Mortdecai Page #2

Can I have all Thames Valley

police officers back in their cars, please?

There's been a jurisdictional change.

That painting could be

anywhere by now, sir.

Yes, I suppose it could.

You know we're going to

have to ring him, don't you, sir?

No, I do not know that, Maurice.

No one knows the filthy underside

of the art world better than he, sir.

He is the filthy underside.

Why did it have to be art?

Inspector Alastair Martland. MI5.

Martland and I met at Oxford.

Once in a while I provide him

with some off-the-record help

with the seedier side

of art collecting.

And in exchange, he gives me

a wide berth to ply my craft.

He is also desperately in love

with my wife.

Rather annoying, really.

What?

Inspector Martland, sir.

What does that blighter want?

Tell him to ring back when my marriage

isn't falling apart.

- No, he's here, sir.

- He is?

Oh, all right. Wheel him in.

- Don't get up.

- I wasn't going to.

Beware the carafe on the top shelf.

It contains water.

Ignoring some of the more

inviting bottles on the drinks tray,

he reached underneath

for the big decanter,

and poured himself a gross amount

of what he thought was my Taylor '31.

Score one for Mortdecai,

for I had filled it with an invalid port

of unbelievable nastiness.

- Oh, excellent.

- Score two.

Bit of cheese to go with that?

I should think the special one, Jock.

What is that infernal thing

on your lip?

Is there a purpose to your presence?

You're in the hole

to Her Majesty's government

to the tune of eight million

quid, old boy.

I had no idea I was so deep

in Her Majesty's hole.

God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God...

That's not natural.

What do you think?

I think this woman

has need of a chiropractor.

Bronwen Fellworthy,

Oxford art restorer. Did you know her?

Slightly. I do recall

a vague memory of her having once,

involuntarily, one would hope,

releasing a fart of such frightening

power and timbre

that I feared she had done herself

a horrible mischief.

Cheese.

Thank you.

Three months ago, a small Spanish museum

sent her a Goya to be cleaned.

Last night she was killed.

Painting has disappeared.

Sad news, particularly for her.

But I don't see

what it has to do with me.

Well, if my men start asking questions,

then the Goya disappears without a trace.

But you, a known trafficker of stolen art,

well, you could make some inquiries.

Why would MI5 be interested

in the theft of a middling Goya?

Emil Strago.

Fundamentalist, revolutionary.

Trained in Syria, fought in Senegal.

An expert in special warfare.

He's linked to a number of terror attacks

all around the world.

All right, he's unpleasant.

What of him?

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