The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1) (30 page)

"Bastard thought 'e'd fool us with that pile of flattened cardboard," cursed Ten, though there seemed to be a lot of deliberation as to whether they were doing the right thing by throwing the genuine pictures on the fire, too.

 It was a sight Greg would have trod broken glass to see –
almost
have risked being locked up for.  Indeed, he might have done just that! Afraid even to exhale, he listened to the conversation, though what he observed rendered him almost breathless.

“Might as well throw this on as well,” said Ten as he produced a passport from his inside pocket, “careless o' the bastard to leave it in the Ulster after all the trouble of gettin' it. We should 'ave left it in there: if the law had found it he’d have been locked up long since. Fuckin' dimwit!"

"But he'd never have led us to this lot… bonehead!"

Greg was stunned. The whole course of events would have been altered entirely had he known.
Though not necessarily for the better!
he conceded.

“We’re the dimwits for burnin' these pictures!” rasped Hud. “Mad as hatters.”

“I don’t understand you
,”
whined Ten, “we’ll get decent money for destroyin' 'em, an' you want us to risk jail floggin' 'em to a dealer.”

“How do we prove to Vance we
have
burnt 'em?” asked Hud. “Knowing 'im, he won’t pay us anyway. An' I’ll tell you something else, Ten, I may be a car dealer, but I know a bit about art. Some of these pictures are worth a few quid - some well known signatures on 'em!” He took one of the better pictures, a landscape in oil, layered neatly between tissue. "An' this one's a
masterpiece
."

 Greg listened in wonder, unperturbed that several of the pictures had already been destroyed. Aside from the
masterpiece
, among the better known ones were The Green Lady; Constable’s Haywain; and a Spanish lady with a rose in her mouth. And they
were
worth a bit: the lot had cost Greg all of twenty quid from a car-boot sale north of Hereford City.

 “All-
right
,” conceded Ten at last, “we’ll try a dealer tomorrow before we burn the rest, just to see if he’s heard of the artists.”

Greg felt sure the dealer would have
heard
of the artists: there were famous names on some, among them being Van Morrison and de Burgh. He'd only excluded Kilroy and Churchill because they
might
have attracted suspicion.

“First thing we’ll do is get rid of the banger, though,” insisted Ten, “liability, that.”

There'll be no need for that, lads, I'm about to do it for you…

*

 The smell of wood-smoke lingered sweetly in Greg’s nostrils as he drove to the nearest call box - so he could leave one last anonymous message.

“Two men have just dumped a Porsche - which I believe to be stolen - near the roadside on the A38 south of Bristol. They're still in the area.”

"Good job I got Eddy to arrange collection of the real pic’s, Red," said Greg as he re-started the Ulster. "Bart should be picking them up from Alf Cropper's place early tomorrow, but for now, Trevelly here we come!"

Chapter Nineteen

Greg didn't arrive until the early hours, so reluctantly he decided to knock up Jan and get some sleep on her settee. He hated taking anyone for granted, but he knew Jan wouldn't complain. She
always
seemed happy to see him.

That morning was no exception: she flung her arms eagerly around him and insisted he ate before getting some sleep.

“Come and sit in the kitchen while I do a snack,” she insisted, “I was terrified you’d
never
come back, and you’re safe enough now. Did you know the gang have been rounded up?”

“I rang Eddy!” replied Greg guiltily. “I was afraid to call you because I still wasn't sure…”

"Did Eddy know about Vance when you spoke…?"

"Obviously not. What's happened?"

"He's dead… Heard it on the radio just before I went to bed last night."

"Where was he?"

"Hospital… No mention of how he died, though. They did say there were no suspicious circumstances, so I can only guess it would be all the stress of being arrested."

"Got off light, I reckon; I won't lose any sleep over him after recent weeks!" Greg's anger softened as he looked into Jan's sleepy eyes. "Sorry I'm ranting Jan, and sorry I wasn't in touch either. You must have been worried sick."

“I understand, and you’ve no problems now - thank God! There's so much going on - and I'm sure the lads are dying to tell you.”

“I can’t wait,” replied Greg his spirits rising again. “All being well, I should have some good news for them, too.” Jan laughed aloud as he told her about the pictures - and that the estate might be saved.

"God Jan, I can hardly eat for excitement. I've not been this keyed up since I was a kid."

"The only casualty on our side was poor Fergal as I 'spect you'll know,” added Jan seriously. “Still in intensive care at the Royal, and he was
so
brave.” She poured them both coffee, and continued. “The police - Stubbs aside - are really grateful from what I’ve heard. Apparently they’ve been trying to crack that bunch for a long time.”

"Just makes me wonder why they haven't managed to do it before now," commented Greg wryly. “But I do hope Fergal will be okay.”

Greg finished eating and walked through to the lounge. “I told them to be careful and send for police if there was doubt.”

"I know it doesn't help Fergal," replied Jan, "But the lads tried to exclude him: it was his choice to get involved."

Greg lay on the settee, though suddenly he didn’t feel tired any more.

“Try to get some sleep and stop worrying," said Jan as she put out the light and went back to her bedroom. “I’m sure he'll be OK.”

Greg eventually fell into a deep sleep, and didn’t wake until almost noon. He took a showe
r and ate hurriedly before preparing to visit Sarah.

"After that I'll call at the Holly Tree so I can hear the full story."

