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“You’re looking good,” Searle joked.

Drewe had brought in a top-grade criminal lawyer named Ben Rose, a young black-belt kickboxer who was known as a shrewd operator, and he immediately urged his client not to answer any questions.

In the interrogation room, Drewe ignored the advice. He straightened his tie, set his briefcase down, and began his usual recitation. This man cannot stop himself, thought Volpe. We’re a captive audience. Volpe, Searle, and a detective named Nicky Benwell fired off questions, and Drewe seemed to thrive on the attention. He wasn’t fazed in the least. It was the detectives’ impression that he was pathologically incapable of telling the truth. Although he acknowledged that he owned the exhibits Searle showed him—fake catalogs, paintings, and letters—he wove a complicated story around each. He would not admit to having forged anything, and at every opportunity he tried to pin the con on others, mostly Danny Berger and Myatt.

Volpe caught Drewe on almost every lie. When Drewe claimed he had traveled to New York to research ICA documents, Volpe told him U.S. immigration had no record of a John Drewe or a John Cockett having entered the United States.

Drewe shrugged. He insisted that Danny Berger and Peter Harris had sold most of the paintings. Volpe reminded him that Harris had had his voice box removed in 1991 and would not have made for a good salesman.

Why did Drewe’s computer have several templates for fake catalogs, including the Hanover Gallery’s?

Drewe insisted the templates were all genuine. He said his company had kept a complete database on the history of London’s important galleries, but that he had nothing to do with forged catalogs. He furthermore claimed that he was computer illiterate, and that if he needed anything scanned, he relied on his son, Nadav.

Volpe asked Drewe whether he had placed false documents in the Tate and V&A archives. Drewe denied it.

“But you’ve been seen showing Bartos a fake Hanover Gallery catalog while you were in the V&A,” the detective said. “We found the genuine catalog in a V&A bag at your home the day after that meeting. How do you explain that?”

“Berger gave me the catalog,” Drewe said without hesitation.

Volpe expressed his belief that Drewe had played havoc with the records of the Whitechapel Gallery as well as galleries and museums in Brighton, Bath, and Leeds.

For a moment Drewe seemed to lose his composure. “I don’t care what documents you’ve got,” he said. “I don’t care what people tell you or what statements they’ve given. I’ll refute them. It’s a stitch-up.”

It was late afternoon, and the detectives told Drewe and his lawyer that they were done for the day. They would resume tomorrow.

For the next few days Drewe came in and answered their questions in greater detail. By the end of the fifth day, the police felt they had enough to counter each of his statements.

The formal interrogation was over, but Volpe could hardly contain his irritation. For the past week he had worked hard to keep his distaste for Drewe in check. Now he wanted him to know he hadn’t bought his story. When Drewe got up to leave, Volpe stopped him and pointed at the door.

“Mr. Drewe, can you tell me what color that door is?” he asked.

“Well, Mr. Volpe, it’s blue,” said Drewe.

Volpe thanked him. “That’s the first truthful answer you’ve given me in five days.”

By late 1996, the detectives had winnowed down hundreds of witness statements and pulled together a solid collection of exhibits. Drewe’s lawyer had agreed on a trial date.

In December, just days before the first court hearing, Drewe was rushed to East Surrey Hospital with a suspected heart attack. The judge received a doctor’s note saying that Drewe suffered from unstable angina and needed eight weeks’ bed rest. If at all possible, he should be spared the stress of a court appearance. A few days later Drewe was diagnosed with diabetes and hypertension and hospitalized for “urgent cardiac investigations.”

Two months later the judge again ordered Drewe to