by Lee Wood
Sitting at their corner table the main topic of conversation turned, as it often did, to Peter Winston-Moore. They all agreed to having had the misfortune of knowing him for a number of years. They would bump into him at antiques fairs or on the odd occasion when he would visit their shops. He was not a popular figure.
They’d learned the hard way that if you shook hands with Peter you'd better check afterwards how many fingers you still had. He could teach Arthur Daley a thing or two.
However, in the last twelve months they had seen him go from being a third-rate wheeler-dealer to opening an expensive gallery in one of the best areas of east London and from driving a battered ten-year-old Volvo to cruising round in a brand new Bentley convertible.
Behind his back, they called him ‘Lord Snooty’.
“So Robin. Any ideas? How are we going to find out where Lord Snooty is getting his stock from?”
Robin gave a bitter laugh. “I don’t know. It just gets right up my frigging nose. A few years ago we were far more successful than that bloody tosser. It’s got to be dodgy. You know what he’s like.”
“Yeah, it’s getting so hard to find decent stuff and yet he seems to be getting more than his fair share. It’s all since he found that bloody Picasso. That was the start of it. It’s got to be the key to all this.”
“He told me he had discovered it in a junk shop in Trentbridge when he went to the Evesham Art and Antiques Fair. At first I believed him but I’m beginning to find that more and more unlikely and …. Francis Tack butted in. “Look. I happen to know he’s going to be at the next Evesham fair. He was boasting about it when he came into my shop the other week telling me he expects to find some new items there. Why don’t we follow him and try to find out what he’s up to?”
“Yeah, I’m up for that. I’m struggling to find new items. I could sell it if I could just find enough to re-stock the shop. I’m sick and tired of watching Lord Snooty driving around in that car like he owns the place. Next thing you know he’ll have a bloody chauffeur.”
Robin put his cup down with such force, his tea spilled onto the table. “Yeah. I know what you mean. I’d give my right arm to know where on earth he’s finding all that stuff. If I don’t figure out how he’s doing it soon I think I’ll go mad.”
“So it’s agreed. We follow him up to the Evesham Arts and Antiques Fair stick to him like glue and try not to let him out of our sight. Let’s hope we get a lucky break and find out how he’s doing it. Then we can all afford to drive a Bentley.”
Chapter Eleven
Two days after their chat at the auction house, Francis Tack sent his new assistant Trevor Dean to visit Peter’s art gallery in Shoreditch, with instructions to watch and listen for any information he could find.
Trevor pretended to be a potential customer and walked round the gallery when the phone on the counter rang and Norman answered it.
“Yes, that’s right; Peter will be in Trentbridge next week. And he would be only too happy to give you a free valuation. Let me just check his diary. Norman opened a big leather bound book, picked up an expensive looking pen and started to make notes. Yes, that is perfect. He will be staying at the Albion Hotel so will look forward to seeing you at four pm. on Wednesday the sixteenth.”
As Norman talked, Trevor could see him writing down what looked like an address but couldn’t be certain. He dare not get too close in case he was ‘discovered’.
With this newfound information, Trevor headed back across London to his boss’s shop in Notting Hill.
“Very well done, Trevor. You’ve done good!” Francis told him.
Francis picked up his mobile and phoned Victor Athos. “Victor, my lad Trevor has come up trumps. I sent him to visit Lord Snooty’s and he overheard Norman on the phone. Apparently Peter is planning to stay at a place called the Albion Hotel to be there on the sixteenth, which is a few days before the Evesham fair starts. Why don’t we book into the same hotel on that date and find out what he’s up to. If we give the old poof a few drinks he might open up, you know what he’s like. Once you get him started you can’t shut him up. He loves to boast. Worth a go, don’t you think?”
Victor chuckled. “Sounds like a good plan. Do you want to make the arrangements and I’ll settle up with you for my share?”
“Yes, no problem. I’ll call Robin and check he’s up for it as well.”
It would take them away from their businesses for a couple of extra days and add to their expenses but they agreed it would be worth it if they could discover the way in which Peter was sourcing all this new stock.
Notting Hill is a vibrant, trendy part of west London that following the success of the movie attracts tourists from around the world. Francis Tack’s Antique Emporium is located on the famous Portobello Road.
The attractive American tourist who had just left the antiques shop had thought nothing of spending £3,900 on the Afghan Kizilayak Village Rug dated circa 1900 that Francis had purchased at auction for £2,200. She had paid using her Platinum American Express card taken from the Hermes Red Crocodile handbag that probably cost far more than the rug.
She had left the shop with instructions a courier company would call to collect her purchase later in the week.
As they stood behind the glass top counter close to the front of the shop each sipping a cup of coffee, Francis turned to his assistant. “So Trevor, how are you enjoying working in the antiques trade?”
“Yes. From what I’ve learned so far it’s fascinating. You’ve got the selling side. The customers with money who come in to find something different and then you’ve got the bit I like best. What I call the detective bit. Like the guy in Shoreditch, trying to find out where he finds his stock. I felt like James Bond.”
