Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series)

by Andrew Towning

  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 wi
th 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.”

  Dillon activated the Bluetooth connection on his mobile phone and sent an updated photograph of himself with cropped hair and designer stubble to Max’s laptop. Then he wrote a cheque, made it out to Max for five thousand pounds.

  “You can have this express-cleared if you’re worried about it bouncing, and I’ll pick up a receipt from you when I come to collect it tomorrow. Oh, and make sure the new name is on it.”

  Max looked at the cheque – his expression like he’d just won the lottery. He took a long look at Dillon and shook his head.

  “Smoke and mirrors, isn’t that what you intelligence people call it? Now, what name would you like?”

  “Robert King. Vince Sharp has already uploaded the photo that I’ve just given you to the Worldwide Art Underwriter’s personnel database. If anyone checks, he’s just another investigator on their payroll. I’m sorry, but Mr. Bateman has had his cover blown for good. If I carry on using that card, I’ll have the police chasing me all over the south of England. This way nobody knows except you and me. Thanks Max.”

  * * *

  Dillon drove back across Vauxhall Bridge to Pimlico, and found the address that Jason Single had given him. He parked the Ford in the only space he could find in the next road, and then walked back around the corner to the small row of townhouses. Dillon looked at the numbers on the doors, and eventually found number twenty-six halfway along the mews. The property looked cared for and had white-washed walls, wooden blinds at the windows, and a black high-gloss front door that you could almost see your face in.

  Standing on the front step, Dillon rang the doorbell and waited a minute before pushing it again, this time for just a little longer. Nothing happened. He rang twice more, hung on and finally decided that Stella had done very well for herself. But she was obviously out or simply couldn’t be bothered to answer her front door. He turned away and almost bumped into an extremely attractive auburn-haired woman. She was expensively and elegantly dressed, held herself well, was naturally beautiful and had the most alluringly dark eyes that he’d ever seen. She was as tall as any catwalk model and moved with the grace of one.

  “Are you looking for Stella?” The voice purred in a Sloane accent. Although the hint of an East-end undertone was not at all what he was expecting, Dillon found it impossible to complain.

  “Yes. Is that you?”

  “That depends on who’s asking, darling.”

  “I want to ask her a few questions which, I’ve been reliably informed, will cost me.”

  “Will they now? And what was the name of this person who told you that and gave you this address?”

  “Jason Single.”

  “Oh, that gorgeous man. I could just eat him up, he’s so lovely. So you just want to talk? Well I haven’t had one of those in a long time.”

  She was rummaging through the bottom of her oversized designer handbag for the door key and finally found it.

  “I’m sorry I was a bit cagey just then. But I have to be careful. There are a lot of weirdos around these days. A friend of mine was murdered about a month ago. It unnerved me to the point of almost giving up the city and moving to the quiet life in the country.”

  “I wouldn’t be stood talking to you on your front doorstep in broad daylight if I intended to harm you, Stella. Can I come in?”

  Stella was eyeing Dillon suspiciously. “You say Jason gave you my address?”

  “That’s right; we had lunch at that flashy restaurant of his about two hours ago. We’re old friends, so please give him a call if you’re unsure.”

  “You’d better come in then.”

  Stella opened the door and went inside. Dillon followed her, admiring her shapely legs as she walked ahead of him. When they entered the living room he was surprised by the tastefulness of everything he saw. The place looked invitingly lived-in, but the décor was flawless; contemporary light colours blended well with modern light oak furniture and natural sisal grass floor covering. Stella either had very good taste or a clever interior designer. She was obviously not short of money and certainly didn’t need Paul Hammer’s.

  “Please, sit down,” she s
aid, sitting down. Crossing her legs, she gestured Dillon to an identical antique leather chair directly opposite her.

  “Now, lovely man, what would you like me to call you? What I mean is it’s not a problem to me if you don’t want to give me your real name.”

  “How about Jake?”

  She gave Dillon a devastating smile, her dark eyes even more seductive than before. “Okay, Jake it is.”

  “Jake is good for me.”

  “So you only want to talk, do you? Well it’s still going to cost you my hourly rate, you know?”

  “And how much is that, Stella?”

  “Two hundred and fifty. Cash.”

  “Naturally,” Dillon said as he produced a roll of notes far in excess of anything she would expect, and laid it on the low occasional table between them.

  “So, let’s talk, Stella. Do you know a man called Paul Hammer?”

  He saw a marked stiffening in her demeanour at the mention of Hammer’s name. She then suddenly stood up and was about to ask him to leave when he added smoothly.

  “I’m trying to protect his back against a threat he doesn’t know exists yet. He’s got himself involved in a major business deal that looks like it’s turning cold on him, and I’m trying to cover him.”

  “I don’t know anything about his business dealings.”

  She sat back down and, collecting the notes up off of the table, started counting carefully. Dillon did nothing to stop her. Once she’d peeled off what she wanted, she leant forward to give Dillon what was left of the money roll.

  “Leave it on the table. The charge may increase.”

  Dillon had already made up his mind about the lovely Stella. She wasn’t in need of money – that was evident by her surroundings and how she looked after herself. But, like so many, she was greedy for it. Because of her extraordinary good looks she had graduated to being kept by one man at a time, so far as he could make out. Hanging around the likes of Jason Single had obviated pimps long since, they wouldn’t dare try to move in on Stella.