Over My Dead Body

Chapter 16

‘Where are the twins?’ asked Sir Julian, before Beth and William had even hung up their coats.

‘They’re spending the day with my parents,’ said Beth, as they walked through to the drawing room.

‘Lucky Arthur and Joanna,’ said Marjorie.

‘Strictly entre nous,’ said Sir Julian, ‘but when Artemisia last visited us she told me in confidence that I was her favourite grandfather.’

Beth smiled. ‘The little minx repeated those exact words to my father when I dropped them off in Ewell this morning.’

‘I shall have to rewrite my will in favour of Peter,’ said Sir Julian, with an exaggerated sigh.

‘Then my father will rewrite his in favour of Artemisia,’ said Beth.

‘As William never talks about his work,’ said Marjorie, handing Beth a cup of coffee, ‘and Julian talks of little else, I want to hear what your latest project is.’

‘The museum’s preparing a Frans Hals exhibition for next autumn.’

‘I’ve often wondered what goes on behind the scenes before a gallery can open a major exhibition like that.’

‘It’s a long and tortuous process,’ said Beth, ‘that involves patience, resolve, bribery and corruption.’

Sir Julian suddenly looked interested.

‘How many pictures will be on display?’

‘If I’m lucky, sixty or seventy, including, we hope, The Laughing Cavalier.’

‘Where’s that at the moment?’ asked Sir Julian.

‘It’s part of the Wallace Collection,’ said William, ‘so at least he wouldn’t have far to travel.’

‘One sometimes forgets,’ said Sir Julian, ‘that my son read Art History at an up-and-coming university and, had he not joined the police force, he might well have ended up as one of Beth’s assistants by now.’

‘That successful?’ mocked William.

‘Ignore the children, Beth,’ said Marjorie. ‘You were telling us about the preparations for an important exhibition.’

‘Bribery and corruption,’ Sir Julian reminded her.

‘Most of Hals’ works are in public galleries around the world. The best examples are to be found at the Rijks in Amsterdam, although the Met and the Hermitage have magnificent self-portraits, and there’s another fine example, The Merry Lute Player, at the Mansion House in the City of London. But if you want to borrow a major work from another gallery, they’ll expect a quid pro quo at some time in the future.’

‘For example?’ said Sir Julian, as he sipped his coffee,

‘The Phillips Collection in Washington DC is planning to mount a Rubens exhibition in two years’ time, and they’ve already asked us if we’d loan them Descent from the Cross for three months. They have three Hals, and I’m after two of them.’

‘Two Hals for a Rubens seems a fair exchange,’ said Sir Julian.

‘How many of Hals’ pictures are in private hands?’ asked Marjorie.

‘Only eleven that we’ve been able to trace. When an important work by a major artist like Hals comes up for sale, quite often it’s purchased by a national gallery, which guarantees it will never come on the market again.’

‘Which only puts up the value of those works still held in private hands,’ threw in William. ‘Even more so if they’re loaned out for a major exhibition.’

‘I’ve approached all eleven private owners,’ continued Beth, ‘and asked if they’d be willing to support the exhibition. Three have agreed, but under the most stringent conditions, four have turned me down, and the other four didn’t even bother to reply.’

‘Why wouldn’t they be willing to loan their pictures?’ asked Marjorie, ‘when, as William says, it would only add value to the works.’

‘The Mellons and Rothschilds of this world are well aware of that and are always supportive of major exhibitions. The rejections often come from owners who are concerned their artworks might be damaged in transit. That’s why I’m having so much trouble convincing Mr Morita to part with his magnificent Hals self-portrait that hangs in the Sony collection in Tokyo.’

‘And those who haven’t bothered to reply?’ asked Marjorie.

‘Often criminals who don’t want to draw the taxman’s attention to the fact that they own valuable works of art,’ said William. ‘The late Miles Faulkner is a typical example.’

‘Or not so late,’ said Sir Julian.

‘Why do you say that?’ asked William cautiously.

‘Booth Watson doesn’t appear in court as often as he used to, but as he still dines at the Savoy every day. He’s either taken early retirement, which seems unlikely, or he’s on a large enough retainer from a private client to be sure he doesn’t have to seek regular work like the rest of us. You have to remember that few people employ a lawyer unless they have to.’

‘Especially lawyers who continually interrupt their wives when they still have several more questions to ask about Frans Hals,’ said Marjorie.

