Provenance_ How a Con Man and a Forger Rewrote the History of Modern Art - Laney Salisbury [117]
Finally, on May 9, 1997, thirteen months after the raid on Drewe’s home, the court issued a warrant for his arrest.
“Get him here, even if he’s on a stretcher,” said the judge.
Two officers went to Drewe’s house to bring him in. Atarah came to the door. Her father was away, she said, and then she excused herself to take a phone call. The officers waited at the door while police traced the call to a restaurant on Marylebone Lane. Detectives rushed to the restaurant. The manager told them that a man resembling Drewe had just left, but that he had been overheard talking on the phone.
“Tell them your dad’s in hospital,” the diner had said into the receiver. Then he left in such a hurry that his female companion had to “trot periodically to keep up with him.”
Perhaps knowing that he had exhausted the court’s patience for his excuses, Drewe vanished. He’d never had much use for credit cards, so the police were deprived of a traditionally effective tool for tracking people down. They feared he might flee the country and issued an all ports warning.
For a man who incessantly dropped names, Drewe seemed to have no personal friends. However, he had a strong attachment to his mother, and Volpe thought it prudent to send an officer down to keep an eye on her home in Burgess Hill. The officer soon noticed that she rented a car once a week, always on the same day. Volpe told him to follow the rental car.
As Drewe’s mother made her way south ten miles to Hove, near Brighton, the officer stayed close behind and watched her park near a pay phone to make a call. Ten minutes later a man drove up in a Mercedes. The officer, who had questioned Drewe a few months earlier, recognized him and approached.
“Hello, Mr. Drewe,” he said.
Drewe calmly turned around to face him. “My name’s not Drewe. It’s Carnall.”
“Mr. Drewe, I’ve interviewed you. I know who you are.”
“You’re mistaken,” Drewe said politely.
“You can say what you want, but you’re under arrest.”
Drewe turned to run, but the officer jumped him, got him in a bear hug, and cuffed him. Drewe’s mother watched as her son was put in the back of the squad car and driven off.
The officer took Drewe to Belgravia station in London, where detectives were able to sketch out a timeline of his activities during his short stint away: He had rented a posh flat in Brighton under the name of Dr. Carnall and had always paid in cash. He had kept himself busy writing a letter to the Times criticizing the Tate’s monopoly on art and mailing off a thirty-one-page j’accuse to the Metropolitan Police, alleging that they were involved in a widespread government conspiracy against him and were harassing him.
At the station he faked another heart attack and was taken to hospital, where he was examined, pronounced fit enough to travel, and sent back to Belgravia. As he awaited further interrogation, he fell to the floor clutching his chest. Again he was hospitalized briefly before being released into police custody.
On August 6, 1997, he was finally brought before the court. This time there would be no bail. He was remanded into custody and sent to Brixton Prison to await trial. It was clear to him by now that the Crown had a strong case, with dozens of incriminating paintings and boxes of documents as evidence of his crimes. Between visits to the prison doctor, he began to devise a surrogate defense.
For years he had been concocting alternate realities based on a heady amalgam of novels and newspaper reports, imaginary plots involving arms dealing, covert wars, and the Holocaust. Now, for the court’s benefit, he would string these together to create a comprehensive tale that would clear him of all charges. He would put his improvisational skills to the test at Southwark Crown