The Camargue Brotherhood

by Derek Wilson

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

At a meeting in East London, art dealer Catherine Lacy is shown six paintings from a previously undiscovered artist, Aristide Bertrand, who moved in the same circles as Van Gogh. She is enormously excited, but her husband, security expert Tim Lacy, is less than thrilled when the agent concerned is fished out of the Thames. Despite the danger, and swayed by the potential importance of this discovery, Lacy finally agrees that their new associate, Emma Kerr, should go to Provence - with veteran George Martin to keep an eye on her. Within days, Emma is abducted, and Lacy himself must go looking for her. But each time he gets a step closer to finding Emma, a new mystery comes to light, and finally he is faced with a terrifying new foe: the Camargue Brotherhood, who are prepared to protect Bertrand's work at any cost...

Release date: November 30, 2012

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 381

Sample

‘Wow!’ The word erupted involuntarily from Catherine Lacy’s lips.

Genius screamed from the square metre of unframed canvas as the Frenchman whisked away the cloth covering, like a conjurer
climaxing his best trick.


Slabs of colour vibrated from the painting’s surface as though generating their own light. The nude’s cascade of hair shone
like polished mahogany against the gleaming white wall before which she was posed. The pigment seemed to have been laid on
nonchalantly with hurried stabs of brush and palette knife. Yet every nuance of texture had been captured – flesh, plaster,
grass and the burning Mediterranean sky, which created pools of deep shadow.


Catherine advanced across the sparsely furnished office, her short blonde hair glowing as she passed through a shaft of low
winter sunlight. She lifted the picture from the typist’s chair which was its makeshift easel. She looked at the monogram , gouged into the paint of the bottom right corner with the handle of a brush. She examined the back. The stretcher, the canvas’s discoloration and slight slackness certainly gave the right appearance of age.


‘May we see the others, please, M. Jollibone?’

The young man nodded seriously and waved a hand round the room. ‘Please.’

Emma Kerr, the younger of the two women, offered the solemn Frenchman the smile which usually relaxed tense situations. ‘Great.
We’ll start at different ends and work our way into the middle.’


There were six paintings in all, including the one on the chair. The others had been propped on a desk and a battered filing
cabinet – the office’s only other items of furniture – and against one wall. Catherine and Emma took time to scrutinise and
admire. All the pictures were of the same subject – a slender but firmly built girl of seventeen or eighteen. Yet there were
subtle differences. The artist had varied the settings for each study to display his versatility at depicting textures. The
model was arranged beside a river bank, before a barn door, in a clump of reeds, at an open window, seated on the edge of
a boat.


Emma admired them. They were good; even she could see that. But Catherine was the expert and Emma left the job of appraisal
to her. She was more interested in this bizarre situation and the intriguing Auguste Jollibone. She watched him surreptitiously
as he wandered around the room trying to appear relaxed. Dark, athletic and definitely sexy. Perhaps twenty-three or -four
– certainly not much older than her. His double-breasted suit was very chic but somehow he gave the impression of being not
altogether happy in formal clothes.


Catherine was still absorbed – and trying not to show her excitement. Emma let her gaze wander to the window which commanded
a wide view of the Thames and a cluster of long-redundant warehouses on the south bank. The whole situation was too incongruous
for words. Here they were in a drab, unused office in a half-empty dockside development block looking at a cluster of paintings
whose value could be stratospheric.


Catherine stepped back and unconsciously smoothed imaginary creases from the linen skirt of her navy blue suit. Emma sighed
inwardly, wondering whether another fifteen years would bestow on her a tenth particle of her friend’s elegance and poise.


Catherine smiled at the Frenchman. ‘Well, M. Jollibone, they’re very impressive but, of course, I would have to have them
examined by a specialist in Postimpressionism. And, then, I’d need to know about their provenance. On the phone you spoke
of a large collection of Bertrands totally unknown to the art world. Can you elaborate on that?’


Jollibone frowned slightly. ‘There are thirty-seven Bertrands in all. They have been in the owner’s family ever since his
ancestor acquired them from the artist. The owner has authorised me to explore the market, which is why I have brought these
few here in order to hear your opinion.’


