Artifice

by Patrick Gooch

  Driving more cautiously on minor roads he reached the village of Penhow. The roadway narrowed sharply, and at times the transporter brushed the hedges on either side. Fortunately, at three thirty in the morning, it was the only vehicle using the lanes.

  Thirty minutes later the headlights picked out their destination.

  The Wentwood Reservoir.

  His mate in the passenger seat jumped out of the cab, and using bolt cutters he made short work of the chain and padlock securing the iron gates. Pushing them back, he beckoned the vehicle forward, and the car which was following.

  He went ahead, leading the transporter along the grass verge for about two hundred metres, where he had been told the reservoir was at its deepest. The driver turned the vehicle slowly to face the expanse of water. Then he opened the cab doors, while his mate dropped the tail lift and opened the rear doors.

  He touched the throttle briefly, selected first gear, then pressed his foot hard down on the pedal. The transporter leapt forward, all the time gathering speed until it soared free of the bank and plunged out over the water. It seemed to hang in the air. The tumbling figure of the driver hit the water first, followed instantly by the thunderous crash of the vehicle, sending up a gigantic plume of water, and a huge ripple which spread across the surface of the reservoir.

  They hauled the soaking wet driver onto the bank, where he was covered in a blanket and bundled into the car. A new chain, padlock with the key in place, were thrown around the gates before they drove off.

  Retracing their route was much quicker. By six o`clock they were back at the house in Shaftesbury.

  *

  I was standing in the barn housing Gurlitt`s truck.

  “You wouldna believe it, laddie,” said McKenna softly. “Nicholls actually gave John Fielding and I a hand to load it.”

  “The trouble is, McKenna, we`ve got to move it. It can`t stay here. It`s a constant threat, worse with Engel on our backs the whole time. But how do we return all Turner`s works and the Laura Knight painting without revealing our involvement? We can`t just abandon the truck somewhere in the hope someone will find it and notify the authorities.”

  Chapter 44

  “You wouldn`t believe it! Yes, it is a major art theft, Jim, that`s why you`re here. But the superintendent is on my back every five minutes. Then, I find he is getting it in the neck from a commissioner in Scotland Yard!”

  “Well, it is bigger than most art crimes, Frank,” murmured Inspector Timmings. “But I think you`re making reasonable progress.”

  “Tell that to them upstairs!”

  “Have you told them it was a people switch, not the trucks?”

  “Yes, but all they always want to know is what I`m doing next,” muttered McClean. “How close I am to making an arrest. I`ve been told to give it absolute priority. What is more, the super is allocating another six detectives to help us.”

  “Well, I`ve spoken with all my contacts in London, and the rest of the dens of iniquity,” declared Timmings, “I`m fast coming to the opinion it`s not anyone in this country who masterminded the heist. In any case it would have been too big for them. It must have cost a packet to set it up.

  “Our next step should be to contact Interpol. I can do that as I know the people to speak to. I would have put my money on half a dozen people who, world-wide, were capable of pulling it off. Close to the top of the list would have been this fellow, Horst Schendler. But he`s dead. Of course, it doesn`t preclude his successor from continuing in the same vein. He`s got a ready-made organisation to work with.”

  “I think you mentioned him, Jim,” mused McClean. “Someone called Engel wasn`t it?”

  “Yes, Peter Engel. Schendler was an art expert. He never got his hands dirty, was never involved in any actual art theft. But he was always close when moving goods on to clients, and being paid. If Engel copies his ways, he could well do the same. I know he now lives in what was once Schendler`s place in Switzerland. I`ll speak to the Swiss, see if I can find out about his recent movements.”

  *

  “Interesting, Frank. I spoke with them, then the police in Lucerne. Although they couldn`t confirm he was a passenger, Engel`s plane, a Piper Seneca, has recently flown out of the country on six occasions.”

