Picasso's Secret: The Island Connection, #9

By Graham Hamer

A valuable painting has disappeared and Penny Chakyar, a slightly-built, dusky young detective is tasked by her chief constable with finding it. Penny is teamed with Josh, a tall, well-proportioned constable with a washboard stomach and abs you could grate cheese on. Josh is not all he seems to be, as Penny soon discovers. Meanwhile, twins Brian and Sue Hodgetts are increasingly unhappy with their court-appointed guardians. But nowhere near as unhappy as Elvis and Ozzy who roll a van loaded with stolen goods and find themselves in jail awaiting trial. Meanwhile, Maddi and Jason are caught in a compromising position by Boris, who has taken incriminating photos on his cell phone. While he’s doing that, Daisy Norwood has a few too many vodka and tonics for breakfast and sets fire to her house, exposing the secrets in her cellar. It’s just another tale of life on ‘The Island’ where the loose ends come together at the end and Josh gets exactly what he deserves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham Hamer
• Release date: Oct 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781977912596

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The taller of the two men rang the doorbell. He was thin, wore a business suit with a silk tie, an expensive overcoat, and a Rolex watch. You would only have noticed the Rolex if he had taken off his leather gloves. Appearances were important in his line of business. So was not leaving fingerprints. The other man, a giant of a man, as broad as he was high, with a neck like a tree trunk, stood to one side. He had dressed in a similar style to his colleague but held a policeman’s rubber truncheon. He wasn’t a policeman. He also wore black leather gloves.

A light came on from within the house. A silhouette approached the glazed door and a tall blonde woman in her late twenties opened it. She peered out at them with a bland, expressionless stare.

Good evening, Ms Gotobed. Is Nathan about?

She nodded. Who shall I say it is?

We’ll introduce ourselves, the man said. He eased past her, followed by the second man. As they stepped into the lounge, Nathan Owen looked up from his armchair in front of the television. He was bald as an egg but built like a concrete blockhouse. Naked from the waist up, Nathan had six pack abs and the arms of a weightlifter. But there was no warning and his muscles and his bulk were no defence. Blows rained down on his head from the swinging truncheon.

One minute later, he lay on his back on the floor. Blood ran from his broken nose onto the faux fur sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace. He stared up at the two men, his eyes beginning to close, like a boxer who’d come out worst over fifteen rounds. He spat to remove the broken tooth that he had come close to swallowing.

What the fuck was that for? he asked. His words were slurred and lisping and bloody spittle covered his lips.

We’ve warned you before, Mr Owen, but you’re still dealing.

Says who?

Says our employer.

Then he’s wrong, whoever he is.

He’s seldom wrong, Mr Owen. So this friendly visit is just to remind you again that dealing on the Isle of Man is now a monopoly, and you’re not part of it. If you want to become licensed as a supplier, you may make it known. Our employer will give consideration to your request. However, you might find the cost of buying the goods will be more than you have been paying to date.

And what if I ignore your ‘friendly visit’ again? Nathan asked, holding his hands to his face, then taking them away and examining the blood. I’d be ready for you next time.

I doubt that, Mr Owen. Davy and I don’t announce our visits beforehand. And next time, you might find it somewhat more uncomfortable than this evening. Battery grips on the testicles are a rather unpleasant way of making a point. Particularly when my colleague plugs them into the mains supply. Apart from the crippling pain, you would be impotent for the rest of your days. I can’t convince you to get your head straight, but Davy can. Davy has a special gift for persuasive discussion, don’t you, Davy?

Yeah, whatever you said, Marcus.

Well I don’t scare easy, the man on the floor muttered.

Which makes you stupid, because you should be very afraid.

I’d take either one of you on any day in a fair fight.

Ankle, please, Marcus said.

Davy brought his foot down on Nathan Owen’s ankle. There was an unpleasant crack, which nobody heard above the scream of the victim as he reacted to the gut-wrenching pain that shot up his leg to his hip.

What you just broke was his tibia, Marcus said, not his ankle.

Tibia?

His leg.

