Classic in the Barn

by Amy Myers

  With some trepidation I showed him round, fearing that he would not approve of Dad’s arrangements for his precious paintings. Fortunately, the idea of one of his masterpieces flying from the ceiling appealed to Giovanni, as did the positioning of one of them inside Dad’s old picnic basket. The silence was so long that I was sure an explosion was on its way. Instead, there was a gentle sigh.

  ‘Ah yes, I am good.’

  ‘Very,’ I agreed. ‘The best.’

  That settled, I decided to tell him about Polly, the Lagonda and my theory about how the art thefts were arranged. I didn’t mention Rupert and Lorna, but Giovanni is quick-witted and grew very interested.

  ‘You think Rupert is a big thief?’

  Not politic to answer that. ‘I’ve no proof of anything like that.’ True enough.

  ‘Ah,’ said Giovanni. ‘He is a clever man that Rupert, and so is his wife.’

  I’d love to have asked him whether he was one of Lorna’s targets, but as so often Giovanni read my mind. ‘Good thing I have my Pia, yes?’

  I agreed. I could do with a Pia of my own. Then I took him outside to show him the Lagonda – under strict rules of secrecy, I explained. He thought this very amusing, but the laughter stopped when I opened the barn doors and he saw the Lagonda. He put his head on one side, with that abstracted look in his eye that I connected with planning a new painting.

  ‘Nice, Jack. Not a Monet, not a Turner for this beauty. I think a Vermeer, but better a Giovanni, yes?’

  ‘If only,’ I agreed fervently.

  ‘So you show me this pocket, Jack.’

  I led him round, and he squeezed into the rear seat to have a closer look. ‘Small, Jack, for big works of art. You sure that he smuggle the Leonardos out this way?’

  ‘Not Leonardos, but less well-known paintings. Still make a mint, but not so much hue and cry about them.’

  ‘And drawings,’ he said immediately.

  ‘That’s what the thinking is.’

  ‘Smaller. Fit in very nicely. A Reynolds, a Constable, even a Rubens, all sorts.’

  He was so spot on that I almost wondered whether he knew about Mike’s little game on the side.

  ‘You check it out more, Jack.’

  ‘I’ll do that. But now I feel like checking out a bottle. How about it?’

  ‘Jack, I love bottle. I love two bottles.’

  The rest of the evening passed in a haze, before he returned to the manor. By mutual agreement, he took a taxi. We agreed to do the same on the morrow.

  But a lot of water could have passed under the bridge by then.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I’d decided to go in style – to Hurst Manor, that is. I’d no intention of heading for the great hereafter just yet. On Saturday morning, I strode out of Frogs Hill farm, told the Gordon Keeble it was lucky to have me and tried to look ‘monied’. No casual cords for a Gordon Keeble. Nonchalant and relaxed should be my approach. It didn’t bode well that the familiar image of High Noon refused to disengage from my mind, despite the fact that I was not going to walk towards my enemy down a dusty empty street and beat him (or not) to the draw. I was going to an art exhibition in an English house on an English June weekend. Noon for me would find me sipping my first bubbly of the day, not at a shoot-out.

  Signs pointed classic cars towards a field at the side of the house, whereas the hoi polloi were being directed further down the road. This was no mere local show. This was money, and it flaunted itself. The array of expensive cars took me aback. Classic car owners are no respecters of class. I prefer the class mix where they are concerned: there are rich aristocratic owners born with or without silver spoons in their mouths; and there are also poor owners, who in their lovingly restored classics – often picked up surprisingly cheaply – see their dreams amply fulfilled without parting with much money. Others part with every penny they’ve got in the great cause. Days like this are the reward for all of them.

  However, I reminded myself, I wasn’t here for the art or even for a classic cause. I was sniffing Polly’s killer out, and he could be close. I wasn’t going to be deflected even by the sight of that slinky E-type Jaguar I spotted in the car park set aside for the classics.

  The exhibition was in the manor house, and the lowly barn, where the art show had been, was devoted to refreshments including the bar. The rear lawns boasted two huge marquees, and I could see the gathering was in full flow. So was Lorna. Clad in leather miniskirt and jacket, she looked formidable. For a moment I thought I saw a whip in her hand, but it turned out to be a fly swat. No flies on that lady. I could see familiar faces all round. I glimpsed Guy and Sarah, Liz and her ghastly consort, Peter and Jill Winter, and Harry was there with Teresa, though I hadn’t put them down as ardent art lovers. I even thought I saw Andy Wells, though mercifully without Slugger. It only needed Mason Trent to show up and the party would be pretty well complete.