‘And you haven’t shown them to anyone else?’

The man shook his head.

‘Well, I’m very flattered, M. Jollibone, but in all honesty I must point out that there are four or five top dealers right
here in London, who are much more knowledgeable—’


Jollibone interrupted. ‘My client wishes to avoid unnecessary publicity at this stage. A major cache of important paintings like these suddenly appearing in the London market
would create enormous excitement, I think. But now, tell me, Mrs Lacy, what are your first impressions?’


Catherine knew she was expected to start talking figures. Tricky. Because she had no idea what valuation this art dealer had
in mind and because it was quite impossible to tell what impact a collection of unknown Bertrands would make on the international
market. ‘I think they’re absolutely fabulous and, providing we can establish their authenticity, I’d love to handle the sale.
We’d have to exhibit the whole collection – no point trying to slip them onto the market in dribs and drabs. They’ll attract
massive publicity.’


Jollibone frowned again. ‘That could be difficult. My client is anxious to remain anonymous.’

Catherine searched for reassuring words. ‘Of course, that’s very understandable with such enormous sums of money at stake.
And there are ways we can keep him out of the limelight.’


Jollibone stepped softly across to the window.

Positively feline, Emma thought, watching him.

‘And just what sort of “enormous sums” are we talking about, Mrs Lacy?’ He asked the question casually.

Catherine tried to make her light laugh sound nonchalant but not dismissive. ‘Oh, I don’t think you’d find an expert anywhere
in the world prepared to commit himself on that. This is a unique event. No one’s ever put thirty-seven hitherto unknown works
of a leading painter on the market before. What you’re about to do, M. Jollibone is …’ Catherine groped for the appropriate
metaphor ‘… is write a whole new chapter in the history of Postimpressionism.’


There was a long silence. The Frenchman gazed down on the river’s pewter surface, damascened with silver where a weak sun
caught the ripples. Emma shook her long auburn hair and raised an enquiring eyebrow at her friend. Catherine shrugged.


At last she said, ‘May I suggest that the next step is for me to take one of these and show it – very discreetly, of course
– to a colleague of mine?’


The young man gave no indication of having heard. He seemed absorbed either in the view or his own thoughts.

‘M. Jollibone?’

‘Ah, je vous demande pardon.’ He turned slowly. ‘There is much that we must think about. I will discuss the matter fully with
my client. You have been most helpful, Mrs Lacy … Miss Kerr.’ He held out his hand to them in turn. ‘For the moment I think
there is nothing more to be done. I will, of course, contact you as soon as my client’s wishes are clear.’ He gestured them
towards the door.


Catherine turned on the threshold. ‘You won’t be doing a deal with someone else?’

Jollibone smiled. ‘Rest assured, dear Mrs Lacy, that as soon as we have decided on the appropriate course of action you will
be the first to know. Au revoir, ladies. We will be in touch.’


Five minutes later, as their taxi joined a convoy on Tower Hill, Emma said, ‘Well, what do you make of our hunky friend?’

‘I wish I knew.’ Catherine leaned her blonde hair against the seat back and closed her eyes. ‘I don’t like having deals proposed in out-of-the-blue phone calls. They’re usually very fishy. But I have to admit that Jollibone is a reputable dealer
and that he is on to something very big.’


‘Who was this Bertrand fellow? I’ve never heard of him.’

‘Not many people have. There aren’t more than half a dozen paintings of his known to exist and half of those are “iffy”. He’s
one of the enigmatic might-have-beens of art history. In 1888 Van Gogh left Paris for Arles. He was excited by the light and
the landscape of the South and did some of his best work over the next year. He wanted to set up an artistic colony there
and wrote to several friends, urging them to join him. They didn’t – except for Gauguin who came for a few weeks and proved
to be really bad news.’


‘They didn’t get on?’

‘They were at each other’s throats most of the time. It helped to push Van Gogh over the edge.’

‘You mean that business with the ear?’

‘That and other things. Anyway, soon afterwards poor Vincent packed his palettes and brushes and left. But one younger painter
had responded to his invitation.’


