Mrs. Pargeter's Point of Honour (6 page)

‘Exactly.' Mrs Pargeter appreciated his quick understanding of her problem.

‘And may I ask which countries will be involved in the transportation of the paintings?'

‘Quite a few. Certainly France, Germany and Spain. I think there might even be some that have to go back to the States. Maybe even Japan. Will that be a problem?'

‘Good heavens, no,' Hamish Ramon Henriques replied breezily. ‘Compared to other jobs I have undertaken . . . compared to Lord Lucan . . . compared to Shergar – never easy when you're dealing with horseboxes . . . No, a few paintings will be nothing – whichever countries happen to be involved.' He paused. ‘One thing you said, Mrs Pargeter . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘I didn't mishear you saying that these paintings needed to “go back”?'

‘Yes. They all need to go back to where they were—' she corrected herself seamlessly, ‘to where they started from.'

‘Fine.'

HRH did not ask for further explanation, but Mrs Pargeter supplied it nonetheless. ‘You see, someone's asked me to arrange it, and I've said I would. And with me . . . well, when I say I'm going to do something, it's kind of a point of honour that I see it actually gets done.'

‘I understand completely, Mrs Pargeter. It would be exactly the same in my own case.' He emitted a fruity little chuckle. ‘Where would one be in business if one could not trust the good faith and the word of a gentleman?'

‘My feeling entirely, HRH. So, going back to the paintings . . . have you done that kind of thing before?'

‘I have been involved in many comparable operations, yes. There is a very simple standard procedure to follow.' He gave a thoughtful twirl to his moustache. ‘It does, however, involve the cooperation of one other person . . .'

‘Who's that?'

‘Have you heard of someone called “VVO”?'

Mrs Pargeter shook her head and observed, ‘Lot of initials in this business, aren't there, HRH?'

The unmarked car was parked at the same beauty spot overlooking Chastaigne Varleigh. So far the only arrival and departure noted down on Sergeant Hughes's clipboard was that of the milkman.

As well as smoke, the car was full of the sound of Wagner. Trying another initiative in his continuing search for individual identity as a detective, Inspector Wilkinson had invested in the complete
Ring
cycle on cassette. Deciding not to prejudice the experience by reading the notes or synopsis, he had started at the beginning with
Rheingold
. It has to be said he didn't find it very accessible. Of course he wasn't aware that he was listening to the dwarf Alberich's encounter with the river maidens, Woglinde, Wellgunde and Flosshilde, but it probably wouldn't have made much difference if he had been. Craig Wilkinson was not very musical.

Sergeant Hughes was, but his tastes ran more to grunge and funk than Wagner.

They survived over an hour of the
Ring
cycle without either of them making any comment. Then the Inspector reached forward and switched off the cassette player. ‘I think I kind of get the feeling of that,' he lied. ‘But better not listen to too much at one go. Give myself a bit of time to assimilate what I've already heard. Wouldn't you agree?'

‘Yes,' said the Sergeant, investing the monosyllable with more enthusiasm than usual.

There was a long silence. Down at Chastaigne Varleigh nothing was happening. Maybe somewhere in the world something was happening, but it seemed to Sergeant Hughes a very long time since anything had happened to him. He was beginning to feel as if his entire life had been spent in that car with Inspector Wilkinson.

‘I think the moment has come, Hughes,' said the Inspector, breaking the silence, ‘when I should tell you something.'

‘Like what?'

‘Something related to the case on which we are working.'

Not before bloody time, thought Sergeant Hughes. But he didn't say it. Though his exasperation had been mounting with every minute they spent together, he still recognized that certain professional courtesies had to be observed. He waited, allowing Wilkinson to make his revelations at his own pace.

Being Wilkinson, that pace was a pretty slow one. ‘For some years now, Hughes,' the Inspector began, ‘I have been trying to make connections between a series of crimes. They're all art thefts. I have been going through the files in considerable detail, checking similarities of method, finding other parallels and comparisons. I've read through extensive witness statements, and conducted follow-up interviews. I have collated masses of data, and am very close to identifying the common thread which links all the individual crimes.'

