Classic in the Barn (26 page)

‘A hole,' I cried in triumph.

‘Buried treasure?' Bea said. Her voice wobbled, but this time it was with excitement. Even Guy got interested, and as I saved my macho image by heaving up the iron lid myself, we realized that the hole was bigger than we'd thought, and moreover had something in it: a metal box about a foot deep and three feet long, purpose built, it seemed, for this very special hole. It had been provided with straps to help heave it out, but even so Guy and I had a tough struggle. When at last we managed it, we placed it at Bea's feet, and watched her as she squatted down to try to open it.

‘It's not even locked,' she said in disappointment. ‘It's probably empty.'

But it wasn't. It was packed solid with used fifty-pound notes and hundred-dollar bills.

There was a stunned silence. I don't think any of us had really expected cash treasure like that. Guy cleared his throat. ‘That should take us all to the Caribbean for a week or two.'

An underestimate. There must have been at least a million there.

‘Money,' Bea said in awe, and she burst into tears. Through relief? Through despair that her parents weren't as she had assumed them to be? Or because this was one more step towards a solution to Polly's killer. A step that was going to take us I knew not where.

TWENTY-ONE

‘But why didn't they tell me?' Bea had seemed annoyed rather than upset at the confirmation of her parents' secret life. So much had happened, perhaps her emotions had been put on hold. Between us, we had thrashed over the subject of Polly and Mike's choice of fun to the point of exhaustion after we returned from the barn. It still didn't seem to be taking us forward, so Zoe had answered a three-line whip to join us, and she had her own answer for the question.

‘Generation gap,' she answered briefly. ‘Don't worry the children with matters that don't concern them.'

Guy and Sarah had also been included in our council of war and didn't depart until well after midnight. Zoe and I had stayed over, but the night had brought only fitful sleep to me. It still felt odd to be sleeping in Polly's house, especially as I seemed to be making a pretty poor fist of finding her killer. A box of buried treasure was a step in the right direction but not nearly far enough.

Tomas's death had changed the perspective. From Brandon's viewpoint, he would have to consider the possibility that Tomas's death was a revenge killing by Bea, Guy or even me. The discovery of the money opened up a whole new dimension. When morning came, we dutifully rang the police, and Brandon raced hotfoot up to view the evidence and interview us one by one. I was reasonably sure that even Brandon couldn't think I was cuckoo enough to kill not once but twice for a woman I'd only met a couple of times. But doubt is an obstin ate beast, and he could well suspect I'd been after the money the whole time. Nevertheless, he and his gang departed without slapping handcuffs on any of us – and without the money. Brandon had no mandate to take it, as evidence in connection with Polly's or Tomas's death, but I suspected he might be taking advice on the issue right now.

Scenarios flashed through my mind. First, would there be fingerprints or DNA on the notes? Could be. So Brandon might be back. Or was this ball in Dave's court under its car theft implications? Or the Met's remit under art theft? I was getting out of my depth, and the way Zoe and Bea looked, so were they. In the end it was solved. Guy was summoned once more, and later that morning he and Bea drove off to her solicitors' office in Ashford, complete with the loot. Zoe and I went over to Frogs Hill to check on the Lagonda and discuss exciting things like insurance.

Lunch at the Black Lion in Pluckley proved the balm we all needed, and Bea joined us once she had dropped Guy off at Greensand Farm where he'd parked his own car.

‘Mr Brandon kept asking me if I was
sure
my parents never mentioned that money,' Bea said desolately. ‘I told them yes I was, and that I was certain Mum didn't know about it.'

‘How can you be certain, Bea?' I asked. I'd love it to be so, but it seemed doubtful.

‘Because she wouldn't have left it hidden there. She'd have turned it in when Dad died.'

‘Even if it incriminated herself?'

‘She wouldn't have cared by that time.'

‘It's more likely she did know, Bea.'

‘Can you prove it?' she shot back at me furiously.

‘Only by common sense coupled with the Lagonda pocket.'

‘You mean that's how the money travelled back?'

‘It adds up. The painting would travel out, the cash would come back; it was hidden away in the barn until it was handed over to a Mister Big. For some reason the last batch stayed where it was, probably because of your father's death.'