“I've a surprise before you go.” Jan walked over to a small dresser in the corner of the lounge. “This might interest you.” Greg took the letter anxiously, half expecting more sinister news, but was pleasantly surprised that it was a reply to one of his ads weeks earlier.

“Good God!” He gasped in astonishment as he read the contents. “Eighteen pitches reserved for the whole of Easter-week already - and that’s just one works' club….and a
cheque!
Wow!"

“It’s a great start,” said Jan, “that crowd alone will keep us on our toes for starters.”

“We’ll manage them,” replied Greg as he prepared to leave. “I’m going now – but I’ll be back later.”

“Yes… OK.” Although she tried to disguise it, Jan’s voice was heavy and unsteady. “I’ll do some lunch for when you get back.”

Sarah was delighted to see Greg, even more so when he explained briefly about the pictures.

"I'm hoping Bart will be back with them soon: Eddy arranged for him to collect them and the caravan for me," he began explaining, though Sarah could wait no longer. The pair made love - almost in place of saying hello - before Greg could complete his account.

  “I do so hope they’ll be worth enough to put things right,” breathed Sarah at last. "after all, I don't even have a buyer now.”

“Call in a valuer… now,” urged Greg.

Sarah contacted an agent immediately, and although he couldn’t call for a day or so, he asked for details of the collection. Greg sorted the relevant receipts for Sarah to relay, upon which the agent all but gasped.

"This
is
a genuine enquiry, madam?” he queried after a pause.

“Why yes, of course,” replied Sarah.

“Well… I’m prepared to say, even over the phone, that
if
the pictures are genuine, they're of considerable value. At least six figures I'd estimate, possibly even seven!”

"Can't you be any more precise? A lot depends on…"

"I'm sorry madam, but I'll need to see them: I've already said more than is considered professional.”

"Okay."

Sarah and Greg were ecstatic.

"It's brilliant, Sarah, but you’ll need to be careful how you show the money on the books…in view of the er… circumstances.”

“I’ll leave you in charge of that: you’ll be managing the estate.”

“Manage? Me?”

“As my husband, I hope.”

Greg was taken aback, though he eventually burst into laughter and accepted: at last he had a chance to regain his former esteem, he reasoned.

“So the little caravan will be redundant now,” he remarked, "and there might be a chance of us actually getting into bed together…"

Greg then left the house, anxious to see his mates at the pub. As they were expecting him back, he hoped at least some of them would be there. He entered the bar in his usual low-key manner, but was greeted by hails of the friendly abuse he’d come to expect.

"You idle buggers got no work on?" Greg laughed at his reception... until he spotted two newcomers. Directly opposite the entrance, seated on what Eddy had dubbed the
trainer's bench
, were two faces he knew only too well. The laughter stopped abruptly as Greg stared at them, his ears ringing in the sterile silence.

The guy with the eye-patch!

He gasped and pointed to the other unsavoury-looking young man. “You're the bloke I…" He paused. "…The man from Bromyard Downs.” The silence continued. Not a word as they produced identity cards. Both smiled. Smugly.

“Drugs squad,” said the man with the patch. "I'm DS Jeff Jeffries, or Jaff to everyone except my parents, and this is DC Graham Oldfield." Suddenly Greg heard the clang of a cell gate reverberating in his head. He turned to run. The doorway was blocked by Simon. Greg stared at the vacant, unyielding faces around him.

“Have I done all this to be locked up?” he yelled.

“Looks like it,” said Eddy without emotion.

Greg was determined not to be trapped. Not after all he’d done. He prepared to hurl himself at Simon.

“See if you can stop me!” he yelled . . .and suddenly the crowd could punish him no more. A burst of raucous laughter erupted as the men rose and shook Greg’s hand.

“We’ve been dying to meet you for a long time,” said Graham...“socially, that is. We’re grateful for the help you’ve given, unintentional though much of it was.”

Greg was still shaking as he seated himself at their table - though he refused anything stronger than beer. There were so many questions he wanted to ask he became tongue-tied, but he looked at Jaff and croaked: “With all due respect, how did you get into the force with
that
?” Jaff smiled as he removed the patch, and Greg found himself looking at a normal pair of eyes.

“This is a prop, though it
is
a handicap while I’m using it…”

"God it fooled me. I would never have taken you for a law enforcer in
any
capacity." Greg smiled at the simplicity of the
disguise.

“We use unconventional methods on drug squad, and I reckoned no one would suspect me of being filth with only one eye,” explained Jaff, “along with the charity shop gear and all.”

Greg smiled again, broadly this time: he was quickly regaining composure, and had a string of questions to ask.

"One question at a time please, Greg." Suddenly Jaff sounded patronizing, thought Greg.

Or is it me again?

"There are still things we need to learn from you, Greg," put in the more affable Graham. "We'll need a full statement, but an off-the-record chat will do for now."

Piece by piece, the three put the story together, and although there seemed to be bits missing, they built up a reasonably accurate picture of events. Greg identified elements the detectives appeared to know nothing of, though chose to let sleeping dogs lie in certain areas.

“Our team's been trying to get to the hub of this setup since long before came on the scene,” explained Jaff. “They worked backwards from clubs in the cities, but always came up against a brick wall when it came to how and where the drugs entered the country.” They went on to explain how there'd been many stages when arrests could have been made, but the squad had chosen to wait until they could make a sizeable ‘killing’.