Francis Tack laughed. “Only you don’t get to carry a gun or kill anyone.”
“So, if you don’t mind me asking Mr Tack, how did you get into this business?”
“Well, my family have always been in the antiques trade. When I left school I followed in the footsteps of my father. Things were much easier then. You know my grandfather purchased the freehold of this shop in 1952. He bought it for £12,300. I’ve still got the original deed of sale. That was before Notting Hill became so desirable and property prices went through the roof. The money he paid for this place was peanuts when you consider it’s currently worth around £3 million although it does need a lot of renovation, which I can’t afford at the moment. Nevertheless, it was a very wise investment.”
“Up until you joined my ex-wife ran the place. But she divorced me threatening to get half of everything. Even told her solicitor she wanted one of my bollocks. Fucking bitch.”
Trevor laughed.
Francis didn’t tell his assistant the whole story. He failed to mention the reason why she had left him.
Since they got married Teri had run the shop, handled the accounts, and generally kept the money flowing in. This had allowed Francis to disappear on the pretext of buying trips, when half the time he was actually seeing other women. When she was made aware of his adultery, she left him.
Teri had always been careful with money whereas Francis had a habit of spending it almost as fast as it came in. So the divorce meant he needed to re-mortgage the shop. Suddenly his lifestyle changed and what had been a very high income, with loan repayments and alimony had shrunk to a middle class income.
At the age of fifty-three he still considered himself a ladies man. Five feet nine tall and tanned skin albeit from regular visits to a tanning salon. He was also grateful to still have a full head of hair, although for the past two years he had been dyeing it to hide the grey.
Before the divorce his plan was to retire and live in Spain but the change of fortune meant the move to a hotter climate would have to wait.
Chapter Twelve
THE GREEK RESTAURANT
Following the incident at the Five Bells pub, schoolteacher Barry Turner was in the ambulance with the medics desperately fighting to keep him alive. At t
he same time, four miles away the black Mercedes 4x4 pulled into the car park on Stonebridge High Street and the three men got out.
Kevin O’Connor walked round to the boot of the vehicle. He reached into a brown brief case and counted out ten of the fake twenty-pound notes from the stash of £5,000, put them into his wallet and closed the boot.
The three men walked up the road to the Greek Taverna restaurant.
The restaurant was a family run business. Originally it had been two shops that owner Stavros Kappas had bought twenty-two years earlier and converted into a restaurant himself. It had twelve tables plus in the corner was a small stage where live music acts and belly dancers performed on Saturday nights.
However, tonight was a Wednesday and the venue was only serving food and drink.
Seven of the tables were already occupied when the three men walked through the outer door, then through the inner door that served as a windbreaker.
They were shown to a table along the back wall by a waitress who sounded more East European than Greek.
The other occupants of the restaurant included a group of four in their fifties who looked like they were celebrating a birthday and two lots of families with young children. Three tables were young couples and a table close to where the three new arrivals were seated were two men, one in his fifties and the other probably in his mid-twenties. The two men were holding hands across the table and from the way he was dressed the older one had money. The most obvious thing being the Rolex Oyster gold watch wrapped around his left wrist and large gold bracelet on his right wrist. Kevin O’Connor knew enough to tell the difference between a fake Rolex and the real thing from twenty yards. And this was definitely the genuine article.
Kevin had also noticed the key fob with a Bentley emblem on the table and recalled a few minutes earlier he had spotted a Continental convertible in the car park.
Kevin and his two ‘business associates’, who were actually his sons Lennox, twenty-two, and twenty-four-year-old Tyson, looked over the menu and ordered the six course Mega Meze dishes. They also ordered two bottles of expensive wine. Price was not their main concern. After all, the money they would be handing over to pay for it wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on.
As he waited the arrival of his starter, Kevin overheard a few words from the nearby table that made him pay attention. His two tablemates were chatting and he kicked them under the table. They understood immediately and the conversation they were having ended abruptly.
The main words the Irishman had heard so far were “painting”, “worth a fortune” and “poor old dear didn’t have a clue”.
Over his lifetime, Kevin had acquired many skills, one of which was to listen to other people’s conversations at the same time as appearing otherwise occupied and in a world of his own. He gave no clue he could hear what the two men were discussing but in truth, he was taking in every word he could with great interest.
As he had only been in the restaurant for five minutes, he hadn’t heard the early part of their conversation but using his wits, he managed to work things out. The older man was an art dealer of some kind, out to impress the young guy by boasting about how much money he was going to make from a painting he had just purchased at a knock-down price.
Kevin loved the type of people who openly boasted and patted themselves on the back about their clever deals. It helped him take advantage several times in the past.
Many people underestimated his intelligence but the main thing that ensured Kevin was able to take advantage, was because he didn’t care what he had to do to get his hands on their cash. If it meant some harm came to them that only added to his pleasure.
