Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (11 page)

CHAPTER NINE

Paul Hammer lived in a white stucco-fronted luxury residence in what was said to be, by London estate agents, the ultimate piece of real estate within one of Belgravia’s world-renowned locations. The houses on Chester Square, like the church, overlooked a small green. Dillon walked along the pavement, spotting the ground floor curtains of one or two of the properties, twitching as he walked by on his way to the home of Paul Hammer. He tugged twice on the polished brass pull handle and waited. Eventually, a smartly-dressed woman, somewhere in her mid-forties, opened the door and in a clipped tone asked him what he wanted. Dillon introduced himself and produced the Worldwide Art Underwriters of London investigator’s identity card. The woman studied it, glancing up once to check that the image on the card did in fact match. After handing the card back, she said, “Mr. Hammer is not here at present. Was he expecting you?”

“My office made the appointment well over a week ago.”

“I don’t recall having had a conversation with anyone from your company. And as I’m Mr. Hammer’s personal assistant; they would have had to speak to me.”

“I’m sure they would,”Dillon mumbled.

“What was that?”

“I said I can’t think what could have happened. Look, it is important that I speak to Mr. Hammer. It’s about the security arrangements of his paintings. Where can I find him now?”

“As I said before, he’s out. And I’m late for an appointment. Now, if you don’t mind, goodbye.”

The next instant the door was slammed shut in Dillon’s face.

As he walked to have lunch with Jason Single at his fashionable Belgravia restaurant, he phoned Vince Sharp to give him an update on events and to ask him to look up everything there was to know about Paul Hammer.

Jason Single was not quite in the same criminal league as Tommy Trevelyan, who sat supreme in the South London area. And there were those who would dispute this pecking order, but not to Trevelyan’s face. Not unless they were looking for trouble.

Jason was fairly high up in criminal circles, had scuffled with the police in the past, nothing serious and not since his early twenties. But he had learnt the art of delegation at a very young age, so that others took the risks and the penalties whilst he stayed just ahead of the police and made a lot of money along the way.

Dillon was lucky to be able to meet with him so quickly. He was usually a difficult man to pin down, but he had a soft spot for Dillon, because he was one of only a handful of men he knew wouldn’t stab him in the back. He trusted Dillon more than he would trust anyone else and that, by his standards, was an immense compliment. He also enjoyed Dillon’s company, which was free of the obsequious shit that he got from most of his cronies.

They sat side by side in a quiet corner. Dillon had positioned himself in his usual seat that faced the dining room and the entrance. They had a few drinks, ordered lunch and wine, and Jason smiled as he slowly looked around the crowded room.

“So, what is it you want, Jake? Sorry to be so blunt, but there’s obviously something on your mind, or you wouldn’t have insisted on meeting at such short notice.”

Jason was a tall man with a penchant for exquisite cuisine and a waistline to prove it. He said he couldn’t do without his personal tailor, because who else could let out his waistband so that no one ever noticed? He had classic Italian good looks, which women found immensely attractive. And there was a deceptive pleasantness about him, which made men and women alike feel at ease in his company.

“Have you ever heard of Paul Hammer? He apparently owns a string of five-star hotels here in the UK and abroad.”

Jason raised his heavy brows.

“Not a lot. I heard you were turning a bit soft, and that you’re having to keep your head down because you’ve upset some people.”

This was Jason’s way of asking ‘why are you asking, and what is it you want to know?’.

Dillon grinned. “Well I’m not going soft, and it’s my job to upset certain people.”

Jason looked at Dillon for a moment, before laughing out loud and giving him a friendly slap on the back.

“I’m trying to work out where Hammer fits into the scheme of things. I have my reasons. I’ve even heard that he comes in here at least once a week,” Dillon explained.

“He’s been in here on a few occasions – sometimes on his own and recently with one or two others, but always insists on the private room at the back. Likes his privacy, see? He’s obviously loaded – you can tell that by the clothes he wears and the quiet arrogance he has about him. But he’s most definitely not one of us. I’d say he probably gets a kick out of mixing with the likes of us, but is far too high up in the food chain to do anything stupid.”

“He allegedly has a large shareholding in a company that, amongst other things, is in the business of supplying weapons to various armed forces. It’s only hearsay though, because his name apparently doesn’t appear on any of the paper work.”

“I heard that, too. It’s all legal though, isn’t it?” Jason looked surprised.