‘Fault, Jack. I knew you were wrong,' Bea promptly said. ‘I don't see Dad getting a digger in every time one of these handovers took place.'

Then Zoe pitched into me. ‘You're up a gum tree there, Jack. You think Mike was murdered, but no one would do that without finding out where the loot was hidden.'

I could deal with that one, but not in front of Bea. If we accepted that Mike and Polly were the Mister Bigs of the operation, together with Mason Trent, then only Trent would have had reason to kill Mike. If Mike was a number two, however, he could have become too big for his boots and decided to blackmail this Mister Big for a bigger share of the booty. If so, his permanent disappearance might have been more desirable than the cash. It's true, however, that the million or so quid that we estimated was in the box was one helluva lump sum to give up lightly, the kind of oversight that Mason Trent was unlikely to make.

I wondered if Mike had been involved in some very private enterprise of his own, perhaps cutting Mr Big out so that he wasn't aware of the fortune he was bypassing. But that scenario wouldn't work unless that private enterprise consisted of cash for items unknown to Mr Big. Now that, I thought, was a possibility – especially as the art Mike would have been shifting would probably be from the next rank down, the relatively lesser known paintings and drawings. If one or two extra of those slipped into the Lagonda, Mr Big might not necessarily know about it. But if he found out . . .

‘OK.' I made up my mind with great relief. ‘I accept Polly might not have known about the cash.'

Zoe looked at me curiously. It wasn't like me to backtrack, but this time I was willing to do so. ‘So all we have to do is find Mr Big, is it? Who is he?'

We all knew the answer, but none of us wanted to be first. We held back, and it was Bea who bravely broke cover.

‘Rupert was hosting some meeting or other in London.'

‘Rupert was,' I said. ‘Was Lorna though? She and Rupert had left Piper's Green together on Sunday evening, but Lorna could have stayed in easy reach of their target.'

Could I really see Lorna facing Polly with a gun? Yes, but not pulling the trigger. Could I see her organizing major art thefts? No. She was too volatile. Rupert was a different kettle of fish – a cold one. I could see a partnership between the two working, though. Rupert opens the gallery for the meeting, rings Polly on an untraceable mobile, arranges to meet her at the barn, on some made-up reason, but it's Lorna who turns up to do the job.

In theory it was possible, but I
still
couldn't see her pulling that trigger. Rupert must somehow have been involved more actively.

‘Not Lorna's style.' Zoe confirmed my thoughts. ‘Rupert took all his framing to Polly though. Good cover.'

It was, but I still couldn't see how he could have killed Polly.

‘Dan Burgess took his daubs to her too, but that doesn't mean—' Zoe stopped short at the sight of Bea's and my faces.

‘Dan Burgess.' My turn to be triumphant. ‘Rupert delivered the stolen paintings to Greensand Farm for Polly and Mike to take them over to the continent, and then after Mike died, Dan took that job over.' For the first time pieces were falling into place. I'd forgotten Bea, however.

‘I don't think,' she said abruptly, ‘that I fancy this pizza much.' She pushed her Margarita aside.

‘You're out of order, Jack,' Zoe said angrily. ‘Bea's had enough.'

‘Only of this pizza,' Bea managed to joke. ‘Go on, Jack.
Go on
.'

I took her at her word. ‘Polly wouldn't have wanted to continue taking paintings across the Channel after Mike died. That adventure was over. But another one opened up. Polly began the framing business as cover for Rupert to bring the hot stuff down to Greensand Farm, where the switchover took place. Dan would pick it up when he dropped off his next masterpiece. How's that for a scenario?'

I had Zoe and Bea's full attention. No one shouted me down this time. ‘As Professor Higgins so memorably said, I think I've got it,' I concluded.

We fell on this meaty bone, dissected it, and it still proved edible. ‘So what now?' Zoe asked. ‘March along to DI Brandon and tell him we've cracked the case? He
will
be impressed.'

‘No. He might ask for something called evidence.'

‘There's the pocket in the Lagonda.'

