by Amy Myers
He looked doubtfully at me and said nothing.
I sighed. ‘If I thought you were guilty, I could call my chum at police HQ right now and put you right back inside. Bet Mr Williams doesn’t really know you’re here.’
Bullseye.
‘OK,’ I continued, ‘now tell me what you’re doing here.’
‘I – the car.’
‘Gone. Burnt. You know that. Why come back here?’
‘Business.’
‘What business?’
‘Something that might be here. Money. I need it.’
Progress at last. ‘Whose money?’
‘Andy Wells’s,’ he muttered. He looked at me defiantly, as though this ended the discussion.
For me it began it. I didn’t trust him one inch. ‘You’re on bail for Mrs Davis’s murder. If you’re innocent, you’d better start talking. And talk the truth.’
Some hopes. There was silence, and I could see he was scared. But what could be scarier than the idea of serving life for murder? Only murder itself.
‘Mason Trent?’ I suggested.
His face was all the answer I needed.
‘Where did you get the key?’ I continued.
‘In the lock.’
‘Feeble, Tomas. I’ll take it. Mr Williams’ key, I presume?’
He handed it over so quickly, I guessed he’d copied it and no doubt had another one. Duly noted.
‘Bea will get an alarm system and new locks put on it, just in case you decide to check this missing money out again.’
I watched him until he had disappeared well along the track, then went inside again myself. Tomas had obviously had a good look and found nothing, and my attempts achieved the same negative result. Even though Tomas had heard the same rumours of money as I had, it wasn’t there.
What really gave me the jitters was that Tomas had had Mason Trent’s number in his mobile, dead or not. My work for Dave could be heading on a collision course with the Lagonda and Polly’s murder.
That night I was dreaming of racing round Brand’s Hatch track in a Ferrari. I was humming away merrily, gunning the engine, passing Paddock Hill Bend, certain that I was going to win the race, despite the fact that I appeared to be the only car competing in it. I was vaguely aware of people waving furiously from the stands and urging me on – or so I assumed. I didn’t appear to have a helmet on, but nevertheless the sun was out and I was doing 140. Then I cornered Druid’s Bend – only to see what appeared to be the entire line-up of a Formula 1 race coming towards me. Towards me?
I woke up sweating in terror, wondering what on earth had put that into my dreaming mind. I have no great ambitions to be a Formula 1 driver or even Formula 3. What I like is the whole motoring experience – without the bad bits, of course. The halcyon days of yore as one gently motored through villages able to explore interesting minor roads and stop at pubs that took one’s fancy are long since past, but nevertheless on a good day one can recreate them very satisfactorily even in overcrowded southern England.
I tried to put my dream-cum-nightmare behind me, had some breakfast, and duly rang the security people about Bea’s barn, after having suggested this to her. I said it was urgent, and for good measure, since I knew their rep well, I asked him to come to Frogs Hill too, ostensibly to quote on the Pits’ refit, but actually to improve security on the barn that now sheltered the Lagonda. We’re so remote here that if there’s no answer to the doorbell anyone could all too easily wander round the back of the establishment – and that went for anyone with a particular interest in checking that the Lagonda really had disappeared.
Then the nightmare resurrected itself. Dave rang.
‘Barton Lamb, Jack. No go. Sure you got the right place? There’s only a garage right out of Heartbeat.’
He didn’t sound pleased, and I could hardly blame him. It wasn’t like Brian to pass on duff info, however. His team prides itself on its professionalism. ‘Any chance they did a runner?’ I asked. ‘That’s Mason Trent’s specialty.’
‘Possible,’ Dave said grudgingly.
The nightmare then continued when I began to open the mail. My mortgage company was pointing out that I was in arrears – only just, I yelled in silent indignation – and what did I propose to do about payment? If their Customer Services line could be of any help . . . The next piece of mail was better: the promised invitation from Rupert Stack to the private view of Giovanni’s paintings. It was cutting it fine, as it was taking place that evening. I’d intended to go anyway, and it now seemed a sensible move. I remembered Harry’s lustful hopes of getting his hands on my Giovannis. No way. I’d rather the paintings went on the open market. Nevertheless, I had to face facts, and perhaps that was what my dream had been subtly reminding me. Stark reality was racing down the track towards me and about to obliterate me. Or rather obliter ate Frogs Hill Classic Car Restorations.
