“Friday Fiction” Series: The North-Counties Tale…
The North-Counties Tale
Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore
Preface
Readers of the “Esther Brookstone Art Detective” series know Esther inherited a castle up by Edinburgh in the first novel of that series. She and her husband, Bastiann van Coevorden, have managed to repair it and make it into a comfortable retreat, more for summertime use. In this story, she receives a call from Bastiann to help find some stolen paintings.
Enjoy.
Prologue
Klaus knew the owner of the mansion and his family had gone to Antwerp for the holidays, a more muted event for the world’s Jews who usually still took the time off. The jeweler had retired, left his business in that Dutch city to his son, and was now visiting with his son’s family. The staff at the mansion had gone home for Christmas, leaving it to the holiday frolicking by ghosts from its past.
Klaus figured the old Dutch Jew had a few jewels in the house just west of Morpeth and Newcastle. He’d determined there were never any guards, so he expected a security system and a safe. The security system had been no problem. It took him a bit longer to find the safe.
He’d ambled around the second level, the squeaks from his trainers on the polished wood floors echoing around the house. He expected the safe to be in one of the many bedrooms. It wasn’t. The third level contained an attic and servants’ quarters.
So he’d explored the first level. He’d been about to descend to the basement when a niggling thought stopped him. Something wasn’t right about the study. He went back to take it all in while standing at its entrance. One wall displayed trophies from the daughter’s equestrian events; he thought she now lived in Australia. That wall seemed to be wasted space if all it was used for was to display a half dozen second- and third-place finishes in a toff’s sport.
He found a switch buried behind some books at the end of the shelf closest to that wall. He threw it, and half the wall moved forward a bit and slid over the other half.
A vault, not a safe! He smiled, imagining the jewel cache that awaited his greedy fingers. This heist had taken a positive turn from nicking the formal dining silver to stealing a mountain of jewels.
The lock mechanism was a modern keypad. It would be easier to open than the traditional combination where he’d have used a stethoscope. He took the little electronic device from his kit instead and went to work.
Chapter One
Detective Inspector Harold Gregg watched the SOCOs from the entrance to the study with his sergeant, Tim Shaw. Gregg was frowning; Shaw’s expression was neutral. Both had needed to rise earlier than normal to drive the nearly twenty miles west from Newcastle to the mansion, the largest residence among a few clustered around a small village.
“We’ll need the owner to make an inventory,” Shaw said.
“Adjuster will be arriving,” mumbled Gregg. “We got his number from the owner. The old Jew mightn’t even know what he had in there, but the insurance company will.”
With the heavy vault’s open door, both thought the thief wouldn’t have bothered with searching the rest of the sprawling house. And no one would have a safe like that without something of value to put into it. At the moment, they had no idea what that might have been.
The lead SOCO approached them. “Curious thing about that vault, Guv,” he said. “Damn thing is climate-controlled—temperature, humidity, and circulating air are monitored somewhere. We’ll find that.”
“Maybe via a mobile, so maybe not?” Shaw said.
Like many young coppers, Gregg thought Shaw was addicted to his moby. “Could be a hideaway,” he said. “Jews needed some with that madman Hitler. And the way this country’s going….”
“Not enough room,” said the SOCO. “Probably only to safeguard very valuable things, I’d imagine.”
“I can’t guess what would require climate control,” Gregg said.
“That’s because most police don’t place any value on art,” a voice behind them said.
Gregg spun around to come face-to-face with a tall woman, old and elegant now, even in sweats and trainers, but probably a stunner when young.
“You’re the adjuster?”
“Insurance might be called my game, but I do my adjusting in other ways. My name’s Esther Brookstone. My husband called and asked me to look into this heist. We’re friends with the owner.”
***
“So this owner, this Ezekiel Grossmann called your husband, he called you in Scotland, and you drove down?”
Brookstone had tucked into her breakfast, saying little before, now even less. Gregg figured she was protective of the mansion’s owner for some reason more than just friendship. Shaw’d already confirmed she was ex-Scotland Yard, once in the Art and Antiques Division. She now owned a gallery in London.