‘Bertrand?’

‘Yes, Aristide Bertrand. Legend has it that he belonged to a good Parisian family who disowned him when he decided on la vie
de Bohême. He made his escape to Arles, stayed in the area after Van Gogh left, and produced a few paintings which suggested
that he might be on a par with the mighty Vincent – perhaps in the fullness of time he might have been greater.’


‘What happened?’

‘Nobody knows. He disappeared without trace, leaving just a tantalising handful of pictures.’


‘So what Jollibone’s stumbled on is …’

‘Just about the biggest find of the century.’

‘Still, if he is genuine, we’re in on the ground floor.’

Catherine bit her lip. ‘I hope so. Dear God, I hope so. This will put the gallery on the map in no uncertain terms. Think
of the publicity …’


‘Not to mention the astronomical commission.’

‘Whenever I close my eyes I see noughts – rows and rows of noughts. Enough to put us in the black and keep us there; enough
to pay for the boys’ education; perhaps even enough to get Tim away for a long Pacific-island cruise. I sure hope this Jollibone
guy’s above board.’


‘He looked OK to me.’

Catherine laughed. ‘You were just lusting after his body.’ Then she was serious again, reason wrestling with tingling excitement.
‘He’s much younger than I expected. And there was something odd about arranging a meeting in a semi-deserted office block.
But if the whole thing was a con what was the point? He hasn’t asked us for any money.’


‘Why do you think he chose us? I mean, we’re good but we’re not exactly top-drawer.’

The gallery and arts centre that Catherine Lacy had built up over the last six years was situated at Farrans Court, the Wiltshire
house where she and Tim lived and from which Tim also operated his international security firm. Emma Kerr had recently joined
them there as a general assistant with a view to becoming a partner – if it all ‘worked out’.


‘When he phoned last night, he said we’d been recommended to him but he didn’t say who by.’

‘Perhaps he’ll just disappear – go away as mysteriously as he came – and we’ll never hear from him again.’

‘No way!’ Catherine’s green eyes flashed. ‘I’m not letting M. Auguste Jollibone of 24 rue Gramont, Lyon, out of my clutches.
You see, I’ve already done some homework and even memorised the address.’


The taxi deposited them outside the Victorian red-brick building off Great Smith Street where the Lacys maintained a small
flat.


‘Time for a leisurely cup of tea before we have to set off for the train, and boy, do I need it.’ Catherine led the way up
the stairs to the first floor.


‘Is Tim meeting us here?’

‘No, he’s got meetings going on all day.’

She turned the key in the lock and opened the door. The first thing she saw was her husband leaping up from the sofa and stepping
quickly across the room to greet them.


‘Tim, this is a nice sur—’

He hugged her with an urgent vigour. ‘Darling, are you all right?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Catherine drew back and surveyed the anxiety in Tim’s dark eyes. ‘We’ve had the most extraordinary meeting.
Haven’t we, Emma?’


‘Meeting?’ Tim looked puzzled now. ‘Who with?’

‘Boy, you are getting forgetful in your old age.’ Catherine lowered herself into an armchair and slipped her shoes off. ‘With
the Frenchman who phoned last night – Jollibone – I told you about him.’


‘But you can’t have!’ Tim stared down at her. He picked up a copy of the Evening Standard from a coffee table. ‘I saw this at lunchtime. That’s why I cancelled my afternoon appointment. I tried to get hold of you but I didn’t know where
your meeting was. I’ve been pretty worried.’


Catherine looked at the short paragraph Tim indicated.

FRENCH VISITOR FOUND DEAD

The body of a man found early this morning in the river near New Caledonian Wharf was identified by the police as that of
Auguste Jollibone, a French art dealer. The police have not ruled out foul play and are asking anyone who knew M. Jollibone
or who had business dealings with him to come forward.


