Page 61 of Savage Justice

“You’re an artist, right? A good one?” Ethan takes a seat opposite Molly. “Are you any good at copying paintings?”

Her jaw drops. Mine, too, probably.

“Copying paintings? I don’t know what…”

“Making a copy. A good copy, good enough to fool most people. Could you do that?”

“Forgery, you mean?”

Ethan inclines his head. “I suppose you’d call it that, yes.”

“That’s illegal,” she protests.

“So is stealing the art in the first place. And trying to pervert the course of justice by getting you banged up for it. Not to mention whatever other backhanders Norris is greasing his oily palms with. In the grand scheme of things, one little forged picture doesn’t seem too outrageous. Wouldn’t you say?”

“You want me to make a forged copy of a painting? Why?”

“First of all, could you do it? Well enough to pass inspection?”

“That depends on who’s doing the inspection.” She shakes her head. “But, no, probably not. A convincing forgery is a complex business. It’s not just a matter of recreating an image. It’s about the light and shade, the texture, the unique brushwork of the original artist. And if it’s an old painting, there’s the wear and tear of centuries of dirt and grime to reproduce as well. It’s specialist stuff.”

“The painting I have in mind is old. Death of Atalanta.”

“I don’t understand. Why would you…?” I shake my head in bewilderment. “It’s not as though you could sell it as the original. Everyone knows the original was stolen. If it suddenly surfaces again, the police will…”

“I’ll explain, but first, is it possible? Do you know of a specialist? Someone who could do it? Can we create a copy?”

Molly hesitates, then, “There is someone…”

“Who?” Ethan leans in, his eyes narrowing.

“Well, a couple of people, actually. You remember that fuss in Amsterdam a year or so ago when a fake Vermeer found its way into a display of his work?”

We exchange puzzled glances, shrugging.

“You’ll have to enlighten us, I’m afraid.”

“It was one of the largest exhibitions of his work ever, at the time. There’ve been bigger ones since, but they had twenty-two of the thirty-five known Vermeer’s in one place. It was fabulous, drew thousands in to view the masterpieces. Many of the foremost Vermeer authorities in the world were there, and no one spotted that the girl with the red hat was a ringer.”

“The girl with the red hat?” I can’t place it.

“This.” Molly produces her phone and taps a few keys, then scrolls.

She shows us the picture, and I do recognise it. I think.

Ethan is more of a connoisseur than I am, and he definitely knows what he’s looking at. “Is this a forgery?” he asks, squinting at the tiny image.

“No. That’s the genuine one. This is the copy…” She produces another image and hands the phone back. “Spot the difference.”

“Bloody hell,” Ethan breathes. “They’re identical…”

“Very nearly. Good enough to fool some of the foremost experts, including the actual owners of this work. The National Gallery of Art in Washington DC. The truth came to light when animal rights activists broke into the exhibition and flung red dye over the painting. Somehow, the gallery had got wind of the plan, and they commissioned the fake. They hung it instead of the original and waited for the protesters to show up. The vandals ruined a copy worth a few hundred pounds, but the true Vermeer was safe.”

“So, you’re saying that the artist who created this…”

“Marlow McGuinness,” Molly clarifies.

“…could paint a copy of Death of Atalanta.”

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