She took a long sip from her coffee as she studied the DI. “Zeke’s an old friend, like I said.” She showed Gregg and Shaw her engagement ring. “He gave my husband a good deal on this. A while ago, that was. Bastiann’s in Southampton now.”
Bastiann van Coevorden. Possibly a Dutch name. Maybe that was the connection with the jeweler? “Into shipping is he?” Gregg said instead.
Unlike Gregg, Shaw had joined Esther in breakfast. But he was listening to the conversation. Gregg only had coffee and toast. He was getting to the age where he had to watch what he ate. Traditional plod food put the pounds on.
“He and his colleague are chasing some illegal arms traffickers. They’re ex-Interpol and now MI5 consultants.” She smiled at the two coppers. “Needs must, you know. The elderly must keep busy at something to try to stay young.”
Shaw glanced at Gregg, whose slight frown caused by the impertinence of the old woman had now turned into a scowl. He was thinking they needed to know a bit more about this energetic wrinklie and her husband. The north counties were a bit provincial, even Newcastle, but the rest of the world did exist.
“So this Ezekiel kept paintings in that safe?” She nodded, breaking the yolk so it would flow over her toast. “Could you make a list for us?”
“No, but the adjuster can. The vault was specifically designed for them, of course. I understand some were purchased, others family heirlooms recovered from illegal buyers of paintings stolen by the Nazis. Zeke lost most of his family in the Holocaust. He was in England all during the war. The family had always invested in art. Zeke has carried on with that tradition.”
“I see.” He really didn’t. He had no love for art and hated museums, the latter a waste of the precious little time he had off. “And I suppose you’re going to be here annoying us, not letting us go about our investigation in peace.”
“I’ll take any abuse from plods for a friend,” she said with a smile. “I know you’re uncomfortable with that, inspector, but why don’t we agree to collaborate? Let’s just say I have some experience in recovering stolen art.”
***
Unfortunately Gregg discovered that she had more experience than anyone on the Newcastle Police force. He had to listen on the phone to some of the woman’s exploits from someone named George Langston at the Yard who had once been her chief. Langston encouraged Gregg to bite the bullet and accept Brookstone’s help. He reluctantly decided to do so.
“We closed down a large network that trafficked in stolen art,” she told him, “among other naughty mischief, but it’s still a worldwide problem. Many buyers wishing to own something only their eyes can see create the market for stolen art. Some less selfish and legitimate owners have to pay ransoms to get their artwork back. With the pandemic, thieves saw it as gainful employment, and that uptick has yet to diminish.”
”Do you think the old Jew’s paintings are still in the country?” Shaw said.
“Probably. With Brexit, smuggling has become a bit riskier. What’s also likely is that our thief has probably already passed the paintings on to someone else who will hold…um, let’s call it a private auction. We still need to find the thief, of course, to know who that auctioneer is. That’s your job.”
“Seems like stealing art might not be as common as other heists,” Gregg said. “That might be easy by reducing the number of possible suspects. I expect you or Chief Langston has a list of known art thieves?”
“Um, you probably won’t get off so easily. Because of Zeke’s old profession, the thief was probably looking for jewels. He knew exactly when the house wouldn’t be inhabited. He’s a cat burglar looking for items to fence, a very good one. He was probably disappointed he only found artwork in that vault, but he had the presence of mind to steal it. If it’s in a vault, it’s valuable.”
Shaw was nodding, and Gregg felt a bit embarrassed he hadn’t come up with that.
“You’ll have to cast a wide net for burglars of mansions, from Cumbria to Northumberland. It’s someone skilled who looks for the big heist.”
“Could he be someone just released from gaol?” Shaw said.
“Yes. And someone who’s still the guest of King Charlie could know about him, so include all those in your net too.”
“And where does that leave you in helping us?” Gregg said with a growl.
