The Unknown Masterpiece

by John Brooke

  She crept closer. There: a figure on the shore.

  Aliette took another step, careful, aware of her feet on doubtful purchase.

  He was naked, standing on a large rock, perched there, white back, falling hair, lean buttocks, taut legs, an arm outstretched like a sentinel signalling. And so deathly white set against shapeless darkness. Like marble. A perfect, statuesque pose, strange and oddly beautiful.

  Aliette Nouvelle did know how to process what she saw, except to feel that it was somehow remarkable, almost unworldly. Of course he did not have wings — but the image of an angel came to mind. Her impulse was to get closer, to see his face full on.

  And so another breathless step, inching down and closer…

  She slipped on a loose rock, cursing, ‘Bordel!’

  She was on her feet in a second, calling, ‘Police! Halt!’

  But the figure on the shore dove into the dark canal and disappeared.

  Not a trace, not a ripple, as she reached the place and stood there on the shore.

  7

  Not Just Another Morning at FedPol

  Swiss side

  Agent Franck Woerli was pleased to do a favour for the French cop. As a member of FedPol, the Swiss Federal Criminal Police, Woerli’s purview was both extra- and international. And his inclination was to do what he could to counter the small-minded actions of too many local counterparts. He knew all about the sort of petty-minded crap Basel City Police Commander Heinrich Boehler threw in the way of what should have been straightforward, coordinated information sharing amongst police. Boehler was devoutly pro-gun, very active in ProTell, the Swiss version of the NRA. He routinely blocked the sharing of gun registry information out of an inflated and retrogressive sense of patriotism attached to the national reputation for guarding privacy at whatever cost, and especially from foreigners. Franck Woerli was quietly ashamed to be even remotely associated with the likes of Heinrich Boehler. He was glad to make the call for Inspector Nouvelle. They had accomplished good things together, the latest being their central role in bringing down a trans-Euro hashish importation ring. About four years ago? Time flew. Woerli had been deskbound lately, investigating payroll fraud. But his desk had a phone and he had rank. He used it and extracted the required information.

  He got back to her within the hour. The gun was registered to VigiTec, the security firm where her victim was employed.

  ‘Merci, Franki. It’s what I feared…’ A pause. A pause he could feel. In that French voice he did enjoy, she put it to him. ‘In the mood for some work, Agent Woerli?’

  ‘I would love it, Inspector. Unfortunately I’m up to my ears in payroll tax fiddles. Not too exciting, to say the least, but with all the migrant workers flowing in, it’s big a problem. And you know, a simple murder, I think you may have to work this one with the Commander.’

  ‘But it’s not so simple…’ Aliette Nouvelle hesitated again at the other end of the line. Then, with a what-the-hell kind of sigh, she said, ‘We also have a painting. Probably Swiss-owned.’ She described the ruined piece found near the victim. ‘Art means you people, not Boehler, yes?’

  ‘Normally, but not absolutely.’ Woerli paused to open the newspaper on the desk in front of him — they’d moved Monday’s headline story to page three. ‘You say Friday night?’

  ‘Our best guess.’

  ‘That makes two in…looks like the same day. Art-related murders, I mean.’ He filled her in. Justin Aebischer, a well-regarded Basel art restorer, had been murdered on or about Friday afternoon or evening. Found Sunday on his back patio, sodden with the past weekend’s rain, a bullet through his head. ‘Not here. Biel. A village an hour out of town. Perp came up from the forest, through his garden and shot him. He worked there, studio’s in his basement. So — ’

  ‘So that is interesting, Franki. Justin Aebischer. Did a painting go missing?’

  ‘They are not saying much about that. As usual, it’s someone else’s business.’

  In the same way Swiss democracy affords cantonal politics maximum leeway for laws and structures, the Swiss policing system confers maximum control on canton forces. Thus Heinrich Boehler could rule Basel City canton like the Sheriff of Nottingham. And whoever ran the Basel Lands force would have complete jurisdiction over the past weekend’s murder in Biel.

  ‘But, Franki, if a Swiss painting ends up in France?’

  ‘But,’ he said, quiet and patient, ‘we won’t know that until they decide to tell us.’