Inspector Edgerson prided himself on being decisive – ‘pro-active’, he called it. He was one of the new breed of young DIs
come into the Metropolitan Police straight from a degree course at one of the polytechnics recently raised to university status.
As soon as he heard Catherine’s story he phoned for a car. Within minutes the Lacys, together with Emma and the DI, were in
a siren-wailing vehicle hacking an eastward path through rush-hour traffic. Half-turned in his front seat, Edgerson continued
his questioning of the two women and punctuated it with imprecations directed at ‘obstructive’ road users and exhortations
to the driver: ‘Get a move on, Stevens!’ ‘This thing isn’t a bloody hearse!’ ‘We’d get there quicker in a kid’s pram!’ Tim,
whose army years had taught him a great deal about leadership, reflected that the young CID officer was demonstrably lacking
in that quality.


Edgerson glowered at Catherine. ‘And this fellow definitely called himself Auguste Jollibone?’

‘Yes. Are you quite sure he wasn’t?’ The man’s tone made her feel absurdly guilty and she resented it. ‘Perhaps it’s your body that isn’t Jollibone.’


Edgerson emitted a long-suffering sigh. ‘The corpse our river police hoicked out of the Thames around breakfast time was carrying
a passport – and the photograph matched. Judging by your description he bore little resemblance to the bloke you met. He was
moustached, balding, below average height and just past his forty-first birthday.’


‘That’s certainly nothing like the man we saw,’ Emma observed.

The DI treated her to a cursory nod. ‘Thank you, Miss Kerr – or is it Ms Kerr?’

Emma shrugged and sank back into the corner of the seat.

Tim intervened. ‘Surely, Inspector, passports can be forged? If someone wanted you to believe that the dead man was Jollibone
…’


‘The possibility had not escaped us, sir. Stevens! Why the hell are we going this way? Make a right at the next lights! My
God! We’d be better off in a taxi! We’ve checked the details with French records. They all tally. The passport’s gone to our
lab as a matter of course, but right now I’m more interested in this other man you claim to have met.’


‘Claim!’

Edgerson flapped a hand dismissively. ‘Unfortunate choice of word, Mrs Lacy. It’s just that I’m having a bit of difficulty
understanding this mysterious imposter’s behaviour. You reckon he made no attempt to flog you these pictures?’


‘Quite the reverse.’ Catherine shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t even let me keep one for verification purposes.’

‘Worth quite a few bob, I dare say?’

Catherine paused slightly before replying. When she did so it was with calculated nonchalance. ‘They were certainly interesting,
but I couldn’t possibly put a value on them on the basis of such a brief examination.’


‘Hmm!’ The policeman stared hard at the elegant American woman. ‘But you must have some idea whether we’re talking about thousands,
or tens of thousands or, perhaps, even millions?’


Catherine returned his gaze. ‘I really can’t be drawn on that. It’s more than my reputation’s worth to give a snap valuation.’

‘OK, let’s try a different tack.’ Edgerson rubbed his hand wearily over his eyes. ‘If your Auguste Jollibone tried to sell any of these pictures through a dealer or an auction house, you’d get to hear about it, wouldn’t
you?’


‘They would create a lot of interest in the international art world.’ Catherine was cautious.

‘Which is a pretty small world with a well-developed grapevine?’

‘Sure.’

‘Hmm! So, if our murderer …’

Tim showed sudden interest. ‘It was murder, then?’


Edgerson frowned at the interruption. ‘It’s pretty difficult, sir, to commit suicide by simultaneously jumping off a bridge
and stabbing yourself in the back with a twenty-centimetre blade.’ He turned back to Catherine. ‘So, as I was saying, if our
murderer wanted to offload these pictures he’d do it discreetly, through the underworld channels which you and I both know
exist.’


‘I guess so.’

‘Odd, then, that he should deliberately draw attention to himself and the pictures by showing them to a highly respectable
expert like your good self. Could it be that we’re dealing with a nutter?’


Catherine was saved from venturing an opinion by their arrival at the office block. It took several minutes for the sole occupant
of the security desk to locate a colleague to escort them to the tenth floor and admit them to the small suite of rooms the
two women had come to earlier in the day. Catherine looked round the main office. It was exactly as they had left it, except
that it contained no paintings and no ‘Auguste Jollibone’.


