Chapter 17

Fiona announced, “Something more urgent, Alec. I checked the refrigerator in the kitchen, and everything in it is dead, long, long, dead! We need to get rubber gloves on and turf the whole lot into a black sack and then bin it. Then the fridge will have to be disinfected throughout before we can use it again. Once that is done, we can buy more cheese, butter, milk, eggs, sliced meat and whatever else, to use it again.”

“Right. Where do I find the black plastic sacks?” “Either in a drawer or under the sink unit; that’s the usual places for them. Talking of that, darling, would you also take another waste sack and go round all the domestic waste bins in the house, empty the contents into your sack, and dump the sack into an outside refuse bin? There may not be much to dispose of, but it is best if we start with a clean slate.”

“Okay,” I said. “Anything else?” “No, I think us girls can do a simple spring clean of the place before we move in. It is your job to check the house for any needed repairs inside and out. You might have to enter the attic to check the roof beams for woodworm or dry rot. Do you mind?” “No. That sounds like the duties that any good husband would deal with.”

“Great. We’ll fuck you senseless later,” Fiona promised, glancing round at Phemie and Theresa, who immediately nodded their agreement, adding their smiles. “Meanwhile, we have work to do before we go back home; this is not home yet.” “Yes, boss,” I acknowledged. “I am on it.”

Fiona hurried off to the kitchen, keen to get started, and Phemie fetched me a couple of black plastic sacks. On her return, she murmured to me, “Fiona has really got into the domestication side of things, hasn’t she? Being a second wife hasn’t bothered her in the slightest; I could never have known she would be like this.”

“Yes, she has embraced family life enthusiastically. Even the thought of having a baby has not fazed her. I should do something about having you girls apparently married, without any formal documentation. We need to change my first name for each supposed marriage, so you can all claim to be married to a different guy.” “How can you do that, my love?”

I shrugged a little before suggesting, “My boss has an ‘in’ with a lot of people in high places, so they happily do things at his behest, completely off the radar. He can have documents forged that look just like the real thing, such as was done during World War Two for agents. We can have documents, like a passport, that describe you as married, for instance, without any marriage recorded in the official registers in the U.K. It will look like you were married abroad or something.”

Phemie was dubious. “Your boss is more and more looking to me like a loose cannon, Alec. He seems to act off his own bat, with no concern for anyone else. Are you sure you can trust him?” “Phemie, he has saved my life at least once, and has made my apparent disappearance much more simplified, so I do think he can be trusted, within his own parameters. He has rules that he has to work within, but these rules are a unique set, not publicly known, nor should they be. Regard him as a scourge of criminals, both civilian and military, but working outside the usual restrictions of the legal establishment. He answers only to a government organisation, much like MI5 and MI6, but unnamed and with even fewer restrictions on his operations than they have. Success is the only determinant in his eyes. Give him a job and he gets it done, in his own unique way.”

“Good God! He sounds like the ultimate spy hero.” “Not quite, but you are close, Phemie. That is why I only know him as Mr Smith, which is not his real name. I have no idea what that is, but he knows mine, as he has used it to prove how good his spy network really is. He let me know that he knew about you three, and is good with it. That tells me a lot about his fact collection.” “Uh? History doesn’t work that way, thank God. Knowing things about people in current time is highly unusual and very time consuming to collect the information, unless someone is feeding you the facts. Information by word of mouth is often unreliable.”

“Don’t ask me how he knows these things, Phemie. He just does.” We finished our house cleanup exercise, and Phemie drew up the requirements in terms of bed linen and new beds. I would place the order and be present for the delivery of the goods. Fiona decided to order the groceries online and get them delivered to the flat, as the store could not guarantee delivery at a specified time, and we would later move them to the house. I made a call to Smith, asking if he could have someone visit the house and examine the artworks hanging on the walls, just in case any were important in some way.

He replied, “Jones, you always come up with interesting notions. These gemstones were very worthwhile, and your share of their value is now deposited to your numbered bank account. As and when I can get an art valuer to have a look inside your new home, I’ll ring you to say when he needs access.” We were about to leave it at that, for he had said nothing about other jobs he might need my assistance with, so I was happy with that position until he added, “By the way, how are your skills with booby-trapped buildings?” I admitted, “I have done a course or two about booby-traps, so I have some knowledge in that sphere. Why?”

