Chapter 45
With four police officers and one civilian, the Metropolitan Police’s Art and Antiquities Unit was tiny compared to those of other countries.
Italy’s Carabinieri Command for the Protection of Cultural Heritage had four sections and twelve regional offices.
More than one hundred agents worked for the FBI Art Crime Team.
France’s catchily named Central Office for the Fight against Illegal Trafficking of Cultural Property had more than thirty full-time members of staff.
But the Art and Antiquities Unit was feisty.
The staff punched above their weight. And given that the UK’s art market was the second biggest in the world, they’d had some remarkable successes.
Poe had met with them a few years back during a case.
He’d wanted their valuation on an oliphant – an Egyptian hunting horn, intricately carved and over a thousand years old.
The cops tended to rotate in and out. Sometimes they were led by a detective inspector, most of the time it was a sergeant.
It didn’t matter to Poe; it was the civilian he wanted to talk to.
A crusty old fart called Eric Stryker. Stryker’s particular area of expertise was ancient manuscripts, but his real value to the unit was his little black book.
It contained the names of the world’s eminent art experts and was why the five-person unit was as successful as it was.
When they had a case, they consulted with the very best.
Poe called him.
‘This isn’t a good time, Sergeant Poe,’ Stryker said.
‘I have a fake Roman bronze bust that is almost indistinguishable from the original. The forger even melted ancient coins to cast the sculpture. He must be stopped. I can’t be dealing with serial killers at the minute, I’m afraid. This is much more important.’
Poe let him rant. Stryker started every conversation this way. In his world, the past trumped the present every time. After a minute, he blew himself out. Poe told him what he had. And what he needed.
‘That’s it?’ Stryker asked. ‘Just a name and an introduction?’
‘That’s it, Eric. I need to talk to someone who might recognise the artist. I’m told they’ll have trained somewhere good. And the name you give me must know how to keep a secret. The last person who discussed the tattoo had a knife stuck in his throat.’
‘The Mark Buckby murder? That was you?’
‘You’ve heard about it? That was fast.’
‘You know how gossipy cops are, Poe.’ Stryker paused. ‘The tattoo is radioactive, then?’
‘Seems to be. Don’t know why yet.’
‘Let me have a think. I’ll make some calls.’
‘Thanks, Eric. The sherry’s on me next time I’m in town.’
He ended the call.
‘Now what?’ Esmerée said.
‘We wait.’