“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.”
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.