Dillon smiled, because Lockhart was acting like an undertaker at a hospital bedside. “Why, should my luck run out?”
“All I’m saying is the odds aren’t good, Jake. Especially if you insist on staying in this city for much longer. Is there anyone who should be contacted if anything goes wrong?”
“You know, Jasper, you can be a depressingly pessimistic sod when you want to be.”
“Sorry. Just trying to be pragmatic, that’s all.”
“Thanks, I’ll remember that when I’m dodging the bullets.”
“Jake, I really do think you’re a fool for not taking this seriously.” Lockhart looked around nervously.
“I’ll see you around some time, mate. You make sure you keep that 9 mm clip fully loaded, and your back to the wall.”
He turned and within moments had wandered down the Embankment and was soon swallowed up by the throngs of people near the London Eye.
Jasper’s sombre delivery of bad news had been almost funny in a strange way. Dillon knew that his old friend’s intentions had been completely honourable and that he’d only wanted to warn Dillon of the impending danger. Dillon’s response was too flippant for no other reason than to spare either of them any embarrassment or awkwardness. But this wouldn’t make the problem go away. If Trevelyan had put out a contract, it was as serious as anything he could remember happening since he’d left the army intelligence.
He decided to confirm Lockhart’s warning. He used his mobile phone to call Tony De-luca. De-luca hung up as soon as he heard his voice. He re-dialled the number and this time the answer machine cut in. Dillon thought about leaving a message but didn’t and hung up. To visit De-luca’s home would be asking for trouble and would put him in serious danger. Surprisingly, he found that Max Quinn not only answered his phone, but was happy speaking to him.
“Who shall I send the Monet to, Jake?”
“Don’t worry yourself, Max. I’ll come and collect it in due course.”
To save Max any further embarrassment he hung up. So Jasper had not been exaggerating; Tommy Trevelyan had picked up where Charlie Hart left off, but it must have been by some sort of mutual consent.
Trevelyan’s business empire spread across much of south London. He had associates all over the country that he could call upon in an emergency. And there were many more foot soldiers that would jump to attention just to do him a favour.
Dillon rang Vince again at the office to find out if he’d heard anything through the grapevine.
“The word is on the street, Jake. And they’re coming out of the woodwork in all shapes and sizes to try and find you. If you want my advice, I would take a spot of leave as far away from London as possible.”
“Thanks, Vince. I’ll keep that in mind.”
He gave him an order for some additional equipment and clothing and told him that he’d wait on the embankment by the London Eye until he arrived. He decided to keep on the move, blending in with the many people milling around the busy attraction. He knew it wouldn’t take the big Australian long to sort out what he’d requisitioned from the stores, but with the heavy traffic he might be a while turning up.
It was a long thirty-five minutes to wait and during that time Lockhart’s warning and the real threat started to drum home. He spotted Vince lumbering down towards him through the crowd just when the wait was really getting to him. Dillon stepped away from the queue he’d been standing in, genuinely pleased to see the Australian’s happy-go-lucky look on his face.
Neither of them wanted to hang about in the open with the real danger potentially ever-present. As the two men passed each other, Dillon took the canvas holdall from him and walked on by as if nothing had happened. He went straight back to the loaned Ford Focus and drove back to his rooms at The Old Colonial Club. Once he’d found a space in the underground car park, he used the fire stairs to get up to his floor without being seen.
He rang Havelock and caught him in his office. He had decided against meeting him anywhere now and briefly told him what he’d found out and asked if Havelock could throw any light on it. It was a strange list by virtue of how many deletions there had been, which suggested that it had been compiled some time ago. Havelock said he would look into it and find out what he could, and asked whether Dillon would send him the hard copies of the prints.
“Not a wise move, Dunstan. You’ve been sensible so far by not asking me where I got this information from, because you wouldn’t be too pleased if I told you. Think of the security aspect — if someone your end found them you could land yourself in some heavy trouble. One thing I’d like you to do for me: Hart’s son, Daniel, is at Cambridge. I’d like to know where to find him there. I’ll call you back in a couple of hours.”
“I can do that sooner. Give me half an hour and a number that I can contact you on.” Havelock looked at the receiver in exasperation. Dillon had already hung up.
Cambridge was not a city Dillon knew well and he was getting increasingly frustrated by the directions given by the sat-nav he’d attached to the Ford’s dashboard. When he eventually pulled up in the car park, he discovered to his further annoyance that the only spaces available were reserved for college staff. He parked in one anyway and walked back to the main entrance of Christ’s College.
He used the Bateman identity card, not wanting Charlie Hart to find out he had another one so soon. As far as he knew, the Robert King card was still a secret, unless Trevelyan had found out that he’d made a visit to Max Quinn.
He had chosen late afternoon to visit Daniel Hart and had little difficulty in getting a message to him. He met him outside twenty minutes later. Dillon couldn’t miss the strikingly tanned good looks and pleasant features of Hart’s son who was surprisingly tall. Dillon immediately liked him and Daniel greeted him warmly.
“An investigator?” enquired Daniel.
“I work for Worldwide Art Underwriters of London.”
“So, what’s this all about? And why do you want to talk to me?”
“Oh there’s no cause for alarm, Daniel,” replied Dillon with a smile. He knew he was taking a dangerously calculated risk in seeing Hart’s son.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“You still haven’t answered my question,” Daniel glanced down at the identity card he still had hold of, “Mr. Bateman.”
“Worldwide Art, Daniel, is retained by various museums around the globe to investigate unsolved art thefts. Putting it bluntly, your father owns a number of paintings by Vermeer. One in particular grabbed the attention of the friend who you took down to Sandbanks.”
Daniel led the way through the gardens of Christ’s College to a small busy tea room.
“These tea rooms are the best in Cambridge,” explained Daniel. “Mind your head on the beams,” he said amiably, pulling up a chair. “Now what’s all this really about?”
Dillon ordered tea and cakes before saying, “It was an excuse to get out of London for the day really, the sun shining is definitely a bonus. It’s about one of the Vermeer paintings, The Concert, that’s what this is about, Daniel. The friend you allowed to view it has unintentionally stirred up a bit of a hornet’s nest. You must have known what happened that day?”
“Oh yes. How will I ever forget that little misdemeanour? My father is never happy about strangers entering the house, let alone his gallery.”
Dillon nodded, but remained silent.
“The collection is his and his alone. Sharing it with others just doesn’t come into the equation — a sentiment I do not share. He told me that someone thinks that it might be the original stolen from the Boston gallery and not the exquisite fake that we know it is. Absolutely preposterous.”