A Coffin For Two

27

When I called Gavin Scott on his mobile, he was in the middle of a meeting. When he called me back fifteen minutes later, I could hear other voices in the background.

‘Sorry, Oz,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a major business pitch this afternoon. You rang in the middle of the dress rehearsal. You got something to report already?’

‘Yes, Gavin. It’s nothing concrete, but let’s just say that a pretty strong possibility has opened up. You might not like it, though.’

I heard him take a deep breath. ‘Try me, anyway.’

‘Okay. Let’s start with the man named Trevor that you described to us. Does the surname Eames mean anything to you?’

There was a few seconds’ silence, then, ‘Yes! That was it. Trevor Eames. That’s how he introduced himself the first time that we met.’

‘Okay, that’s a good start. We’ve found him. At least we know where he is. He’s out on the Med for the next week or so, helping sail some rich German’s schooner. As soon as he’s back we’ll see what he can tell us.’

‘That’s great,’ said Scott. ‘Quick work. Now what’s the bad news?’

It was my turn to take a deep breath. ‘There’s bad, and there’s worse. It looks as if your Dali isn’t a Dali after all, but a brilliant fake by a very gifted painter.’

‘Who?’

‘Ronald Starr,’ I said. ‘He was a lecturer at an art college in Wales, and a real student of Dali.’

‘What! The guy who was the host at the dinner?’ Scott’s voice was raised. In the background, the hum of his colleagues’ conversation suddenly fell silent.

‘This is where it gets worse, Gavin. Ronnie Starr disappeared from his job, and from everything else, over a year ago. We don’t know who your mysterious auctioneer was, but we’re pretty certain that he wasn’t the real Starr.’

‘Why are you so sure?’

‘Because we have very solid reason to believe that Ronnie Starr is dead.’

Via satellite, I heard Gavin Scott gasp. ‘Hold on a minute,’ he said. ‘You lot,’ he called to his staff. ‘Leave me alone for a bit, please.’

Down the line I heard the sound of shuffling, mumbling, and finally, a closing door. ‘Okay, be more specific. Are we talking heart attack? Accident?’

‘No, I don’t think so. We’re talking violence. We’re talking about Ronnie Starr being talked into painting your undiscovered Dali masterpiece, then being murdered, before the picture was sold to you at that bizarre auction.’

‘Jesus!’ There was another long pause. ‘What should we do now? Should you go to the Spanish police?’

‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘If I had any sense, I probably would. So it’s just as well I haven’t, because your door would be the first they would knock on.’

‘Why, for God’s sake?’

‘Well, for starters, because I doubt if the way you bought a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of picture, then transported it out of Spain, is entirely legal.’

Scott spluttered. ‘Come on, Oz. I acted in good faith.’

‘I’m sure you did. I bet you didn’t get aVAT receipt though. Spanish IVA taxes on your buy would be around eight and a half million pesetas. Alternatively, the Customs and Excise could do you for evading duty. It’s a case of take your pick, although maybe they could both do you.

‘If that’s not enough, think on this. I’m not in a position to prove that Starr was murdered. But the evidence could turn up any day now, if it hasn’t already. Then the police have a scenario where you tell them that you paid over a quarter of a million for a painting by a murdered man, at a phoney auction. All they have is your word and your friend Foy’s for that.’

‘And Trevor Eames …’

‘… who may be implicated in the murder. He’s going to back you up, is he? Sorry, without the phoney Ronald Starr, what they’ll see is you being offered the picture by the real one, knocking him on the head, and using it as a scam to steal four hundred thousand US from your own company. As for Foy, he’s your pal. How likely are they to believe him?’

‘Oh shit!’ The sound of heavy breathing bounced off the satellite. ‘What am I going to do, Oz?’

‘Burn the fucking picture and forget you ever heard of me?’ I offered, helpfully, but knew that was a non-starter as soon as I said it.

‘Then I really would have embezzled a quarter of a million from my own company. Besides, Oz, I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I hear what you’re saying about this guy Starr having painted this picture; but suppose, just suppose that you’re wrong. Suppose this is what it was said to be at the auction, an authentic Dali, but privately owned and therefore unknown. What if I burned it, then found out that it was the real thing, and that it could be authenticated?’

‘And if it turned out that it had been stolen?’

The reply came without a moment’s hesitation. ‘Then I’d return it to the owner, assuming he claimed it … provided that its existence is acknowledged to the world. Oz,’ said Scott, ‘I want you to carry on, if you’re prepared to. The brief is still the same. Find out the truth about this picture, one way or another. Will you do it, or is it too dangerous for you and your partner? If the Toreador can be authenticated, I’ll pay you a bonus.’

I glanced across at Prim. I knew what she would say. ‘Okay, we’ll carry on, but without a variation in terms. Forget the bonus. I do need two things, though. I know you weren’t keen on me approaching your friend Foy. The way things are going, I think I have to talk to him now.’

There was a moment’s hesitation, but finally Scott said, ‘Okay. As I told you, David felt terribly guilty about involving me in the auction. I wanted to spare him involvement, but if you think it’s necessary, carry on. What’s the other thing?’

‘I want you to get details for me of the bank where your draft was cashed, and the account through which it was processed.’

‘Okay,’ said our client. ‘I’ll get you that as soon as I can. Look after yourself.’

‘No worries,’ I assured him. ‘I hope your people get the business today. You may need it to pay our fee. This could be a long job.’