Same thing isn’t it?

No. You know where an ankle is, Davy. Now do the other one please and do it right.

Davy did, and Nathan Owen passed out.

Marcus looked round at the woman. Her heavy makeup couldn’t disguise how much blood had drained from her face in the last two minutes. Her expression was no longer bland or impassive. She held both hands to her mouth.

He’ll be in hospital for a while after falling off the roof like that, Ms Gotobed. The ground is as the ground is – hard, rough and unyielding. You can help his recovery by persuading him to stop dealing drugs. I’m only saying this for his own good. Our employer is determined to stamp out unauthorised sellers on the island. He likes the idea of a more regulated market.

How do you know my name?

You know our employer quite well. I’m sure you’ll work it out. Now we’ll wish you a pleasant evening. Nice clear night tonight. Lots of stars. We don’t see the stars too often where we come from.

CHAPTER ONE

Two hundred quid, Freddy Flanagan said, and not a penny less.

I don’t deal in paintings, the other man said. If you’ve got some bits of jewellery or whatever, then I’m happy to do a deal with you, but I don’t know eff-all about paintings.

Trust me —

Ha! Freddy Flanagan, the Isle of Man’s best known petty thief. And I should trust you?

Freddy smiled. I like the compliment, but I deny everything until I talk to my legal advisor.

Yeah, well sorry Freddy, but artwork isn’t my scene.

Alright, £150 but I’m cutting my own throat. It’s a genuine Picasso.

The big man laughed. Picasso my arse. Jeez, Freddy, my pet rat is smarter than you.

You’ve got a pet rat?

No, but if I did, it would be smarter than you. What you’ve got in your hands is a genuine oil painting and quite a nice one. But just 'cos it’s got the word Picasso written at the bottom doesn’t make it a genuine Picasso. He was the guy that painted all those squares and stuff. Chicks with eyes on the same side of their heads and nipples where their arses should be.

Aye, well this must have been one of his early works. Probably makes it even more valuable.

Which part of the word ‘no’ don’t you understand, Freddy?

You can put it on eBay. Most likely you’d get a monkey for it.

You think someone would pay five hundred quid for that? You’re kidding me.

Alright, I’ll take £125 but my babies will be eating stale bread all week.

Jesus, you don’t give up, do you? You have the same number of babies as I have pet rats. You’re way too old and ugly for kids. He looked at the painting that Freddy was holding up. It’s not even framed.

Well excuse me, Freddy said. I risk life and limb to cut a bloody masterpiece out of the frame in less than ten seconds before someone sees me, and you’re bitching because there’s no frame.

The other man peeled off five twenty-pound notes and offered them to Freddy. And I need to know where it came from, he said.

A ton? That’s insulting me that is.

So live with it. When did you take it?

About an hour ago, so it should be worth more. It’s as fresh as the egg I’m going to have for breakfast, if I can afford to buy any eggs.

It’s a hundred quid now or fifty quid if you keep arguing. You may be the best petty thief on the island, but you’re the worst negotiator in the world

Freddy didn’t answer, so the big man began to put the money back in his pocket. Freddy snatched it from him. Honestly, I don’t know what the world is coming to when a man can’t earn an honest crust.

CHAPTER TWO

Jacqui Kelly carried the cafetiere across the large private office behind the hotel’s reception area. She poured four coffees and rested the Le Creuset stoneware jug in the centre of the low table. The two policewomen nodded in appreciation of a proper cup of ground coffee. Lynn Addison, the fourth woman in the room, also nodded her thanks while Jacqui loaded her coffee with milk and sugar. Jacqui was forty-three, slim, and dressed in pencil skirt, high heels and white silk blouse.

She had the sort of figure and presence that made men look twice. She had an oriental face but, being the product of a mixed marriage, had eyes of intense blue, the colour of the sky on a clear day. She was a strikingly beautiful lady. The fact that she had an IQ that was off the scale was unknown to all but those who were close to her. That she ran an investment portfolio for Chinese investors that was worth billions was also unknown to most people.

