Classic in the Barn (27 page)

‘Been expecting you,' he began the proceedings. ‘Heard you went over to that barn where the stiff was found. Find the loot, did you?'

‘No, but I found Tomas Kasek. The same day you paid me a visit.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Your doing?'

‘Now would I, Jack? You insult me, you really do. We done the place already.'

‘Wrong. We had new security put in.'

‘I should know. One of my lads was on the team. Reported nothing there.'

I wasn't going to disillusion him. ‘My turn to be impressed, Mason. Let's start by saying you never came to Kent to see me, and in return you tell me about Mike Davis. Before you went inside, you worked with him.'

‘Good old Mike.' He was watching me carefully, lolling back in his black leather chair as though he ran a bank. He looked amused too, which could mean he was ready to be pally or could mean I wasn't getting out of here, whatever he told me. I decided to be optimistic.

‘In the
past
did you organize the art thefts or just the getaways?'

‘Something like that. Tell me more, Jack.'

‘The way I see it good old Mike was double-crossing you.'

‘Could be. Always been a victim, I have.'

‘And you reckoned he had the proceeds tucked away, some at least of which were yours.'

‘Maybe.'

‘Let's assume you provided the getaway cars. You had,' I explained delicately, ‘access to clones of expensive cars. In the past, Mason, in the past. I'm not interested in the present situation.'

‘Just as well, Jack.'

‘You have a partner, who organizes the actual art thefts.'

‘
Did
have.' He looked hurt.

‘Maybe you double-crossed him through your private arrangement with Mike?'

‘Now that's a word I don't like. Double-crossed. We parted ways, that's all. A business arrangement.'

‘Who?'

‘I don't think you'd like to know, Jack. You really wouldn't. And nor,' he added, ‘can I remember, come to that.'

‘There was a chap who went down for art theft around the same time as you.'

‘Small fry. Always whining about not being treated fair.'

‘Tell me.'

‘As if.'

Well, it had been worth a go. ‘So to tie down what your memory does recall, Mike got more money than reached your former partner, and he split it with you.'

‘I don't think my partner would have liked that. Jack. Not at all.'

I saw him grin and knew I was on the wrong track. I switched over. ‘Of course, pinch one more painting or drawing than the organizer ordered, but nothing too grand, so that the subsequent publicity would concentrate on the big stuff. But your partner found out.'

The grin disappeared. ‘Not quite right, Jackie boy. Mike was a greedy lad, wanted more pie than Mummy served him with, started banging his spoon on the table making threats, and Big Daddy had to put him to bed, like you said. But Big Daddy found out there were a few more pies cooked than he'd known about.'

‘So it just depends who Big Daddy is. You?'

The atmosphere cooled considerably. ‘Now, Jack, you go too far. You really do. Me kill Mike? You're way out. Mike and me were mates. Understood each other – most of the time. You know what you're doing here?'

‘I traced your number plate. You forgot that.'

A leer more than a grin. ‘I don't forget, Jack. Not ever. I knew you'd need me sometime – had to leave a way open. I heard you'd been adding two and two over Mike, and I reckon you can make four. Good enough for me. And his killer's going to pay. Done and dusted. Understood?'

I nodded. ‘Big Daddy?'

‘Oh yes, this time. No choice.'

I was looking at the real Mason Trent: ugly, powerful and in deadly earnest.

‘Each to his own, Jack. I do cars, not art,' he continued. ‘He did all that side of it himself: the hired hands, the mark and the hit. Big Daddy and I parted on bad terms. Him and another chum of mine got me banged up. Would you believe it? Me. I've gone straight ever since I got out. Honest.' The grin was back.

‘You're being remarkably helpful.'

‘Ain't I just. And I'll tell you why, Jack. I want him behind bars, without me being wiped out first. Or you,' he added considerately.

I was going to ask him why in that case he wasn't worried about telling me so much (if it was pukka, of course). But then I saw several piles of pink cards on the table and noticed each pile had a different name and address. I was aware that he saw me looking at them.

‘Yeah,' he said. ‘And tell Dave Jennings I'm moving on
today
. Address unknown. I got twenty more piles of them cards tucked away, all different.'

I'd been expecting to hear from Giovanni, but by Friday afternoon there had been no word. But to my pleasure he arrived that evening. I did have a call of sorts first:

‘Jack, I come. We drink.'

‘Great. In an hour?'

‘I come
now
.'

And he came, bless him.

The charity art show was going to be a big do for Piper's Green. I'd been seeing posters everywhere advertising that proceeds would be divided between the local hospice and a charity for gifted art students. It was going to be more than just an exhibition. There would be drink, food, ‘how to paint' displays, children's corners and other attractions. One of the latter was Giovanni's presence; another was that owners attending in their classic cars could receive the privilege of Dan Burgess's offer to paint them outside the manor house (for a price). So Dan would be most certainly be present. He couldn't miss a chance like that.

‘Ah, Jack,' Giovanni murmured as I took him into the Glory Boot. ‘Antonio, dear Antonio, how I miss him.'

‘Me too.' Being here with Giovanni made me even more conscious that it wasn't the same without Dad.

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 hardly 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?