Clean Break (12 page)

Frustrating was right. This was turning into one of those cases where I was sucking up information like a demented Hoover, but none of it was taking me anywhere. The only thing I could think of doing now was getting in touch with a Dutch private eye and asking him or her to check out Kees van der Rohe, to see if he could come up with something the police had missed. “Any indication of a foreign connection in the other cases?” I asked.

“Not really,” Ballantrae said. “We suspect that individual pieces are being stolen to order. If anything, I'd hazard a guess that if they're for a private collector, we're looking at someone English. A lot of the items that have been stolen have quite a narrow appeal—the Hilliard miniatures, for example. And my Raeburn too,
I suppose. They wouldn't exactly set the international art world ablaze.”

“Maybe that's part of the plan,” I mused.

“How do you mean?” Ellen Ballantrae leaned forward, frowning.

“If they went for really big stuff like the thieves who stole the Munch painting in Norway, there would be a huge hue and cry, Interpol alerted, round up the usual suspects, that sort of thing. But by going for less valuable pieces, maybe they're relying on there being less of a fuss, especially if they're moving their loot across international borders,” I explained.

Ballantrae nodded appreciatively. “Good thinking, that woman. You could have something there. The only thefts that fall outside that are the Bernini bust and Henry's Monet, but even those two aren't the absolutely prime examples of their creators' works.”

“Can you think of any collectors whose particular interests are covered by the thefts?” I asked.

“Do you know, I hadn't thought about that. I don't know personally, but I have a couple of chums in the gallery business. I could ask them to ask around and see what they come up with. That's a really constructive idea,” Ballantrae enthused.

I basked in the glow of his praise. It made a refreshing change from Trevor Kerr's charmlessness. “What's the geographical spread like?” I asked.

“We were the most northerly victims. But there doesn't seem to be any real pattern. They go from Northumberland to Cornwall north to south, and from Lincolnshire to Anglesey east to west. I can let you have a printout,” he added, jumping to his feet and walking behind his computer. He hit a few keys, and the printer behind me cranked itself into life.

I twirled the chair round and took the sheet of paper out of the machine. Reading down it, I saw the glimmer of an idea. “Have you got a map of the UK I can look at?” I asked.

Ballantrae nodded. “I've got a data disk with various maps on it. Want a look?”

I came round behind his desk and waited for him to load the disk. He called up a map of the UK with major cities and the road
network. “Can you import this map and manipulate it in a graphics file?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. And promptly did it. He gave me a quick tutorial on how to use his software, and I started fiddling with it. First, I marked the approximate locations of the burglaries, with a little help from Ballantrae in identifying locations. I looked at the array.

“I wish we had one of those programs that crime pattern analysts use,” I muttered. I'd recently spent a day at a seminar run by the Association of British Investigators where an academic had shown us how sophisticated computer programs were helping police to predict where repeat offenders might strike next. It had been impressive, though not a lot of use to the likes of me.

“I never imagined I'd have any use for one of those,” Ballantrae said drily.

Ellen laughed. “No doubt the software king will have one by next week,” she said.

Using the mouse, I drew a line connecting the outermost burglaries. There were eight in that group, scattered round the fringes of England and Wales. Then I repeated the exercise with the remainder. The outer line was a rough oval, with a kink over Cornwall. It looked like a cartoon speech balloon, containing the immortal words of the Scilly Isles. The inner line was more jagged. I disconnected Henry Naismith's robbery and another outside Burnley. Now, the inner line was more like a trapezium, narrower at the top, spreading at the bottom. Finally, I linked Henry and the Burnley job with a pair of semi-circles. “See anything?” I asked.

“Greater Manchester,” Ballantrae breathed. “How fascinating. Well, Ms. Brannigan, you're clearly the right woman for the job.”

I was glad somebody thought so. “Have there been any clues at all in any of the cases?” I asked.

