The Dresden Text

by Derek Wilson

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

When the Dresden Text - a treasured fragment of medieval illuminated manuscript - is stolen from a prestigious New York gallery, its loss hits Tim Lacy hard. His firm was responsible for the safety of the exhibits but even more devastatingly, a colleague was killed during the break-in. Within days the police, acting on an anonymous tip-off, have traced the armed robber. There is a shoot-out and the criminal is killed. But the suspiciously swift wrapping-up of the case leaves too many questions unanswered for Tim Lacy. Why was the Dresden Text stolen when other rarer, more valuable exhibits were on display nearby? Why have the police been ordered to close the file? And where is the Dresden Text now? Convinced that only the answers to these questions will lead to those responsible for his colleague's murder, Tim sets out to unravel a dark and complex mystery...

Release date: November 30, 2012

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 285

Sample

Tim Lacy did not like New York. He did not like private views. And he did not like having to be polite to clients in whom
ignorance and arrogance jostled for supremacy. He turned a well-trained smile on the young man before him and raised his voice
above the chatter in the stuffy, crowded gallery.


‘Good turn-out, Rob.’

Robin Brand fingered his Harvard tie and looked around the Manhattan smart set with a smirk of self-satisfaction. ‘Yeah. I
can’t wait to find my dad and tell him “I told you so”. The old buzzard was convinced no one would come to a view just before
Christmas. “Anyone who matters will be either out of town or panicking over last minute shopping,” he said. Yeah, well, just
take a look.’ He waved his glass of white wine towards the fashionable multitude. ‘The arts editors of the Tribune and the Times are both here, along with all the little guys. And several top collectors – Senator and Mrs Gracewell, Abe Karnheit. And,
of course, all the big dealers, come to look at the new boy on the block. The old man’s going to eat his words and I’m going
to be holding the spoon.’


‘Don’t be too hard on him. He did put up the money.’ Tim liked Constantin Brand. The old man had run the best modern art gallery
on Fifth Avenue since long before he could remember. His impeccable discernment and clever business methods had, over the
years, launched a dozen painters and sculptors who were now household names. It was because of Constantin that Tim had agreed
to install the security systems in Robin Brand’s new gallery. ‘You are the best,’ Constantin had said, clasping Tim in a bear
hug. ‘And I want only the best for my Robin.’ Useless and, perhaps, unnecessarily cruel to tell the old emigré that the ‘all-American’ son he was so proud of would almost certainly
turn out to be his greatest failure. Fresh out of college, Robin Brand thought he knew all there was to know about the complex
international art and antiquities market. Tim watched the petulant frown crease the face of this boy, little more than half
his own age, and was suddenly glad that he had not had a rich father to back his career. Everything Tim Lacy had learned had
been learned the hard way.


‘Peanuts! In a couple of years this place will be turning over millions.’

Tim vetoed the retort that sprang to his mind. He said, ‘I’ll drink to that,’ and raised his glass.

Rob Brand’s lips registered something between a smile and a sneer. ‘You don’t believe me, do you? Well, you just carry on
with your – expensive – security business and watch this space. Judy, hi! Glad you could make it.’


A thirtyish brunette swathed in designer silk drifted up and offered her cheek. ‘Bruno and I are en route for the Carnegie concert. We just had to drop by and see your collection. Rob, however did you manage to find so many beautiful
things …?’


Thankfully, Tim detached himself and slithered through the crowd.

‘Making good your escape?’

‘Gerda!’ Tim smiled his genuine pleasure at the tall blonde who held her hand out to him. ‘You’re a long way from Geneva.’

‘Walter and I came over for the Sotheby’s Renaissance sale a couple of days ago. We had to stay on for today’s opening. It’s
called keeping an eye on the competition.’ She spoke excellent English but with a heavy Teutonic accent.


Tim laughed. ‘Competition? In a millennium from now, when Rob Brand knows as much about medieval art and antiquities as you
do, then you can start worrying about competition.’


‘Do I detect a frisson of disapproval? I don’t care much for Brand fils either, but he has put on a very good show. Getting together this loan collection of illuminated manuscripts was quite an
inspiration, you must admit.’