With Mason Trent leering at me from all directions, not to mention the BMW job for Dave, plus avenging Polly’s death, I’d need satnav to navigate through the next few weeks.
EIGHTEEN
I decided to postpone calling Brian on the Trent issue. He’d know by now the info he’d given me was duff and would be expecting my call, so I’d let him stew in his own juice for a while. I’d stick closer to home.
Dan Burgess, for example. Comic Cuts Hero Dan might not be so squeaky clean as his Superman profile and artistic leanings suggested. I just couldn’t see him as a painter of quaint cottages and cars. It didn’t fit. A classic car man, yes. Made for a Maserati, but watercolours for money? What was the logical conclusion to that? Was he up to something with Andy Wells, perhaps at Mike Davis’s suggestion? Was he just Dan the Dirty Spotter or Dan the Dirty Money Launderer? Was there a pocket in the Maserati, just as there was in the Lagonda?
As he knew Rupert, it occurred to me that he might turn up at the private view this evening in his capacity as motoring artist, even though he was hardly in the same field as Giovanni. I began to look forward to the evening ahead. Not only would it be a good chance to meet Giovanni again, but I might be able to glean more about those art thefts in which Trent had been involved, and perhaps still was. All that, and checking out Dan too. What an evening it might prove to be. The drawback was that Lorna would be there, but I could survive that.
I opted in favour of driving up to town, as with any luck the congestion charge would be over by the time I arrived and it would avoid the rush for last trains in the event that I picked up on anything interesting. Rupert’s gallery was in St James’s, and so rather than take my chances on parking there, I put my Alfa in a car park near the Royal Festival Hall on the South Bank, gave her a pat, told her to ward off any marauders with that nice big burglar alarm of hers, and set off to walk over Westminster Bridge to the Embankment and wind my way up to St James’s. I found the gallery easily enough, and very nice it was too. Emporiums with one object in the window carefully positioned aren’t my usual style, but they reek of money. Inside I could see the merry hordes, and I braced myself for ordeal by Lorna in case she felt that my appearance this evening was due to contrition over my former coolness towards her charms.
I couldn’t see her at first, although I knew she must be there somewhere. Once inside, I remembered why I loved Frogs Hill. I’d seen too much ‘entertaining’ like this in my oil days. Fine for collecting names, but never count on it for collecting friends. Even the former takes work, for working the room takes skill, and I was out of practice. I could see my quarry though – there was Dan Burgess, holding Giovanni in earnest conversation. I thought Giovanni looked somewhat bemused, but perhaps that was the champagne. I loved Giovanni best when he, Dad and I used to slope off to the local trattoria to while the hours away with wine and Giovanni’s cheerful song of rapture about every dame who walked by. When he tired of that game, which was seldom, he’d start on the cars. What Floyd was to cookery, Giovanni is to art; both treat their specialty as illustrating the joys of life.
As Giovanni spotted
me, something like life returned to his eyes. He was outsmarted by Lorna, however, who slunk over to me, dressed in silver like something out of an Art Deco collection.
‘Jack, darling, so glad you could make it.’
The slight pause before the ‘make it’ indicated she was still furious at being turned down, but willing to overlook it if I responded. Accordingly, I turned on what charm I could rustle up to admire her, the gallery, the dress, Giovanni and so on.
‘How’s darling Bea?’ she enquired anxiously.
‘Doing fine,’ I replied enthusiastically.
‘Too young for you, Jack.’
Straight to the Achilles heel. I smiled, took a drink, told her how lovely the party was, and moved away, followed, I was sure, by very angry eyes. Rupert was easier going. He greeted me as graciously as he would a multimillionaire about to purchase half of Giovanni’s work on show.
‘My type of art,’ I said. ‘You should do well.’
He smiled. ‘Giovanni has offered to put my Bentley into one of his masterpieces, but only if I sell all his paintings here. It’s a great incentive.’
‘How would he plan to use it?’