“I think Chief Langston would probably like working with me than with you. I can get access to all their records and agents. And then there’s the MI5 and NCA, where I know a few people too. We’ll find the thief, inspector, and we’ll find the paintings for Zeke. We must work as a team.”
***
Gregg’s team had met in a small briefing room in Gregg and Shaw’s Newcastle station. Gregg was wondering what he was getting into all the time his crew debated and parceled out tasks. The inspector was controlling, but he didn’t think he could control Brookstone. He’d have Shaw find out more about this impertinent woman. That might be a waste of time, but at least he would know where he stood.
Later that day, Shaw entered the office.
“The net for jewel thieves is cast. I have a list of ones currently in prison. If we eliminate a lot of the petty heists, the list isn’t that large, like you implied, Guv.”
“What did you find on Brookstone?”
“A bit famous, the old witch is. She thwarted an ISIS attack on London, helped nick a drug cartel leader, and brought down a sex trafficking network. Lots of other information there, but it’s mostly classified.”
“Um. None of that’s about art.”
“The sex trafficking network was; they also trafficked in art. And somehow that ISIS attack was involved with a stolen Rembrandt. She brought down an organization that sold fake art to ingenuous cruise ship passengers too, and recovered some famous bust for the Italians. I’ll leave you a printout.”
“You’re good with her participation then?”
“I guess.”
“I’ll confirm it with the super, but I suppose she could be useful.”
Gregg hoped not, though. And he certainly didn’t want the Yard, MI5, or NCA to butt in.
Chapter Two
Esther got a hotel room in downtown Newcastle. It wasn’t that far a drive down the road to the duke’s castle, but there was a chance Freddy March wasn’t there, and Esther didn’t want to impose on the duchess. Besides, she thought she might be coming and going a lot.
She took tea that afternoon in the hotel’s dining area. Her first call was to Jeremy Brand, nominally her husband and Hal Leonard’s boss, but an old friend from her days in MI6. He was now in MI5.
“I just know this isn’t a social call.”
“So Bastiann warned you I’d be calling?”
“Guilty as charged. Something about stolen art? What’s going on? Another obsession?”
She explained who Zeke was and that his valuable artwork had been stolen.
“Seems like a case that’s perfect for you, Esther. What can I do to help? Unofficially, of course.”
“Any way you can correlate trips abroad with known art thieves?”
“Thieves with form leaving the country? You’re thinking they’re exporting the paintings to EU buyers? Hard to do that now after Brexit, but not impossible, I suppose. I can put Ambreesh on it.”
Esther nodded. Ambreesh Singh was a techie in MI5 and also a friend of Esther’s. “I rather doubt the thief or thieves would risk that, so maybe a list of the usual suspects, representatives of sultans, emirs, and what not who have entered the country.”
“For an illegal auction? It probably won’t be that easy, but I’d include Russian oligarchs, if I were you. All those invest in valuable property, whether real estate or artwork. Before we know it, they’ll own Buckingham Palace. They’re vultures picking the meat off the bones of a dying UK.”
She laughed. “On that cheery note, if you can think of any other way to help, ring me. I’m going to call George now.”
“Say hello to that old stick. I have to admire the bloke. He tolerated your antics for many years.”
“And you didn’t?”
“I was younger when we were going back and forth to East Berlin. My patience was a lot better then.”
“Back at you. Have a good day, Jeremy.”
***
George Langston, who had taken over as head of the Art and Antiques Division because Esther had hated that post, was her Dr. Watson. He had chronicled some of her adventures. What he hadn’t been sure about, he made up. Esther thought that was clever of him, but there were minor errors. Her marrying Bastiann had caught Langston by surprise, though. Ke and his wife stopped in her gallery now and then to make sure her employees hadn’t created any problems. That gallery and Bastiann’s consulting, along with their pensions and savings, kept them afloat. Her latest adventures were without pay, of course, but she’d done everything willingly, including the work she was currently doing for Zeke. She thought it was smart of him not to trust a private investigator, which many people would do, and he had never put much trust in authority with his family history.