  Rupert must be inside the house, and perhaps Dan was already at work painting his masterpieces. Giovanni would be in the barn sitting at the bar. It was time to start gunning my engine. But then Rob strolled into my path with Zoe, who was clad in a skirt, I noticed. This must be a posh do indeed. The lemon-coloured skirt and top suited the orange spikes of her hair well, and I stopped my headlong rush to destiny to tell her so. Rob looked hurt at being ignored, but I had bigger fish than him to fry that day.

  ‘Bea’s here somewhere,’ Zoe told me. ‘Gotta plan, gov?’ she asked mockingly.

  Any semblance of one promptly vanished, not least because I’d forgotten Bea might be there, and I didn’t want her caught up in any possible trouble. When I saw Rupert and Dan walking into the house, however, I forgot even Bea. High Noon had arrived.

  I tried to slow my impulse to run into a saunter, and as I reached the door into the manor I could see them going into Rupert’s office, the room he’d taken me to before. I could hardly follow them in. Besides, I wanted to tackle them singly. That way I stood more chance of success. I could have listened at the keyhole, but that didn’t appeal to me. I have some pride. So I just hung about in the corridor, admiring some ghastly racing prints on the wall. I was therefore taken by surprise when Dan emerged almost immediately. He didn’t notice me at first. He was looking grim and clutching a piece of paper, as though it contained the winning line for this week’s lottery.

  ‘Morning, Dan.’

  He looked as startled to see me as I had at his reappearance.

  ‘Looking for the loo,’ I explained feebly. Well done, Jack. Really original.

  ‘Back the way you’ve come,’ he said politely. ‘On the left.’ Dan’s face is chiefly set for only one reading; he’s too keen on the superhero one to switch his expression unnecessarily.

  ‘Care for a drink?’ I asked, planning my strategy carefully.

  ‘No need, Jack. Everything you need is here.’ He proudly waved the bit of paper in front of me.

  I’d lost the plot before page one. Was he about to cosh me? Had he mistaken who I was? Had I a role in one of the special ‘attractions’ today?

  He pressed the precious paper into my hand and grinned cheerfully. Next move mine. I glanced at it, but saw only a list of names and places, none of which made any sense. Maybe it was written in some kind of Enigma code, but I didn’t have Bletchley Park at my disposal.

  Dan looked surprised at my inaction. ‘Rupert’s waiting for you,’ he explained – or thought he did.

  Waiting with what? I wondered. A hand grenade? A Smith & Wesson?

  I remembered the loo I’d claimed to be seeking and retreated there for recuperation. Dan kindly said he’d wait. I looked at the list again and this time I took in that there were two English stately homes and a list of people’s names, some of which I recognized as artists. Grant Wood was one. And another American artist, Jack Levine, and the Mexican Diego Rivera. My ex-wife Eva was addicted to American and Mexican art and thought it most unfair if any of their work found its way to Britain, instead of their native lands, but I could ha
rdly see her behind this racket. What did this list imply? Targets for the next art raid, or that their paintings were already winging their way across the Channel to a new owner courtesy of Dan?

  He was lolling around in the corridor when I emerged, and so there was no retreat – even if I’d wanted one. This was what I’d come for, but I preferred to go in fully armed with a few clues as to why I’d been presented with this. Was I in the gang now? Or did Rupert only want to discuss buying my Giovannis, and Dan had given me the wrong bit of paper? He left me at the door, which encouraged me into thinking that at least this was not High Noon, but only coffee time.

  It wasn’t. Rupert was sitting behind his desk looking businesslike; party host mode was non-existent. Even his voice seemed brisker than the Rupert I was expecting.

  ‘Good to see you here, Jack. I wanted a word with you. Have a seat.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘I hear you’ve been getting too interested in major art theft. You might need that list for starters.’

  ‘Thanks.’ What game we were playing? I hadn’t a clue. Who had his information come from? Giovanni? Bea? Mason? Whatever the game was, Rupert had won the toss.

