago with an inspector called Timmings. The fellow was still there.

  They shook hands. McClean took a chair, and glanced round the room.

  “Where are all the
others?”

  “There aren`t many others, Frank. We`re in the front line when it came to cutting costs.”

  “But how do you manage?”

  “Not particularly well. Art crime has risen steadily. Do you know the annual loss is now about three hundred million pounds? Not long ago, to keep the unit at operating strength, someone had the bright idea of seeking private backing. They went cap in hand to the auction houses, galleries, insurance companies and art dealers. No one wanted to know.”

  “But surely the insurance companies need the resources you can provide?”

  “I would agree. But they seem to prefer outsiders, freelance art detectives, to do the work… no doubt paying out more money than if they`d helped fund us. In truth, we occasionally call upon their services as well. But that`s by the bye. Presumably, Frank, you`re here because of the little, local difficulty in Glasgow.”

  *

  On the train back to Glasgow McClean realised that while the scene of the crime was on his patch, the theft most likely took place across the border. Probably, when the vehicle stopped at a service station, or conceivably at the secure lorry park near Carlisle. Which would mean pooling his efforts and potential findings with the Cumbria, West Yorkshire and Northants police forces.

  Observing protocol, McClean first contacted the headquarters of the Cumbria police at Carleton Hall in Penrith. Acknowledging his request he spoke with the superintendent in charge of the divisional section in Carlisle. It was agreed that he would liaise with an inspector at the secure lorry facility that afternoon.

  But first he had a question for the forensic team which had examined the transporter.

  “Tell me, Ian, is that correct? You found nothing in the vehicle, it was totally clean?”

  “As clean as a whistle, Frank,” responded the head of the department. “And that’s saying something. Invariably there is something left behind, even if it`s a speck of foreign dust. Whoever lifted the works of art must have been dressed like we are when on a case.”

  “Mm… what about the securing ropes and ties? Wouldn`t they leave an indication they were used to hold down the crates?”

  “As I said, Frank, nothing. It was as though they had vacuumed it clean afterwards.”

  “Strange... they couldn`t have had that much time. Thanks, Ian.”

  A thought was taking a vague shape in his mind.

  *

  McClean met Detective Inspector Francis at the entrance to the secure lorry park on the outskirts of Carlisle.

  “You`ve got a tricky one on your hands, Chief Inspector,” said the Carlisle policeman, with a smile. “How does a lorry-load of expensive paintings simply disappear into thin air?”

  “That`s what I`ve got to find out,” replied McClean grimly.

  “Well, I`ve had a quick word with the security staff. They are as baffled as you are.”

  McClean hid his annoyance. He wanted to tackle them himself, to get their individual responses to his questionning.

  “Nevertheless, DI Francis, I still want a word with them. Then I want to see where the vehicle was parked overnight.”

  The man from Carlisle shrugged. “Be my guest.”

  It transpired two of the four guards on duty that night were working the day shift. To avoid asking questions in front of the others, McClean said to one of them, “Would you mind showing me exactly where the transporter was located?”

  The two of them walked across the largely empty lorry park.

  “Was anything said, when they arrived?” queried McClean. “I know it was at ten twenty eight, I`ve seen the check-in times.”

  “That`s right. They had pre-booked. Even requested the café to stay open for a meal. The next contact we had with them was just after one o`clock. My mate saw lights flashing and we went over to where they were parked. But it appears that they have to check the vehicle every hour to ensure it hasn`t been tampered with, and they were using torches. ”

  “Did you see lights after that?”

  “A couple of times. But we knew what it was, so we took no further notice,” explained the security guard.

  “Any other odd occurence?”

  “Not really… they were later than they should have been leaving. We were told seven o`clock, but it was nearer half past. That`s all I can think of.”

  “Hmm… thank you. You`ve been helpful,” added McClean. Though, in truth he was no further forward.

  At the checkpoint, Francis had gone outside for a cigarette, so there was no need to draw the other guard away.

  McClean asked the same questions, and got the same answers.

  A few minutes later the Carlisle inspector appeared. They shook hands with the two guards and walked out to their respective cars.

  “Was that useful? Has it taken the case any further forward?” asked Francis.

  “You know the game as well as I do,” McClean responded. “Maybe it has, maybe it hasn`t. You don`t know if you`ve dredged up a nugget until you have all the pieces, and can complete the jigsaw.”