‘Forgive me,’ said Sir Julian. ‘I’m becoming a legal bore.’

No one attempted to disagree with him.

‘You mentioned that works sometimes have to be transported from one side of the world to the other,’ said Marjorie. ‘That must be very expensive.’

‘Sometimes prohibitive,’ said Beth. ‘There are very few companies in Britain who are considered reliable enough to handle works of such importance. I know of one curator who insists that the painting is never let out of his sight, so, like him, it has to fly first class and not be put in the hold. That doesn’t come cheap — and that’s before you start worrying about the insurance premiums. The reason you can never borrow a Leonardo or a Michelangelo from the Vatican is because Lloyd’s of London are unwilling to insure them, and the Pope has decreed no exceptions.’

‘Can’t the government help in those circumstances?’ asked Marjorie.

‘Sometimes they can be more of a hindrance,’ said Beth. ‘If the Foreign Office has reservations about the country you want to loan a picture to, they can refuse to grant you an export licence.’

‘Understandably,’ said Sir Julian. ‘I can just imagine the outcry if the National Archaeological Museum in Athens asked to borrow the Elgin Marbles — just for six weeks.’

‘And then there’s the Jewish problem,’ said William.

This silenced even Sir Julian.

‘There are several major works hanging in public galleries that were stolen from their Jewish owners by the Germans during the Second World War. Some of them were later “liberated” by the Russians, and can now be seen in the Hermitage in St Petersburg, as well as several other well-known museums tucked safely behind the Iron Curtain.’

‘Is there nothing the rightful owners can do about that?’ asked Marjorie.

‘Not a lot,’ said Beth, ‘while the authorities in those countries refuse even to acknowledge their claims. And they certainly wouldn’t loan a looted work to an exhibition in a country where a civil action could be brought against them.’

‘The Russians can’t be the only culprits,’ said Sir Julian. ‘Hermann Göring assembled one of the finest private collections of old masters on earth, and I can’t believe they’ve all been returned to their rightful owners.’

‘Some of them have, but not too many. Most travelled east, not west, after the war. Don’t forget the Red Army made it to Berlin before the Allies. So if you want to see those pictures they picked up on the way, you’ll need a visa.’

‘What about England?’ asked Marjorie. ‘Are there any paintings of dubious heritage hanging in our leading galleries?’

‘Oh yes,’ said William. ‘Three of the Fitzmolean’s finest works were donated by a well-known criminal.’

‘On permanent loan by his generous widow,’ insisted Beth.

‘Who’s almost as bad as her late husband,’ said William, ‘and if he is still alive, you can be sure Booth Watson will find a way of turning permanent into temporary.’

‘Evidence?’ demanded Sir Julian, tugging the lapels of his jacket.

‘Christina Faulkner is represented by none other than Mr Booth Watson QC.’

‘Not exactly proof, but...’

‘Children, children,’ said Marjorie. ‘Desist.’

‘Then there’s my biggest problem,’ continued Beth, ‘which may prove insurmountable.’

‘The bottom line, no doubt,’ said Sir Julian.

‘Exactly. You need to have at least sixty or seventy major works on display to be reasonably confident of good reviews from the critics who in turn will entice the public to visit in sufficient numbers, which in our case is a footfall of around ten thousand a week. Otherwise the gallery could actually end up out of pocket, as my boss continually reminds me.’

‘Speaking of Tim Knox,’ said Sir Julian. ‘There’s a rumour doing the rounds that he’s going to be offered the post as Surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures.’

‘Let’s hope it’s only a rumour,’ said Beth, ‘because he’d be difficult to replace.’

‘Does the Royal Collection have any Hals?’ asked Marjorie, remaining on track.

‘Three,’ said Beth. ‘And HM is always very generous when it comes to requests from public galleries.’

‘I can’t wait to see the exhibition,’ said Marjorie.

‘You’ll both be invited to the opening night,’ promised Beth. ‘And now, despite Marjorie’s misgivings, I’d like to hear about Julian’s latest case.’

‘Do you have an hour to spare?’ said Sir Julian.

‘Get on with it,’ said his wife.

Sir Julian sat back, and paused for a moment before delivering the single word, ‘Fraud.’ He waited for as long as he felt he could get away with before adding, ‘I shall be appearing on behalf of the Crown to prosecute a particularly devious and cunning individual who’s been fronting a charity that rescues donkeys which have been ill-treated by their owners.’

