Jack tried to figure out where they were, as Border turned down one backstreet after another until they finally entered a cul-de-sac with a kid’s playing field on one side and three small boarded-up terraced houses. Border pulled up by a barrier, then used a set of keys to unlock it before lifting it up. He then drove over rough potholed tarmac towards some old derelict buildings.
‘It used to be a school before the land was sold off for a new high-rise block, but it suits me. I’m what might be described as the caretaker, but I pay for the privilege.’ They continued past what had been the entrance of the school into a low-walled backyard. Border got out, gesturing for Jack to follow as he opened one of the large double doors into the building.
As Border went inside, Jack quickly snapped some pictures of the location with his phone. He knew what he was doing was foolish and potentially dangerous, but it felt good to have some adrenalin pumping through his veins once more.
Border was standing at the end of a corridor by a room with a DRILL HALL sign above it and a padlock and chain on the door handles. He unlocked it and walked inside. Jack followed him and was astonished by the number of frames lining the walls; long trestle tables were piled up with canvases, and one was covered with an array of oil painting brushes and thousands of tubes of oil paint, jars of chemicals and turpentine.
‘My God, how long have you been using this place?’ Jack asked.
‘Just a few months. Anything of value I keep in that old safe in the corner. I sometimes get kids trying to break in and nick anything they think they can sell. The place used to be full of old school desks and chairs, but now they’ve all been taken, break-ins are far less frequent. Whether the fucking junkies around here or the builders took them, I don’t know. You fancy a drink?’
‘Er, thanks, but I really need to get going.’
‘I’ll take you back to the market when we’ve unloaded the car. I’ll get us a drink first.’ Border walked out of the hall and into another room off the corridor while Jack looked around. There was a generator and an array of lamps, and easels with drapes over the paintings. Jack recalled being in Ireland with Border years ago and seeing his paintings. He remembered how fast he had flown the coop when the police were about to arrest him. He knew back then Border must have had a team of people working for him to be able to clear out his studio so fast and so professionally, leaving no prints or evidence that he had even been there. Jack knew Border traded in forgeries as he had gifted him a so-called Giacometti. He had contemplated selling it at one time but knew that it could get him in serious trouble, so kept it hidden beneath his shed. It was obvious now to Jack that Border was back in business.
Hundreds of photographs decorated every wall — close-ups of paintings, frames, canvases, zooming in on every minute detail, in order to make the forgeries perfect in every way Jack assumed. In front of one canvas was a high-powered A4 magnifier and against the wall was what looked like a mobile X-ray machine. This was attached to a large screen, currently switched off. There were cameras, goggles, medical-style magnifying glasses and more painting equipment than the average art shop. Jack picked up a brush that had just one single bristle. He was looking at the painting next to it just as Border returned.
‘Impressed?’ he said smiling, holding up a bottle of Pinot Grigio and two fluted wine glasses. ‘That one is all my own work.’
Jack couldn’t quite say what he thought about it, except that it was somehow fascinating. ‘It’s... special. Is it oils?’
‘Yep, can’t get anyone even remotely interested.’
Jack tore his gaze from the painting. ‘Are you here alone, or do you have people working for you?’
‘Right now, it’s just me. Much of what you see stacked up will be useless, but it’ll make good firewood. I have to be very careful to find the right frame. Let me show you what you might think is a rusted pile of crap but actually has immense value.’ Border placed the glasses on a table and indicated a row of small cardboard boxes containing nails of various shapes and sizes. As he poured the wine, he nodded to one box that contained only two nails. ‘Fifteenth-century nails, next box sixteenth century, then seventeenth... I also have nails from the Edwardian and Victorian periods. It’s taken me years to collect them — from all over the world.’ He offered Jack a glass of wine.
‘So you live here?’
Border made a nonchalant gesture towards a corner of the drill hall. ‘Mattress and sleeping bag, but I use a local gym when I need to shower.’
Jack looked at a stack of paintings propped up against the table. He glanced at Border as if asking his permission to look over them.
‘Be my guest,’ Border smiled.
‘These are very good... all forgeries I suppose.’
Border laughed. ‘Actually, they’re my original work. You wouldn’t believe it, but countless galleries and art dealers around the world have rejected me. I can’t sell a single one of them... so frustrating when I can knock out fakes which they buy by the dozen.’
‘Do they know they’re fakes?’
‘I don’t think so, it’s not as if I advertise the fact. There was a pair of artists who worked together, painted forgeries — they came up with an ingenious con. They collected a stack of crap... broken frames, damaged canvases etcetera and included one of their forgeries among the dross. Degas being a favourite.’
‘Is that why you went to the market trader’s shop?’
‘Yes, for the old frames. He’s got stacks of them and hasn’t a clue how valuable they are to an art forger.’
Jack shook his head, laughing despite himself.
‘So, these two artists would dress up all scruffy and go to reputable dealers, saying they had a carload of paintings they got from house clearances, and they’d ask if anything they had was of value. They would watch the so-called art connoisseur look over their offerings almost in disgust, until their eyes lit up when they saw the fake. Do you remember me telling you about the importance of provenance, you know, proof of authentication...’
‘Vaguely,’ Jack said, trying to disguise his interest.
‘They were in it for the money, of course, but like me, they also resented the establishment rejecting their own paintings.’
‘I can understand the frustration.’
‘I doubt you can. I would say nearly fifty per cent of all the socalled Old Masters in museums and galleries are fakes. Even King Charles displayed one from a US artist. But these days it’s getting tougher because so many art experts have had their fingers burnt. My biggest fear is that a man named James Martin will be my nemesis. He’s considered one of the world’s top art forgery detectives.’
‘Never heard of him.’ Jack took another sip of wine.
Border picked up a magazine article with a photograph of Martin and handed it to Jack.
‘Forgeries have got so good Sotheby’s hired Martin to check any painting brought to them. In 2015, a big art gallery in Paris had a tip-off that one of the paintings on display was a fake. It was Venus by the German Renaissance master Lucas Cranach the Elder, originally purchased by the Prince of Liechtenstein for about six million. Tests confirmed it was a forgery. They discovered it had been put on the market by Giuliano Ruffini, a well-known art collector, which hoisted a big red flag of concern about how many fakes Ruffini had sold. It turned out to be around twenty-five works, from which he made a staggering hundred and seventy-odd million.’
‘So, has this Ruffini been arrested?’ Jack was fascinated by the world Border lived in and the exotic figures who inhabited it.
‘Yes, in Italy. He was extradited to Paris and charged with fraud, money laundering and forgery but has yet to stand trial. Ruffini has always maintained his innocence.’ Border’s mobile rang; he glanced at the caller ID before answering. After listening for a moment, he turned his back on Jack and started speaking angrily.