“That depends. Do you know Tommy Trevelyan?”

“You’re ruining my lunch, Jake. Why mention this onerous man’s name before we’ve even had pudding? Anyway, nobody ever sees him these days. I don’t think he’s ever been in here, even though he’s been invited numerous times. I mean, this is the restaurant to be seen in and a meeting place to the fraternity. Tommy thinks he’s above us all these days, Jake.”

“So you think it’s likely that these two men don’t know each other?”

“Couldn’t be sure of that, Jake. After all, Tommy Trevelyan is a nasty vicious bastard. Paul Hammer is the complete opposite, but who knows?”

“Exactly. That’s why I’m trying to find out as much as I can about him.”

Jason stared at Dillon curiously. “You’re holding back on me, Jake. I can always tell when you’re not telling all.”

Dillon shook his head. “I promise, I’m not holding out on you, Jason. I’m just trying to find out what I can about him, because he may not be what he appears to be, that’s all.”

“You mean just because he makes more money in a day than you do in a year, he must be into something dodgy? I don’t buy it. He’s simply very clever and has the luck of the Irish.”

“All I know is that he’s enormously wealthy and for some strange reason likes to hang out in a place frequented by villains, from time to time.”

“You mean he might be a copper’s nark?” Jason was suddenly looking nervous.

“I very much doubt that. But there’s definitely something not quite right about him. And I thought you might have had more on him.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, Jake. Hammer is one of those people who you speak to, have lunch or dinner with, but never really know anything about. If you know what I mean.”

“Thanks anyway. Let’s get another bottle of wine.”

They ate in silence for a while, then Jason suddenly looked up, and, with his mouth full, said, “You need to see Stella. She knows Paul Hammer pretty well, used to be seen with him all the time when we were all younger. Went out with her myself for a while, until Hammer came along and bowled her over with his highflying lifestyle and private jets all over the world. Didn’t really mind, though. After all, I was just a local lad still scrambling up the ladder of life in those days, and I was used to being dumped by the likes of her. She might be able to help you, Jake. But be warned, it’ll cost you. And she’ll not settle for lunch either, no matter how expensive the restaurant.”

“Stella? Stella who?”

“Sorry matey-boy, but I’ve only ever known her as Stella. Strange thing, I know, but it never seemed relevant to ask what her surname was. Anyway, back then it was whatever she liked to call herself on a weekly basis. She’ll almost certainly have changed it by know. But I know where you can find her.” Jason suddenly laughed, and added, “You never know, you might even find them both at the same time.”

Dillon caught the waiter’s attention and ordered cognac.

“Is Max Quinn still around?”

“Haven’t seen him recently. Last I heard he was serving a two stretch. I’d say he must be due for release soon though, if he isn’t already out. But I know someone who will know for sure.”

He dialled a number from his mobile phone, spoke to the person at the other end and then immediately hung up. He wrote down Max Quinn’s address on one of the restaurant’s expensive napkins and after folding it neatly, handed it to Dillon.

“The management will dock that out of your next wage packet, you know?” Dillon said, giving Single a sideward glance.

“So what do you want with dear old Maxi?”

“I want his expert opinion on something”

“Well don’t get your hopes up too much. His eyesight isn’t what it used to be and they say he hasn’t got his heart in it anymore. To think that he was once revered as one of the most brilliant forgers in Europe, and a really nice bloke as well.”

It was mid-afternoon when they left the restaurant. Dillon had an address for Stella and the napkin with Max Quinn’s address was in his jacket pocket.

* * *

Max Quinn lived over a newsagent’s shop across the river in South Lambeth, in a small two-bedroom flat on the second floor. Max greeted Dillon at the front door and then led the way back up the narrow stairs with the vigour of a man half his age. His eyesight may be failing with his seventy years of age, but he kept fit and generally looked after himself. Dillon immediately noticed the many fine paintings that were hanging on the walls and how clean and uncluttered the flat was. The living room, which was typical of a converted Victorian building, and although a little on the cosy side, had a magnificent view across the rooftops. The furniture was worn with age and a little on the shabby side, but, like everything else in the flat, spotlessly clean and tidy. Dillon sat in a comfy seat opposite the old forger.

“Nice place you’ve got here, Max,” Dillon said genially.

“Thanks, Jake. And I know what you’re thinking, by the way. How does an old codger like me keep the place so clean?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“It’s being inside, see? When you’re cooped up with not much to do, you end up keeping everything neat and tidy because that’s all you have.”