Tim nodded. He gazed around the exquisitely-arranged display. Spaced around the walls in glass-fronted alcoves were fifteen glowing examples of medieval monastic penmanship. Rob
Brand, trading on his father’s connections in two continents but distancing himself as far as possible from the old man’s
sphere of expertise, had decided to go in for rare pre-1500 artefacts. He had decorated his suite of display rooms in Walt
Disney Gothic – all arches and imitation stonework. His greatest coup had been to persuade private collectors and museum curators
to lend some of their prized possessions for his highly-publicised opening. There were psalters, Bibles, books of hours and
glittering fragments from once-great volumes, sundered by time.


‘They add tone, don’t they?’

‘Yes, Gerda, they certainly add tone.’

The proximity of these masterpieces to Brand’s own stock of medieval carvings, pottery, ivories, tapestries and paintings
had enabled him to add twenty per cent or more to the price of every item. As an exercise in hype, Tim grudgingly had to award
it full marks.


‘I assume it’s this very valuable collection that brings Tim Lacy here with his bag of tricks?’ Gerda Frankl arched a plucked
eyebrow. ‘Have you been setting Master Brand up with hidden cameras, infra-red beams, pressure pads and sundry computerised
gadgetry?’


‘The owners had to be satisfied that their precious manuscripts were safe.’

‘The name Lacy is a good enough guarantee for any guardian of private or public treasures today.’

‘It’s good of you to say so.’

Gerda pouted. ‘Don’t be coy, Tim Lacy. With so many unscrupulous and clever thieves about and highly-paid gangs stealing to
order, we depend on your – unconventional – brand of security. Look at the Liège Psalter over there. There’s only one man living into whose custody Van Helgen would
have entrusted that. Hello, Oscar.’


They had been joined by a stout, lumbering man with ample, ruddy features. ‘Rubicund’ was the word which came to Tim’s mind
whenever he bumped into Oscar König.


He nodded in response to the German’s greeting. ‘The world and his wife seem to be gathered for Robin Brand’s little soirée.’


Oscar pulled a large, patterned handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped moisture from his brow. ‘I spend as much time
in New York as Berlin nowadays – though why, heaven knows. The American way of life – pah! You know why so few Americans go
to hell, Gerda?’


‘Tell me, Oscar.’

‘Because it’s too damned cold for them. I’m getting out of here – too stuffy.’

Tim nodded. ‘I’m going to cut and run soon.’

‘Good, good. You can join me for dinner.’

‘I’m afraid not, Oscar. I have a couple of bits of shopping to do, followed by an early night. I’m booked on the first London
flight tomorrow.’


The big man shrugged. ‘Next time, then. Remember me to your lovely wife.’ He cut a swathe through the crowd. After five paces
he stopped, half turned and waved. ‘Happy Christmas!’ he bellowed, then blundered away towards the street door.


Gerda gazed after him thoughtfully. ‘Odd to see Oscar here. This is scarcely his line of country.’

The Berlin dealer, as they both knew, specialised in the Russian icons and religious artefacts which flowed through the no-longer-divided
city. Most of them were stolen from remote country churches and smuggled westwards by truck drivers, diplomats and other paid
couriers. There was no doubt in Tim’s mind that König was hand-in-glove with a Moscow crime syndicate.


Tim drained his glass and handed it to a passing waitress. ‘Perhaps he’s broadening his scope – in case things get difficult
in his present line of business.’


The elegant Gerda emitted a surprisingly deep, throaty chuckle. ‘Yes, things could get even hotter for our friend if he’s
not very careful.’ She held out her hand. ‘So you’re hurrying back home for a typical soggy English Christmas – plum pudding
and indigestion by the fire. Well, I won’t keep you.’ Her grip was very masculine. ‘Till we meet again, Tim.’


‘Goodbye, Gerda. Compliments of the season to you and Walter.’