Lynn, also forty-three, ran their chain of exclusive hotels. A nose that was marginally square kept Lynn’s face the wrong side of striking. Yet her soft honey-coloured skin radiated her enjoyment of life and nobody who met her could fail to like her. Tiny crow’s feet appeared in the corners of her eyes when she smiled. And when she smiled, you couldn’t help but smile back. If she was happy, you were happy too. People liked to be near her.

She took a sip of her coffee. Thanks for coming, she said. Sarah, do you want to introduce us to your colleague?

Detective Inspector Sarah Flemons grinned and said, Ladies, this is Detective Constable Penny Chakyar. You may find her a rather pleasing morsel of eye candy, but she is already spoken for.

Jacqui and Lynn burst out laughing. When Lynn laughed, as she did often, her laughter tinkled like a wind chime in a gentle breath of spring air. She and Jacqui were not only business partners, but partners in life too. Sarah was happy to pull their legs over it. She loved both women’s temperaments, their outlook on life, and their boundless energy. They were a pleasure to be around.

Penny hadn’t yet made the gay connection so still looked puzzled.

What can we do for you? Sarah asked. Something to do with the hotel?

No, Royal Bay Hotel is doing well, Lynn said. We need a bit of police help in a problem-solving exercise. Something that’s got to remain secret for the moment.

Business or personal? Sarah asked.

Both. We spoke to the chief constable and he was happy to ask you to come and see us.

That’s because he rates you both highly after your co-operation during that scare with the biological weapons.

Is the problem about money? Penny asked.

Worse than that, it’s blackmail. Lynn replied.

What did you do wrong?

Nothing. It’s a question of what I have that somebody wants to extract from me.

Extortion then? Sarah said.

Yes, that’s the word. I’d forgotten it. It’s not a word you use every day.

So who is trying to extort what?

Drink your coffees and I’ll tell you a story, Lynn said. She addressed Penny first. Sarah and I already know each other quite well following that business with the chemical agent three years ago. So Sarah already knows that Jacqui and I got to know each other when we were teenagers in the same foster home. You’ll guess from that that neither of us have parents. We were also, both of us, only children. No brothers or sisters.

Sarah cleared her throat in an obvious fashion and Lynn looked up. Penny thought she detected Lynn’s eyes wrinkle in a gentle smile. She liked natural people and had already found something fascinating about Lynn and Jacqui. Jane Austen’s world was far too manicured to sustain Penny’s interest, but there was something about these women that intrigued her. Natural beauty came from within and was never tiresome. It possessed that careless touch of artifice that was the hallmark of true originality. For Penny, there was nothing so pleasing and sophisticated as unspoilt simplicity, and Lynn and Jacqui were born naturals.

Penny leaned forwards as Lynn shook her head of chestnut hair that was cut stylishly around her face. Lynn continued as if she hadn’t noticed Sarah’s exaggerated throat clearing. So, as I say, no living family. You can imagine what a surprise it was when, last year, a firm of French notaries contacted me. It seems my roots are not as English as I assumed them to be. She turned over a large photograph and positioned it so both Penny and Sarah could see it."

The two studied it for a moment, and then Penny said, It’s a photo of an oil painting of a woman. Judging from her clothes, I would guess it was painted around the turn of the last century. Quite beautiful too. Is she somebody famous?

Or was it painted by somebody famous? Sarah added.

Points to Sarah, Lynn said. Look, it would be easy for me to just tell you the basics and you’d have enough to go on. But since the coffee’s fresh, bear with me and I’ll tell you the background. It’s important to me that you understand how much this painting means to me. Help yourselves to more coffee if you need it, by the way. She paused to take a breath then said, My father died in a car accident when I was eight. My mother died a few years later from the stress of having to live on a pittance. As she said that, she gave Sarah a sad smile which Sarah reciprocated. There was a history there that they were content to keep to themselves.

I never knew my grandparents, Lynn continued. I never even heard either of my parents mention them. Yet it seems that my grandparents died just a few years ago and left an estate worth, on the face of it, about three million euros. They were French.

