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  ‘The police searched the building, but couldn’t find any trace of The Reclining Woman. They were just about to charge Jackson with wasting police time when they saw him standing in front of a large lump of bronze.

  ‘ “I didn’t say you’d get it back in its original condition,” said Jackson. “I only promised to take you to it.”’

  The curator waited for the slower ones to join in the ‘ums’ and ‘ahs’, or simply to nod their understanding.

  ‘Disposing of the masterpiece had obviously proved difficult, and as the criminals had no wish to be apprehended in possession of stolen goods to the value of over a million pounds, they had simply melted down The Reclining Woman. Jackson denied knowing who was responsible, but he did admit that someone had tried to sell him the lump of bronze for PS1,000 - ironically, the exact sum the fifth Duke had paid for the original masterpiece.

  ‘A few weeks later, a large lump of bronze was returned to the National Trust. To our dismay, the insurance company refused to pay a penny in compensation, claiming that the stolen bronze had been returned. The Trust’s lawyers studied the policy carefully, and discovered that we were entitled to claim for the cost of restoring damaged items to their original state. The insurance company gave in, and agreed to pay for any restoration charges.

  ‘Our next approach was to the Henry Moore Foundation, asking if they could help in any way. They studied the large lump of bronze for several days, and after weighing and chemically testing it, they agreed with the police laboratory that it could well be the metal which was cast into the original sculpture bought by the fifth Duke.

  ‘After much deliberation, the Foundation agreed to make an unprecedented exception to Henry Moore’s usual practice, and to cast a thirteenth edition of The Reclining Woman, provided the Trust was willing to cover the foundry’s costs. We naturally agreed to this request, and ended up with a bill for a few thousand pounds, which was covered by our insurance policy.

  ‘However, the Foundation did make two provisos before agreeing to create this unique thirteenth edition. Firstly, they insisted that we never allow the statue to be put up for sale, publicly or privately. And secondly, if the stolen sixth edition were ever to reappear anywhere in the world, we would immediately return the thirteenth edition to the Foundation so that it could be melted down.

  ‘The Trust agreed to abide by these terms, which is why you are able to enjoy the masterpiece you see before you today.’

  A ripple of applause broke out, and the curator gave a slight bow.

  I was reminded of this story a few years later, when I attended a sale of modern art at Sotheby Parke-Bernet in New York, where the third edition of The Reclining Woman came under the hammer and was sold for $1,600,000.

  I am assured that Scotland Yard has closed the file on the missing sixth edition of The Reclining Woman by Henry Moore, as they consider the crime solved. However, the Chief Inspector who had been in charge of the case did admit to me that if an enterprising criminal were able to convince a foundry to cast another edition of The Reclining Woman, and to mark it ‘6/12’, he could then dispose of it to a ‘stolen to order’ customer for around a quarter of a million pounds. In fact, no one can be absolutely sure how many sixth editions of The Reclining Woman are now in private hands.

  THE GRASS IS ALWAYS GREENER …

  BILL WOKE with a start. It was always the same following a long sleep-in over the weekend. Once the sun had risen on Monday morning they would expect him to move on. He had slept under the archway of Critchley’s Bank for more years than most of the staff had worked in the building.

  Bill would turn up every evening at around seven o’clock to claim his spot. Not that anyone else would have dared to occupy his pitch after all these years. Over the past decade he had seen them come and go, some with hearts of gold, some silver and some bronze. Most of the bronze ones were only interested in the other kind of gold. He had sussed out which was which, and not just by the way they treated him.

  He glanced up at the clock above the door: ten to six. Young Kevin would appear through that door at any moment and ask if he would be kind enough to move on. Good lad, Kevin - often slipped him a bob or two, which must have been a sacrifice, what with another baby on the way. He certainly wouldn’t have been treated with the same consideration by most of the posher ones who came in later.

  Bill allowed himself a moment to dream. He would have liked to have Kevin’s job, dressed in that heavy, warm coat and peaked hat. He would still have been on the street, but with a real job and regular pay. Some people had all the luck. All Kevin had to do was say, ‘Good morning, sir. Hope you had a pleasant weekend.’ Didn’t even have to hold the door open since they’d made it automatic.

  But Bill wasn’t complaining. It hadn’t been too bad a weekend. It didn’t rain, and nowadays the police never tried to move him on - not since he’d spotted that IRA man parking his van outside the bank all those years ago. That was his army training.

  He’d managed to get hold of a copy of Friday’s Financial Times and Saturday’s Daily Mail. The Financial Times reminded him that he should have invested in Internet companies and kept out of clothes manufacturers, because their stocks were dropping rapidly following the slowdown in High Street sales. He was probably the only person attached to the bank who read the Financial Times from cover to cover, and certainly the only one who then used it as a blanket.

  He’d picked up the Mail from the bin at the back of the building - amazing what some of those yuppies dropped in that bin. He’d had everything from a Rolex watch to a packet of condoms. Not that he had any use for either. There were quite enough clocks in the City without needing another one, and as for the condoms - not much point in those since he’d left the army. He had sold the watch and given the condoms to Vince, who worked the Bank of America pitch. Vince was always bragging about his latest conquests, which seemed a little unlikely given his circumstances. Bill had decided to call his bluff and give him the condoms as a Christmas present.

  The lights were being switched on all over the building, and when Bill glanced through the plate-glass window he spotted Kevin putting on his coat. Time to gather up his belongings and move on: he didn’t want to get Kevin into any trouble, on account of the fact he hoped the lad would soon be getting the promotion he deserved.

  Bill rolled up his sleeping bag - a present from the Chairman, who hadn’t waited until Christmas to give it to him. No, that wasn’t Sir William’s style. A born gentleman, with an eye for the ladies - and who could blame him? Bill had seen one or two of them go up in the lift late at night, and he doubted if they were seeking advice on their PEPs. Perhaps he should have given him the packet of condoms.

  He folded up his two blankets - one he’d bought with some of the money from the watch sale, the other he’d inherited when Irish died. He missed Irish. Half a loaf of bread from the back of the City Club, after he’d advised the manager to get out of clothes manufacturers and into the Internet, but he’d just laughed. He shoved his few possessions into his QC’s bag - another dustbin job, this time from the back of the Old Bailey.

  Finally, like all good City men, he must check his cash position - always important to be liquid when there are more sellers than buyers. He fumbled around in his pocket, the one without a hole, and pulled out a pound, two 10p pieces and a penny. Thanks to government taxes, he wouldn’t be able to afford any fags today, let alone his usual pint. Unless of course Maisie was behind the bar at The Reaper. He would have liked to reap her, he thought, even though he was old enough to be her father.

  Clocks all over the city were beginning to chime six. He tied up the laces of his Reebok trainers - another yuppie reject: the yuppies all wore Nikes now. One last glance as Kevin stepped out onto the pavement. By the time Bill returned at seven that evening - more reliable than any security guard - Kevin would be back home in Peckham with his pregnant wife Lucy. Lucky man.

  Kevin watched as Bill shuffled away, disappearing among the early-