NAKED

As I dropped the last flimsy scrap of my designer underwear onto the elegant Louis XIV chair, I wondered if posing as an artist’s model really would nail the art forger of the century.

When I rang the unmarked Knightsbridge doorbell barely 5 minutes ago, being a 33-year-old blondeshell had got me the gig. Keeping my long curls and make-up in tiptop condition is hardly a chore for me, while fighting crime offers the best workout a girl can get. It’s why I took two degrees at Oxford University, in media studies and comparative martial arts. Being an obscure minor royal opened the door to the latter degree, because only a handful are recruited each year, for a course that does not officially exist, and which takes place in a secret basement.

DANGERS

From pressing the doorbell in the sleepy cobbled mews to full-frontal nudity, events had hurtled along at a breakneck pace, and the whole mission was fraught with dangers enough as it was. This is why I loved every pulsating second of my chosen career.

TEMPTRESS

“Chin up, chest out, and take the pose I showed you,” commanded the artist, currently hidden from view by the large canvass, his military background evident in his authoritative voice and manner.  As directed, I duly pointed at a sink in the corner of the room, with my head turned to the side, while daylight flooded in from the glass ceiling, warmly caressing every inch of my exposed skin. Today, I was Venus herself.

“Arm a little higher and straighter. That’s good. But those eyes! Do at least try to keep those roving orbs of yours still, will you, gorgeous though they are? It’s like you want to commit it all to memory, in case it’s needed for future reference.”

SCORCHER

Ouch! That sailed a bit too close to the truth. I let my mind wander over the facts of the case. The art world had been rocked to its smug foundations by the revelation that fake Salvador Dali paintings had been discovered, hanging on the walls of several top-notch galleries in London, and Buckingham Palace too. The riddle had baffled Scotland Yard’s finest all summer. And phew! What a scorcher, both in respect of the weather and the hot-topic art riddle scandal. The temperature soared high enough to fry an egg on the pavement, and sell it as a Dali original.

SECRETS

Then a certain stool pigeon had perched on my window, and when enough money was wedged into its greedy, grasping claws, I received details of an artist (ex-military), his address (near top-people’s store Harrods), and his open call for a nude model, pleasantly close to my description.

HAT TRICK

I had sold my first two investigations for a healthy sum. Could I make it three triumphant cases in a row, after the Sordid Murder-for-Hire Debutantes, and the Bloody Cannibal’s Fatal Fall Controversy?

SWEARING

“Up! I said chin bloody well up, chest out, and keep the head turned. There, was that so bloody hard?”

The painter was in his mid-forties, square-jawed, close-cropped and silver-sprinkled hair, bullnecked and broad shouldered. He forged ahead with the easy fluency of a master. But was he a master who made easy money by forging another’s work? My background check revealed him to be a reclusive local hero, who ran the London Marathon each year without fail, disguised as the Venus de Milo, for charity. My doubts had grown to become a big fat blob, which had started to spread like an oil slick over the clear blue waters of my original certainty.

ANGER

“What are you bloody studying now? Dear lord, keep those dazzling peepers of yours glued to the sink like I told you, eh?”

I began to note the other aspects of the studio. It was a jumble of paints, paint-splattered furniture and paint-splattered newspapers covering the floor. Canvases were stacked here and there, while brushed stood in numerous glass jars, alongside the rags used for cleaning them. Exactly what I had imagined it to be.

JOLT

“Okay, let’s take a break.” His voice was soothing, which made me wary. I allowed myself to take in the full sweep of the studio. And I realized. None of the paintings on display were remotely in the manner of Dali. They were a mix of Constable-style landscapes, and Gainsborough-style portraits. Polite and old-fashioned. I intended to chalk that morning up to experience, and move on immediately to my next covert mission.

SORDID

He poured a mug of tea each, and we shared a plate of biscuits. In a bolt from the blue, he showed me a photo, taken from outside a bedroom window with a telephoto lens.

“But that’s famous soap actress Mrs X,” I exclaimed, although obviously using her real name, not Mrs X. “And she’s romping with Mr Y, the movie star.” Again, that was a pseudonym for legal reasons. “Both are married, although not to each other. What a sleazy, shameful shock.”

WORSE

“Indeed. If this photo ever hit the newspapers, the scandal would be immense. While if I do not complete and deliver this painting today, my own career will be over. Photography is a hobby of mine, and those two love-rats have lowered the tone of the whole neighbourhood. What say you buy the photo, giving me a cheque for half the amount today, and if it isn’t rubber – which I’m sure it isn’t, just a precaution you understand, you can give me the balance tomorrow, in exchange for the photo?”

“You know I’m an investigator, don’t you?”

“The Tabloid Detective, according to my sources.”

“Venetia Haven-Smythe, at your service.”

“Major Damien Harris-Argyll, at yours.” He saluted briskly, oblivious to the slender brush he still held, which sprinkled his grey hair with flecks of pink.

“Yet a more attractive model for my, ahem, modern masterpiece I will never find. Just look at the painting.”

“No, thank you.”

DIRT

The next morning we concluded the deal, and I never did ask to see the painting of Venus he had been working on. I vaguely read, in one of those boring ol’ quality newspapers, about an exciting new painting of Venus, acquired by a London gallery. Although not by Dali, if I recall.

The case of the Dali forger eventually slipped from the public gaze, aided by a tsunami of interest created by the photo.

Major Harris-Argyll became a very helpful informant for me, especially when it came to exposing those who, as he said, sullied the good name of his local area. A true local hero.

All in all, case closed. It may be ugly, but hey, it’s the world the Tabloid Detective is forced to work in, 24/7, with only the interest of you, dear reader, in mind.

SHAME

It’s the name of the game.

To be continued…