‘What do you think is going on, Julia? Who’s stealing all this treasure?’
‘Don’t be so dense! That’s not the important question!’
I try to keep my temper in check and calmly ask, ‘Then enlighten me.’
After driving through greenery for over an hour, we’re entering a village and pass a few stone cottages and what looks to be a converted church. A sign indicates we’re seventeen miles from Hexham.
‘I think’ – she points to the fuel gauge – ‘we need petrol.’
‘What do you think is going on, Julia?’
She shrugs. ‘It’s not just jewels.’
‘Go on.’
‘Many of mankind’s greatest artworks are missing.’
‘Is this another process?’
‘It’s part of the same process and it’s both historical and ongoing. Da Vinci’s Battle of Anghiari, Raphael’s Portrait of a Young Man, Michelangelo’s Leda and the Swan, Caravaggio’s Nativity – these are all long-term lost masterpieces. But in the last fifty years, thousands – literally thousands! – of significant paintings have been stolen and never found. The vanished art ranges from the works of modern artists like Geddes, to Old Masters like Rembrandt and the greats including Degas, Cezanne and Renoir. All gone and never found!’
I get the impression she’s happy to continue, but there are roadworks ahead and I’m forced to stop in front of a lanky young man wearing a needless hard hat, holding one of those STOP/GO signs. For a second, I’m on max alert. Is this some kind of trap?
But I scan the scene and see several burly blokes in high-vis tabards doing absolutely nothing except chatting, so I assume they’re legitimate British workmen. There’s a uniformed police constable walking towards them and he begins chatting to the only one who’s holding a mug of tea – a fact that suggests he’s in charge.
I say to Julia, ‘It’s all right. We’ll be moving in a—’
For a moment, I think it’s the sound of an open-bolt, blowback-operated submachine gun unleashing a brief hail of bullets, and so does my passenger. She flinches, half ducking, before realising it’s one of the workmen testing his pneumatic drill. The guy in question spots Julia’s fright and grins, holding up his hand by way of apology.
But the copper noticed her reaction too and seems surprised. He begins sauntering over to us. Julia swears under her breath and I put on my best ‘nothing to see here’ smile. He lightly raps on the passenger window. Julia lowers it. I lean across. ‘Everything all right, constable?’
‘I was going to ask you the same question, sir. The young lady seemed . . .’
He’s not sure what the ‘young lady’ seemed, or, at least, he can’t articulate it, but she herself snaps, ‘I’m fine.’
I offer a more placatory, ‘Thanks for checking. We’re just a bit on edge.’
‘What about?’
I think, None of your bloody business, but reply, ‘We’re running low on petrol.’
He nods in that slow, deep way that people always affect when they don’t believe you. I get it a lot, and gesture to the fuel gauge as if to say, I’m honestly not lying!
The tall, thin youth with the sign spins it around to present us with GO. Julia glares at me and asks, ‘What are you waiting for? Just put your foot down!’
If she’s trying to antagonise the policeman, she’s doing a first-rate job. He furrows his brow and opens his mouth to speak, but I get there first. ‘Would it be all right for us to move along?’
‘No. I think I’d better take you to the station.’
Julia yells, ‘We haven’t done anything wrong!’
I gently tell her, ‘He means the petrol station.’
The PC nods.
‘That won’t be necessary, but thanks. We located one on Google Maps a few minutes ago. But thanks again.’
‘No problem, sir.’ He steps back and touches the front of his helmet’s brim, like he’s Dixon of Dock Green. ‘Travel safe.’
I release the handbrake and we move away. It’s obvious the constable has put Julia even more on edge, and to take her mind off the encounter, I return to our earlier conversation. ‘Going back to what you were telling me . . . How much money are we talking about with these things? The missing works, I mean.’
‘Hard to say.’ I think she’s going to leave it at that, but she soon warms to the subject, as if the PC’s intervention has already been forgotten. She continues, ‘Vincent van Gogh’s Poppy Flowers was stolen from a Cairo museum in 2010. Never recovered, of course. At the time of the theft, that one painting alone was valued at fifty-five million dollars.’
‘And you think Bulatov was involved in this process? Or at the very least interested?’
‘Hard to tell. He gives the impression of being connected to everything and linked to nothing.’
I agree. ‘Yeah, the Colonel plays his cards so close to his chest they’re practically in his ribcage. What about Ekaterina?’
‘She was only ever interested in the Romanov treasure. Oh, and the Amber Room. She seemed to believe its disappearance was somehow connected with the Tzar’s missing jewels.’
‘The Amber Room?’ I’m on more familiar territory here. The Amber Room was an extraordinary chamber decorated with amber panels backed with gold leaf and mirrors, located in the Catherine Palace, near Saint Petersburg. It was dismantled during World War II and whisked away from Russia by the Nazis. It famously disappeared, however, and has never been located.
‘People called it the Eighth Wonder of the World and its absence is a loss to the art world.’ Julia pauses. ‘But it was also a priceless piece of art. It was constructed from six tonnes of amber, gold and silver, with serious amounts of gemstones throughout it all. If it was found today, experts estimate it would be worth over five hundred million dollars.’
‘And I thought rooms in London were getting pricey.’
‘But it disappeared. Of course it did. All part of the process.’ She sounds genuinely saddened by the loss of so much heritage but becomes animated again as she glances at the dashboard. ‘Novak!’ She jabs her finger at the fuel gauge. ‘We really need petrol!’
I pull into a small station and something odd occurs. When I kill the engine, it’s as though I’ve killed our conversation. For a moment, there’s a loud silence. Julia looks reflective. I ask her if she’s all right and she replies with an offhand nod. I get out of the Austin, top up its tank and tell Julia not to leave town.
She widens her eyes. ‘Where do you think I’m going to go?’
‘I mean, just stay in the van. I’ll only be a moment.’
‘Fine!’
I walk into the shop to pay. The guy in front of me has a succession of cards declined and starts arguing with the woman on the till. Eventually, he settles using cash and I pay for the petrol and a couple of bottles of water. It’s starting to rain as I stroll back to the Austin Morris. I glance at the passenger seat. Empty. Dash to the rear of the vehicle. Unlock the doors and fling them open.
‘Damn it!’
Julia has disappeared.