Edgerson scowled his disappointment. ‘You’re sure this is the place?’

Catherine resented the policeman’s sceptical tone. ‘Yes, of course I’m sure. The paintings were arranged over there, along
the wall and on those bits of furniture, weren’t they, Emma?’


‘Emphatically!’ The younger woman nodded. Yet looking around the dismal, characterless box of an office, Emma found it hard
to dispel the idea that the earlier episode had been only a bizarre dream. The room seemed to have shrunk, not only in size,
but in significance. Early winter darkness had made the large window a sheet of shiny black, reflecting the four occupants
and their dingy surroundings. Had there really been, only a couple of hours before, six radiant, vital canvases flooding this
drab place with colour and light?


‘OK. I’ll get forensic in to give it the once-over tomorrow.’ Edgerson turned to the security guard. ‘I want this place sealed. No one’s to be allowed in till we’ve finished with it. Meanwhile, we’d best not disturb anything. Not that there’s
much.’ He gazed round mournfully. ‘We’ll also check with the agents, see what they know about whoever it is who rents the
rooms, although I don’t suppose …’ He shepherded his little party towards the door.


On the way down in the lift he returned to an earlier question. ‘Mrs Lacy, these pictures you say you were shown this afternoon
– were they valuable enough to kill for?’


‘As I said before, Inspector, I only had a few minutes to look at the paintings. They were certainly very well done but value
is determined by the market. These things get pored over by dealers and experts and auctioneers and critics. So, whether they
would ever fetch big money in the rooms is anyone’s guess.’ Catherine glanced quickly at Tim and, not for the first time,
recognised quizzical disapproval in his expression. She hurried on. ‘I can’t help feeling that the whole thing’s a dreadful
muddle. As you say, the man’s behaviour is quite inexplicable. He didn’t look to me like a thief, and certainly not like a
murderer.’


Edgerson smirked. ‘And just what do thieves and murderers look like, Mrs Lacy?’

Catherine was still fuming half an hour later when she, Tim and Emma took their seats in the rapidly filling dining car of
the Penzance train moments before it eased its way smoothly out of Paddington.


‘Why does anyone ever bother to help the police? We do the good citizens’ bit. We trot along to Scotland Yard. We give up
hours of our time. For what? So that some kid fresh out of college can make snide remarks and grill us like prime suspects.’


Tim grinned. ‘Don’t let yourself be phased out by little men in big jobs. Anyway, it’s all over now. Have a drink and relax.
Evening Jim.’ The last words were spoken to the chief steward who appeared with an assortment of cans and miniature bottles.


‘Evening, Mr Lacy, Mrs Lacy. Good to see you again. I reckoned you’d need some fortifying after a long day in the smoke.’
He set down the drinks on the white tablecloth. For some minutes the travellers busied themselves pouring out the measured
doses and scanning the menu cards.


Emma took several gulps of her Coke. ‘What an odd business it is. I can see that life with Lacy Enterprises is never going
to be dull.’


Tim laughed. ‘It’s mostly routine but we do have our moments.’

Emma studied the round face with its dark eyes and topping of hair just beginning to be flecked with grey. She tried to imagine
away the half-generation which separated them. It was easy to picture a sleeker Tim Lacy in his mid-twenties in the battledress
and beret of an SAS major. He still looked more like a soldier in mufti than a highly successful international businessman,
in demand by museums and collectors the world over, wanting the latest high-tech security systems. If only they could have
met in those earlier days – before Catherine had come on the scene. Not that Emma resented the Lacys’ excellent personal and
business partnership. She owed both of them too much ever to want to endanger the friendship and trust she enjoyed with them. But still …


Catherine watched Emma watching Tim and hoped that they had not done the wrong thing by expanding their team to incorporate
this bright, effervescent young woman who was all the more attractive because she was ignorant of her own good looks.


Tim’s thoughts were in a very different sphere. He sipped his brandy and ginger, twirling the ice cubes in the glass. He asked
his wife. ‘Why were you so cagey with our ill-mannered friend?’


‘Cagey?’ Catherine’s eyebrows rose in innocent surprise.

