The lifelong animosity Adam felt towards his own mother was deep-rooted and impossible to hide.
‘Your turn, DS Warr. Why are you here?’
‘She left everything to you,’ Jack said. ‘She made a second will. In the end, she did right by you. The house and contents are yours.’
Adam barked out another sudden laugh. ‘Whatever will has been found is illegal. You need to be aware that only Freddie’s is legitimate. She was a bigamist, and she had a pre-existing child — me. Being a criminal and being a whore were both clauses that would exclude her in his will. I know because he told me. Towards the end he hated her. She should have got nothing. So, it’s not mine, it’s Terence’s. Give it to him.’
A momentary quietness descended. The men looked out across the landscape and seemed to share a serenity regarding Adam’s decision as it brought a certain closure. During the silence, Jack replayed the last hour of conversation. At best, he’d expected to hear a confession about the cannabis, but the theft of the artworks... that had come as a surprise. Jack watched Adam take the final couple of drags on his cigarette and stamp it out. Jack had to take control now. It was time to go.
‘Let’s go back inside, Adam.’ Jack didn’t want to appear challenging, not yet. He needed backup first. He needed to get indoors so that he had a phone signal. And then he needed to quickly work out how the hell he was going to bring Adam in.
In London, the convoy bringing Michael Mahoney to the Drug Squad’s main holding cell was making its way from Heathrow Airport. Two motorcycle out-riders were in front of the white covered transport vehicle, while inside were Mahoney and two armed response officers. Tailing them was a patrol car, carrying an array of Gucci suitcases owned by their prisoner. There had been a barrage of reporters held back at the airport, as they tried to locate and track the convoy: news of a major international drug dealer being arrested had spread fast.
Jack was becoming incredibly wary. Adam exuded a disarming confidence, even when he was confessing to a variety of class B offences. He behaved as if he was untouchable. Maybe he was? Maybe Greg was just seconds away? Adam made no attempt to head back inside.
‘Don’t let’s spoil things yet, Jack. I’ve got so much more to tell you.’ Jack tried not to flinch for fear of Adam sensing his discomfort.
Adam perched on a drystone wall indicating that he was going nowhere. ‘I had this old campervan. Jessica travelled back and forth with me to Amsterdam, to catch up with her parents, have a bit of a holiday. She knew the reason for the trips, but she was just a passenger, literally and metaphorically. I know you can’t hurt her now, but I’m very fond of her parents so... they know she made mistakes. She took the Rossetti. Jessica never had money, which didn’t bother me but did bother her. She wanted to pay her way and all she could think of was to steal from an exceptionally easy target.’
‘Sounds familiar.’ The words left Jack’s mouth before he could edit them.
‘No, no, no, Jack. I didn’t steal from Avril because it was easy, I stole because she didn’t deserve to have nice things. She had so much in her life that she should have cherished and looked after and kept safe, but no!’ Adam clearly included himself in that. ‘She had to treat it all like shit. I didn’t steal, I... rescued.’ Adam stared at Jack, challenging him to argue. He didn’t. Instead, Jack asked a question that steered Adam away from his hated mother.
‘What happened to the Rossetti?’
Adam took a second to regain his composure. ‘It was stupid of Jessica to show it to her father, but I guess she wanted it authenticated. When she told me what she’d done, we argued. She wanted to use the painting to start a new life together, but I wasn’t ready to leave. I took it from her. That was the last time we saw each other.’
Until this moment, Jack had not known the fate of the Rossetti. But now Adam was admitting that it had been in his possession, at least for a time. Jack would need to know its current whereabouts eventually, of course, but for now, there was a more pressing question that he wanted answered. ‘What did you mean, I wasn’t ready to leave?’
Adam lit another cigarette and paused for a considerable length of time as he allowed the nicotine to calm him down.
‘Freddie Jenkins had an astonishing, lifelong love of art, acquired from his father when he was just a child. So, his passion was sixty years in the making. Pair that with a callous disregard for provenance and you have one of the UK’s most prolific collectors — and forgers — of works of art.’
Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing. During the investigation, he’d been made aware that some works of art in Avril’s possession were forgeries, but not once did he imagine that Frederick was the one who had painted them. Maybe that was because Frederick was already dead? Maybe Jack had elevated Adam into the position of mastermind because it suited him better. After all, he couldn’t chase a dead man.
Adam continued.
‘As Freddie became weaker, he asked me to act as a runner for him. Collecting and delivering, to and from dealers and other collectors.’ Adam folded his arms and smiled, as he remembered. ‘I’d buy boxes of oils, inks, parchments. And I’d buy up worthless paintings, beautiful centuries-old frames, complete with all the original canvases and nails. Then he’d copy an old master, including the provenance, and sell it on. He was a fucking genius.’
Jack found Adam’s tale fanciful. ‘I find that hard to believe. I mean, are you telling me that Frederick Jenkins fooled Jason Marks? Fooled the art world?’
‘For decades. Let me tell you a story, Jack. In 2007, Prince Charles rescued an eighteenth-century mansion in Scotland with a £20 million loan. Dumfries House. Charlie was a hero, and, over the years, millions of people came from across the globe to view the ever-changing art collections that were loaned out to adorn the walls of the principal gallery. Collectors were desperate for their work to be seen there. In 2017, Dumfries acquired another collection. Seventeen paintings. Among them works by Monet, Dali, Picasso, Chagall. Again, millions of art fans, critics, collectors, amateur enthusiasts came to view them and bask in their stunning beauty.’ Adam beamed a huge grin.
‘Fakes. Painted by a guy called Tony Tetro, on his kitchen table. And, as I recall, valued collectively in excess of £100 million. Stick provenance on the back of a frame dating from the same time period as the original was painted, and bingo. Provenance comes from the French provenir, meaning to come from. Provenance is the dealers’ gospel. The art world isn’t stupid, but it’s slow. It takes expertise and lots of man hours to spot a fake and sometimes months or years to prove a fake. But when no one’s even looking...’ Adam shrugged. ‘Fakes can hang for decades on Prince Charles’ wall, with no one batting an eye. Some of the collectors Freddie sold to might have known and not cared, I suppose. I think Jason knew. But he was on a nice cut, so...’
‘So, what did Freddie do with the originals?’
‘Locked them away in his dungeon, so that only he could enjoy them. Like he did with all beautiful, exciting things. The fakes would be delivered to their destination rolled up in my campervan and hidden, along with flasks of cannabis oil, amongst bedding, camping equipment and tins of baked beans. It was a tangled web, Jack. Because whilst Freddie was off his face on cannabis, Avril took the odd painting from rooms all over the house and — behind her husband’s back — asked Jason to sell it for her. So, sometimes Jason was being asked to quickly and clumsily sell paintings which he knew to be fake. He couldn’t refuse Avril, or he’d be kicked out of the house and lose his golden goose, and he couldn’t tell Freddie for the same reason.’