  Timmings looked at his notes. “The plane is based at Buochs Airport, just across Lake Lucerne from Vitznau. According to the flight plans lodged with control, they`ve all been to northern Germany. But these could have been changed en route. Now the thing is, if by chance, he has flown to Britain, I doubt he would have chosen a popular airport. It would more likely have been to a smaller, private airfield.”

  “How many of those are there?”

  “At the last count… a hundred and thirty.”

  I suppose we`ll have to phone them all to find out,” muttered McClean.

  “Not us, Frank. Your six little helpers the super has provided.”

  *

  Some hours later, the six detectives had finished their telephone calls, but had nothing concrete to report. Nine of the airfields had received such aircraft in recent weeks, but on checking their records, none matched the registration, D-GVAA.

  Frank McClean and Jim Timmings contacted each of the nine, trying to elicit the descriptions of the passengers. While, for the most part, it was a fruitless exercise, the air ground operator at the airfield at Compton Abbas did recall that a Piper Seneca had flown in on four separate occasions. However, as she had mentioned to the detective who phoned earlier, the aircraft had a Danish registration, OY- AXF.

  Now why would a plane from Denmark regularly land at an isolated airfield on the Dorset/Wilshire border, wondered McClean.

  *

  At that precise moment Peter Engel was crossing the sea off San Sebastián in north-east Spain, heading for Bayonne in France. He had spent a profitable day with his Spanish agent, who had picked him up at the Vitoria-Gasteiz Airport sixty kilometres south of Bilbao.

  They had been to the Guggenheim Museum to visit the Hilla Rebay exhibition and taken careful note how they might liberate the abstract artist`s renowned astrological chart. Not being a high-value work of art, security was lax. It would not demand too much effort, or expense, to satisfy the wishes of one of his more affluent clients.

  The pilot was heading for Brive-La-Gaillarde, a hundred kilometres south of Limoges in the Limousin region of France.

  Ninety minutes later they prepared for landing at the local airfield, just three kilometres west of the town. It was abandoned when they built the new airport thirteen kilometres further out.

  The runway remained intact, and there were engineering services occupying several of the buildings alongside the tarmac strip.

  As the Piper rolled to a standstill, several boiler-suited workers immediately manoeuvred the plane into one of the empty hangars. A mechanic, whom Engel paid well for his services, and to keep his mouth firmly shut, removed the decals to reveal the original German registration, D-VGAA.

  The plane was pushed onto the apron, where the pilot took control. He taxied to the end of the runway and lined up for take-off.

  But then the plane taxied back to the hangar, and Engel climbed out.

  “Pierre, can I use your telephone, please?” he asked the mechanic.

  A Gallic shrug. “Of course, Herr Engel.”

  He strode through the workshop to an untidy, glass-walled office. Turning his back against on-lookers, he dialled a mobile number.

  “Yes?” Impatience was implicit in the tone.

  “Minister, I presume your part in the exchange is progressing. I shall now tell you how it will take place. The Marbles will be packed into shipping containers and taken to Southampton Docks on the twenty second of the month. A Panamax class ship will occupy berth two, and will be ready to load your containers at thirteen hundred hours.

  “I shall release my hold on the Turner paintings when the ship sets sail and is moving under its own power towards the estuary. Just to make sure, while I believe you are
a man of your word, Minister, one false move on your part would ensure you would never see the paintings again. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You do, whoever you are.”

  “Good. Now I have done the calculations. I shall expect four, maybe five containers to arrive at the dockside ready to be loaded. The doors will be unbolted, for I shall inspect the contents thoroughly. Again, any attempt to foist other than the true statuary upon me will result in the destruction of the Turners. Until the twenty second.”

  The line went dead.

  “Did they get that? Where was he speaking from?” The Minister called to his Personal Private Secretary.

  “Just a minute, Minister. Hello, yes… From where? The outskirts of Limoges? Are you sure? OK, thank you.”

  “Check the ship`s details,” ranted the Minister. “Find out who owns it, what its destination is. Do whatever you can.”

  A few minutes later.