“Oh, information has come to me that a warehouse is occasionally being used to house potential slaves while buyers are discreetly sought. My informant says the building is wired to set off explosives to destroy all evidence should the police try to break in. A tricky situation, agreed?” “Tricky, indeed. All the doors would be primed to set off the charges if opened without the correct entry code on the keypad. That means that going in via the doors is not advised.”

“What would you do instead?” he enquired with an evident interest. “Hmm ... the best answer would be a breaching charge to go through the steel wall, assuming the walling is steel panels and not brick; most cheaper warehouses are built with steel walls. Is the target that sort of building?” “I’ll need to check and get back to you, Jones. Expect a call about your valuer within 24 hours.” “Thanks, Mr Smith.”

Next day was busy. The Academy asked me to call in for a discussion on the recent altercation. I took a taxi there, and walked in, before turning up at the Rector’s office. He welcomed me in and invited me to sit for a chat, then he started.

“Alec, I need to know how to handle your intervention with the knifeman. The police are asking additional questions which I feel are unwarranted.” “Not a problem, sir. Just because I posed as another person, doesn’t mean I did anything illegal, for everything I did was with the intent of saving the Academy from problems with the police and with the press. I needed a form of introduction for the lad to view me as a valid interlocutor. Considering me as the teacher’s husband, he could see that I had an input into the discussion, and I leveraged that into showing him that his assumptions were unfounded. You went along with this minor subterfuge in order to assist the defusing of the situation. Between us, we managed this effortlessly.

If the police insist on knowing who I truly was, you can say I was a temporary history teacher brought in to help the pupils with an aspect of history that the teacher felt she was not fully qualified to teach. You can say my name but indicate that you did not have a permanent address for me, due to the peripatetic nature of my work.

Using big words will impress the bobbies, and you can also suggest that bringing me in unnecessarily for a further quizzing would be an imposition on my ‘undercover duties for the government’. Should they push things, tell them, my department might impose an information clampdown on anything to do with me, which would not assist them in the slightest. That should put them off.”

The Rector smiled at this suggestion. “I think I could go along with that, Mr Jones. Come to think of it, is Jones really your surname?” “No, sir, it is a temporary one for the purposes of my work, which is why searching for me on the basis of my name would get them nowhere. My employers can provide me with identity papers in this name, papers which will appear genuine but not lead anywhere. You are on the winning side on this one, sir.”

“Good. That is the avenue I will go down. That is all I have to talk to you about, Alec or whatever your first name really is.” “Excellent. I shall bid you farewell then, Rector.” He made no remark on my not committing either way on his use of the forename. The man knew when he was onto a good thing. He was clever enough to be able to embellish as needed on my identity, knowing that nothing would come of it.

While in his office, I received a text message, but after a glance at it, I ignored it, and as I was leaving, I said, “That was my boss. He agrees with me about what we say.” It was of course nothing of the sort, but I take all the breaks that come my way. It was a message about the time to meet the art valuer at the house. The appointment suited me, so once I was outside I replied and agreed to the scheduled time.

I took another taxi for that appointment and it dropped me off on the street where I wanted to be taken, and then I walked the rest of the way to the house. I was half an hour or so early, so I took another tour, this time around the garden, looking inside any sheds and other outhouses. Anything locked, I found the key on my set of keys and used it. There was nothing found that gave me cause for concern or indeed stir my greed.

I got back to the house front in time to meet my visitor. I had the gates open to allow him to drive up to the front door. He was a small man, with a fastidious little moustache that made me think of Agatha Christie’s Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, but he was balding on top and had a slightly rotund belly, reflecting his middle age. “Mr Jones?” he greeted me. “Charles Grey, art valuer at your service. I understand you wish to know more about your art collection?”

“Indeed so, Mr. Grey. I inherited the house and contents, and unfortunately I have insufficient knowledge of art. That is why I sought a man with your qualifications.” “Excellent choice, Mr Jones. A very wise decision. I take it that you will not be affronted if I find that some of the artwork is, shall we say, unverified?” “That is exactly what I hope you will tell me, for my benefactor was somewhat secretive about his possessions. We had not met in some considerable time, but I was the one he chose to leave the house to. My family has not yet moved in, so we are clarifying a few matters prior to that.” “Good. Shall we proceed?”

