‘The so-called experts say that absolutely everything Dali did is catalogued, apart from doodles on napkins or on the back of menus. They say it’s impossible for a great work of that type to have existed in secret. They say that Dali was an egomaniac, and that everything he did was for his own greater glory, or that of his wife, Gala. That’s her in the picture, by the way, the ghostly woman: She’s a recurring figure in most of his mature work.’
He paused again. ‘The art historians did tell me something though. Something that worries me. Dali gave up painting after Gala died. But there’s a rumour that before he died himself, he signed blank sheets of paper, and canvasses with backwash on them.
‘So far, there’d been no trace of any turning up, but the best guess that I’ve been given is that this is the first, that somewhere out there is a genius forger, and that the only genuine thing about “TheToreador of the Apocalypse” is Dali’s signature.’
Scott stood up and walked back round to the easel. He removed the dust-sheet again, and again the work leapt off the canvas at us. He pointed at the bottom right-hand corner. ‘Look at the signature. Look at that big “D”, distinctive, almost like the thistle in the Scottish Nationalists’ party crest. Look at the structure of it; it’s a work of art in itself.
‘I want you to go back to Spain and find out the truth for me, Oz. I have to know whether it is a terrific forgery, and I’ve been conned, or whether I’m right and it’s the real thing.’
He smiled. ‘If it turns out that it is a fake, then its value will be written down to zero, and the business will have incurred a capital loss. It won’t be a total loss, since we can offset it against capital gains elsewhere, but I hate to think what I’m going to tell the shareholders at the AGM. Ida and I still own forty per cent of the company, but if I’ve blown a quarter of a million of their dough the majority could fire me.
‘On the other hand, if the Toreador is authentic, as my heart tells me it is, and you can prove it, then potentially, I’ve made millions, and I’ll be a hero.’
Scott looked at me earnestly. ‘So, do you accept the commission?’
I nodded. ‘Certainly.’ I reached into my document case, and produced two sheets of A4. ‘This is a letter of engagement, setting out our terms. If that’s okay, please sign both copies and keep one for your records.’
He scanned them quickly, then picked up a pen from the coffee table and signed them both. He reached into his back pocket and produced a folded cheque, and a business card, which he handed over together with my copy of the agreement. ‘There’s three thousand, on account. My ex-Directory number here, and my mobile number are written on the back of the card. Keep me posted, regularly.’
Scott stood up. ‘I have something else for you.’ He reached out and picked up a long buff-coloured tube which I had noticed, standing upright by the fireplace.
‘I’ve had the picture scanned and copied in colour. It’s in here, along with a list of the names of the other people at the dinner, as far as I can remember them. I can’t imagine that they’ll be much help though.’
I took the tube from him. ‘Can you give me a description of Ronald Starr?’ I asked.
He scratched his chin. ‘Nondescript is the best I can do. British, almost certainly English, middle-aged, medium height, medium build, dark hair going to grey, navy-blue blazer, grey slacks, white shirt, dark tie with a golf club crest.’
‘How did you know it was a golf club?’
He smiled. ‘It had fucking golf clubs on it, didn’t it.’
‘Touche,’ I said. ‘There is one other thing. Can you remember the name of the English bloke who made the introduction in the first place?’
Scott nodded at once. ‘His Christian name, yes. He told us his surname, but it’s gone, completely. But his first name I know for sure. He was called Trevor.’
15
‘Scott might not have realised, but I saw you twitch,’ said Jan, as I drove us back towards Edinburgh. ‘That name, Trevor; it meant something to you, didn’t it?’
I shrugged, as expressively as I could at the wheel of the Fiesta. ‘There must be a few English ex-pats called Trevor up and down the Spanish Costas. I just happen to have met one.’
‘Yes, but when he described the man: fifty-something, bald, cultured accent, walnut tan. You reacted to that too.’
‘Okay,’ I grunted, reluctantly. ‘I didn’t want to get Scott excited, that’s all. The description matches, virtually point for point. About five feet six, bald as an egg, and with the sort of tan that you see on a Brit who’s been in Spain for a few years. His accent’s affected, the sort you can adjust to fit almost any occasion. My manTrevor normally dresses like the second engineer in a down-market inshore fishing vessel. I’ve seen Pals Golf Club. Looking like he does, you wouldn’t get into the car park. But I suppose that his costume could be as adjustable as his voice.’
‘It’s a good starting point, then,’ said Jan, cheerfully. ‘Assuming that he is the same Trevor, he should be able to help you find this man Starr.’
‘That’s true. And I suppose I should be grateful; I hope this job’s always as easy. I’ll go in search of him on Tuesday.’ I paused. ‘Meantime, this is still Sunday, it’s after five o’clock, and I’m on expenses. Let’s go and eat somewhere … unless you’re expected home, that is.’
Jan shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not expected.You’re on.’
I turned the car on to the Edinburgh bypass and headed east, towards the A1, then on down to the ribbon village of Aberlady, one of our old favourites, where we stopped at the Old Inn. Even on a Sunday it was busy, but they found a table in the corner and squeezed us in. We tossed a coin to see who would drive home. I lost.
‘So,’ Jan said, sipping a tasty Rioja, while I toyed with my Strathmore Lemon. ‘You’re back in business, Oz. I wonder if all your commissions will be like this one.’
‘I don’t imagine so. In fact I hope not. I’m not optimistic of getting a result for Mr Scott. That’s a hell of a picture, but there are some helluva good painters in northern Spain. If the rumour about signed blanks is true, then the best our client will do is to crystallise his capital loss, and throw himself on the mercy of the shareholders at the Annual Meeting.’ I paused. ‘It’s “our” commissions, by the way. I know what you said earlier, but if you’re going to be involved in BSI, I insist that it’s as a partner. The business must have someone in Britain, and you’re her. Financial Controller, and no arguments.’
She smiled. ‘Hadn’t you better talk that over with Prim?’
‘Primavera will agree. So must you.’
She looked at me, with a delicious smile. ‘Christ, but I can’t get used to you being decisive! Okay, I agree.’ She extended her hand; we shook on it.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘if I’m in, we’d better take some decisions; for openers about how the business should be set up, for tax-sheltering and other purposes.’
I made a face. ‘I’m not worried about avoiding tax. That’s not why we went to Spain.’
‘So why did you?’ asked Jan, quietly.
I looked at her, across the table, as she started on her dressed Dunbar crab. Enormous, it was. Funny things have happened to the marine life down that way since they opened Torness nuclear power station.
‘Good question. Because it was there, I suppose. Because we could afford it.’ I laughed. ‘And yes, I suppose to avoid the possibility of paying tax on Ray Archer’s gift, even though we knew he’d have to show it as a trading loss, and that he could never declare it as a payment to us.’
I took a spoonful of my Provencal fish soup. ‘I suppose there was another reason, on top of those. To give ourselves a start as a couple in completely new surroundings, away from all the influences we’d known until then.’
‘Like me, for example.’
She took me by surprise. ‘No, of course not,’ I said, defensively.