‘There are people who fall for that scam?’ asked Beth.

‘In their hundreds, it would seem. He only had to take out a quarter-page advertisement in the Daily Telegraph with a photo of a starving donkey, and the donations came flooding in. We are a nation of knaves and animal lovers, it would seem.’

‘But if he saved the donkeys?’ said Beth.

‘There were no donkeys,’ said Sir Julian, ‘just hapless romantics only too willing to part with their money, which ended up in his back pocket. That’s the reason he’s able to afford the services of Mr Booth Watson, who will be making one of his rare appearances at the Old Bailey. Don’t be surprised if several donkeys, of the two-legged variety, appear in the witness box to give evidence.’

It was some time before the laughter died down.

‘When does the trial begin?’ asked William.

‘It should have been tomorrow at ten o’clock in the forenoon,’ said Sir Julian, ‘had Booth Watson not requested a postponement, which I reluctantly agreed to. It seems my unworthy opponent has a pressing engagement in Scotland, though he wouldn’t say with whom.’

‘He didn’t say where, by any chance?’ asked William.

‘No, as always BW gave as little away as possible.’

Beth and William looked at each other, but didn’t speak.

‘Dad, could I make a phone call?’

‘Yes, of course, my boy. Use the phone in my study.’

‘Thank you,’ said William, who stood up and quickly left the room.

‘Was it something I said?’ asked Sir Julian.

‘No. Something Booth Watson didn’t say,’ said Beth.

‘How intriguing.’

‘I can even tell you who he’s on the phone to.’

‘The commander, no doubt,’ said Sir Julian. ‘And I can guess what he’ll say when he returns.’

‘“Sorry Mother, but we have to leave immediately,”’ suggested Beth. ‘“Something unexpected has come up.”’

The door opened and William came charging back into the room.

‘I’m so sorry, Mother, but we have to go...’

‘Something’s come up that you have to deal with immediately?’ suggested Sir Julian.

‘How did you know that?’ asked William.

‘I didn’t. But I could hardly help noticing that no sooner had I uttered the words Booth Watson and Scotland, than you suddenly needed to make an urgent phone call.’

William didn’t rise to the bait. He kissed his mother on both cheeks and said, ‘I’m only sorry that we can’t stay for lunch.’

‘Booth Watson isn’t a man one should keep waiting,’ said Sir Julian. ‘When it’s in his client’s interests, he can move very quickly.’

‘I look forward to seeing you in a couple of weeks,’ said William, ignoring his father’s remonstration.

‘Only if you bring the twins with you next time,’ said Marjorie.

‘You can leave Artemisia at home,’ said Sir Julian ruefully. ‘She clearly has designs on another man.’

‘I suspect she has designs on both of you,’ said Beth, as Marjorie and Sir Julian accompanied them to the front door.

Once they’d said their farewells, William didn’t speak again until they’d reached the road back to London. ‘Do you think Faulkner will risk going to see the Caravaggio?’ he asked.

‘Collectors are passionate people,’ said Beth. ‘They don’t usually allow representatives to make decisions on their behalf, especially when it’s likely to cost them twenty million pounds.’

‘Then let’s hope Booth Watson will be accompanied by a dress designer by the name of Ricardo Rossi.’

‘But if Booth Watson’s doing no more than representing a client, and Faulkner doesn’t make an appearance,’ said Beth, ‘it will be another wasted journey.’

‘Not necessarily,’ responded William, ‘because when Booth Watson delivers the painting, he might just lead us straight to the front door of an obsessed collector who’s standing on his front step waiting to welcome Christ with open arms and ends up with me.’

When Josephine woke the following morning, she found Ross sitting up at the dressing table writing a letter.

‘A Dear John letter?’ she teased as she stretched her arms.

Ross put down his pen. ‘No. I’ve decided to resign from the Met,’ he said, sounding unusually serious.

‘But you’ve only just been promoted.’

‘It’s not the same since I stopped being a UCO,’ said Ross. ‘I can’t just sit behind a desk shuffling paper clips around while two East End thugs go on running rings around us.’

‘But if The Hawk won’t let you go back undercover, what’s the alternative?’

‘I was in the SAS before I joined the Met, and my commanding officer was a Major Cormac Kinsella, a mad Irishman who used to eat cockroaches on toast for breakfast.’

‘Fried or boiled?’ asked Jo, trying to make light of it.