“Well, this place is a credit to you, Max. And it’s good to see you’re out early.”

“Thanks, Jake. Look here, I’ve not offered you a cup of tea yet.”

“Thanks, I’d love one.”

Whilst Max made the tea, Dillon gazed at some of the incredibly beautiful paintings that were hanging on the walls. Some were copies of old masters, others original. It was the fine brushwork and artistic flair, the supremely natural talent of a fine artist that Dillon found amazing. The only thing that determined the fakes from the original artist’s work was the forger’s initials placed somewhere discreetly on the painting.

Max came back through, holding a tray with two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits.

“Why don’t you sell one or two of these?” asked Dillon, gesturing to the paintings. “You’d make a fortune.”

Max smiled sadly. He was a small, wiry man, with refined hands and slender fingers. He sat down in the easy chair opposite Dillon. On the wall behind him a watercolour of a coastal scene jumped out from all the others, as one of the most beautiful paintings Dillon had ever seen. Max Quinn sipped his tea. He looked like a man who had been locked up too many times and had learnt the error of his ways.

“I’ve been inside too many times. Sold far too many fakes. And to be honest with you, Jake, for next to nothing. It was the dealer who made the real money and he’s still free and driving around in a Bentley. Nobody trusts what I’ve done. They’re afraid to buy in case there’s a comeback; they can’t afford to buy something that might be a fake. They’re even too scared to buy the genuine ones these days. I’ve got no doubt whatsoever, that those who have bought will make a considerable amount of money when I’ve pegged out. Now, what can I do for you, Jake?”

Dillon produced his fake investigator’s ID card and handed it to Max.

“Can you do another one for me, but in a different name?”

Max put on his horn-rimmed spectacles and studied the card.

“Did I do this one for you?”

“No. I got this one when I was working on a job a couple of years ago.”

It was LJ who had given him the card and Dillon was sure that Dunstan Havelock had originally obtained it from one of his contacts at the Worldwide Art Underwriters of London. He was supposed to have given it back after the assignment, but had told LJ that it had been lost.

“It’s an original, you can tell by the watermark they use,” observed Max. “But I don’t know, Jake. If it ever got out that I was back at the forging lark I’d be back inside quicker than I could blink my eyes, which, if you hadn’t heard, are failing me miserably. Cataracts, you see?”

“You can have them removed.”

“Oh right. That might be the case, but there’s about a two-year wait on the National Health.”

“I’ll tell you what, Max. You do this for me and I’ll have a quiet chat to a surgeon friend of mine who will remove those cataracts for you privately and immediately. There’s no catch, and there will be no charge. Think of it as payment for the new card.”

Dillon could see that the older man was tempted by the offer.

Max still held the card and Dillon could see that he was on the brink of making a decision, so added, “No one will ever know you did this, Max.”

“The last time I heard that I got a four stretch with good behaviour. I really couldn’t face doing another stretch. It would kill me for sure.”

Dillon felt frustrated at Max’s hesitancy, but could see his point of view. He didn’t want to take it too far or make him feel that he was being pushed around. But in forgery terms the card was no big deal. The watermark was.

“I’ll buy a painting and you can give me a receipt for it. That way, if anyone should ask how you could afford to have private surgery, you can tell them honestly that you sold a picture. I’ll even give you a personal cheque to keep things out in the open.”

Max sat up, eyes bright. Only his real art interested him.

“Which painting?”

“The one behind you. The Monet.”

“Ah, Chamin dans Les Bles a Pourville, 1882. Including the card? Fifteen hundred pounds.”

Dillon smiled. “Max, be sensible. A Monet for one thousand five hundred pounds? You must be having a laugh.”

Dillon stood up and went closer to the painting, studying it closely for a moment.

“I’ll give you five thousand for this painting, and not a penny less. I’ll never get another chance to buy such an exquisite copy of a Monet for that price again.” He sat back down again, looked at the old forger and smiled.

“There is one thing, though. Make bloody sure that it’s your signature on the canvas and not a perfect copy of Claude Monet’s!”

“Okay, I’ll do the card. You can collect it first thing tomorrow. I’ve still got the software loaded onto my laptop. It was the only thing the coppers didn’t find. As for the watermark, that will have to be done by hand, but that shouldn’t be too much of a problem.”