‘He murmured something about the Bentley Boys.’
‘All watching approvingly from the heavens?’ The Bentley Boys, famous for their thirties’ glamour and racing exploits, featured such legendary names as Woolf Barnato, son of the South African diamond millionaire, Barney. I couldn’t quite see how Giovanni could fit real people into his usual fantasy background, but he is a law unto himself.
‘Ciao, Jack.’ With tears in his eyes, Giovanni embraced me like a long lost brother. He must be several years older than me, I suppose, certainly in his early fifties, but somehow one never thought of age in connection with Giovanni. He was just himself: tanned, wrinkled, blue-eyed, black-haired and as lithe as a lizard. I love watching him in his studio (a privilege granted to few, but luckily the few had included Dad, and therefore it was extended to his son). He nips around from canvas to canvas. Not for him, the dedication to one painting at a time.
‘Like women, Jack. I tell your papa, one for sunny days, one for gloomy, one for laughing, one for crying, and one for bambini, yes?’
Hardly in line with today’s thinking, but the twinkle in his eye always reminds me that back in his Tuscan home there is only ever one woman in sight. Pia, his wife, never travels with him. She knows nothing about art – only about Giovanni and the best Italian cooking I’ve ever tasted.
‘What are you doing here? You come to buy?’ he asked.
‘Wish I could.’
‘To sell?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Not that either.’
‘To see me?’ His eyes lit up when I nodded. Well, it was partly true. So far I’d already picked up that selling just one of them would keep the mortgage happy for a year or two. ‘We’ll go drink, eh?’
He looked ready to leave straightaway, but I managed to persuade him this wasn’t a good idea in the interests of good relations with Rupert.
‘You are right,’ he agreed. ‘Someone might steal my paintings if I go drink.’
‘Unlikely, wonderful though they are.’
‘Yes. Wonderful,’ he agreed. ‘But much theft around. Big, expensive, good paintings. Almost as good as mine: Rembrandt, Rubens . . .’
Joking he might be, but the conversation was going in exactly the right direction. ‘That’s the problem with paintings. Just like classic cars, they can be stolen to order. Have any of yours been taken?’
‘Si. But small ones, small time, you know. Now my paintings fetch more money, the insurance goes up, and up some more and more.’ As did Giovanni’s hand, managing to knock someone’s glass over. When that was dealt with, he added, ‘Especially insurance this year.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘More theft.’
‘Do the paintings go abroad or stay here, do you think?’
Giovanni looked mysterious. ‘Don’t know. Ask Mr Burgess.’
‘Where is he?’ I’d lost sight of him since my earlier spotting.
He inclined his head, and between a lot of bling and chiffon dresses I caught a glimpse of Dan, so I decided to seize the moment and go over to him. Giovanni seized another glass of champagne and stayed where he was. Celebs let people come to them; they don’t do the going. I liked his style.
‘Hi, Dan.’ I reached Mr Superman. He really did look like it tonight. I almost expected him to dash into the loo and come out clad in dinky boots and blue and red tights. ‘Giovanni tells me you’re up to scratch with the stolen art scene,’ I joked.
Dan blinked. ‘I don’t think so,’ he informed me cautiously.
Just my luck. A serious type. ‘Lot of art crime around now, I gather. You’re an artist. Does it worry you?’
Very suspicious now. ‘Yeah. Rupert, anyway. In the art business, you get used to being offered fakes too.’
‘Interesting.’ I might as well be polite.
‘No one fakes mine.’ Mighty chuckle from Superman, at which I did my best to double up with mirth. I was so successful that Rupert came over to share the fun.
‘Just having a good laugh about art crime,’ I told him merrily.
He gave me an odd look. ‘A most amusing subject,’ he managed. ‘Except, of course, if you’re the victim.’
‘Not likely to be in that position.’
‘You may be soon. Giovanni tells me you have several of his paintings.’
‘Good news,’ I said heartily, wishing I’d never started this conversation. I didn’t want the art crime to include Frogs Hill, and I was none too sure of Rupert. ‘Is Giovanni right about theft increasing again?’