Tim checked his watch and wondered if there was anyone else among the throng of people who were here to be seen who was worth
seeing. Then, he noticed the unmistakable, bizarre figure of Arthur Meredith, beckoning to him over the heads of the crowd.
Six-foot-four, thin to the point of emaciation, clad in black and sporting exuberant facial whiskers, he looked like a Victorian
undertaker. As Tim joined him he pointed at the fifteenth-century book of hours he had been studying intently.


‘Fantastic, just fantastic. Isn’t that fantastic?’ He spoke American with an English accent. ‘What wouldn’t I give to have
something like that in my little collection?’


Tim smiled. ‘As I remember, you have a couple of examples of French work which run this pretty close.’ He recalled his visit
to Meredith’s Frankfurt home a few months before: the modern, architect-designed house; the expanses of white wall which showed
off the exquisite Italian Renaissance furniture; the library which housed this strange man’s treasured accumulation of early
manuscripts.


Meredith sighed deeply, unable to avert his eyes from the illuminated display. ‘But collecting is all about the quest for
elusive perfection and the unfulfillable desire to possess it. It’s a disease. You’re not a collector, are you, Tim?’


‘No, I just try to help collectors hang on to what they’ve got.’

‘A sort of unofficial policeman?’

‘Policeman? No, I try to prevent crime, not solve it.’

‘Well, anyway, don’t ever let yourself get bitten by the bug.’ He looked doleful – an effect enhanced by the bushy side whiskers.

‘Are you over here long this visit, Arthur?’

The tall man flapped his long, seemingly uncoordinated arms. ‘I spend all my time travelling. The other day someone asked
me where I live. I told him “At thirty-five thousand feet somewhere over the Atlantic.” Still, it has its occasional compensations.
There are some wonderful pieces here that I’ve never seen. This one is a gem.’ He nodded towards the case. ‘Tell me, if such
a book came onto the market, what do you think I could expect to pay?’


‘You know the market in early manuscripts better than I do.’

‘Yes, but I’m interested in your opinion, Tim. Humour me. Say, “Arthur, you can expect to pay X for such a book.”’

Tim laughed. ‘OK, Arthur, I guess you can expect to pay a million for a book like this.’

‘Dollars?’

‘Pounds!’

‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. Ah, well.’ He took out a gold hunter from his waistcoat pocket and flicked it open.

‘Goodness, can that really be right? What time do you have, Tim?’

Tim checked his wrist watch. ‘It’s about 6.30.’

‘I must go. So long, Tim. Look me up next time you’re in the Fatherland.’ He swayed his way agitatedly through the crowd.

Tim had brief words with a couple of other acquaintances. Then he, too, eased his way to the door. On the right were two offices.
The spacious one, with ‘Robin Brand’ on the door in gilt Gothic, he ignored. The purely functional secretary’s room was doubling
as a cloakroom and Tim collected his topcoat from a pile on the desk. He opened the connecting door to another office at the
rear which was little more than a cubicle.


‘I’m just off, Mike. Everything OK?’

The small, middle-aged man swivelled his chair around so that he was no longer facing the three TV screens. ‘Right as rain,
Major.’ There was something refreshingly normal about the grinning, bald Yorkshireman. He was genuine, straightforward, unpretentious
– unlike the clientele milling about in the gallery oohing and ahing over the exhibits while eyeing each other shrewdly and,
above all, trying to impress each other with their knowledge and their wealth. Tim and Mike went back a long way. ‘Sergeant
Thomson, MK’, as he then was, had served under Tim in the SAS and had been one of the first to sign up with Lacy Security
in its tentative beginnings, seven and a half years before.


Tim closed the door behind him. ‘You ought to know that we’re not altogether flavour of the month with our young client.’

‘That’s all right, Major. I’m none too struck on him.’

Tim laughed. ‘He’s a pretentious twit, Mike, but he is our client. So keep that northern frankness of yours under control.
And don’t get drawn into any arguments about equipment or money. Mr Brand is convinced that we’re overcharging him.’


Mike snorted. ‘We’ve cut every corner we can, and one or two we shouldn’t have.’

‘I know. And Mr Brand knows. I’ve told him that this,’ he waved a hand at the command panel beneath the bank of monitors,
‘isn’t up to our usual standard.’