  “It`s registered in Liberia, and is currently unloading mostly machinery and transport equipment from Malaysia. It appears its next destination is Famagusta, Northern Cyprus, Minister.”

  “Right, well if they escape the net, we`ll get the thieves there.”

  “Famagusta is a free port, Minister. They and the goods need not come landside if they are being transhipped somewhere else.”

  “Like Greece for instance?”

  A brief nod of assent.

  Chapter 45

  I could not get Sophie out of my mind all that weekend. Odd, really. In the past my thoughts would rarely dwell on a romantic involvement.

  On Sunday morning I took the dog for a walk, and did not realise how long I`d been, until I opened the back lobby door, and started easing my feet out of the wellington boots.

  The inner door flew open, and mother rushed up and hugged me. Then she did something I had not experienced in years. She slapped me… hard.

  “What the hell was that for?”

  McKenna appeared behind her.

  “You`ve been away too long for comfort, laddie,” he mumbled. “Your mother was worried Engel`s people might have got to you.”

  Then he did something. I could not believe my eyes.

  He put his arms around her, and she buried her face in his neck.

  “It`s all right, Suzanna, he`s home now,” he whispered in her ear.

  *

  “How long has this being going on?”

  The two of them were sitting on a settee in the drawing room.

  They glanced at each other.

  McKenna said hesitantly, “About six months. We were going to tell you, but somehow… sorry.”

  “Don`t apologise, Jerry,” interrupted my mother. “What I choose to do is my business. No one else`s.”

  I remembered his forename was Jeremiah. She could not possibly call him that whenever she wanted to attract his attention..

  “Won`t be a minute.”

  I walked through to the back of the house. A few minutes later I returned with a bottle of champagne.

  “I apologise to you both,” I said. “Of course you are your own woman, mother. So, I think it calls for a toast.”

  I popped the cork and poured out three glasses.

  “Here`s to you both.”

  *

  On the train back to London Roger Tamworth phoned.

  “Alan, it`s Roger. As I am suffering the nearest thing to a panic attack, I thought I`d call you to ease my nerves. You can probably hear them jangling.”

  “Is that what the noise is? Well, I can probably temper your concern a little, Roger. Would you believe, the merchandise is in our possession? Though I`ve yet to come up with a way of restoring it to its owner.”

  “That really is good news. I shall sleep a little easier now. By the way I have to be in London on Tuesday. Any chance of getting together?”

  “Well, I`ll be free from six o`clock onwards. Come round to my place and we`ll take it from there.”

  I gave him the address of the apartment.

  The next morning I strolled into the Culture Show offices to discuss how they would want me to front the special. Fairly straightforward, a simple introduction live to camera. Ben Ashley`s desk was vacant. As I had arranged a meeting with him, I asked one of them where he was.

  “Haven`t you heard? He`s at home packing.”

  Just then John Beatty came through the door.

  “Ah, Alan. Got a minute?”

  We went into his room.

  “Shut the door, will you?”

  I pushed it to, wondering what he wanted to tell me in private.

  “We`ve had news from above,” he began. “Rather shocking news, actually. They`ve cut The Culture Show in its present form.”

  “What! Do you mean that running around the countryside doing that recent documentary on the Newlyn School was all in vain?”

  “No, no. We`ll keep the specials to four or five a year, but the usual style of show is out. The idea now is to produce a series of thirty minute shows, mainly for radio. Ben is on his way to Salford, as we speak, to begin mapping out format, style and series content. What that now means, and I`m sorry to say this, is that while we would like you to do a special periodically, we won`t be using you on a regular basis. It`s all part of the lean and hungry look the BBC is aiming for.”

  “What about the Vermeer special I`ve been working on?” I asked Beatty. “Is that still on the schedule?”

  “Ahh… maybe… maybe not. Until Ben comes back and we discuss the initial tranche of thirty minute shows, which, by the way, will be fronted by well-known TV presenters, I cannot say. The thing is, Alan, it is going to be more a topical show, widening its appeal to engage with new viewers. It`s being described as the `cultural partner to Newsnight`.”

