Rocco and the Price of Lies Read online

  ‘What was your original job?’ Rocco tasted his coffee; Dreycourt was right – it was excellent. Maybe he’d give the man another few minutes before heading back to the office.

  ‘Was and still is: combatting art fraud, specifically forgery. I track down forgers passing off works of art as genuine.’

  ‘And it’s a full-time thing?’

  ‘It is when it leads to suicide, Inspector. Or murder.’

  Six

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘You’d be surprised at how many people with money to spare have a powerful desire to show off how cultured they are to their friends – even, and especially, if culture isn’t their strong point.’ Dreycourt settled back, as if making himself comfortable for what he was about to say. ‘That they are living a lie is less important to them than their need to impress. Doesn’t matter how successful they are in their professional life, they seek the approval of others. I suppose it’s a part of the human condition, a desire to validate one’s place in society.’

  Rocco, like many cops, wasn’t given much to psychology. He dealt with criminal acts which were usually prompted by greed, emotion or ambition. Desperation or fear played a part in others but, in his experience, they were less common. ‘Where does suicide and murder come in?’

  ‘I’ll come to that. Due to the market demand, there are a number of forgers who cater to the needs of these egotistical self-styled art lovers. You want a Monet or a Matisse to hang on the wall? No problem. A Constable or a Raphael to grace your staircase or study? Whatever you say. Given the correct amount of hard, untraceable cash and a guarantee of silence about the picture’s provenance, they can provide whatever you require.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind for any important birthdays.’ Rocco had come across a few forgers before, but only those producing fake French franc notes in a backstreet lock-up with a stolen printing press. ‘Are these forgers any good at what they do?’

  Dreycourt nodded. ‘Indeed. Some are masters in their own right, others are workaday technicians with as much art in their souls as a gravedigger. Like anything else, you get what you pay for … Or rather you get what you want your friends and colleagues to think you’ve paid for it.’

  ‘Because everybody knows the real one is actually in the Louvre?’ Rocco suggested, and wondered if Dreycourt was going to get to the point.

  ‘That’s the subtlety of the whole thing. It’s all about perception and probability. We’re not talking about your average businessman or local commune staff member here. This is a market for those with more than average wealth.’

  ‘Undeclared?’

  ‘More often than not, certainly. The friends are led to believe the owner actually has the kind of wealth required to buy a genuine work of art. His friends aren’t entirely sure, but they’re prepared to believe that what they see on the wall is actually the real deal and that the Louvre or wherever has a fake but is too embarrassed to admit it.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a form of confidence trick, but it works for some.’

  ‘And how does this concern me?’

  ‘I need your help.’ Dreycourt shifted in his seat. ‘I used to have two colleagues but, since the department was done away with, I now work alone. I sometimes have to rely on hiring associates or freelance investigators to assist me. That’s easy enough in Paris and other big centres like London or Geneva, but there are none available right now – at least, none I can rely on. I was given your name by the Ministry, and with their agreement and that of your Commissaire Massin, I’ve been allowed to rope you in, if you’ll excuse the term. The reason we’re meeting out here is because this particular investigation has some sensitive aspects.’ He hesitated. ‘Massin mentioned that you’d undertaken one-off assignments for the Ministry before, but I get the impression this one comes as a surprise.’

  ‘You could say that. What do you expect of me? What I know about art a miniaturist would have no trouble putting on the back of a postage stamp.’

  Dreycourt smiled and took a slim envelope out of his pocket. He slid it across the table. It contained three photographs and a slip of paper. Rocco unfolded the paper first. It contained a name and an address in the village of Passepont, just a few kilometres away from where they were sitting. Not far, either, from Rocco’s home village of Poissons-les-Marais.

  ‘Sébastien Cezard?’ Rocco read out. ‘Should I know him?’

  ‘Probably not. He keeps a low profile most of the time. Like a lot of his kind.’

  ‘You don’t like him?’

  ‘I don’t like forgers.’

  ‘Is he one?’

  ‘Yes. One of the best in the business. Very few people know he exists. His main strength is he’s very skilled and always careful about how much he exposes of himself. He works through an agent and most of his “clients” never get to meet him except on his terms.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘If the money involved is unusually high or, as sometimes happens, he’s being hired to do a genuine commission, such as a personal portrait.’

  Rocco could appreciate what Dreycourt was driving at. The kind of criminals who relied on deception, such as conmen and fraudsters, were only successful if they remained elusive to the people they’d preyed on. A conman who remained in one place and played the scene too long was always in danger of one of his ‘marks’ coming across him by accident and deciding to wreak vengeance for having been taken to the cleaners. He’d dealt with scenarios like that before, and it didn’t always end well for the angry victim, in spite of what had been done to them in the first place.