Were they your maternal or paternal grandparents? Penny asked.

They were my mother’s parents. My mother, it seems, was born in England of French parentage. When her parents moved back to France, she was old enough to make her own decisions and stayed in Britain, where she’d been brought up.

Doesn’t it seem strange that she never mentioned them? Sarah asked.

Not as strange as you may think. Once you know the whole story, you’ll understand how the jigsaw fits together a bit better. You see, my mothers’ parents were enthusiastic religious adherents. When my mother went ahead and married a non-Catholic against their wishes, they terminated any contact with her and went into a long sulk. Lynn chuckled to herself. They would have demanded her excommunication if they had discovered that she later divorced her Protestant husband and married an atheist.

Don’t you just love religion? Jacqui commented. The source of most of the world’s problems.

Parents and children not talking seems to run in my family, Lynn continued, as you’ll find out when I tell you the whole saga. She took another sip of coffee and placed the cup back in the saucer before continuing. "The French notary who was dealing with my grandparents’ estate couldn’t find out what had happened to my grandparents’ children. It seems I had an aunt who died young without ever marrying or having children of her own. So everything would have gone to my mother and, in turn, to me. If only he knew where to find me. It complicated matters that my mother had remarried. Her name had changed twice.

Anyway, credit to the notary for not giving up. The value of the estate was sufficient for him to spend some time and money tracing my mother. Eventually he found out about me."

Okay so far, Sarah said, but where do we come in?

Patience, Sarah, patience. I’m getting there. After he found me and was finalising everything, the notary came across a deed for an apartment in Paris. The property is in the 9th arrondissement, between Pigalle red light district and Opera. I went over there and we got a locksmith to open the door. When the notary and I stepped inside, we found the apartment untouched since the beginning of World War II. Stuff was scattered everywhere, like the occupiers had made a rapid departure. There was just a smell of old dust and a fine collection of cobwebs.

Penny whistled. Wow, that must have been quite something. Whose apartment was it?

That took a bit of research to discover. After reading through letters and notes that my grandparents had made, it seems that my great-grandmother - that’s my grandmother’s mother - had fled the city, along with her young daughter, my grandmother. This was at the outbreak of World War II as the German offensive neared Paris. It was 1940 and she was just 38 years old when she locked the apartment and left town. For the following 30 years until her death, she paid the charges and the upkeep on the home without ever returning.

Born 1902, died 1970 aged 68, Penny said.

You knew of her? Lynn asked.

No, Penny just plays with numbers faster than a computer, Sarah replied.

Lynn laughed. Her illegitimate daughter, that’s my grandmother, was just 7 when they left Paris. She died in 2016 —

Aged 83, Penny whispered.

Lynn continued, The apartment and its contents took us right back to Paris in the early 1900s. The style and contents were typical of life at the height of the Belle Époque. The time when the city was celebrating its cultural renaissance. It seems that my great-grandmother was the talk of the town. The shelves were lined with books and newspapers. The windows were draped with gold curtains. And hairbrushes, perfumes, and candle stubs, spread out on a luxurious dressing table, seemed to await the return of a glamorous noblewoman. The formal dining room has a gorgeous low-hanging chandelier over the table. In the kitchen is a wood stove, and the stone sink was still stocked with glassware and pots and pans. One of the inventorying experts we brought in said it was like waking up and finding you had walked into a time warp.

So what’s with the painting? Sarah asked, pointing to the photo on the table in front of them.

I’m getting there, Lynn said, pouring herself another coffee and offering the cafetiere to the others. This was the biggest surprise of all. It’s a never-before-seen painting by, as you, Sarah, just suggested, a famous artist. The subject of the portrait, the woman perched on the arm of a couch and shrouded in a pink satin evening gown, was my great-grandmother. The painting dates back to about 1925 when she was 23 years old.

So your great-grandmother was well known? Penny asked.