He was silent. Sergeant Hughes waited an appropriate length of time, but since nothing else was apparently forthcoming, asked, ‘And is this common thread a person?'

‘It is, yes.'

‘A criminal mastermind?'

The Inspector winced. ‘I don't like the use of that expression. It engenders defeatism. A mastermind is, by definition, someone of superior intellect, but no criminal has an intellect which is
that
superior. There is no criminal so clever that he cannot be caught out by the painstaking, methodical police work of a good copper.'

Sergeant Hughes was not convinced of this assertion – at least in relation to Inspector Wilkinson. If it was him, Hughes, conducting the case, things'd be different. He had flair, intuition, skill, subtlety – all the qualities his boss so patently lacked. Still, it wasn't the moment to argue. The Inspector was finally giving him some facts about the case they were working on, and it would be foolish to divert him. So all the Sergeant said was, ‘Right, sir.'

‘Oh yes . . .' Wilkinson nodded slowly. ‘Oh yes, all the information seems to lead back to one name.'

‘And do you reckon you've got enough solid evidence to arrest him?'

‘Well . . .' The Inspector grimaced. ‘Well, I might have, but there are certain logistical problems inherent in the idea of arresting this particular individual.'

‘What kind of logistical problems?'

‘Well, the main one is – he's dead.'

‘Ah. Ah, yes. Well, I can see that might slow you down a bit, sir.'

‘However, in the case of theft, the death of the perpetrator does not necessarily close the case.'

‘No. The case is still open until the stolen property has been recovered and returned to its rightful owner.'

Inspector Wilkinson looked slightly miffed at having his narrative hurried along in this way. He gave his junior a sour look. ‘Yes, Hughes. Precisely.'

‘And you reckon, in this instance, the stolen property is in Chastaigne Varleigh?'

But this was going unacceptably fast. However far his own conjectures might have progressed in that direction, Wilkinson certainly wasn't yet ready to share them with an underling. ‘No, Hughes,' he said. ‘I am still investigating their precise whereabouts.'

‘But if they're not in Chastaigne Varleigh, then why are we spending all this time watching the place?'

‘I have my reasons,' the Inspector replied loftily. ‘Remember, Hughes, you are the junior member of this team. I am the strategist. I work out what we do, why we do it, and when we do it. The case we are involved in here is one of enormous complexity, which will not respond well to being rushed. I will decide when the moment is right for all the individual threads of the case to be pulled together. And that moment is certainly not yet.' A finger rose to his nose for the trademark tap. ‘One of the secrets of being a good copper, Hughes, is to have an infallible instinct for timing.'

‘Yes,' the Sergeant agreed flatly. Then, after a moment's silence, he ventured, ‘You did say you were going to tell me something related to the case we're working on.'

The Inspector was affronted. ‘I
have
told you something.'

‘Not much.'

‘I've told you the case involves a series of art thefts. And I've told you that all of these art thefts seem to lead back to one man.'

‘One dead man.'

‘Exactly.' Wilkinson was appalled that the Sergeant wasn't more appreciative of the generosity with which this information had been shared. ‘What more do you want to know?'

‘The man's name perhaps . . .?'

The Inspector shook his head, very slowly. ‘Need to know, Hughes, need to know. Why do you
need to know
that information?'

‘Well, it might help me help you with the investigation, mightn't it?'

This prompted another, even slower, shake of the head. ‘We have no proof it would do that.'

‘But, for heaven's sake . . .!' Sergeant Hughes burst out in exasperation. A look at the Inspector's expression, however, deterred him from pressing further. He sank back grumpily into his seat. There was a very long silence.

The last exchange had triggered a decision in the Sergeant's mind. The frustration engendered by working with Inspector Wilkinson had been building all the time, and Hughes had been increasingly tempted to begin investigating on his own. Their most recent exchange had made his mind up. The files of Wilkinson's previous researches were bound still to be around the station. It would be easy to dig out the relevant ones and go through them.