‘If he thinks security’s an unnecessary luxury, he’ll learn the hard way. Folk like him are such know-alls until something
goes wrong. Then …’


‘Just you make sure nothing does go wrong.’

‘Don’t worry, Major. Just leave it to me. You get back to the bosom of your family and have a lovely Christmas.’

‘I’m sorry you and George are going to be stuck here over the holiday.’

‘Well, I’m not sorry.’ The older man winked. ‘Best alibi I’ve had in years. We’re due to go to the wife’s brother and sister-in-law.
We do it every other year. God knows why. It never works. Me and Reg are like oil and water. Well, this year I’ve got the
perfect let-out. How about you, Major? Christmas at home?’


‘Yes, it’ll be very quiet. Last year we came over to Maine to be with Catherine’s parents. But that was before the baby arrived.
Now that she’s a mother Catherine’s got a home-building fixation. So we’ve got to have the works – turkey, tree, mince pies,
crackers … the lot.’


‘Quite right, too. Oh, your mentioning the baby reminded me.’ He took a gift-wrapped package from the pocket of his blue uniform
jacket. ‘Something for young Toot.’


‘Toot’ was the nickname of Tim’s son. When he had been christened ‘Timothy Younger Lacy’, his maternal grandfather, a Bible-loving
Presbyterian, had immediately dubbed him ‘2 Timothy’, and this had been progressively shortened to ‘Tootim’ and ‘Toot’.


‘Mike, that’s very kind of you.’

‘It’s nothing much.’ Mike covered his embarrassment with a gruff command. ‘Now then, away with you and don’t forget to wish
Mrs Lacy all the best from me and George.’


Tim emerged onto 43rd Street, turned into neon-spangled Fifth Avenue where the hordes of shuffling shoppers were illuminated by the light from overstuffed store windows, ran the gauntlet of charity-can-rattling Santa Clauses and found
the shop he was looking for. It sold original paintings on acetate from animated cartoon studios. He bought a couple of Bugs
Bunny designs for Toot’s Christmas present. They would look bright on the nursery walls and their value would increase with
the passage of the years.


He decided to take a cab the short distance to the St Regis Hotel. He dined in his room, ordered an early call, went to bed
at 10.30, drifted into oblivion with pleasant thoughts of homecoming filling his mind, and slept the sleep of the just.


In the morning he phoned Catherine to tell her that he was on schedule. ‘Back about midnight, Darling. Don’t wait up.’ He
knew she would.


‘You’d better have plenty of energy left,’ his wife said, ‘No time for jet lag. It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow and you drew the
short straw for trimming the tree. And you haven’t forgotten that half the county’s coming for drinks in the evening?’


Tim grinned. ‘You certainly enjoy playing the English squiress.’

‘English, nothing!’ Catherine protested. ‘It’s pure New World hospitality. Anyway, I have to run. I’ve a list of things to
do as long as your arm. See you soon.’


Tim spent most of the cab ride to Kennedy Airport reflecting on how lucky he was. It was eighteen months since he had brought
a tall, blonde, twenty-nine-year-old American bride back to his new Wiltshire home. Not that Farrans Court was new; far from
it. Part of its stolid façade was already old when the Wars of the Roses were raging. Successive owners had added their own
contributions to its sprawl. Fire and ‘restorers’ had lopped bits off. After the changes and chances of history the Farrans
Court of the late twentieth century was a medieval-Tudor house crouched in a shallow hollow near Marlborough. To the Lacys
it was home and office, business and pleasure, a practical centre for their commercial activities and a piece of English heritage
to care for and be proud of. Above all it was a place to love. Catherine and Tim loved it very much. It was also fiendishly
expensive to maintain, which was why it had to pay for itself. As well as being the nerve centre of the security firm, Farrans was run as a gallery-cum-hotel where young artists could display their work and meet dealers, critics and collectors.
The arts centre was Catherine’s business and she ran it with efficiency, charm and flair. It kept her busy, which was as well,
since Tim’s work often took him abroad. Farrans. Catherine. Toot. They were the sheet anchors of Tim’s Flying Dutchman restlessness.
Anchors which, until a couple of years ago, he had despaired of ever finding. Yes, at thirty-eight he was certainly a very
lucky man. In vain he looked around the cab interior for a wooden surface to touch.