He heard enough to piece things together. The older man had purchased a painting from someone elderly, probably an old dear living on her own with the onset of dementia. It was a situation Kevin had used several times in the past. His impression was that Peter had paid the lady a pittance and got her to sign a receipt to ensure everything was watertight. The painting was worth a lot of money. And from what the man was boasting about, it wasn’t the first time he had found such a painting. If he was driving a Bentley, Kevin knew the amount involved was not peanuts.
He also knew from what he had overheard of the conversation that the dealer was keeping the painting in his hotel room, which indicated he wasn’t local.
The only things Kevin hadn’t been able to discover were which hotel he was staying at, and how long he was staying.
But he knew a way to find out. All it would take was a phone call.
Kevin got up from the table and slowly walked outside. He dialled a number in his phone. When it was answered, he instructed the person on the receiving end to drive to the car park and wait for two men to return to the Bentley and discreetly follow them to their hotel and then beat them to reception, hang around and find out which room key they asked for.
With that done, Kevin walked back inside.
Twenty minutes later, while Kevin and his two sons were tucking into their main course, the two men from the nearby table left the restaurant hand in hand.
Kevin didn’t even look up. He knew his instructions would be carried out to the letter because the person carrying them out didn’t want to end up with their legs broken, or even worse!
Thirty-five minutes later his phone rang.
“Kevin, it’s Vinny. I followed the Bentley liked you asked. They drove to the Albion Hotel and I heard the guy ask at reception for the key to the Trinity Suite.”
“Good work Vinny. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Okay Kevin. Bye.”
An hour later, exactly at the same time as the black 4x4 slipped into the triple-sized garage of the large property set back on Fen Road, Stavros Kappas was examining the nine twenty-pound notes in his till, realising he couldn’t pay them into his bank. The young waitress wasn’t to know they were fakes. The main thing that made him suspicious was the feel of the notes. Then, under closer examination it became more obvious.
They were certainly the best forgeries he had ever seen. He wasn’t sure if he would report it to the police or maybe he could pass them on one-at-a-time when he went shopping at Tesco’s.
Chapter Thirteen
KEVIN O’CONNOR
Since the previous evening in the restaurant, Kevin O’Connor had been busy planning how to steal the valuable painting he had overheard the man with the Bentley boasting about. He was in no doubt the man was a conman and had duped some poor old dear out of the painting for a fraction of its real value. Kevin loved the idea of cheating a cheater.
From what he had overheard he reckoned the painting was worth at least £250,000. If you knew the right people you could get twenty-five percent of the value on stolen works of art. Kevin certainly knew the right people. So he would collect around £60,000 for less than a day’s work. Sweet! For that kind of money he would be prepared to go to any length. In the past he had killed for less. Much less!
It shouldn’t come to that. This should be easy. After all, he had a contact at the Albion Hotel where the antique dealer was staying.
Kevin O’Connor’s schedule for the next few days was pretty hectic. He had a drugs shipment coming in and needed to spend time making arrangements. However, he was sure he could find the time.
Now all he had to do was work out how to get into the Trinity Suite. And by a happy coincidence, he knew someone on the inside at the Albion Hotel.
The main chef, Wayne Hurst, was a gambling man and owed nearly two grand to a local associate of Kevin’s. With a little arm-twisting the chef might be persuaded to offer some insider assistance.
Kevin knew the best time to get into the room and steal the painting would be the evening when most people went out to eat. Between eight and ten pm. was a good time. Or maybe make it look like a burglary in the middle of the night. Most people are in a deep sleep for around thirty to thirty-five percent of the night. Many burglars do their ‘work’ between midnight and three a.m. Even with his tale
nts, the difficult bit was going to be picking the hotel room lock. Maybe the chef could get a master key for him?
Kevin was aware most hotels used electronic door locks with entry gained by a magnetic key card. And he knew hotels had master keys that gave you access to every room. They would obviously be well protected but an insider such as the chef should be able to gain access to one, even for an hour or two.
Kevin had found out that Peter Winston-Moore was attending the Evesham Arts and Antiques Fair at the weekend so he knew he might only have tonight to steal the painting as Peter would probably decide on an early night on Friday and Saturday to be fresh for the event.
His plan was for the chef to check the guest was either in the hotel bar or out for the evening and then ‘borrow’ the master key and pass it to Kevin who would be sitting in the bar.
He knew the chef would go along with it because he was very aware of Kevin’s reputation. He was not the kind of person you said no to. Anyone who really knew Kevin O’Connor was aware inside the man had a spot of true evil. He was like Jekyll and Hyde. One minute he could be the sweetest man on the planet. The next as dark as Hannibal Lecter.
And Wayne Hurst was no hero.
After getting Kevin’s ‘request’ the chef started asking around the hotel, trying to pick up any information and while standing in the bar at lunchtime he overheard one of the antique dealers say Peter had promised to show him the painting in his hotel room that evening if the dealer treated him to a meal in the hotel restaurant. The dealer was telling his associates Peter had told him he planned to take it with him to display at the Evesham Art and Antiques Fair and then put it into auction as soon as he got back to London.