Sergeant Hughes was sure that a mind of his quality would very quickly overtake whatever progress his dinosaur of a boss might have achieved. Hughes visualized the satisfaction of sewing the whole case up on his own, the accolades he would receive, the recommendations for promotion – above all, the expression that would appear on Wilkinson's face when he saw that he'd finally been relegated to the rank of yesterday's man. Oh yes, thought the Sergeant, I am bloody well going to crack this case – on my own.

His boss's voice invaded these gleeful fantasies. ‘Try a bit more of the Wagner, shall we?'

Hughes met this suggestion with an almost inaudible grunt.

‘No, perhaps not,' Inspector Wilkinson decided.

The room looked like the first attempt of a tyro set designer to produce the studio of a tortured artist. There was a bit too much of everything – too much paint spilled on the floor, too many dirty buckets, battered paint pots, spattered palettes, cracking easels and paint-hardened rags. The room seemed to boom out in over-elaborate shorthand: I reflect the image of a nonconforming bohemian.

The actual artwork on display amidst the cluttered chaos confused the image even further, prompting the suspicion that perhaps this was not the studio of one individual artist, but of a collection of artists, all working in different styles. Every school of painting from the old masters onwards seemed to be represented.
Pietàs
and altarpieces rubbed shoulders with blurred impressionists; Russian icons faced up to pop art swirls; titled ladies in eighteenth-century frocks stared dubiously at twentieth-century abstracts. All the paintings looked to be genuine representatives of their schools; the only detail that cast doubt on their validity was that most of them were unfinished.

The artist whose personality these conflicting images presumably reflected also looked a bit overdone. One might have accepted the wild matted hair, the beret,
or
the filthy smock; the presence of all three seemed a bit over the top. His manic-depressive manner, in which moods of gloom alternated suddenly with wild bursts of elation, was also a little too studied. As he sat at a paint-spattered table, a half-empty bottle of red wine clutched in his desperate hand, he seemed an assemblage of artistic clichés rather than someone whose eccentricity was a spontaneous expression of personality.

He looked across at his guests with malevolent despair. Mrs Pargeter and HRH perched gingerly on dilapidated armchairs. Though she had shown no qualms about sitting on the dust in Thiffler Mason's office, Mrs Pargeter looked less certain of the hygienic standards of this place. She had no wish to add further smudges of colour to the vibrant pattern of her fine silk dress.

‘So . . . I'm “VVO”. Welcome to my humble studio.' The artist flung out a despondent gesture which encompassed the whole room, and slopped more of his wine bottle's contents into a chipped enamel mug.

‘Thank you,' said Mrs Pargeter politely. ‘One thing HRH wouldn't tell me . . . he said I should ask you myself . . . is what “VVO” stands for . . .?'

Hamish Ramon Henriques smiled quietly, as the artist shrugged another gesture of despair. ‘Huh,' he grunted bitterly. ‘It's a joke that was made at my expense by some of . . . some of the people HRH and I work with from time to time.'

‘Yes?' Mrs Pargeter prompted.

The bitterness grew deeper, as VVO went on, ‘Just because I take my art seriously . . . just because it matters to me . . . they nicknamed me after one of the great geniuses of my profession – Vincent Van Gogh.'

‘I see.' Mrs Pargeter was silent for a moment before asking the inevitable question. ‘Then why aren't you called “VVG”?'

‘I told you. They made a mockery of me.' The misunderstood one took another angry slurp from his mug, as he spelled out the detail of his humiliation. ‘They called me “Vincent Vin Ordinaire”.'

Hamish Ramon Henriques ran a hand through the luxuriance of his moustache to prevent his smile from becoming too overt, and Mrs Pargeter was glad she wasn't in eye contact with him, as she soothed the injured genius with the meaningless words, ‘Oh. Oh well, that's nice.'

But VVO's well of bitterness was far from dry. ‘They're always making fun of me,' he moaned on, ‘laughing at my aspirations to be a great artist . . . dismissing my paintings as mere imitative daubs . . .'

‘Oh, come on,' HRH protested. ‘We always respected what you did best.'

The artist was incensed. ‘No, you didn't! You respected my hack work!' Fuelled by anger, he rose from his seat and started to circle the room. ‘You respected me when I produced a Rubens.'