  I went to the studio, did the opener to the Newlyn School documentary, and took a taxi back to St George`s Square. I had been given the heave-ho from a job I enjoyed immensely, and it hurt.

  I was still feeling depressed when the intercom buzzed.

  I pressed the button to unlock the door, and a few minutes later this sailor walked into the apartment.

  I watched him come towards me.

  “Is that supposed to be a cunning disguise? I always thought detectives liked to be lost in the crowd. To remain invisible. You stand out like a sore thumb.”

  “I thought it rather dashing. Do you like the beard? Lieutenant Tamworth at your service.”

  “I was going to take you out for a meal. Now, I`m not so sure in that outfit. Anyway, let me offer you a drink. What would you like?”

  “Just a beer, please. Rum I`ll save for later.”

  We drank our beers in silence.

  “Do I observe that you are somewhat downcast?” Roger said lightly. But there was an edge to his voice. “Nothing has gone wrong, I hope. You still have the Turners?”

  “Yes, it`s not that. The BBC has canned me. Given me the heave-ho. The Culture Show is out… long live the arts. Now they are giving thirty minutes to art topics of the day, such as elephants wielding paintbrushes, the American abstract painter and sculptor, Ellsworth Kelly, who died at ninety two… ”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. Oh yes, and thirty minutes of off-the-wall theories of what happened to the Turner paintings.”

  “Ouch. Right, I`m taking you to dinner. You can`t sit here feeling sorry for yourself. You need cheering up.”

  As he was getting to his feet, Roger said, “There was a reason I wanted a word with you. I`ve been thinking. Obviously, Engel has a client about to take possession of the Turners, and he will have paid a handsome sum already to finance the operation. What will happen when they both find they`ve been duped? More to the point, what will Engel do when he realises you must have been involved somehow? He is not going to be best pleased.”

  “That has been on my mind as well. Worse, he might take revenge on my mother and Mckenna. I was thinking that I could tip off the police when he moves or empties the container. But, he would be bound to tell them of our invol
vement, and they would soon discover he was telling the truth. As I see it, the only way is to send them off somewhere until it all blows over.”

  “And you? What are you going to do?”

  “I haven`t got an answer at the moment, Roger.”

  “Well, we`d better come up with one pretty quickly, my friend. If nothing more than borrowing some of my disguises.”

  *

  We went to a little Italian restaurant a short walk from the Square.

  However, I wasn`t particularly good company. Losing my job and the threat of retribution from Engel weighed heavily on my mind. Gradually, though, Roger lifted me out of the gloom. Though, it may also have been the wine he kept pouring into my glass.

  Towards the end of the meal, he asked. “So, what are you going to do now?”

  “What?”

  “I said, what are you going to do now? In terms of employment, I mean.”

  Confronted by the suddenness of the question, my befuddled brain could not come up with an immediate reply.

  “Sit at home and mope, I suppose. Dwell on the memory of things past. Write a book… everyone seems to be doing that these days. I don`t know. Enrol as a mature student and read religion. Paint. I`m quite good at painting, you know.”

  I leaned over the table, took hold of the bottle and poured more wine in my glass.

  “I had a Rousseau painting. One of his jungle works. I painted a copy and fooled this man Engel. I deliberately painted it on board. Rousseau never used board. Anway, he took it off to one of his clients, and no one was any the wiser,” I grinned at him. “I kept the original for myself.”

  For some reason, my vision was narrowing.

  Roger Tamworth was sitting opposite me, but it was like looking at him down a tunnel.

  “Do you know you`re sitting in a tunnel, old friend?” I grinned at him again, and raised the glass to my lips. Somehow, it missed, and liquid went down my collar.

  “I think it`s time we left, Alan,” Roger murmured.

  He paid the bill, and helped me from the chair.

  Outside he was holding my arm.

  “I am perfectly able to walk by myself, thank you.”