‘You know very well what I mean.’ He hitched his voice a few tones higher and mimicked. ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly put a value
on the paintings, Inspector. They might be important but then, on the other hand, they might not.’


‘Well, that’s perfectly true.’

‘So how come that when you got back from your interview with psuedo-Jollibone this afternoon, your eyes were glazed and your
feet were scarcely touching the ground? You were jabbering about changing the pattern of art history and earning millions
in commission.’


The appearance of the steward serving slices of parma ham and melon gave Catherine time to think out her answer. When he had
moved on to the next table she sipped her gin and tonic, set the glass down, and elaborately separated it from other pieces
of tableware against which it was rattling. She took up her knife and fork and applied them with surgical precision to the
contents of her plate. Without taking her eyes from this delicate operation, she said, ‘It wasn’t relevant.’


Tim rubbed a finger along the bridge of his nose. ‘Surely that’s for the police to decide.’

‘Hell, no!’ Catherine dropped her knife and fork with a clatter. ‘What does it matter to a Philistine like Edgerson that someone
may have discovered a cache of important Postimpressionist paintings? That’s not going to help him find a murderer.’


‘But can’t you get it into your head that keeping this information to yourself is technically withholding evidence – and that’s
a criminal offence.’


‘So, turn me in!’ Catherine violently speared a cube of melon.

Tim sighed and turned to Emma. ‘Surely you can see that I’m right?’


The young woman raised her hands defensively. ‘Don’t make me a referee in this domestic bout.’

‘Well, you saw the paintings and the fake dealer. What do you think?’

‘Three months with Lacy Enterprises and I’m supposed to be an expert on French Postimpressionism?’ Emma sipped her Coke thoughtfully.
‘Well, I thought they were pretty fantastic paintings. I can quite see that they could be the real McCoy. And, in that case—’


‘In that case,’ Catherine interrupted excitedly, ‘this discovery is so big it’ll blow your mind. And, oh, Tim, we’re actually
in on the ground floor. We’re the only ones in the art world who know about it.’


Tim nodded. ‘And that’s the real reason you were keeping mum with Edgerson, isn’t it?’

‘If we tell the police what we suspect about these paintings it’ll be splashed all over the media in hours.’


‘And Catherine Lacy will have lost her exclusive coup.’

Catherine flushed with anger. ‘Don’t take a high moral tone with me, Tim. You’d have done exactly the same. This is the kind
of opportunity that doesn’t get repeated – and besides, do you really think we can afford to chuck it away? We can’t put off
re-roofing Farrans Court much longer and next year we have to start finding school fees for the boys. Once news about a batch
of unknown Aristide Bertrands leaks out every dealer and auctioneer from Tokyo to New York will have his bloodhounds on the
scent. We shan’t get a look-in.’


Tim swallowed his last mouthful of ham and pushed his plate away. ‘But we don’t have a look-in now. Psuedo-Jollibone has disappeared,
taking his canvases with him. Now that the police are after him he’s going to keep a very low profile. He’s hardly going to
write and invite you over to appraise the entire collection.’


The train slowed into Reading. Catherine gazed out at the sparsely populated platform. ‘I’ve thought of that. If Mohammed
won’t come to the mountain … Well, I’ll have to track down these paintings myself.’


‘What? No way!’ Tim snapped the words angrily.

Catherine responded in kind. ‘Tim, don’t be silly! Of course I must follow this lead. I’ll go over to Lyon and see what I
can find out at Jollibone’s gallery. There must be someone else there who knows the owner of the Bertrand paintings.’


‘Catherine, absolutely no!’ Tim glowered at his wife. ‘One man’s already been killed – probably on account of these paintings – and his murderer is still on the loose. I don’t care how valuable these pictures are, I’m not having you—’


‘Don’t you come the heavy Victorian husband with me, Tim Lacy!’ The atmosphere was eased by the chief steward who reappeared
carrying a bottle.


‘Your usual Burgundy, Mr Lacy?’

‘Yes please, Jim, we could all do with it tonight.’

‘Do you know, the same thought had crossed. . .