  ‘No.’ A pause. Franck Woerli wondered if the French cop could hear his weary resignation.

  In that French pause, FedPol Agent Woerli reflected bitterly as to how he hated payroll fraud. Strictly numbers, dry as a bone. Only saving grace: it was an extra-territorial issue, no question, and he could actually close a case. Trying to work in a coordinated manner with the cantons was worse than frustrating. It was soul-killing. ‘Excuse me? Sorry…’

  She repeated, ‘Do you know a place called Zup?’

  ‘A place called Zup?’

  ‘A club. A gay nightclub in the old city.’

  ‘Can’t say I do, Inspector.’

  ‘No…’ Another noticeable pause. ‘Can you find out more about this Justin Aebischer?’

  ‘I probably could.’

  ‘Bring it to me. I’ll buy you lunch. At the Rembrandt.’

  She could not see it from France, but the offer brought a spontaneous smile. ‘I would enjoy that. Give me a day?’

  ‘Of course. Merci, Franki.’

  ‘You are most welcome. I look forward to seeing you again.’

  And to lunch. That Dutchman who ran the place where they met whenever he made the trip to the otherwise dull city up the road — van Hoogsomething? — was a genius with carp taken from the streams in the forestlands along the border. The pleasing thought of a special meal and a few hours in the company of Inspector Nouvelle left Franck Woerli staring out at the Rhine. A tiny section was always there, visible from his office in a sixth-floor suite on Freiestrasse, just where it met Eisenstrasse. The humidity had blown away with a pre-dawn shower. Today the river ran silvery and energetic on a blustery overcast morning.

  A body. Art-related? He wondered what it held in store.

  Amazing how a phone call will poke a hole in the greyness that settles on the soul.

  He got up from his desk and went down the hall. To Cultural Crimes. ‘Morning…’

  Agent Josephina Perella was another mid-level senior rank veteran, fiftyish, Franck Woerli’s contemporary, a career cop who’d studied in Florence, Paris and in Basel, of course. For the last dozen years she had headed a small but busy brigade dedicated to the investigation of crimes related to cultural artifacts, institutions and transactions. The art squad. Though her team’s solve record could hold up against most any of their counterparts’ across Europe, Josephina rarely smiled. A dour, largish woman, she did not smile when Franck Woerli appeared at her office door — just turned in her chair and fixed him with a questioning look.

  ‘What can you tell me about Justin Aebischer?’

  ‘Nothing more than I’ve read in the paper.’ Her lack of emotion was a professional thing. Franck Woerli recognized it because he felt it himself. A weariness borne of too many years of systemic futility? He could not really call her a friend but he could always see it in her almond-shaped Longobard eyes. Franck and Josephina communicated in their silent way.

  ‘I mean about him. Just got an interesting call from a French friend… You know him?’

  She shrugged. ‘In passing. Affiliated with the Kunstmuseum but hardly ever there lately — too much private work. Specialized in the Baroque. Very talented and highly regarded.’

  ‘Is he gay?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, Franck.’ A certain frown added to the flat tone said Josephina did not want to get into sexual gossip. Franck doubted sex played much of a part in her life. Inspector Perella swung her chair back round to face her desk, as if to say that’s all I know, goodbye.

&n
bsp; Franck Woerli was wanting to impress Inspector Nouvelle with some useful information, and it was not just to justify the lunch she’d promised. He needed to. He badly needed to feel the spark that came from being actively involved in a real case — on the ground, as it were. He knew that Basel held the largest repository of art in Switzerland. The city’s museums and private galleries were a source of civic pride and steady tourist trade. It also meant a lot of art went missing. Most files came to FedPol because most stolen art passed out of the country. When Franck Woerli asked Josephina Perella if a murdered VigiTec security guard found in the river on the French side with a painting on the rocks nearby might have a connection with any of her files, she was jolted out of her moody cloud. Perella spun back round, immediately intrigued.

  ‘Name of Martin Bettelman.’

  ‘Doesn’t ring a bell,’ was her immediate response. But Woerli sensed she was as excited as he by the possibility of taking part in something with warm guts. ‘What painting?’

  ‘They don’t know…pretty bashed up. ID-ing it could obviously help.’