  ‘Your theory about Mike and Polly,’ he began.

  This was looking bad. I said nothing.

  ‘And the Lagonda,’ he added, watching me like a particularly steely-eyed hawk. ‘You still have it, don’t you?’

  Getting worse. ‘What theory?’ I countered, then cursed myself. I was following when I needed to lead if I was going to stand a chance of getting out of this labyrinth.

  ‘Come off it, Jack. Continental car shows, my foot. Smuggling art.’

  The script wasn’t getting any simpler. He was luring me on. I’d stop in my tracks, I decided. He’d overreach himself, he had to.

  He sighed. ‘I suspect you have me down as major art thief and double murderer, of Polly and Tomas.’

  Time to play my hand. ‘And Mike. It fits. That’s why Polly died. She realized you’d killed him.’

  He took this in his stride. ‘The pronoun’s wrong, Jack. Not “you”, but “someone”.’

  ‘No point, I’ve evidence, starting with the coffee bill.’

  ‘Coffee bill?’ He lost his cool. He looked completely shaken. Of course he would. He’d have forgotten that long ago. ‘What bill?’

  ‘Two cappuccinos on the day Mike died supposedly alone in Canterbury. Polly told you it had been found.’ Bluff, but it sounded OK.

  ‘I wish she had.’

  There was emotion in his voice now. I saw his hand go to the drawer in his desk, and my heart went into overdrive. What to do? Dive for the floor, run – I stayed where I was, with a vague thought that Gary Cooper would be proud of me. And then the drawer shot open.

  Even an old hand like me can be surprised by events. No gun. Instead, Rupert took out an old-fashioned box file, which he handed to me.

  ‘If you look inside, Jack, even you might realize that we’re fighting on the same side. Law and order. More specifically the police’s.’

  I was stupefied. A bluff? A trick? Memories of medieval Medici cunning in the way of hidden poisoned daggers flashed through my mind. I opened it and glanced down. I was greeted by the sight of CD disks, official badges and ID cards. Fakes? No, this was the real McCoy, and I was out for the count.

  Rupert was watching me with amusement. ‘Sorry, Jack. I thought you’d cottoned on to me. Some years ago the London Stolen Arts Database approached me to work for them, just as you do on cars for the police, and I’m now working with the Specialist Crime Directorate. There has been a series of major art thefts over the years, too infrequent to draw conclusions, but enough to get them interested in the idea that there was one brain behind it. They were kind enough to tell me they’d checked me out and were satisfied I wasn’t involved, even though my country home was conveniently near the Channel. It didn’t take me too long to realize that there was a pattern to these thefts; the major losses seemed always to be accompanied by less valuable paintings or drawings, but unfortunately one name on their list of those to be watched was someone I knew in Piper’s Green. Someone I liked, in fact. Mike Davis, so it was a tough assignment. As you know, he died, but the thefts are still ongoing.’

  I felt as though Slugger Sam had kicked me senseless. There was no doubt about the credentials I was looking at. So much for my detection abilities.

  He must have read my expression correctly. ‘Don’t blame yourself, Jack. In your position I’d have thought Rupert Stack was suspect number one for chief villain.’

  ‘Then who is the chief villain, if it wasn’t Mike? Can you tell me? Not Dan?’

  ‘Hands tied, Jack. I can only tell you who it’s not, and it’s not Dan. He’s been working for me since Mike died. So far the police haven’t been linking Polly’s murder with the Specialist Crime Directorate investigation, but with Tomas Kasek’s death to take into account it’s a different matter.’ He paused. ‘You believe Mike was murdered too. Take care, Jack, at all times.’

  ‘Should Bea take care as well?’

  The pause was too long. ‘Let’s hope she knew nothing of what her parents were up to.’

  ‘I don’t think she did, but she does now.’ Just in time I pulled back from mentioning the cash – to be on the safe side. He might, or might not, have known about it yet, but it wasn’t my job to tell him. ‘What about Polly? Was she in this up to her neck?’

  ‘She was heavily involved, and possibly it was even her idea.’

  Instinctively, I still drew back from believing this credible. My brain told me one thing, my heart another. What Rupert said made sense when I thought of her giving up TV, going in with Mike, taking on the game . . . But my heart still could not accept it. ‘So who’s the big cheese who decided to kill her? Mason Trent?’