It turns out that she was, Lynn replied. "But for all the wrong reasons at that time. Before she married, her name was Marie-Laure Henriette Anne Bischoffsheim. When she married, she moved even further up the social ladder by marrying Daniel, Vicomte de Noailles. I never realised there was noble blood in the family. Marie-Laure de Noaille’s illegitimate daughter married my grandfather and became a de Buisson. Minor noble stock, but nothing compared to the Bischoffsheims or the de Noailles.

But the apartment hid a clandestine life and a sad secret. Upon her death, all Marie-Laure de Noailles ever gifted her secret daughter was this apartment in Paris and the contents. After she married Vicomte de Noailles she produced two legitimate children. The gift of the apartment was a quiet nod to a child whose existence she hadn’t wanted made public. So my grandmother and my grandfather continued to pay the taxes and the management charges without ever visiting the place."

It’s getting complicated, Penny said. Why did they never do anything with the apartment?

According to my grandfather’s diaries, my great-grandmother and my grandmother had become estranged. My grandmother wanted nothing to do with it. She resented the fact that her mother had more or less disowned her in favour of the children spawned by her new husband. To my grandmother, it seemed like a very poor consolation prize considering the vast wealth left by my great-grandmother to her other two children.

How well-known was she, the great-grandmother?

"She was a certain breed of courtesan known as les demimondaines. Women who were famous for their lavish lifestyles, partying ways, and strings of high-profile suitors. Since opening up the apartment, we’ve done a massive amount of digging through genealogical records to uncover more about the family. We’ve come up with old newspaper clippings and birth records which, as I say, show that Marie-Laure de Noailles was born Marie-Laure Henriette Anne Bischoffsheim. They also show that one of her great-grandfathers was the Marquis de Sade."

Which explains a lot about you, Jacqui said, earning herself a playful smack on the arm.

My great-grandmother managed to keep much of her tempestuous life and eccentric personality secret from her own parents, Lynn said. And also, for some years, secret from her husband. Later, after leaving her surreptitious lifestyle behind, she was regarded as an upright citizen and one of the 20th century's most daring and influential patrons of the arts. Prior to that, she still owned the apartment, even while she was married. She was noted for her associations with Salvador Dali, Balthus, Jean Cocteau, and others. In fact, in her early twenties, she had a well documented affair with Cocteau. Because of her lifestyle, her parents had denounced her and cut off all financial support to her. So before meeting and marrying Vicomte de Noailles, she turned to acting and the more lucrative ‘society girl’ trade. It was during her early life as a courtesan that she met and romanced the painter who painted this portrait of her. Any guesses who it was?

For a moment nobody spoke and then Sarah said, Was it Cocteau?

No. Cocteau could paint a little, but was much better known as a writer, designer, playwright and, later, a filmmaker.

Give up, Penny said. I’m no good at artists and stuff.

Take a guess.

Penny laughed. Pablo Picasso.

Lynn looked up and drew a sharp breath. How did you know?

I didn’t. I was going to say Salvador Dalí since she was associated with him. But that was too obvious, so I chose the least likely candidate I could think of - Mr Cubist himself. Penny looked again at the photo. No way that’s a Picasso.

Oh, I can assure you it is, Lynn said. "We’ve had it certified by three top art specialists - all of them sworn to secrecy. In any case my great-grandmother left a stack of love letters in the apartment, wrapped in different coloured ribbons. Some were written by other well-known suitors, but most were penned by Picasso. In them, he tells her what pleasure it has given him to paint her in what he called his ‘more gentle style’. Picasso demonstrated extraordinary artistic talent in his early years, painting in a naturalistic manner through his childhood and adolescence. During the first decade of the 20th century, his style changed as he experimented with different theories, techniques, and ideas. One of his first cubist paintings was Le pigeon petits-pois which he painted in 1911. It was stolen in 2010 and was estimated at the time to be worth about £25 million.

Penny pointed to the photograph. So if he painted this particular painting in 1925, he must have reverted back to the abilities of his youth?

"Exactly that. But no reference book dedicated to Picasso has ever mentioned the tableau. It has never been exhibited of course. After a lot of detective work we finally found a reference to the painting in a book by Olga Khokhlova, Picasso’s first wife. Picasso married her in 1918 but