  “Well, if you`re coming back, give me a ring and we`ll meet up.”

  The guard to whom he had first spoken came out to open the security gates.

  Francis drove out, and McClean went to follow. But as he was about to drive through, he stopped and wound down his window.

  “By the way, who told you they were leaving at seven the next morning?”

  “Why, the driver of the other transporter.”

  Chapter 38

  “Do you mean to say they took both sets of keys?”

  “Have you seen the size of these people? Not only that, one of them was armed. I saw it in a shoulder holster under his jacket,” McKenna said irritatedly.

  “Well, they are coming back today to install something or other,” I said. “Engel phoned to tell me.”

  “Bastard! We really have met wi` a myresnipe! Let`s hope the mee-maws stay away.”

  “What on earth are you talking about, McKenna?”

  “Sorry, Scottish slang. It comes out when I`m up against it. It means we really are in the shit, let`s hope the police don`t pay us a visit.”

  “Well, we`ve got to do something to get rid of all those paintings. Gurlitt`s, The Beach, and now the Turners.”

  “How on earth can we do that with Engel threatening to expose us?”

  “Not you… we can keep you out of it.”

  “Don`t be daft, laddie. I`m as much involved as you are. Engel has seen to that.”

  “Well then… we`ve got to make Engel move them himself,” I retorted.

  I thought through the idea for a moment.

  I turned to McKenna.

  “What would make him panic and look to shifting them elsewhere?”

  He shrugged. “If the police got wind of what was in the warehouse, I suppose.”

  “Exactly.”

  “For Lord`s sake, caw the polis? Chuir sin an clamhan gobhlach am measg nan cearc!”

  “Meaning?”

  “Sorry… put the red kite among the hens. The same as the cat among the pigeons.”

  “Mm… right. But, supposing they were not real policemen. What if they only looked like policemen?”

  Something caught my eye.

  A car was making its cautious way up the drive, coming to rest on the forecourt. An elderly man eased himself from the driver`s seat, collected a walking stick, and made his way slowly across to the entrance.

  I grinned. “Come to the door with me, McKenna.”

  The peal of the bell-pull announced our visitor.

  I opened the door with a flourish.

  “Hello, Roger. How are you?”

  “How the devil did you recognise me? This is my best disguise.”

  “McKenna, I want you to meet Roger Tamworth. We met when we wanted to find out more about Horst Schendler.”

  I shook his hand, delighted to see him once again.

  “The disguise is excellent. I wouldn`t have known you, except for the car you drive. Anyway, come in… come in.�
��

  I led him into the drawing room. “Now, what can I get you, Roger? Tea, coffee, or something stronger?”

  Tea would be fine.”

  “Right, I`ll just tell Mrs Dimmock.”

  But McKenna rose. “Leave it to me. I`ll have a word with her.”

  When the door closed behind him, Tamworth said, “I wanted a private word with you, Alan. Can we speak before he comes back?”

  “Of course.”

  “The profile of Horst Schendler. Can I ask why you wanted the information? You see, as well as being a private detective and all that that entails, I also work for a company that seeks out expensive items that disappear. In that capacity, I`ve been engaged to help find some missing works of art.”

  He looked at me keenly.

  “You know that Schendler is… was… an international art thief and has been supplanted by his number two, Peter Engel. Well, Engel now runs the show, and the theft I`m investigating has all the hallmarks of a heist Schendler, and now his successor, might have undertaken. Knowing of your previous interest, I thought I`d start the ball rolling by talking to you.”

  “What, er… theft is it?”

  “The Turner paintings. You must have heard about it. It`s been in all the news.”

  I wanted time to think, so I asked the obvious question.

  “First of all, Roger, why the disguise?”

  “I know you work in London, and probably don`t get down here all that often.”

  Suddenly, he looked a little sheepish. “If you were not here, and I arrived on the doorstep unadorned, whoever answered the door would be able to describe me, and you would question my reasons for calling. I wanted to appear the anonymous stranger.”

  Mrs Dimmock came in with a tray, poured the tea, and shut the door quietly behind her.

  Reading between the lines, he was suspicious of my motives in seeking information about Schendler. Perhaps he thought I had been in league with him, and maybe transferred that association to Engel. Well, I suppose I was in league with Engel, but not in the way he would ever imagine.

  “So, can I ask…” Tamworth hesitated for a moment. “Can I ask why you wanted to know about Schendler?”