He timed his arrival at the airport to ensure minimum delay, checked in and declared only a single piece of hand luggage.
He had long-since perfected the art of packing one case with all his necessities so as to avoid hanging around in baggage
halls or having his belongings carried to wrong destinations half a world away. He went straight to the departure lounge.


His flight had just been called when he was aware of his name being announced on the loudspeaker.

‘Would Mr Timothy Lacy, passenger for London, come to the information desk, please?’

The stewardess smiled and handed him a telephone.

‘Hello, Tim Lacy here.’

‘Mr Lacy, glad I caught you.’ A man’s voice – brisk, official, colourless. ‘Lieutenant Freeman, New York Police Department.
I’m speaking from the Brand Gallery on 43rd.’


Tim felt a sudden lead weight of foreboding in his stomach. ‘Trouble?’

‘You could say. There was a break-in here last night. I believe your company handles the security arrangements.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘I’d be grateful if you could get over here. There are one or two questions …’

‘Is that really necessary, Lieutenant? I want to get home for Christmas.’

‘Yeah, me too. Stay in the terminal building. I’ll have a squad car pick you up.’

Tim tried again. ‘There are two of my men on the spot there. I’m sure they can tell you everything you want to know.’

‘I doubt that, sir. There was some shooting. The duty security guard …’ he paused – consulting his notes, Tim assumed – ‘…
a Mr Michael Kevin Thomson, was killed.’


‘So much for your goddamned security systems!’ Robin Brand pounced before Tim had taken two paces inside the door. Gone was
the suave image of the previous evening – the Italian suit, the silk shirt and college tie. The proprietor barred his way,
clad in jeans, sneakers, and a cashmere sweater, quivering with rage, indignation and fear. ‘I only hired you because my father
recommended you. And what happens? I get turned over the first night. Jeez! I’ll be a laughing stock and it’s your f—’


‘Mr Lacy?’ Tim was rescued by a balding, moustached man in his mid-forties. ‘Al Freeman, NYPD. Sorry to mess up your plans,
sir. Would you come through into the office, please?’ The policeman was more brusque with Rob Brand. ‘Sir, would you please
go with this officer and check the stock one more time? We need to be absolutely certain that only the one item is missing.’


‘But, Lieutenant, I already told you …’

‘Sir, we have to be sure.

Brand stamped off, muttering furiously. Tim preceded Freeman into the security office. The first thing he saw was the solid
form of George Martin, immaculate in blue suit with the ‘Lacy’ flashes on the lapels.


‘George, I’m sorry about all this.’ Martin had known Mike Thomson even longer than Tim had. Tim knew what the ex-Marine sergeant
was feeling. Knew also that Martin would not let any trace of his emotions show.


‘Good of you to come back, Major. This is a nasty business. I just wish I’d been here. If I’d been twenty minutes early reporting
for my shift, I’d have caught the bastard. Then it would have been his body in the morgue, not Mike’s.’


Tim shook his head firmly. ‘Don’t even think about blaming yourself, George. What time did it happen?’

Freeman interrupted. ‘Can we get down to business, Mr Lacy? I don’t want to hold you up any more than I have to.’

He dragged a chair up to the small table and motioned to the others to be seated. ‘Thanks to your excellent equipment, we
can watch the whole thing. Your man here has sorted out the tapes from the various cameras. I’ve already run them through
a couple of times. Now, I’d like you to take a look, see if there’s anything you can tell me about the killer.’


‘Anything I can tell you?’

‘Just watch.’ Freeman firmly brushed aside the question. To George Martin he said, ‘Play it again, Sam.’

The right-hand console flickered, then threw up a black and white image. Fascinated and horrified, Tim watched the last moments
of Mike Thomson’s life captured for posterity, Captured and timed – beginning, as indicated in the right-hand bottom corner
of the screen, at 02.35.09.