  Josephina Perella’s eyes darkened spontaneously. She went directly to her computer.

  ‘No…’ Martin Bettelman was nowhere in her directory. ‘Worked for VigiTec?’

  ‘Yes. For ten years or so.’

  ‘A bashed-up painting on the French side?’…musing on it, running her cursor down her docket. She had directives and leads on missing pieces pointing to Germany, Scotland, Japan, Saudi Arabia, Los Angeles, Florida…But, ‘I see nothing moving through France at the moment. Your friend’s Fine Art group in Quai d’Orfevres are good at sharing. I suggest she call them.’

  ‘But it could’ve come across from here — same day as this Aebischer, Josephina. Worth a look? A call?’ He meant to the investigators at Biel. Did she hear the urgent thing he was suddenly feeling? ‘I mean if art goes missing, you are the best source in the region and they — ’

  ‘The problem is, Franck, they wouldn’t necessarily know. They don’t know art from artichokes, most of them. More to the point, the business is so secretive. If someone brings a million-franc painting to Justin Aebischer for cleaning, they are going to be very, very discreet.’

  He nodded, took two deep breaths. ‘Mm, makes it hard.’

  ‘Very. Does it matter if Aebischer was gay?’

  ‘This Martin Bettelman was. Frequented some club in the old city.’

  ‘Right.’ Perella saw the obvious possibilities.

  ‘They’d have to let you in, Josephina.’ Let her in to the Aebischer investigation. ‘And you might enjoy my friend on the French police. I’ve worked with her. She’s good.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Franck Woerli watched her weighing his proposition. He asked, ‘You like fried carp?’

  ‘If it’s done right,’ Josephina said. Again her eyes betrayed her.

  ‘What if it’s done perfectly?’

  Woerli caught the traces of a smile. It was couched in consternation, but it was there.

  Perella nodded in her dour way. ‘I’ll call my friend Dieter.’ Dieter Taub was Head of Resource Allocation at VigiTec. ‘When paintings go missing in Basel it’s a good bet VigiTec has or has had contracts with the owner, be it gallery or home. Not certain, mind you — it’s a competitive market.’

  ‘OK, Josephina. You lead…’ Franck Woerli realized he was smiling. The ball was rolling. Josephina Perella was acting like a cop taking control of an investigation. It did his heart good to see a sense of purpose there. It had been a while. He felt it reflecting back inside himself.

  He was another cop who did not know art from artichokes. But he knew murder, and after too much time in the muffled world of tax fraud numbers he longed to be involved.

  8

  Our Murder, Their Painting

  French side

  ‘So: Our murder. Their painting.’

  ‘Seems so.’

  Claude hadn’t woken when she’d crawled in beside him the previous night. She’d hurried out before he’d got down to the kitchen that morning. But once at the office, it was her duty to inform him of her movements on the new case. Alors: victim a French citizen employed in Basel as a security guard; gay or bisexual. She had feelers out concerning the club he frequented and possible links to a similar ‘art-related’ murder on the Swiss side, possibly the same day.

  Commissaire Néon said, ‘I really wish you wouldn’t do that.’ He meant going to Basel unannounced and uninvited. He did not dare mention the late hour of her return — two? closer to three. He’d been fast asleep. Claude knew their relationship was hanging by a thread.

  Inspector Nouvelle did not respond to wishes. ‘I have to. Sometimes. You know that. I had a beer at the bar, very low key. To them I’m some friend from across the border who was going to meet him. They had no idea. Probably still don’t.’ While the probable gay factor in Martin Bettelman’s violent death was noted in her report to the Procureur, her visit to Zup was not. So Claude’s ass was covered. And the victim’s name had yet to be released. Claude’s order. He was figuring they could keep it to themselves for another day, with some luck, maybe two.

  Unless it was to their advantage to name Martin Bettelman.

  ‘Depends if it’s a love thing. Or a business thing,’ suggested the inspector.

  ‘Which is it?’

  ‘I’ll bet love. But paintings are worth money and there are too many possibilities to say for sure just yet.’ She had told Claude about the bar, but not about the beautiful unwordly figure briefly encountered at the crime site in the dead of night. Everyone has their own sense of when information should and should not be released. It’s called ownership.