“We have a few cases still open,” George said, “but Newcastle police haven’t consulted us about yours. I doubt they have the necessary personnel to track down stolen art.”
“Which is why I’m collaborating with them,” she said.
“I’m sure they’re thrilled about that. Who’s the SIO?” She told him. “Inspector Gregg’s a gruff old bastard, but he’s competent.”
“Hopefully for finding the thief. That’d be just be the beginning, of course. Could you ask your coppers there if there are any rumors about a private auction?”
“There are always rumors. Eighty per cent are false.”
“I’m very interested in the other twenty percent.”
“Understood. I’ll ask around. Good luck up there. We’re quite busy now here in London. Lots of robberies recently, even from galleries like yours.”
“Do I need to invest in a security guard?”
“That’s a lot of expense. Next time I’m there, I’ll take a look at your security system. Might be due for an upgrade.”
“Zeke’s was top of the line, and the thief disarmed it and opened the vault.”
“Um. A real pro. That should narrow Gregg’s list down a bit, though. Any chance the thief’s an import?”
“Meaning not from the UK? That’s an interesting idea. Zeke has more contacts in Holland than Bastiann does, in fact. I might have to call Jeremy back.”
“Or someone in Dutch security. Or Interpol.”
Esther called Interpol’s Schuster, Hal and Bastiann’s old boss. He promised to develop a list of international jewel thieves for her.
By then her tea was cold. She ordered another pot and some more cakes.
***
After the tea and cakes, she decided to have a late dinner. The hotel recommended a seafood restaurant on the quay. She’d had that on her list, considering where she was, but there was no seafood on the hotel’s menu that evening. There wasn’t much of a view from the restaurant—fog had blanketed the port—and there weren’t many people out and about—the wind was blowing in from the North Sea. But the restaurant had a roaring fire and good food. Like the hotel, it already had its Christmas decorations up.
She knew it would be hard to work with Gregg. He was old school, and old male coppers were rarely happy having women as equals and less as superiors. He was probably okay with female sergeants, although Shaw was male, and constables, but he’d want to be in control. She would have to tread lightly, or the old burly and grizzled rozzer would tell her to get out of his life and go home.
She was into dessert and coffee when Jeremy sent a text message containing a list, and George soon followed with another. Both messages said their information was only partial. It’ll keep the old boys hopping all the same. George’s was a bit more interesting, but both contained names of jewel thieves in and out of jail. She’d send the locals to Gregg and the foreign ones to Schuster, who hadn’t yet responded.
Of more immediate interest was a list of three clandestine auctions with their organizers’ names and phone numbers. Of course, the latter wouldn’t be registered to anyone, not even the organizer, whose name was probably an alias. She’d been in such auctions. She’d need a fake identity if she attended. She could become Condesa Sartini once again. It had been a while since she used that, and her third husband had indeed been a count, although that title was no longer recognized in Italy. Unfortunately, her and Bastiann’s financial situation was no longer at the level it once was. The castle and the gallery had both drained away funds; the second was now turning a profit, but the castle never would. She certainly didn’t have enough funds to participate in three auctions, and the one corresponding to Zeke’s paintings, if any did, would require her to cover all of Zeke’s art. Maybe he’ll go for that? She’d worry about that later.
She drove her Jaguar back to the hotel and called it an evening.
Chapter Three
Her mobile’s ringtone sounded at six a.m. She cursed but eventually found it in the dark. DI Gregg was on the line.
“I hope this call is important, inspector. Did you get the lists?”
“I did. I don’t want to know where you got that information, and Shaw is taking care of that. Mrs. Brookstone, we have known three jewel thieves we’re going to interrogate. Would you like to observe the interrogation? One of them, a Mr. Klaus van Loon, is on one of your lists and says he was trapped in the UK by Brexit, and that we treat immigrants very badly.”