Ballantrae walked over to a shelf that held his computer software boxes and manuals. “I don't know if you'd call it a clue, exactly. But one of the properties that was burgled had just installed closed-circuit TV and they have a video of the robbery. But it's not actually a lot of help, since the thieves were very sensibly
wearing ski masks.” He took a video down from the shelf. “Would you like to see it?”

“Why not?” I'd schlepped all the way up here. I wasn't going home before I'd extracted every last drop of info out of Lord Ballantrae.

“We'll have to go through to the den,” he said.

As I followed him back across the hall, Ellen said affectionately, “Some days I think he's auditioning for
Crimewatch
.”

We retraced my steps back towards the kitchen, turning into a room only twice the size of my living room. The view was spectacular, if you like that sort of thing, looking out across a swathe of grass, a river and not very distant hills. Me, I'm happy with my garden fence. As Ballantrae crossed to the video, I gave the room the once-over. It wasn't a bit like a stately home. The mismatched collection of sofas and armchairs was modern, looking comfortable if a bit dog-haired and dog-eared. Shelves along one wall held a selection of board games, jigsaws, console games and video tapes. A coffee table was strewn with comics and magazines. In one corner there was a huge Nicam stereo TV and video with a Nintendo console lying in front of it. The only picture on the walls was a framed photograph of James and Ellen with a young boy and girl, sitting round a picnic table in skiing clothes. They all looked as if the world was their oyster. Come to think of it, it probably was.

“Sorry about the mess,” Ellen said in the offhand tone that told me she didn't give a shit about tidiness. “The children make it and I can't be bothered unmaking it. Have a seat.”

She walked over to the windows and pulled one of the curtains across, cutting down the brightness so we could see the video more clearly. I sat down opposite the TV, where daytime TV's best actors played out their roles as a happily married couple telling the rest of us how to beat cellulite. Ballantrae slumped down beside me and hit the play button. “This is Morton Grange in Humberside,” he said. “Home of Lord Andrew Cumberbatch. His was the Ruisdael.”

The screen showed an empty room lined with paintings. Suddenly, from the bottom left-hand corner, the burglars
appeared. The staccato movements of the time-lapse photography made them look like puppets in an amateur performance. Both men were wearing ski masks with holes for eyes and mouth only, and the kind of overalls you can pick up for next to nothing in any army surplus store. One of them ran across to the painting, pulled out a power screwdriver and unscrewed the clips that held the frame to the wall. The other, holding a sledgehammer, hung back. Then he turned towards the camera and took a couple of steps forward.

Recognition hit me like a punch to the stomach.

One of the mysteries of the universe is how I got out of Castle Dumdivie without confessing that I knew exactly who had had it away on his toes with Lord Andrew Cumberbatch's nice little Ruisdael. I was only grateful that James Ballantrae was sitting next to me and couldn't see my face.

After the first seconds of shock, I tried to tell myself I was imagining things. But the longer I watched, the more convinced I was that I was right. I knew those shoulders, those light, bouncing steps. God knows I'd watched that footwork often enough, trying to gauge where the next kick was coming from. I forced myself to sit motionless to the bitter end. Then I said, “I see what you mean. Even their own mothers wouldn't recognize them from that.”

“Their lovers might,” Ellen said shrewdly. “Don't they say a person's walk is the one thing they can never disguise?”

She was bang on the button, of course. “The video makes it look too jerky for that, I'd have thought,” I said.

“I don't know.” Ballantrae lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Body language and gesture are pretty individual. Look at the number of criminals who get caught by the videos they show on
Crimewatch
.”

“Told you,” Ellen said fondly. “He's dying to go on and talk about his art robberies. The only thing that's holding him back is that all his cronies are terrified about what the publicity might do to their admissions.”