  ‘Merde.’ Claude slumped in his chair. ‘I hate these things.’ He was speaking in his role as principal commissaire of the last PJ unit before the border. He could not care less about her sneaky moves in Swiss bars. He knew you did what you had to do. It was his fear of an international shit storm. ‘Can’t you call someone over there? Get them to pick up that end?’

  ‘Already have. My friend Franck Woerli at FedPol’s helping with the painting.’

  ‘He’ll stay clear of Boehler?’ A mean-minded ownership freak if ever there was.

  She assured him, ‘As clear as humanly possible.’ She knew Franki’s views on Boehler.

  Claude scratched at the spot in the centre of his thinning scalp. ‘Pédés in love, then?’

  ‘Probably. Though there is the possibility of a lady. Lover? Business?’

  ‘Mm.’ To be determined.

  ‘You have to practise saying homosexual. Or gay. No more pédé. OK?’

  ‘Right, right, right.’ The political part of being in charge could be a strain.

  ***

  An hour later, none of the media types camped in rue des Bons Enfants batted an eye when a police car turned into the courtyard. Aliette went down to receive the victim’s widow.

  Lise Bettelman was accompanied by Ginette Gromm, a social worker from the Saint-Louis detachment. Lise was on edge, scowling. As Raphaele Petrucci welcomed them and went about sorting papers, easing Lise toward the moment when the drawer was opened and the sheet pulled back, Madame Gromm quietly explained to Aliette that they had taken a swab and cut a sampling from her shorts. Lise had resisted loudly, insulted by the notion that she might be a suspect. Aliette advised Madame Gromm to assure Lise that it was strictly routine. Gromm advised that her client remained deeply resentful. Lise had insisted she was ready to ID her husband. But she would need a lot of counselling to deal with her resentment, not to say the shock. ‘She wants to get it over with. For the children’s sake,’ Gromm confided. ‘Which is good. I think we can begin to work toward some closure here.’

  Closure? Aliette had begun to hear this word. It sounded manufactured. She doubted it had validity, given the context, usually violence, often death, against which it was being applied. But social work was not her métier, God knew.

  Was closure synonymous with acceptance? Mada
me Bettelman’s feelings for the father of her children had hardened. Upon viewing the corpse and signing the papers, she told Raphaele Petrucci, ‘I don’t care. Put him in the garbage. Burn him. Drop him back in the river.’

  The pathologist was smiling gently, purring low, being his professionally sympathetic best. ‘I’m sorry, madame. I meant, where should we send him? Once you’ve signed the release form, the deceased is no longer under our purview.’

  The social worker was less solicitous. ‘You have to take him home, Lise, see it through to the bitter end.’

  ‘No.’ Adamant, steely, she turned to leave.

  Ginette Gromm admonished, ‘But your children — they need to know the end point. You can tell them whatever you want. They’ll certainly form their own sense of it as they grow up. But they need a name somewhere. A couple of dates. He’s their father. It’s only fair to them.’

  ‘What about to me?’

  ‘We’ve been through this.’

  ‘I don’t want him!’

  Raphaele Petrucci began to rub his tummy as the women bickered. Aliette made a face. He caught her signal, clapsed his hands like an attentive undertaker. When Ginette and Lise reached an impasse, Raphaele proffered the package waiting on his desk. ‘And his effects.’

  ‘His effects…’ Lise Bettelman was stupefied, as if in a heavy narcotic trance, as she beheld the eight-hundred-euro suit which had been dried and folded, if not exactly cleaned and pressed. The silk tie. ‘Silk socks? Mon Dieu!’ And the single shoe. You didn’t need the pair to guess the value. ‘That fucking, sneaking, selfish…’ Spinning away from the table.

  ‘Lise…please.’ Madame Gromm moved close and put a hand on the woman’s arm.

  ‘But it is absurd!’

  ‘A lot of men who discover their sexuality later in life lead secret lives.’

  ‘The money this suit cost would feed us for three months!’ Fingering the soiled but still fine summer weight linen. ‘Four! …the way I’ve had to stretch his shitty cheques.’