Paint. The art of scam. (30 page)

Then he
remembered what Seymour had said about Polly and the robbery. At the time,
although it was a surprise, it had meant little. But now that he wasn't drunk
and his train of thought was clearer, it did mean something. Especially her
reaction to Seymour spilling the beans.

A few days later,
when the dust had settled and life returned to some sort of normality, he noted
that Polly had begun acting strangely. She was uptight and withdrawn: difficult
to contact. Although he hadn't known her for long, he did know that her behaviour
was out of character. Seymour had even voiced his concern. He had asked Carva
if he knew if anything was bothering Polly. Carva of course had said no, that
she was probably tired or something. The crash that inevitably comes after
excitement.

Unable to come up
with anything but dead ends, he concluded that it didn't matter what her story
was, things were going to go well at the gallery and that was all that
mattered.

He was, of
course, grateful to Polly for dragging him out of the pit he had been in, but
he felt no emotional debt to her. The mutual success they had achieved,
cancelled out any responsibility for either of them.

The conclusive
thought brought a smile to his lips. For the first time since Desmond had died,
he was looking forward to a delightfully selfish future.

The Barrington Estate. East Sussex.

Chris and John
had been waiting 30 minutes in the cab of their truck when, at last, the Range
Rover appeared in the lane. It came toward them faster than necessary and parked
next to them. Chris and John were tree surgeons, at least that's what the hand
written sign said, on the side of their truck. Chris had done a three week
course in forest management, run by Jobstart, a clever new government
initiative, designed to get the long term unemployed back to work. They clearly
failed to see the irony.

Chris, although
registered with the local Job Centre as long term unemployed, had never stopped
working since he was thrown out of school some ten years before. He had to be
registered as something; if he was registered as self employed or employed he
would have to pay the government, money. Unemployed, they give you money. A no
brainer, as he would say.

Chris and his
younger brother John were born, and still lived, just down the road, on the
edge of the Barrington Estate. So had their father and his father before that.
But they didn't actually work for the estate, their father did, as a blacksmith
and general hand. Times were hard and the estate just couldn't afford any more
staff due to the crippling taxes the estate attracted. But somehow, Chris and
John were kept busy managing the extensive ancient forests on the estate. From
that they had created a lucrative firewood business.

Generations of
families had a strong genetic link to the Barrington Estate, a link that was
now showing signs of breaking.

There were a lot
of changes happening: fast changes, that even the many rumours couldn't keep up
with. People working there, were feeling insecure and threatened since Sir
Thomas Barrington died: cut down in cold blood with a blow to the back of his
head. Whoever did it was never caught and why they did it, a complete,
distressing mystery.

It seemed that
there was a something going on up at Willow farm: everyone had heard a gunshot.
Sir Thomas went up to see what was happening. There was a van there that had
been used in a robbery. Whoever it was that killed him, stole his Range Rover
and escaped. That’s it. Dave Bramley, who worked on the estate occasionally,
was missing. Sir Thomas had taken him on as part of a rehabilitation program
for persistent offenders. It seems that he was involved somehow.

Sir Thomas was a
highly respected gentleman, who, like his ancestors, ran the Barrington Estate
as if it belonged to everyone who worked on it. He simply had no enemies.

Sir Thomas had
had a tragic time in the last couple of years since his wife had died in a
riding accident and if it wasn't for the support he'd received from everyone on
the estate, he would probably not have come through the grief that had
swallowed up his whole being.

His son, Edward,
had now inherited the Barrington Estate. Edward worked in the city of London,
at the Chase Manhattan Bank. Sir Thomas had been so proud of him early on in
his career, until he saw what it was doing to him. His character had changed
from being a hard working, loyal son and heir, to being a greed driven maniac
that didn't care a shit for anyone but himself. This was because of a severe
cocaine addiction: Sir Thomas didn't know about that.