  Rocco turned over the three photographs. The first showed a large, friendly-looking individual with a generous smile, heavy spectacles, a small black cigar in the corner of his mouth and glass of milky liquid in his hand. He was facing a woman with her back to the camera, and Rocco guessed the photo had been taken without Cezard’s knowledge.

  The other two photographs were identical, a framed painting of a young woman with a cool, enigmatic smile, dressed in loose-fitting clothes. She was seated on a chair, her shoulders bare, her hair dark and lustrous. He had no idea how old the painting might be but guessed it was somewhere in the 18th or 19th century.

  ‘The painting is known as “Portrait of Madame Récamier”,’ said Dreycourt. ‘Painted by Gérard in 1805. The photo on your left is of the genuine article which sits in the Carnavalet Museum in Paris. The other is of a fake which I firmly believe was painted by Sébastien Cezard.’ He produced two more photos, of a similar figure but less attractive. ‘These are by a lesser known artist, one fake, the other genuine. I’m showing them to you as an example. Again, Cezard painted the fake – or the copy, I should say.’

  ‘Is there a difference?’

  ‘If the copy is sold as an original with a signature, yes. It’s fraud. A forgery. If it’s a copy of a nice picture because someone likes it … well, that’s a different thing altogether. No signature, no pretending it’s real, no crime.’ He patted the new photo. ‘Until recently this painting was owned by an Italian industrialist who died of a heart attack after being caught by his wife dallying with a young woman of not-so-impeccable character.’ He gave a dry sniff. ‘I was called in to verify it, and the wife wasn’t amused when I broke the news. She’d put it up for sale when her husband died and was hoping to make a good amount of money on the deal. The auctioneer had his doubts about it, which was how it came to my attention.’

  Rocco couldn’t tell the difference between the pairs of pictures, and said so. They were little more than postcard size, which didn’t help, but he couldn’t tell them apart. ‘They’re an exact copy.’

  ‘That’s the general idea,’ said Dreycourt. ‘They look like the real thing, even to experts.’

  ‘Like you?’

  Dreycourt pulled a face. ‘I have some expertise, but art is an extremely broad area. I often need to consult experts in specific subjects to be certain. In the case of this picture I was certain it was a copy but to make sure I consulted with a prof
essor who’d made a lengthy study of Gérard and the Récamier painting in particular. He confirmed a characteristic of the paint strokes used which betrayed its true origins.’

  ‘So how is it Cezard isn’t locked up?’

  ‘Because the man’s wife had assumed it was genuine and was too embarrassed to make an official complaint when she found out it wasn’t.’ He shrugged. ‘It happens a lot, especially if someone claims they bought it in good faith, which is more often than not a transparent lie. In this case the lady was adamant: no complaint and no publicity. I knew it had to be Cezard’s work, but with no charges against him and no testimony, I was powerless to push it any further.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Cezard?’

  ‘Of course. He denied ever meeting the client, producing the painting or even possessing the skills to do so. But I’ve been studying him long enough to know he’s perfectly capable. He’s charming, as open as the day is long and entirely believable.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s innocent.’

  ‘Possibly, although I don’t think so. I’m hoping that after you’ve met him you might be able to convince me otherwise.’

  Rocco looked at him. ‘Say that again?’

  ‘I want you to get to know him. Rattle his tree a little, see what your instincts tell you.’

  ‘What, just pop in for a chat on the off-chance? You do know that most criminals have a built-in radar for trouble. The moment a detective shows up on their doorstep, they tend to sense that it’s more than just a traffic offence or a minor land dispute. And one excuse I can’t use is being interested in art. He’d spot that lie in a moment.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of some plausible reason to drop by. The fact is, Lucas, Cezard doesn’t deal solely in selling his forgeries to rich clients; I believe he’s involved in blackmailing them afterwards.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘With their lies. They’ve lied to their friends and colleagues, pretending to own an important work of art when they don’t, in some instances gaining respect, status and even position they don’t deserve. I know of two men who, on the back of their lies about their supposed wealth, were given sizeable bank loans at special rates. One might argue the banks were at fault, but it’s still fraud and gaining financial guarantees under false pretences.’

  ‘That makes them vulnerable.’

  ‘Exactly. In my experience friends and colleagues finding out they’ve been taken for fools are not very forgiving. Business partners even less so. Of the few stories I’ve come across, most of those who’ve bought into this fraud appear to have paid up to keep their petty egos safe. But now Cezard’s gone too far and chosen the wrong target. Two days ago, a blackmail attempt drove a prominent individual to take his own life.’

  ‘Who?’

  When Dreycourt hesitated, chewing his lip, Rocco wondered if he was being cautious until he was certain Rocco was on board with the investigation. He sat back and waited, staring at the art expert until he gave way.

