After ten minutes of reading, he closed the file, finished his drink, stood up and went back inside, pulling the glass panel closed behind him. As he walked past a large oak-framed mirror, he stopped and took a good look at himself. His dark hair, once shoulder length, was now shorter but still as unruly as it had ever been. There was little he could do with the laughter lines that had started to appear in the corner of his eyes and around the mouth.
And the scaring over his body would always be there as a reminder of his rough past and, to some extent, his present lifestyle.
Dillon used his exceptional intelligence gathering talents; freelancing for Ferran & Cardini International, and the British Government, when it suited them. He charged a flat fee of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds per assignment, which fuelled an expensive lifestyle. Anything left over was shrewdly invested for a rainy day. The small, run-down West End theatre that he’d invested a large sum of money into a year ago was an indulgence he could afford. It not only appealed to his theatrical alter ego, but also gave him immense satisfaction to be involved with the renovation, when time allowed, in bringing back the building to its former glory. This was an extravagant project which Dillon immediately found an effective stress buster and a million light years away from the violent world that he moved in on a day to day basis. After looking at himself for a second or two, he rubbed an imaginary itch on his chin and then went off to bed.
It was still quite early the next morning, although Issy had already gone off to her office in Chelsea. He got out of bed to make coffee, took it back to the sofa where he had left Havelock’s folder and went through it again.
It was obvious that the man who at present had the Vermeer painting was extremely wealthy. Anyone who lived where he did had to be. The Vermeer was apparently part of a magnificent collection. Dillon didn’t need to go and check out the place to accept that it would have a state-of-the art alarm system, and possibly more than one. Breaking in would be a non-starter on his own, but he knew someone who might be persuaded to help him.
Charlie Hart had started life in New Delhi, India. He was born there in 1951. His father had been promoted and posted there to manage the British Imperial Import & Export Company office, and had subsequently made a comfortable living for the family. By the time Charlie was thinking about coming to live in England, he’d already made a fortune by trading in a variety of things, but it was property development in the UK that had made his wealth grow. So the dossier proclaimed. He still had strong trading links with India and Pakistan, and traded quite a lot in Northern Europe. Dillon pondered, Northern Europe; now that was an interesting area. What would he be trading there that was profitable? Background information had been checked and verified at the time when Hart came to the UK. Immigration had seen no problems with allowing him permanent residency, as he was already a British subject.
Hart hadn’t wasted any time and had soon established himself as a major player within city property development circles. Before leaving India, Hart’s parents had been kidnapped. He had paid the first ransom with no hesitation, but when the company that his father had loyally served for more than twenty years refused to pay the second ransom, they were both murdered, their bodies dumped outside of the gates of the British Embassy. It was on record, as was Hart’s birth certificate. He had been born in New Delhi. Had grown up quickly, learning every trick in the book, and some more. But most of all, Hart had learnt about survival, making many mistakes along the way only made him more streetwise. It was not until Hart was in his early twenties that he began to emerge as a financial success in the high-density, high population marketplace that was on his doorstep. Some very wealthy people lived in New Delhi and by his late twenties Hart had become one of them.
Hart however, kept a low profile. He didn’t mix a lot outside of business and this still appeared to be the case. He was a loner, it would seem. Unlike his son, who appeared to be the absolute opposite. There was a report from the university, mostly showing the boy’s progress, and it didn’t go into much detail about the relationship that he had with his father. Although one remark jumped out: that the son had shown concern about his father.
Dillon found it strange that Daniel Hart was concerned for a father who was clearly more than capable of coping on his own with whatever was thrown at him. Daniel’s mother was not mentioned, except for on his birth certificate. There was no other information and no mention of marriage. It looked as if it had been a brief affair, with Hart taking on the sole responsibility of bringing up Daniel. And that seemed to be what the authorities had thought at the time.
Dillon put everything back into the folder and was not particularly impressed by anything he’d read. The only certainty was that Charlie Hart was immensely wealthy and had the luxurious trappings to prove it. As for the background information, that was something different. Dillon and Havelock had once before gone down a similar road with a man called Farrant, now dead, who had an unbelievably sketchy background. The main difference was that Farrant hadn’t gone under the microscope of immigration until it was too late, whereas Hart had been thoroughly checked because he’d wanted to reside in the UK permanently.
Dillon took a sip of his coffee and sprawled out on the sofa, thinking about the situation he was getting himself into. He wasn’t completely convinced that it was the right sort of job for him or the firm. But because it was Dunstan Havelock asking, he’d found it extremely difficult to refuse. Although he’d already decided that he wasn’t going to spend too much time on it. Havelock would be absolutely furious with what he had in mind, but if this mystery was going to be solved quickly, it would need to be approached head-on. And should have been in the first place.
His first call was to Vince Sharp at Ferran & Cardini, who immediately found Hart’s ex-directory number using one of his little software programmes that he kept for such occasions. The second call he made was to Charlie Hart. A man answered the phone and Dillon was somewhat taken by surprise with the softly spoken voice at the other end.
“Mr. Hart?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“My name is Bateman, sir. I’m a senior investigator with Worldwide Art Underwriters of London.”
“How can I help you, Mr. Bateman? I’ve heard of your firm, of course.”
“Most likely, you’ll not be able to help at all, sir. This is about something that has been passed on to us by the Art and Antiques Unit at New Scotland Yard. I’m simply following up this line of enquiry as it may coincide with another investigation that we’re involved with. Like I say, it’s probably nothing at all, sir. I understand that you have a valuable collection of paintings and that one of them…” Dillon quickly scanned the sheet of paper Havelock had given him in the file, “… is a painting by Vermeer, titled The Concert, dated 1665-66.”
“This is correct. However, I actually have three Vermeer paintings in my collection.”
“Quite so, sir. But this particular painting may be stolen.”
“My dear Mr. Bateman, that would surprise me. You know as well as I do that collecting priceless art is a hazardous business. But I do my very best to verify the background of every piece I purchase. It’s not always easy, but I’ve been very careful in my selection of suppliers. However, please tell me what the specific details are.”