“Um. He might have a point there. I have a wonderful handyman working with me in my gallery who’s Jamaican and has received some abuse during his life here in the UK.”
“Loon’s Dutch. Hardly the same thing. The pandemic is basically over now. He didn’t have to stay.”
“Where did he used to live in Holland?”
“Antwerp.”
She smiled. Of course. Did he know about Zeke’s business before even coming here?
“I’ll be there by seven-thirty.”
“Eight is fine. Grab some breakfast. You wouldn’t like what we offer here at the station, believe me.”
Is the old boy softening up a bit?
***
Police stations were often tips, even newer ones. Coppers often weren’t tidy, and their clientele could care less, especially if they were vagrants or sots. But at least Esther didn’t have to sleep in a cell where the stench and muck would be worse. And the small room behind the one-way glass where she stood with a uniformed constable was probably cleaner than the interrogation room that had graffiti on the walls and initials carved on its table.
They made short work of suspect number one. He had a solid alibi for the night of the heist, and she knew the coppers didn’t expect he’d lie about something that could be so easy to confirm. Number two was more known for jewelry store robberies, not residences. He’d been in the nick for five and had been freed for good behavior. It wasn’t clear he had the skills either. Robbing a jewelry store didn’t require much beyond brazen stupidity.
Number three, the Dutchman, interested Esther more. He’d refused legal representation, and she could understand why: He parried all Gregg and Shaw’s thrusts with ease, although in some cases he only said, “No comment.” He was a cut above the average thief too—suave and sophisticated—making Esther see similarities with Pierce Brosnan in the 1999 remake of The Thomas Crown Affair. Van Loon was a suave and sophisticated rake as well, and he had come dressed to the nines in a three-piece suit. Is jewelry theft that profitable, or did he get a nice dosh from the paintings?
Thoroughly frustrated with the man, the two coppers took a break; Esther joined them in the hall outside the interrogation room.
“The last bloke is my preferred suspect,” she said. “He might have a technical background.”
“We’re trying to check on that background.” Gregg glanced at Shaw. “Go see if the lads got any joy learning about his history—any form in Holland, for example.” After Shaw left, Gregg turned to Esther. “Sorry to get you up so early, Mrs. Brookstone.”
“No problem, inspector. I was a bit knackered, I’ll admit, but I had enough sleep. Probably indigestion. My fish the night before was a bit spicy.”
“You think he might be the one?”
“Possibly. With that braggadocio, I’d wager he’s already been paid for the paintings. Let’s make him nervous enough to regret that. I also confirm provenance and restore old paintings in my gallery. Tell him I believe Zeke’s paintings were fakes, although Zeke didn’t believe me when I told him.”
He smiled. “That might make him think the buyer, the one who’ll auction them off, will come after Klaus when he learns that. I’ll tell your preferred suspect we’re releasing your opinion to the media.” He eyed Esther. “I like the way you think, madame. But won’t that put you in danger?”
“Not if you have some strong, young DC protecting me…on the sly, of course.”
From the way Klaus van Loon blanched when Gregg told him about the fake paintings, Esther not only knew he’d stolen them but had sold them to an auctioneer who thought they were real.
The game was afoot.
***
Klaus soon learned who Esther Brookstone was. The Masters Gallery was well enough known, had sponsored several important showings, and the owner was a well-known restorer and authenticator of old paintings. He’d concluded that the old jeweler had been scammed; and Klaus, as a consequence, had scammed the auctioneer who’d given him a tidy sum for the stolen paintings, most likely figuring he would make that back ten times over. While Klaus just might kill Brookstone out of revenge sometime in the future, now he’d have to look out for himself first.
He’d always wanted to see Ireland. He packed, cleaned out his bank account, and headed for the train station. It would take him west to the ferry.
He didn’t get very far. A thug backed him up against the wall in the men’s loo and showed Klaus the afternoon paper. The headline said, “Art Thief Steals Fake Paintings!”
“Mr. Meadows would like his money back, Klaus. Now!”
