Classic in the Barn (28 page)

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 instinct. 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.

That should have been it, but it wasn't.

Slugger and I made the same mistake. We both dived for the gun and collided – result? Winter was up and away, while we recovered from our head-on engagement. He ran surprisingly quickly for an out of condition middle-aged man and was in open ground long before we were. I realized as we staggered after him that he was heading for the classic car park.

You have to think in these situations, but sometimes, believe me, you're not thinking straight. Did I think: no point trying to stop him now; he'll deny everything; grab your phone and hand it over to the professionals?

I did not.

Instead I went right back to oil days' mode and raced after him. Slugger was no cleverer; he was still panting along at my side when we reached the car park field. Somehow when I saw Peter Winter climbing into that fifties Lagonda he didn't deserve, reason deserted me. It seemed to have deserted Slugger as well. He headed straight for the Lagonda, waving his arms, but Peter was in it with the door slammed before he got there. Slugger promptly dashed round to its bonnet as if about to lie down in front of the wheels to prevent its leaving. Luckily – as I could envisage the Lagonda making straight for the exit unimpeded by mashed Slugger – he must have thought better of it.

I wish I'd done the same. I leapt for my Gordon Keeble, parked near the exit and was driving my proud beauty across it with some damn-fool notion that the Lagonda would stop. Instead it came straight for me, crashing into the side of the Gordon Keeble and skewing it into the gateposts. The impact did, however, halt the Lagonda long enough for Rupert's prearranged cavalry to arrive.

It stopped me for rather longer.

TWENTY-THREE

I woke up in hospital once again. The first time I came to, Bea was cooing over me. I think I smiled and passed out again. I must have repeated this procedure several times because I have vague memories of seeing Zoe, Len, Guy, Rupert, Lorna (I only pretended to fall asleep that time), and even Slugger. He brought my memory back with a vengeance, although not quite accurately, as I squeaked: ‘You can't cosh me here.'

Slugger actually grinned. ‘Sorry, mate. Trent's orders.'

I couldn't make head or tail of this. Next time I woke up – after a poke in the ribs – I saw that damned chain round a swarthy neck again. Mason Trent was leering over me.

‘I'm not dead yet,' I managed to say this time.

He, too, looked apologetically at me. ‘Sorry, Jack.'

Everyone seemed to be sorry. What for? Mason, it seemed, was only too happy to tell me. ‘Had a side deal going, see, with Mike, like you said. He reckoned Winter was taking too much of the cash, so we'd add a few bits and pieces to the shopping menu Winter issued us with. I'd drive the goods down to Kent, Mike would whip them across the Channel and we'd split the cash three ways: me, him, and the small fry who did the nicking. But Mike went a step too far, like I told you, so he went and got murdered. I never got my rights in the cash line, especially as Winter got me locked up, courtesy of my former chum Barry Pole. All because I'd had this sideline going with Mike, and Winter thought he was being left out in the cold. As if. So I had three years to think of a nice way to thank both Winter and Pole for grassing.'

‘Not my fault,' I managed to say.

‘You got yourself interested in a Lagonda.'

‘Andy Wells told you,' I said resignedly.

‘Andy's a good guy,' Mason said indignantly. ‘Real worried about you, he was. Him and Harry Prince look out for you.'