‘Undoubtedly. There was the Rubens from Pulbright Hall a couple of weeks ago and a Constable.’
‘And Talbot Place in Suffolk, of course,’ I threw in knowledgeably. ‘Looks like organized crime by the same operator.’
‘Could be.’ Dan put his oar in too. ‘And that place in Sussex.’
‘The same outfit, I would think,’ Rupert said, going on to talk about the different levels of theft. The major works would be stolen for ransom, and the next level down would be sold abroad where they’re not so well known. ‘And of course,’ he added, ‘there are the maverick thefts stolen sometimes merely for the thief’s desire to have something beautiful in his possession. If you can’t afford to buy it and are keen enough, it’s one option to pinch someone else’s.’
I thought of the Lagonda, I thought of a Cord Beverley, I thought of a Porsche 356, translated their value as beautiful and desirable objects into art terms, and understood what he meant.
‘Do you get approached with hot canvases?’ I asked as casually as I could, but not sure where I was going with this.
The answer was quick in coming and very clipped. ‘Stolen no, fakes yes.’
By the time I’d drunk my one ritual glass of champers and another to keep it company, I decided I would leave. There was no chance of a cosy dinner with Giovanni and/or Rupert, as the latter had made it clear that Giovanni was his property that evening. I wasn’t sure that Giovanni was too keen on this outcome, but business is business, and he is the first person to agree with that. I was disappointed that not much seemed to have emerged from the evening other than getting me away from the problems of Frogs Hill. Except, perhaps, that I had been able to note that Dan and Rupert seemed on very good terms.
Taxi or foot? The long walk back to the car in the evening air would be good for me, so I chose that. Giovanni offered a last ditch attempt to accompany me, but Rupert scotched it, and indeed I did too. The rate he was drinking, I didn’t want him falling down in the gutter, so we made arrangements to meet in Kent. He told me Rupert was holding an art show for charity in Kent tomorrow week, and he’d promised to attend with one or two of his paintings.
‘I come to Frogs Hill and admire my pictures,’ he informed me disarmingly. ‘I tell you what a fortune you hold, Jack.’
I believed him. I’d just glimpse
d the price list.
I like cities at night. They come to life in an entirely different way from their daytime personas. There’s something about walking along darkened streets while lights are on in the houses and buildings around you, even if they’re only business lights left burning for sales and security reasons. Even the cars going past look mysterious, and when one turns off along the minor roads and alleys one has the sense of walking through centuries of history, especially in London. In the past one wouldn’t have dared to walk through alleys even in the West End without risking being garrotted or stabbed. Some things never change.
To avoid walking through the Park, I headed for Admiralty Arch and then down to Charing Cross and Hungerford Bridge. By the time I reached Villiers Street, however, I was beginning to have an uneasy feeling that I wasn’t alone. Of course, I wasn’t speaking literally. There were plenty of folk around, but as I went up the steps to the bridge, the prickle was still there. By walking alone, one’s basic animal senses have a chance to speak for themselves, and mine were beginning to awaken. One is rarely alone in London at night, and yet it’s amazing how suddenly one can find oneself deserted. As it was unlikely that someone was choosing exactly the same route as I was, at exactly the same pace, to get back across the river to the car park, I came to the reluctant conclusion that I should not be musing about the history abounding in Villiers Street but about my own safety in case Slugger Sam had fancied a day in London. The hairs on the back of my neck were definitely prickling, and it was nothing to do with my crew-cut hair. The river looked peaceful enough, but halfway across the bridge I stopped and looked round. Nothing untoward. A few people were strolling in the same direction as me, and several coming the other way, but no one I recognized.
Relief was followed by a slight regret that this wasn’t going to be High Noon, with my enemy marching steadily towards me in the middle of the River Thames, in order to slug it out on Hungerford Bridge. That rang a faint bell in my mind, which I couldn’t place. I didn’t stop to write a sonnet on the beauties of the view, however, like dear old Wordsworth on the next bridge upriver. Instead I quickened my pace to the other side. There were still late concert-goers outside the Festival Hall, and looking down on them it could have been a scene from Lowry, pinhead figures scuttling away for trains and taxis.