‘Even if it had bits of paint from the Mona Lisa still attached, it doesn't prove who put them there and why – and neither will it show who killed Polly, Tomas and possibly Mike.' My confidence began to ebb away – but then cautiously flowed back. I still couldn't see how Rupert could have killed Polly, but Tomas was a different matter. He was killed on a Saturday, when the Stacks would be at Hurst Manor.

There's a limit to how much even very stiff upper lips can take, and I could see that Bea had reached it. Zoe could too. ‘Tonight, Bea, you're coming home with me,' she said firmly.

‘I can cope—'

‘No, you can't.'

I caught Zoe's eye – and agreed with the message it was sending me. Three people close to Bea had been murdered. Neither Zoe nor I would let Bea be the fourth.

I knew I should take this to Brandon, but something still held me back. I was well used to showdowns in the oil business – but I was sensible enough to know that this was not the oil business, and if I was to tackle the Stacks, I had to be much surer of my ground.

The needle that was irritating me took the shape of Slugger Sam. Daft though it sounded, I just couldn't see him fitting into this pattern. He was a straightforward villain, and Rupert and Lorna played cards close to their chests. Very close, in Lorna's case. Sam and Andy Wells fitted together like a pair of gloves, but I couldn't see either of them having a major role in a sophisticated art racket. I had two days left before Rupert's charity art show on Saturday, and I had to work quickly if I was going to make the most of it. Again, I wasn't sure what I expected to happen there. Just something to set me on the right track – and preferably not another attempt on my life.

There were two other unknown factors in this puzzle – excluding Guy, who now seemed to have entered the stakes as Good Guy. When I reached Frogs Hill, averting my eyes from the desolation of the Pits, there was a message to ring him. He was out, but whatever he was doing he stopped it immediately when I rang his mobile.

‘Thanks for ringing, Jack.' A change to the old days indeed, I thought at this courtesy. ‘Thought you should know,' he continued, ‘that Tomas's brother hit town today. He's breathing fire.'

‘At you?'

‘No. Andy Wells.'

‘Thanks, Guy. Is this confidential or can I share it with the law?'

‘Don't give a damn who you tell. I want that lad's killer found.'

I switched off, feeling I'd been headbutted, but in the right direction. Not Andy's – Dave's. I needed to bypass the small fry.

I fumed until Dave returned my call several hours later.

‘Mason Trent, Dave.' I launched straight into it when he'd finished chuckling at the idea of my finding a million and not making a buck out of it. ‘Permission to personally hunt him down and steam ahead?'

Guarded answer. ‘What tracks?'

‘Relationship with Mike Davis on private art theft deals, as a sideline to working with the godfather.'

He considered this. ‘Approach with extreme caution, and keep me in the picture. OK?'

‘Agreed. What about car cloning ops? Both modern and classics to order.'

‘Mine, all mine. Keep to specific jobs for which he might have supplied cloned getaways in the
past
. Got it?'

‘Got it. Got his mobile number?'

A snort. ‘As if. You're the car detective. You find out.'

Great. All I needed, when every hour counted. I took out the dog-eared pink business card with its Barton Lamb address – it wasn't lamb, but dead mutton. Instead of panicking, I tried a spot of psychology. Did Mason Trent want to keep tabs on me, or did he not? He did. He usually operated in south London, and Barry Pole was in the Lewisham area. I have a gift that's useful in my trade – I can remember number plates, and I remembered that Ford's, so it wasn't rocket science to get the owner's address. Mason Trent was good, but even Homer nods, as they say. Not altogether to my surprise the search produced an address in Lewisham. It was worth a go.

‘Impressed, that's what I am.' Mason Trent wasn't even barring my passage the next day. In fact he ushered me in with a lordly sweep of the arm, although lordly was at odds with the style of the small and anonymous terraced house where the Ford was registered. Wherever Mrs Trent and family (assuming Mason had these assets) were, it wasn't here, however, which was hardly surprising in his line of business. Nor was it much of a home. It looked barely furnished apart from the one office he showed me into. I walked into this ‘parlour' like the proverbial fly into the spider's web. I'd seen his eyes giving me the once-over as I came in, and I obligingly lifted up my arms to reassure him I was unarmed.