Sir Thomas had
sent Edward to Harvard Business School at great expense, with the idea of
equipping him with the modern knowledge and tools to run the estate in the
future. The estate was, as usual, in serious financial trouble: always had
been. In the old days the Barrington family were held in high regard. They were
respected and trusted; as a consequence the banks always seemed to be able to
cobble together enough financing to at least keep the estate running year on
year. But now things had changed and the banks were knocking hard on the door
for their money back. They needed the exact help that Sir Thomas had honed
Edward for.

It hadn't
occurred to him that Edward would want to choose another path. Or maybe he just
hadn't wanted to contemplate the idea.

Edward had
already secretly sold a good wedge of the Estate to an Investment Group -partly
managed by him- for a housing development. The sale had happened quickly, as
did the planning permission, environmental reports and various other procedures,
that usually took weeks at to complete.

Even the access
road that sliced through the vineyard, that produced a good sparkling white
wine, a passion of Sir Thomas’s, was now well under way; financed by the local
council. It was all signed and sealed, using complex, ancient law manipulation,
engineered by devious, well connected London lawyers

They didn't know
it yet, but Chris and John were here to start cutting down an ancient woodland
to make way for the site office and show home. Edward was smart, he was using
the estate workers to destroy the estate and they knew that it was only a
matter of time before they too would have to go. Where to? That was something
none of them wanted to contemplate.

Chris and John
waited as Edward finished a call on the car phone in the Range Rover. The
architect for the project sat in the passenger seat, nervously sorting out his
bulging briefcase.

Edward put down
the phone and wound down the electric window.

‘Morning Boys.
Sorry to keep you waiting.’ said Edward.

Chris and John
nodded.

‘So that's it
there, just that clump of trees, it's all marked out, take the lot down and put
the main trunks over there, as close as you can to the road. You can have all
the branches other stuff for firewood.’

Chris and John
looked over at the woodland.

‘You sure? That
lot gives good windshield to the pasture. Take that out an you'll lose topsoil
in no time.’ said Chris. My God he wanted to hit him, clean on the nose. They
had a history Chris and Edward. When they were all kids. Children don't do
social status or understand the pleasantries expected. That's why he decked
Edward when he was just ten years old for shooting birds with an air rifle.

‘If I want any
advice, I'll ask for it OK? Now you want the job or not? I can always get someone
else in.’ said Edward sternly, his eyes avoiding contact with Chris's.

Chris and John
looked at each other and nodded at Edward.

‘Well I suppose.’
said Chris to his shuffling feet. ‘you know best.’

Edward flashed a dismissive
look, started the motor and slipped the gear stick into drive with a slight
clunk. ‘Right, quick as you can. You've got a week. And grub out the roots, you
can use the new 4x4 tractor and don't break it.’

With that Edward,
slowly closed the window, hit the accelerator peddle hard and took off,
spitting stones that showered Chris and John’s legs.

'Bastard.' said
Chris. ‘I wonder what the fuck he's up to?’

‘I dunno,’ said
John. ‘All I know is, there's bugger all we can do about it 'cept make a load
o' cash. There's them big oaks in there.’

‘The boss never
let anyone snap a twig in them woods.’ said Chris sadly.

John went around
to the back of the cab, pulled out his chainsaw, put it down on the ground and
pulled the starter cord lightly, twice. Then with a sudden tug, pulled hard: the
chainsaw burst into an ear splitting scream before settling down to a punchy
erratic tick over. John looked up at the huge Oak in front of him. The main
trunk had a split, now well grown over with its creeping bark, just below the
first branches; the result of a lightening strike sometime the 1890's. An old
hemp rope hung from a branch, high up, swaying in the light wind, its end, now
some ten metres from the ground. Their father used to swing from that rope when
he was a kid.

‘Come on Chris,
let's get on with it.’