The security guard came into shot walking towards the glass front door of the gallery. A figure on the outside could be dimly
seen, gesticulating. Mike peered closely at something in the visitor’s hand.


Freeman explained, ‘There’s a police patrolman at the door. He wants to come in and your man is very properly demanding to
see his ID.’


Mike walked over to the desk and opened a low drawer.

‘He’s switching off the door alarm,’ George said.

Mike returned to the door with his bunch of keys, and unlocked it. Freeman said, ‘Watch this bit closely.’ Mike stood for
some seconds in the open doorway. Then he stepped back and the policeman, in cap and overcoat, took a couple of paces inside
the gallery. Mike said something and the man nodded. Mike turned, leading the way back into the gallery. The visitor closed
the street door. He pulled a silenced automatic from inside his topcoat. He shot Mike in the back, three times.


There was something surreal about the dumbshow assassination – the soundless recoil of the gun, the puppet-like jerk of Mike’s
body, arms flung wide, its slow-motion toppling first to the desk, then to the marble floor without any noise. Tim was mesmerised. Feelings numbed.


He saw the ‘policeman’ walk round the body and out of shot. Then the screen blacked out as George switched to the second console
and a different tape. It showed the centre room of the gallery from a high angle. The murderer entered, stage right. He paused,
looking at a piece of paper, then crossed to one of the glazed alcoves which housed the loan exhibits. He read the display
label, checked his note again, then set to work – swiftly and efficiently. From his pocket he took a small quantity of plastic
explosive and applied it to the lock. He attached two wires and backed out of sight. Seconds later, a silent explosion set
the toughened glass door gaping. No sharp splinters. No mess. No risk of damage to the contents. Lock blasted cleanly from
the wall.


The third act of the drama was the briefest. The assassin reappeared, removed the item from the case, slipped it inside a
plastic shopping bag, and left with firm, unhurried steps.


‘Show over!’ George pointed his remote control at the screen and the image faded.

Freeman stared across the table. ‘What do you make of that?’

Tim was still having difficulty interlocking thoughts and feelings. It was hard to register that he had just watched the cold-blooded
murder of an old friend. The only words that came were stunned, unconnected units of sound. ‘Professional. Ruthless. Pointlessly
ruthless.’


Freeman rubbed his tired eyes. Tim realised for the first time that, as case officer, he must have been here five or six hours
already. ‘Pointless?’ The lieutenant shook his head. ‘That’s not the way I see it. This was planned, down to the last detail.’


‘Even the killing?’

‘Yeah, even the killing. Did you notice anything about that bogus cop? He never said a word. He made signs through the door.
When your man asked questions, he just nodded, perhaps grunted.’


‘So?’

‘If he’d opened his mouth, your man might have been suspicious.’

Tim frowned.

‘Not convinced? OK, let’s try another angle. I don’t know this bastard. I don’t recognise him or his modus operandi. I’ve been in the department twenty-six years, most of them right here in this precinct. In all that time I’ve never come
across a crime with the same brand image as this one. We’ll run all the data through our computers, but I’ve got ten dollars
says this is no home-grown homicide. This killer was brought in from out of state to do a specific job.’


Tim nodded. ‘I go along with that. This has all the marks of a contract theft. Someone wanted a specific item stolen, and
they paid a professional to steal it.’


‘Right. Now, you’ve been involved with security in the international art market for a long time. Did you ever see this pattern
before? Like I really think this guy’s a foreigner. Not just from out of state; brought in from abroad.’


‘Isn’t that rather a wild guess?’

‘You get a feeling about these things after quarter of a century. Anyway, it ties in with the guy’s silence.’

‘You reckon he may have had a heavy accent?’

‘Or his English wasn’t so good. Either way, he couldn’t sound like a New York cop and your man would have smelled a rat if
he’d said more than a couple of sentences.’


Tim made an effort to drag his mind away from Mike Thomson. ‘I’ve certainly been involved with a number of robberies and attempted
robberies. It’s part of my job to study changing criminal methods. I can’t call to mind anything very similar at the moment.
Imitating a policeman or some other authorised person isn’t new, of course, and . . .