‘They were still alive, which he said made it more of a challenge. His second-in-command, Captain Gareth Evans, thought the dragon was too soft a creature to represent the Welsh. They both retired from the SAS before the age of forty and set up a travel company, “Nightmare Holidays”, that doesn’t specialise in trips to Monte Carlo or St Tropez.’

‘Where else is there?’ asked Jo, with a sigh.

‘Nightmare Holidays’ slogan is “Survive a fortnight with us, and nothing will seem impossible”. They offer their customers three different types of experience: “Uncom-fortable”, “Unpleasant” and, by far their most popular, “Unbearable”.’

‘I can’t wait,’ said Jo, ‘do tell me more.’

‘“Uncomfortable” is when they drop off a group of eight above the Arctic Circle and expect them to fend for themselves for a fortnight. They’re supplied with one tent and enough food to last for a week. And each customer is allowed to take a thousand pounds in cash with them.’

‘What’s the use of money if you’re stranded in the Arctic?’

‘If you hand it to the ex-SAS officer in charge of the group, you’ll be allowed to go home early.’

‘This is becoming more enticing by the minute,’ said Jo. ‘I think I’ll opt for “Unpleasant”.’

‘For that particular experience, twelve happy customers are dumped in the Brazilian rainforest a couple of thousand miles up the Amazon with half a dozen canoes and—’

‘Enough food to last for a week,’ said Jo.

‘You’re getting the idea. You then have to paddle down the river until you reach the next village some three hundred miles away, with only alligators, anacondas, piranhas and unfriendly natives to keep you company, so you don’t get a lot of sleep at night.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘You can still hand over your thousand pounds to the former SAS officer in charge of the trip, and a motor boat will appear from nowhere and drop you off at the nearest town. But you won’t be reunited with your passport or given a plane ticket, so you’ll have to make your own way home.’

‘What’s the point of that?’

‘To make sure you think twice before leaving.’

‘I’m not sure I want to know about the third option.’

‘“Unbearable”. You can’t be considered a candidate for that particular challenge until you’ve already completed both “Uncomfortable” and “Unpleasant”.’

‘I can’t wait to see the brochure.’

‘You’re dropped off in the port of Quellen in Chile, where you will join the crew of an ancient fishing vessel that sails around Cape Horn for the first week, before continuing on up the east coast to Brazil.’

‘That doesn’t sound too bad.’

‘Until you discover you can’t get off until you reach Rio, some two thousand five hundred miles away, and the waves regularly reach thirty feet during the voyage. Still, the good news is you can eat anything you catch.’

‘And what do I get for my thousand pounds?’

‘You’ll be dropped off in the Falklands, and have to hope that the Governor’s feeling sympathetic about the fact that you haven’t got a passport or any money. Unfortunately, he’s also a former SBS officer, so you’ll probably finish your holiday locked up in a cell with half a dozen Argentinian bandits who haven’t forgotten the Falklands invasion.’

‘I’m only surprised that after handing over your cash, they don’t make you walk the plank.’

‘The mad major did consider that as an option, but in the end even he thought it was going a little too far.’

‘And people pay to go on these holidays?’ said Jo, in disbelief.

‘There’s a long waiting list of customers who’d be happy to take the place of any wimps who fall out at the last minute.’

‘And dare I ask what role they have in mind for you?’

‘I’d be in charge of selecting the ex-servicemen who will accompany the clients on each of the adventures. I’d only consider applications from the SAS, the Royal Marines and the SBS.’

‘Now I understand why they chose you,’ said Jo. ‘Are you going to take the job?’

‘I start in six weeks’ time. The major has offered me almost double the salary I’m getting at the Met.’

‘We’re going to need every penny,’ said Jo.

‘Yes, because they’re not going to pay you a thousand pounds a week to hear the private views of a mad major rather than a mad commander. Then it will be my turn to earn a thousand pounds a week, so the two of us can start a new life together.’

‘The three of us,’ said Jo, touching her stomach.

After a moment of realization, Ross leapt in the air, fell back down to earth, and said, ‘We’ll have to get married as quickly as possible.’

‘Why?’

‘My mother’s an old-fashioned Irish Roman Catholic who uses words like wedlock, illegitimate and bastard as if they were still in fashion.’

‘What will she say if she finds out I used to be a prostitute?’

‘It would be a far bigger problem if you were a Protestant.’