Cyril Barker woke
up with a start from his after lunch snooze and lay there, listening to the
screaming chainsaws in the distance. He cursed Chris and John. His dog, Roger,
was howling outside: that wasn't normal. As Cyril's mind cleared, he realised that
the sound was coming from the North, up by Fingle Hill, on the other side of
the estate and wasn't Chris and John cutting up firewood at their place after
all.

He got off his
bed, threw open the door of his old converted Bedford mobile library and
listened, trying to get a fix on the source of the singing saws as they chewed
through living wood, engines straining, fighting. There were two saws working
now, singing an erratic harmony, echoing through the valley. He looked up to
the sky. What looked like hundred a birds, different birds: sparrows, finches,
crows, even a couple of owls were frantically flying around, as if in a panic,
they too screaming their heads off. Roger stopped howling and sat at Cyril's
feet: waiting.

Roger looked up
and barked twice. Roger knew what was happening. Roger knew everything.

Cyril dug into
his pocket, pulled out his leather tobacco pouch and rolled a neat cigarette as
he walked over to the riverbank. He needed to think. He couldn't go and check
out what was going on at Fingle Hill because of a court order Edward had
instigated, forbidding him from entering the estate. Edward wanted him out, as
he wanted to build a 5 star resort on the other side of the river and had the
money and the connections to do it. Cyril had nothing and certainly no money
for fighting highly manipulative London lawyers. At the last court hearing,
answering a charge of propagating marijuana, Cyril attempted to defend himself.
He told the court that he was not guilty and that Edward Barrington had paid somebody
to put the 10 plants, all in pots, on his property on the night of 25th August.
On the 26th August, Edward Barrington had visited Cyril about another matter,
to no doubt complain about something, saw the plants and then informed the
police. This was all completely true.

He could prove
all of this, mainly by pointing out that the plants were in a place that had
virtually no sun and would never have reached the size that they were. He also
pointed out that if he were to grow marijuana, he would certainly not grow it
on his own land, he would grow it somewhere else, like on the estate. Which,
although he didn't mention it, is exactly what he was doing. Also he declared
publicly, that Edward Barrington wanted to build the resort opposite his land,
across the river and this case was just part of Barrington's plan to get rid of
him.

Cyril was found
guilty and fined a modest £50. Edward Barrington was pleased with the result.
At least now Cyril had a criminal record; which should help everything move
along nicely.

Cyril had lived
on his land, off and on, for years: permanently for the last 5 years. He had
inherited it from his Grandfather, 20 years before. It had been a complete
surprise to Cyril. The land, although only 5 acres, was a paradise, a thin
strip stretching along the river to the south: a magnificent wall of ancient
Oaks, chestnuts, beech and numerous wild fruit plants to the North. The forest
protected the land from punishing northern winter winds and in the summer
wafted a cool breeze.

The land had been
used as a travelling fruit pickers camp for many years, right up until the
1950's. That explained the diverse varieties of trees, shrubs and plants; most
providing some sort of food, scattered around in no particular order. The track
leading into the land had a neat row of fruit trees either side. Cyril
fantasised that, what once was maybe someone spitting out a plumb stone or an
apple pip, had become a plumb or apple tree. That's why people instinctively
turn their heads to one side to spit and not in front of them, reckoned Cyril.

Cyril's
grandfather, Jim Pickleton, initially, had the right to live there until his
death, a reward from the then Squire, Sir Thomas’s Father, Lord Cedric Barrington,
for saving his escaped, prize stallion Stitch, from drowning in the river.
Everybody saw what happened, as everybody on the estate was in pursuit of the
highly bred, highly strung beast. Problem was, they had all spooked Stitch so
much, he had panicked and jumped over a blackberry hedge clean into the river.
Jim, it is said, calmly hopped into a wooden planked dingy, rowed after it and
spent over half an hour talking to it, circling its huge swimming head, getting
closer and closer, until he somehow persuaded Stitch to have a rope around his
neck and tow Jim back to the shore. Jim stood up in the boat as he approached
the riverbank and placed his index finger on his lips for everyone waiting on
the bank to stay silent.