“Yes, but now the cat's out of the bag with that newspaper story in Manchester, there's no point in holding back,” Ballantrae said. “Maybe I should give them a ring …”

“Any chance you could let me have a copy of the tape?” I asked.
“I'd like to show it to Henry Naismith's staff while everything's still fresh in their memories. Perhaps, as Ellen suggests, there might be something in the way these men move that triggers something off. The police reckon they will have gone round the house a couple of times as regular punters, sussing it out, so we might just get lucky if one of Henry's staff has a photographic memory.”

Ballantrae got up and took the video out of the machine. “Take this one,” he said. “I can easily get Andrew to run me off another copy.”

I took the tape and stood up. “I really appreciate your help on this,” I said. “If anything else should come to mind that might be useful, please give me a ring.” I fished a business card out of my bag.

“What will you do now?” Ballantrae asked.

“Like I said, show the vid to Henry's staff. I'm also hopeful that the story in the
Chronicle
might stir the pot a bit. The chances are that it's not just the robbers themselves who know who they are. Maybe you should think about getting together with your insurance companies and offering a reward. It would make a good follow-up story for the paper and it might just be what we need to lever the lid off things.” I was starting to gabble, I noticed. Time for a sharp exit. I ostentatiously looked at my watch. “I'd better be heading back to the wicked city,” I said.

“You're sure you've got to go?” Ballantrae asked with the pathetic eagerness of a small boy who sees his legitimate diversion from homework disappearing over a distant horizon. “I could show you round the house. You could see for yourself where they broke in.”

Amused, Ellen said, “I'm sure Ms. Brannigan's seen one or two windows in her time.” Turning to me, she added, “You're very welcome to stay for lunch, but if you have to get back, don't feel the need to apologize for turning down the guided tour of Dumdivie's loot.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I need to hit the road,” I said. “This isn't the only case we've got on right now, and my partner's out of the country.” I really was wittering now. I took a step towards the door. “I'll keep you posted.”

I drove back to Manchester on automatic pilot, my thoughts
whirling. Shelley phoned at one point, but I'm damned if I know what we talked about. When I hit the city, I didn't go to the office. I didn't want any witnesses to the conversation I was planning. I drove straight home, glad for once to find Richard was out.

My stomach was churning, so I brewed some coffee and made myself a sandwich of ciabatta, tuna, olives and plum tomatoes. It was only when I tried to eat it and found I had no appetite that I realized it was anxiety rather than hunger that was responsible for the awesome rumblings. Sighing, I wrapped the sandwich in clingfilm and tossed it in the fridge. I picked up the phone. Some money-grabbing computer took ten pence off me for the privilege of telling me Dennis's mobile was switched off.

Next, I rang the gym. Don, the manager, told me Dennis had been in earlier, but had gone off a couple of hours ago suited up. “If he comes back, tell him I've been visiting the gentry and he needs to see me, double urgent. I'll be at home,” I said grimly.

That left his home. His wife Debbie answered on the third ring. She's got a heart of gold, but she could have provided the model for the dumb blonde stereotype. I'd always reckoned that if a brain tumor were to find its way inside her skull it would bounce around for days looking for a place to settle. However, I wasn't planning on challenging her intellect. I just asked if Dennis was there, and she said she hadn't seen him since breakfast. “Do you know where he is?” I asked.

She snorted incredulously. “I gave up asking him stuff like that fifteen years ago,” she said. Maybe she wasn't as thick as I'd always thought. “To be honest, I'd rather not know what he's up to most of the time. Long as he gives me money for the kids and the house and he stays out of jail, I ask no questions. That way, when the Old Bill comes knocking, there's nothing I can tell them. He knows I'm a crap liar,” she giggled.

“When are you expecting him back?”

“When I see him, love. Have you tried his mobile?”

“Switched off.”

“He won't have it turned off for long,” Debbie reassured me. “If he comes home before you catch him, do you want me to get him to give you a bell?”

“No. I want him to come round the house. Tell him it's urgent, would you?”

“You're not in any trouble, are you, Kate?” Debbie asked anxiously. “Only, if you need somebody in a hurry, I could get one of the lads to come round.”