  ‘Secretary of State for Finance Jean-Pascal Bourdelet,’ he said, and explained about the letter found on Bourdelet’s desk.

  Ouch, thought Rocco. That would be enough to boot it up from a mild case of self-deception to something worthy of investigation. Even so, proving that it was the blackmail attempt that had driven the man to take his own life was no simple matter, and he said so.

  Dreycourt nodded. ‘Maybe so. However, there’s a growing body of opinion that blackmail leading to death should be a criminal offence in its own right. That’s why the Ministry have handed the investigation to me … and, by association, you. This is not a normal situation and I think it could be the start of something worse.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I suspect this isn’t the first case of its kind, and that Cezard or whoever might be helping him has tapped into a new source of making money. I believe he might be going back over his past clients and reminding them of their deception to see what he can get out of them. Some will brush him off and suffer the embarrassment; others won’t be so resistant. It’s possible Bourdelet’s death wasn’t the first, and I doubt it will be the last.’

  Seven

  ‘I’m disappointed. I’m sure you know why.’ Serban launched into the attack the moment the other man picked up the telephone. He’d just heard the news about Bourdelet’s suicide from a police contact. Going on the offensive was another trick he’d learned worked well with those outside his own ‘trade’. As outsiders they were unaccustomed to blunt approaches and the abandonment of social etiquette. It confused and wrong-footed them, giving him time to press home the advantage and remind them of his superior position.

  ‘I’m sorry, Yuri. It was unforeseen, I assure you.’ The tone was calm, but the words came out in a rush. ‘Nobody expected him to … do what he did.’

  ‘What? Blow his head off? Or am I being too brutal for you, maître?’

  ‘Please, don’t mention my na–’

  ‘Please nothing.’ Serban was on a roll. He leant forward as if his words were a physical assault. His use of the other man’s title had been deliberate, to unsettle him and knock his confidence. ‘I have no reason to think anybody is listening to my calls, so spare me the theatrics. Or have you been misbehaving and attracted the attention of the police without telling me?’

  ‘No, of course not!’

  ‘Let us hope not. Otherwise your name might just slip from my tongue in a moment of weakness.’

  ‘There’s really no need for threats, Yuri.’ He sounded angry and resentful, but wisely kept his temper. ‘We’ll proceed with the other two targets as planned.’

  ‘I’m not talking about them; I mean with Bourdelet. The suicide of a government minister will hardly go unnoticed, will it? Is there anything that could rebound on us?’

  ‘No. The letter’s source is untraceable. As long as your man made no mistakes in delivering it, we shouldn’t have any problems.’

  Serban felt a dig of anger at the implied criticism. ‘My employees do not make mistakes,’ he said heavily. ‘Remember, you said there was no risk. I’ll ask you now, what is likely to be the procedure?’

  ‘Well, there will undoubtedly be an internal investigation, in view of Bourdelet’s position, based on the contents of the letter. I understand he didn’t speak to anyone after receiving it, but it was on the desk after he … killed himself.’

  ‘Why would he have left it there?’ Serban muttered. ‘That’s crazy – it will implicate him in theft at the very least.’

  ‘His memory, certainly.’ The man on the other end sounded unconcerned. ‘Who knows what a desperate man will do when looking over the edge of a precipice? Perhaps he was past caring … or imagined it might regain him a scrap of honour, tainted though it will be. Either way, it will have been gathered up as evidence and the office sealed pending an enquiry.’

  Serban said angrily, ‘And that shouldn’t concern me?’

  ‘No. They won’t want the contents of the letter to come out, believe me. The misuse of government funds in the finance ministry at this level is a scandal they can do without. The government machine will take over and suppress all but the most basic details: namely that Bourdelet took his life while under intense stress or some such medical condition. He won’t be the first official to have done it, nor the last. It will soon blow over. However …’ He paused.

  ‘Yes?

  ‘They might decide to investigate the painting itself.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’ Serban felt a ripple of unease. While he himself was remote from any connection with the painting, the fact that the man on the other end was connected was reason enough for caution. Their past association was hardly secret.

  ‘To find out where it came from.’

  ‘He bought a copy of a known painting; who cares who produced it? I would have thought the misuse of government funds was far more important.’

  ‘Unfortunately, that’s not how the police think, you should know that. The painting is a forge
ry, and has brought about a death. As such they will follow it up because that’s what they’re conditioned to do.’ A snort came down the line. ‘They’re like dogs chewing at a bone; they lack imagination.’

  Serban felt concern at the open contempt in the other’s voice. He was well aware that the man had no love of the police, but this went a step further. He distrusted people who voiced their feelings too loudly, because inevitably they would come out, and might impact on anyone seen to be connected with them. Something, he decided, to be stored away for the future.