We got off the tram and strolled towards the reconstructed miners' cottages. They had peggy tubs and mangles. The doorsteps were sand stoned and the fire grates black-leaded.
'So what's the problem?' I repeated. 'You got your money and they got the copies. How do you know you weren't commissioned by the legitimate owners?'
'Because… because I deal with galleries all the time. We talk the same language. These people were different. It started out okay, but when the pictures were done they changed. They sounded… threatening … violent. They scared me.'
'If they paid you they must have been satisfied with the goods. If the silly pillocks who own the originals can't tell the difference, why worry? Let's all just live happily ever after.'
'I don't think they'll let me live happily ever after. I think they'll want me out of the way. I know too much.'
'Do you know who they are?'
He shook his head. 'No, it was all arranged over the phone.'
'Accent?'
He shrugged: 'Sounded North of England to me.'
'Did you paint them in America?'
'No, Britain. I just did the research there.'
'Which four paintings did you copy?' I asked.
'The Van Gogh, the Gauguin and the Monet. I did the Picasso, too, but it got damaged. I don't think that will have been switched.'
'Portrait of Isobelle Mail loW I smiled at the thought of her. 'One of my favourites.'
'Yes,' said Rudi, 'I remembered you when I painted her. You had a thing about Picasso's women.'
'I still have,' I told him. 'And his genius. To paint faces like he does and still make them look incredibly beautiful is amazing.'
And then a pleasant thought struck me. Was it my imagination, or did Isobelle Maillol bear a resemblance to Annabelle Wilberforce? Apart from having an extra eye, of course.
'What do you want me to do?' I asked him.
'I'm not sure. Get the paintings authenticated, or find where the originals are. Preferably put somebody behind bars for a long time. I don't think you can do much, really.'
'I can get the experts to look at them,' I said, 'but we both know what they'll say. They won't admit to losing enough paintings to pay off half the national debt.'
'No, they won't,' said Rudi, eyes blazing with indignation. 'And then the world will be looking at Rudi Truscott's paintings, but he won't get the recognition.'
'Is there anything else you can tell me?' I asked.
He shook his head. I thought about what he'd said so far. It didn't amount to much.
'How did you deliver the paintings and how were you paid?'
'I received a phone call. I'd to leave my studio unlocked and get lost for four hours. When I returned the paintings were gone and the money was there.'
'Forty thousand pounds cash?'
'Yes, plus a couple of grand expenses. Then I received another call telling me to keep my mouth shut. He said he might have more work for me in the future.'
'Where is your studio?'
'Just half of the kitchen in my cottage.'
I sighed and rolled my eyes heavenwards. 'You're not being very helpful, Rudi. Do you have an address?'
'I… I'd rather not say. And I'm thinking of moving.'
'Have it your own way. So where can I get in touch with you?'
'You can't. I'll ring you.'
'Okay. Give me a month. Ring me a month today. Don't expect too much, though. Now I'm off to look at the rest of this museum.'
He hesitated, then he said: 'Charlie, I'm sorry about Vanessa. I did love her, you know.'
'So did I, Rudi. So did I.'
I watched him wander up the hill towards the exit, then I strolled towards the gift shop to see if I could find something really tacky for the office.
'How many fs in peace and quiet?'
'There's no f in peace and quiet.'
'That's what I keep telling the wife.'
Sparky and Tony were in a good mood. I'd have to take a day off more often. When Gilbert Wood was free we all trooped up to see him. I didn't want to tell the story twice. When he'd heard what I had to say he was silent for a while. Then he said: 'Will the experts be able to tell if the pictures are the real ones?'
'It's a grey area,' I told him. 'They can do forensic tests, same as us, but the real picture is the one they say it is, irrespective of who painted it. They'll never admit that theirs is a copy.'
'Well, it proves one thing,' said Gilbert. 'Anyone can produce this modern rubbish. What about Truscott? Do you think his life is in danger?'
'I don't know, but he might be worth taking out a policy on.'
'So if they were switched, it was done in England,' said Sparky.
'Yes,' I replied.
'They were guarded like the Crown Jewels,' said Gilbert. 'There were more people with guns than we had at D-Day.' He thought for a while, then went on: 'Our only involvement was the Traffic boys. They escorted the convoy through our patch and handed over to the city police. They were in a sealed van, so at least we would appear to be in the clear.'
'Where did the pictures come from?' asked Tony.
'I'm not sure,' I said. 'There were two shows in the north prior to Leeds, at Liverpool and Oldfield, but I don't know which way round.'
'And the helicopter,' remembered Gilbert. 'We had the chopper watching over them. First time we'd been able to get the bloody thing for weeks. Will you tell the organisers that their paintings are crap, Charlie?'
'Ooh, yes please, that should be fun,' I said.
The Museum of Modern Art in New York jetted Dale T. Schweckert over by Concorde. He leapt straight into a taxi at Heathrow and asked to be taken to the Laing Art Gallery in Newcastle. Louis Vouillarde flew over directly from Paris in a private plane. Bunty I'Anson-Piggot, from the Tate Gallery, drove up in her Austin Metro. She was the last to arrive. I had hoped that I might gain an insight into the working techniques of an art expert, so I did the long drive north again.
Unfortunately they all insisted on working in private, so we didn't see how thorough they were. Their conclusions were as predicted: the paintings were genuine and we had put them to a great deal of expense and inconvenience. They graciously accepted that we had acted with the best of motives.
Afterwards I collared Schweckert. I envisaged a language problem with Vouillarde and I feared Ms I'Anson- Piggot might kick me to death with her Doc Martens. Schweckert wouldn't budge in his judgement. It was evident that the Monet was a Monet because he said it was, not because it was painted by a man called Monet. I pointed him in the direction of the taxi rank and drove home.
There was a message waiting for me from Tony Willis. The Mountain Bike Gang had showed up on Saturday morning. We had been looking for them every day through the week without any luck, but now we were barbecuing with charcoal again. I phoned him and got the lowdown. They were outside the post office at nine a.m. when the takings were checked in.
They just pedalled around in circles on their bikes and rode away afterwards. Tony had been there himself and it looked suspicious to him. We both agreed that Monday morning was highly likely for a snatch. He had followed them for a while but lost them when they took to the old railway track. All the arrangements for surveillance and arrest had been made. Tony had decided to go to town with the planning and turn the event into a training exercise. He saw a low probability of things getting nasty, and it would be experience for the younger troops. It would also get everybody on the job early on a Monday morning.
'Tell me the worst,' I said. 'What are we called?'