I opened the door and ushered him in. He stopped to cast a shrewd eye over the large hall with its pictures hanging on the walls, but said nothing at first. Then he remarked, “An eclectic choice of works, Mr Jones. No one period dominates here. Is it your opinion that the owner opted for genuine originals rather than quality copies? Views differ on such preferences.” “I could not speak with any merit on such possibilities, Mr Grey. I shall depend on you to give your expert opinion. That will assist me in applying insurance values to these pieces when we insure the house contents.” “Ah, exactly so. I can provide valuations for such purposes, but not today. It will take time to complete my work. Today will simply be an initial assessment and a broad brush figure for your interest.”

He strode over to one wall to peer at one of the modern art items. “I see this claims to be a Dali. Unfortunately, long before his death Dali signed many hundreds of blank sheets of art paper, and since then many unscrupulous charlatans have added pictures above the signature, and touted them as genuine Dalis. Such is life in the art world, Mr Jones.”

“So you cannot state with certainty that any Dali is genuine?” “Not unless a reputable gallery has given a certificate of authenticity to go with it. Provenance is king, my dear fellow. They have done the research to prove a piece genuine, and their reputation depends on their opinion being provable. Have you looked around the house for a file of documentation; possibly alongside a list of the works on display?”

I admitted, “No, we have not gone looking for such material specifically. You might perhaps leave me notes on what to look for.” “Certainly. I have been commissioned to do this survey and assist you in any way possible. My fee is already paid, by a gentleman I trust, so I know that this is not in any way a fraudulent collection, merely an undocumented personal choice.” “Certainly not fraudulent on my part, sir. That I can assure you of. The intent here is to seek information about the works in the house; nothing else.”

“Glad to help. Now if I can have silence for some time, so I can view what we have here, and I will be able to make notes on each one as I go. Is there a ladder I can make use of, to reach the higher ones?”

I went off to search for the ladder, which had to be here somewhere. Once I had located it, I brought it to him. He was standing close to one of the lower level pictures, a small lens in his had as he peered intently at the picture. My arrival interrupted his stare, and he said, “Ah, thank you, Mister Jones. This one looks interesting. It appears to be a Modigliani. He was an Italian Expressionist painter and sculptor who did most of his work in France. Poor man died of TB, you know.” “No, I was unaware of the man. Regard me as a moron about art, please. Is this one genuine?”

“That was why I was examining it so closely. It appears to be the real thing, but first appearances can be deceptive. I need to photograph it and later consult the catalogue raisonee; sorry, that means the list of all his known works, and the movement of each work over time. If this work is included, it will state where it is believed to have been in recent times. If with a gallery, I can check with them to see if it was sold to the owner of this house. Tracking the movement of a piece over the years is essential in confirming its authenticity.” “I get you. Collecting the evidence, as it were?”

“Just so. Now, if I may?” He was clearly keen to get on with his work. I decided a cuppa was in order and asked if he wanted tea or coffee at some point. “Tea would be ample. In a mug, please; much easier to handle as I move about.” I removed myself to the kitchen and located the makings of a pot of tea for us. I spent the remainder of his visit fetching and carrying what he wanted until he had seen all the walls that had paintings and drawings. He stopped and asked, “Is there more in storage?” “Good God! I suppose there might be, but where?” “The commonest solution is lying flat under beds, especially beds that are little used; usually upstairs, protected from both dust and flood. People are so predictable, I find.”

With that clue, we moved around the house to each bedroom in turn, where he got down on the floor to do his inspection. I was surprised at what he came up with: framed pictures wrapped in brown paper; a low-level box of about twenty drawings; and loose artwork kept flat by a thick panel of wood on top. I expressed my surprise at them being hidden from sight, but he smiled happily.

“Works deposited in places like this tend to be more probably genuine, with the owner keeping them from view in the hopes of them increasing in value over time, and then selling them at a profit. Stupid, in my candid opinion, as art is meant to be appreciated, not hidden or kept for profit.” “I see. Makes sense, I suppose. Why that box of drawings?”

“Oh, that is probably a set, all associated works and so best kept together. An artist might make a dozen drawings of the same subject, each slightly different as he tries to capture a particular quality of the image. They can all be equally valuable, but as a set, any art museum would avidly seek to have them for research into the artist’s modus operandi. That means his way of working, his thinking process as he attempts to get towards perfection in his eyes. A set doubles or triples in value in the minds of art experts, and my valuation will reflect that.”