“We’re trying to piece together where your father’s painting originally came from.”
Dillon kept his posture casual and his intonation indifferent.
“Of course, we’re more than aware that your father is a well-known collector in certain circles, and as you say, it would be preposterous to think that he’d purchase a painting of dubious origin. Especially one that is so internationally well-known. But he says that he genuinely can’t remember where or from whom he did obtain it from. I’m not surprised, really. With a collection of that size and with such diversity. But he was kind enough to show me around the gallery, you know? We’re trying to help the American authorities with this one. Is it possible…” Dillon waved his hand dismissively. “No I suppose not. But he might have told you something that perhaps he himself, with all the best will in the world, might have forgotten with time?”
“You mean about that particular Vermeer?” Daniel seemed surprised. “I think it’s common knowledge that the painting you’re enquiring about, Mr. Bateman, along with others that were stolen, are possibly still hidden somewhere within a forty mile radius of Boston. Only a fake hangs in my father’s gallery. As for where he obtained it, I’ve absolutely no idea.”
He leant back whilst a waitress arranged a pot of tea and cakes. When she had gone he added, “My father doesn’t tell me as a rule where he’s obtained this painting or that piece of carving from. Sometimes he does, but I’ve usually forgotten within minutes. I do know that he uses one or two agents from time to time. He didn’t tell you who they were, then?”
“Unfortunately not. After all, he has so many paintings in the collection. And it is a private collection, so why should he have to remember them all? Although, I would have thought he would have remembered that particular Vermeer. It is unquestionably the most outstanding of the entire collection.”
“Well I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Mr. Bateman. It’s a long way to come for nothing,” Daniel murmured over his raised cup.
“All part of the job. I’ve already told my superiors that there’s nothing to come from these enquiries. If nothing else, it will go towards pacifying the American authorities. Do you miss Delhi?”
“Depends, really. Sometimes, usually when I’m away from Cambridge and the bustle of university life. Too much time to dwell is not good for you, you know? And it’s been a long time since I was there, things change. I’ve changed.” Daniel sipped his tea.
“I’ve never been to Delhi,” Dillon lied easily. “I’ve always wanted to, but have never had the time, unfortunately.”
“Well, if you do ever go make sure it’s between March and October. That way you’ll have a pleasant visit and be able to see the city at its very best.”
“Thanks, I’ll remember that.”
“Does your mother still live there?” And then quickly, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I asked you that.”
“It’s all right. I never knew my mother and my father won’t talk about her, so something odd must have gone on. I’ve tried looking for something, anything that might lead me to finding out. But to no avail, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I’m sure that she’d be very proud of you if she were able to see you now,” Dillon said sincerely. “Was your father actually born in Delhi?”
“Oh yes. Of British parentage, of course. They died long before I came along, so I never got to know them.”
“Your father speaks the language fluently then?”
“My father, Mr. Bateman, speaks at least a dozen languages fluently and with perfect syntax. He’s a natural,” Daniel corrected gently. “Lucky for me I’ve inherited his gift. That’s one of the reasons why I’m here.”
“Did you come straight to the UK from India?”
“No. We seemed to travel around a lot. Never staying in any one place for too long, except Hong Kong, that is. We were there for nine months before coming to Europe. It was at that time my father purchased a house in south London.”
“I’ve travelled around Europe a bit. Italy. Now there’s heaven on earth. Fantastic food and beautiful people. Just perfect.”
“We were mainly around northern Italy, Milan and then southern France. Mostly around Monaco, Nice and Cannes. But I agree, Italy is a beautiful country.”
“They tell me that they’re quite good at building the odd sports car as well.”
Dillon’s friendly demeanour hid his doubts about whether he could probe any further for fear of blowing his cover. He decided that he’d gone as far as he could in such a short time with Daniel. He didn’t want to raise any immediate suspicions in the youngster’s mind, but knew that this meeting would almost certainly get back to Hart himself. It was time to leave. As he drove away from Cambridge towards London, he was satisfied that Daniel was not involved in his father’s affairs.
Charlie Hart liked to be outside, to breathe the fresh sea air when he needed to think things through — it enabled him to set his mind straight. On this particular morning the sun was shining in a sky of unbroken blue, but the darkness he felt and carried with him would not go away. He walked as usual barefoot along the beach, liking the feel of the cool white sand moving between his toes; bringing back memories of his younger, more carefree years. Hart was angry. He did not like the matter of Jake Dillon having been taken away from him. It made him look as if he were weak, which he wasn’t. He had always handled his own problems, but had made the mistake of underestimating Dillon and, instead of warning him, should have killed him at the outset. The truth was, he’d never liked killing, especially in cold blood, and had always had a problem understanding why. But Trevelyan was a natural and certainly had the contacts for taking care of troublemakers, which he didn’t have. It was an easy decision, but it still annoyed him.
Since Dillon had intruded into his life, the ability to sleep had diminished to the point where two or three hours at most of unbroken sleep a night were the norm. He kept telling himself that it was Dillon’s fault, but he was only partly to blame. What had thrown him off balance more than anything else was the sight of the tired, haggard old woman in Boscombe. That had brought back bad memories of the past, and the increasing hopelessness as life slipped by with agonising slowness. Life had not been worth living and there had been a time when his despair had taken him to a level where he’d almost wanted to end it all. But something inside him would never allow him to go through with it. Another day would drag by and then another and he would still be drawing breath and kicking ass. And all the time he wondered why he couldn’t let go.
He was proud of his son, knew that he was overly protective of him to the point of distraction. His mother had been a singer in a popular Delhi nightclub. Hart was young and on his way to becoming extremely wealthy, had immediately fallen under her spell, captivated by her beauty and sophistication. From the outset their love affair had remained a secret — passionate and uncomplicated. Until she fell pregnant.
Daniel was born in a rented house in a quiet superb of Delhi. Within hours of giving birth she had vanished into thin air. The midwife that Hart had hired to look after her, had turned up on his doorstep with the baby and a handwritten note telling him that there was no use trying to find her and that she never wanted to see either of them again. So that was the way it had remained ever since. Her name was never spoken and Daniel would never know who or where his mother was. Hart knew exactly where she was and received regular updates as to her wellbeing. The bank account he’d opened in her name was kept in credit and a lawyer made sure that she never knew who her benefactor was. Although he had always assumed that deep down she knew. Whatever happened to himself, Hart had made sure that Daniel would always be well provided for and his son’s wellbeing was now his main priority, although there was another. He vetted Daniel’s girlfriends from a distance and without him knowing. There was nothing wrong with the Dutch girl who came from an extremely good diplomatic family, but it was a pity how she had aroused the curiosity of those in high places and had led them to his doorstep. For that he would never forgive her.