Crucified

Chapter 10

In the end, Jack and Maggie didn’t talk about Adam again that night. They’d simply shared a bottle of wine, talked about nothing important and then headed to bed. Neither of them had actively decided to avoid the subject; they were just fed up of arguing.

It was gone midnight as Maggie lay in the curve of his body, his arms around her waist. Maggie felt more content than she had for a long time.

‘I do love you, Jack, and I’m sorry if I sounded like a pain in the arse earlier. It’s just that I was worried. I know I’ve been a bit over the top. I thought it could be baby blues... that was part of my stress for a while.’

Jack didn’t reply although she knew he was listening because his thumb stroked her forearm. He just let her talk. ‘Recently, you’ve not been sleeping too badly and have been more like your old self, so it could be really good for you to return to work. It feels like we’ve turned a corner. Especially now the building work is finished.’

‘Just promise me no more extensions or walls being knocked down,’ he said.

Maggie laughed. ‘I promise the dining room arch can wait.’ She pulled Jack’s arm tighter around her. ‘I’m really looking forward to going back to work. Penny will have her help, you and I will be earning again. It’s all coming together, Jack.’

Jack reached out to turn off his bedside light as Maggie turned around to face him.

‘So, isn’t it a bit unwise for you to go and meet up with this Adam Border again?’ In the darkness, she could feel him tense.

‘Mags, it’s over. I’m not getting involved again.’

‘You got involved again by going to see him. Please don’t get angry, Jack. I’m just trying to understand. Isn’t he just an art forger?’

Jack tossed the duvet aside and moved to the end of the bed. ‘Do you know who Gustav Klimt is?’

‘I think I’ve heard of him,’ she said dubiously.

‘They found a finished painting on his easel called Lady with a Fan. In June 2003 it sold for eighty-five million. When I was in Adam’s studio at the school, he showed me these cuttings about the painting and the auction and then he goes over to one of the easels and whips off the sheet like a magician... and there’s the painting.’

‘What, the real one?’

‘No, a fake. But he said he’s going to switch it for the eighty-five million job.’

‘Surely they’ll spot it,’ Maggie said dubiously.

Jack warmed to his theme. ‘Adam reckons that in every gallery around the world, fifty per cent of the paintings are fake, even more with old masters.’

Maggie was taken aback. ‘And that’s what Adam is doing, faking old masters?’

Jack couldn’t hide his enthusiasm. ‘Yes, he’s collecting old canvases, frames and even nails. He’s got boxes of them from different centuries, and when I was over there earlier today, he was burning frames in a bonfire. When I left, he had a jar to collect the ashes, which he was going to use to age the canvases.’

‘Bloody hell, Jack, can you hear yourself? He’s faking paintings, and you seem to admire him. You should walk away as fast as you can. What if he’s not as smart as you think? What if people do know he’s back and he’s being watched? You could be caught up in what he’s doing.’

Jack sighed. ‘You still don’t understand... I’ll be right back, don’t go to sleep.’ As he hurried out of the bedroom, Maggie lay back and closed her eyes. She felt herself dropping off. She jumped when Jack barged back into the bedroom with his laptop.

‘I was looking at stuff on the internet with him and it got me Googling for myself... honestly Mags, when you start to look at it, you’ll be amazed’. He got into bed beside her and propped the laptop between them. He opened an article about fakes and famous artists. At first Maggie just wanted to tell him she’d look at it in the morning, but after reading a couple of paragraphs she quickly got sucked in.

‘This one, Tom Keating: can you believe he faked over two thousand paintings by over two hundred artists. He even did a Rembrandt. And look at the next guy, John Myatt. He’s done Chagall and Giacometti, and look... here’s his copy of a Matisse with the real one beside it.’

‘OK, I’m impressed.’

Jack smiled as he returned to the screen. ‘I thought you would be.’

‘No... I’m impressed with you. Listen to yourself reeling off artists’ names as if you’ve been an expert all your life.’

Jack grinned. ‘Look at this guy, he’s Dutch and got fed up with critics dismissing his artistic ability so decided he’d show them up by faking a Vermeer. He was going to admit it was his work but then decided to fuck them all by painting six more. He sold them worldwide for around sixty million dollars.’

Maggie was properly hooked now, looking at the photographs of famous fakes as Jack scrolled down through the article. ‘OK, now look at this guy’s work, Modigliani. Just as I was about to leave tonight, Border showed me three identical paintings. He asked me which one was the original, and it was almost impossible to tell them apart, but I said I thought it was the one in the middle, and guess what? I was right.’

‘How much is it worth?’

‘Hang on.’ Jack did a quick search. ‘Bloody hell, the original would set you back millions. Adam’s dealer rang while I was there, and I think he said they were all sold. I helped him get them ready to be shipped.’

Maggie laughed. ‘So my policeman husband has been helping an art forger pack up his fakes!’ She lay back and closed her eyes. ‘Right, I really am going to sleep now. Maybe when I wake up I’ll find this has all been a dream.’