  ‘That’s who your chum Dave Jennings favours.’

  I had to think this through, after I left Rupert. I’d been so sure, and I needed time. That wasn’t like me, but I wanted air and space to think, not have to face chatty crowds. Did I trust Rupert? I was still in two minds. There are plenty of double agents in the world. I even had a fleeting doubt about Bea. Could she have known all along about her parents? Or Andy? Was he really the ‘everyone’s favourite garage man’ that he appeared? Was Guy a gorilla after all, not a pussy cat? Had Tomas found out about the money and killed Polly for it? If so, who killed him? Was Mason Trent even now stalking me? A thousand questions were racing round the Brands Hatch of my mind, and none of them reached the chequered flag. Something else burnt into my mind as well. Rupert’s ‘Take care, Jack, at all times.’ He must know something I didn’t, because it wasn’t a platitude.

  Until I’d reasoned my way through this quagmire, I didn’t want company, so I drifted into the garden, avoided the crowds and marquees, and made towards the less frequented part. Then I saw Lorna making straight for me. The last person I wanted to see, but luckily I still had time to casually turn away and stroll (stop myself running!) towards the wild area of the garden. To my relief I could see she’d been accosted by Peter and Jill Winter, and I managed to disappear out of her sight, screened by trees and bushes.

  Hurst Manor overlooks a heavily wooded valley, which is all part of the estate. In the spring, the Stacks allow the peasants in for the bluebell season, but there were no bluebells now, just undergrowth, a few ill-defined paths, and green, green trees. It felt daft taking cover there, but at least Lorna wouldn’t follow me, and the cool calm of the woods was a refuge until I could decide what came next.

  One thing was clear. I had been bang on target with the general background of Polly and Mike’s life. Where I’d gone wrong was in misconstruing the structure, and in that lay the clue to what was happening. My head felt like a low-energy light bulb. Light was there, but it was taking longer to come on.

  There had to be an answer. Did I really see Polly as a master art-gang organizer? Part of an international art racket? Away with logic, follow instin
ct. No, I didn’t. She would have had to have been ruthless to carry out such a job, and the Polly I had longed to hold in my arms wasn’t. There was someone else. Someone close.

  I stood listening to the sounds in the wood. I’d thought I was alone there, but I wasn’t. A primitive instinct warned me of danger. Those prickles stung me again, and I felt my muscles tightening as they hadn’t since I was faced with a maniac with a machete in the oilfields. I could see nothing, hear nothing, but that was immaterial. I had company.

  ‘You got too close, Jack.’

  When I spun round at the familiar voice, I saw who was blocking the path back.

  Peter Winter.

  Forward? Plunge off through the bushes? The path was petering out, and anyway, guns are quicker than men at covering distance. I couldn’t see one, but he had one all right.

  Odd that I’d once thought he had a pleasant face. It wasn’t. It was mean, it was ugly, it was ruthless, and if I couldn’t think fast enough it would be the last one I saw.

  ‘Brought your toy gun with you, Jack?’ He sounded so jolly that for a moment I thought I’d got it all wrong again. Still no sign of a gun in his hand, nor any overt sign of menace either. But I could feel it all around me.

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’ll make it quick then.’

  Was he bluffing? Still no gun in his hand, but I was in no doubt that facing me was Mister Big – Polly’s killer, Mike’s killer and probably Tomas’s; he or his chum Slugger. Slugger must have been Peter’s man, not Andy’s. I tried desperately to debate my options, while somewhere in the background Gary Cooper cheered me on.

  ‘Too many people around, Peter.’ How odd that my voice sounded so calm.

  ‘All the best killers use silencers. Pity, I liked you, Jack – and you did get my Merc back. Unfortunately, you worked out what happened to Mike, just as Polly did. The big mistake.’

  Then his hand was in his pocket and a gun was pointing right at me. Forget about previous life flashing before you – what was whizzing through mine was a plan, but it whizzed too fast. I couldn’t catch it before there was a loud trampling behind Peter that unbelievably assumed a familiar shape. Slugger Sam. Sheer shock at a new arrival made Winter hesitate a second too long, and Slugger’s famous cosh felled him, not me, to the ground.