The Newcastle Police nicked both of them outside the loo. The thug tried to run one way. He had a knife and was harder to capture than Klaus, who had tried going the other way. Klaus knew it was hopeless, so he held out his hands for the cuffs. He was a bit more comfortable on the trip to the station than the thug whose hands were behind his back.
Esther arrived a bit after Klaus’s admission to stealing the paintings. He said he’d been looking for jewelry; the mansion’s owner was a jeweler, after all. He also testified about what the thug had said to him in the loo.
Behind the window, Esther smiled. Klaus probably figured he’d be safer in Newcastle’s nick from anyone else the auctioneer might hire.
Gregg and Shaw began to interrogate the thug. He’d requested legal representation. They would have to break the two down. Would he give up the real name of the auctioneer? Klaus had said he only knew him as Meadows.
***
The thug’s name was Jack Dunn. He had form, which helped the interrogators: A longer term for second offenders was always possible and a threat both Dunn and his barrister understood. But Dunn was also a stubborn man, and the lawyer had taught him how to say, “No comment.”
Newcastle didn’t have the number of CCTV cameras that London did, but while Gregg and Shaw went round and round grilling Dunn, who was dumber than van Loon but more difficult because he was stubborn, other coppers were busily viewing video records.
Esther saw a DC call Gregg out of the room. She was sure that meant the plods had new information.
Gregg reentered and took his seat. He smiled at Dunn and slid a photo across to him. “Is this Mr. Meadows, otherwise known as Christian Hilton, auctioneer of expensive, stolen paintings and other artwork?”
“I don’t know what his business is.”
The barrister had tried to restrain his client, but it was too late.
“Let the record show that Mr. Dunn indeed knows Mr. Hilton aka Mr. Meadows,” Shaw said for the video recording.
Dunn looked dismayed at his lawyer, who scowled at him and shrugged. “The implication, Jack, is that you do know him,” the barrister said, agreeing with Shaw’s pronouncement. To the coppers he said, “But my client also implied that he doesn’t know what Mr. Hilton does for a living.”
“We have Mr. van Loon’s testimony that Mr. Hilton ordered your client to threaten the thief in order to recuperate his investment. Is that right, Mr. Dunn?”
Dunn nodded. “I’d just have given him stick, though, not kill him.”
The barrister groaned.
“For the record, just answer yes or no,” Shaw said.
The thug said yes. Gregg dashed out. Esther knew they’d now arrest the auctioneer and, with a warrant, would recover Zeke’s paintings.
My work in Newcastle is done, she thought. I can now go home.
Epilogue
Bastiann looked up from his laptop when Esther entered their flat.
“How are you doing, Luv?” he said.
“Knackered.” She held up a bag. “Tikka masala and samosas.”
“Put it on the counter. I’ll serve it. Sit down and I’ll bring you a glass of shiraz. Californian wine prices have gone up again, by the way.”
“More government tariffs, I’d wager.”
“Any joy for Ezekiel?”
“The plods recovered the paintings. They’ll release them to Zeke when he returns from Antwerp.”
“Excellent!”
“And your work?”
“We made progress, Hal and I. Enough to hand off to the NCA for a raid.”
“NCA?”
“MI5 decided that there were too many local crime organizations involved.”
“I see.” She smiled. “So you’re free for the holidays?”
“I am. Merry Christmas, Esther. It seems like we’ll now have some time off to be together.”
***
Comments are always welcome.
Gaia and the Goliaths. This last novel (so far!) in the “Detectives Chen & Castilblanco” series is my only novel with an environmental theme. Russian and US fossil-fuel conglomerates are the villains, environmental activists are the victims, and Chen and Castilblanco’s homicide case that begins in NYC expands to involve a conspiracy of national and international proportions. This story also highlights much of the environmental debate currently going on and has the crime-fighting duo doing their best scrambling yet! And Bastiann van Coevorden, Esther Brookstone’s hubby, has an important cameo in this one! Available wherever quality ebooks are sold.
Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!
