He pulled away slowly, looking back in the side view mirror and saw the guard talking into his radio, most likely reporting the Porsche’s registration number to whoever was at the other end. Dillon knew what he had to do, and stopped with a squeal of brakes, reversed back up the one-way road and pulled up outside Charlie Hart’s property. He got out of the car and waited. The guard at the nearby property had already disappeared, much to Dillon’s annoyance. He walked up to the high electric gates and stood pondering at the entrance intercom screwed to the wall. Almost immediately the speaker crackled into life. Dillon looked up into the camera’s lens, and a man’s voice asked politely, “Are you lost or looking for a specific house?”
Dillon recognised the voice at once, but he had to say something or arouse suspicion and possibly the police being called.
“I’m thinking of buying a similar property and was just sounding out the area.”
“I don’t think there is another property like this one for sale. And I doubt that you could afford to buy one on an investigator’s salary.”
So Hart had recognised his voice as easily as he had Hart’s. He should have attempted to disguise his, but on the other hand, he had set out to stir things up a little and couldn’t complain if he’d succeeded.
“Well, they say it never hurt anyone to dream, I suppose,” he replied casually.
“Why don’t you come in, Mr. Bateman. Have a coffee with me and a look around. After all, that is why you’ve come down here.”
The invitation was pleasant enough, but Hart wasn’t inviting him in to discuss his interior colour schemes. What the hell? What could happen to him in Sandbanks? Dillon got back into the Porsche, went through the entrance and up the driveway to the main house. He pulled up in front of the impressive three-storey contemporary residence to be greeted by a stern-looking woman with greying hair that was raked back away from her face and tied in a tight bun at the back. The dark grey skirt and black blouse buttoned up to the neck gave her an air of fearless authority, which obviously came naturally to her. Dillon got out of the sports car and looked up at the impressively large oak front door. The woman of fortitude turned out to be Mrs. Pringle, the housekeeper who, with a scornful glare, begrudgingly moved aside as Dillon came up the steps and who had obviously been hastily told to let him in and direct him to the first floor drawing room.
As the heavy oak door was swung closed behind him, Dillon made his way up the magnificent sweeping staircase to find Charlie Hart dressed in a track suit and trainers waiting for him on the landing.
“I’ve been expecting you. I didn’t think you would leave it at a phone call,” said Hart, who led the way into drawing room. “I’ll give you credit; you’re quick off the mark, but that show out in the road earlier was very clumsy for a pro.”
“It was meant to be. I wanted to get your attention,” said Dillon, sitting in a proffered chair that was side on to the wall of glass with breathtaking views of the harbour beyond. “Or perhaps I’m losing my touch for subtlety.”
He had to take things easy with the man who now sat opposite him, or fall at the first fence. But he had to admit, he was finding it hard to know exactly what to talk about.
“I think not. Subtlety takes on many guises and men like you do not lose their touch, as you say. So tell me, what is your name, and who employs you?”
Hart’s tone remained friendly, but it had become a little more superior. The equality that he’d shown Dillon before had disappeared and he was now talking to him more as an employee. By the slightest change of emphasis he was now talking down to him.
Before Dillon replied, Mrs. Pringle appeared with a tray of coffee and put it down near Hart. “Black or white?” Hart asked.
“Black, please.”
Dillon noticed that the coffee pot was of the inexpensive variety. Not the best silver for him.
Hart handed over a cup and Dillon’s first sip of the black liquid confirmed what he’d suspected.It was instant and not filtered.
“You haven’t answered my question,” said Hart.
“I didn’t think you really expected me to. And anyway, you already know my name.”
He produced the fake identity card and held it forward.
“Bollocks,” said Hart without raising his voice. “You knew that I would check with Worldwide Art Underwriters of London. They tell me that investigator Bateman is working on a case in South America and won’t be back in the UK for another two weeks. So what’s your game?”
Dillon had the impression that he was much closer to the real Hart, a no-nonsense Hart, streetwise and tough.
“No game. I’ve been asked to look into the missing Vermeer by a private client. Obviously the name of that client is confidential and I could give you any name you want, so why don’t you give me one?”
“How about a prevaricator?”
Dillon wasn’t put out by this; he was fencing and so was Hart.
“I’m not really sure that we’re going anywhere with this,” Dillon said. “How about telling me all about the Vermeer painting?”
“I’ve already told you. But when you’ve finished your coffee I’ll take you to see it. Would that be fairer?”
Dillon was finding Hart an interesting man; not because he was enormously wealthy — he’d met too many of those to be impressed — but because there was something very different about him. He didn’t give the impression of being agitated by the harassment Dillon was dishing out to him, yet he would not have invited Dillon in if he hadn’t been worried. Otherwise, he would have simply called the police, something he could still do if he wanted.
As he finished his coffee, Dillon said, “My name is Dillon.”
Hart stood up. “Well, I suppose that’s as good as any. Just Dillon, or do you have a first name?”
“Jake.”
“A good English name. Modern but solid. And how about the Gaelic surname? Irish?”
“Father was Irish. Mother English.”
Hart smiled and led the way to the door.
“Almost had me believing you there for a moment, Jake Dillon. Very good. Well, it’s progress, but if you ever feel inclined to give your real name, please feel free.”
The gallery room made an immediate impact on Dillon. He’d been researching hard but wasn’t prepared for this.
“You can look at the other paintings later, but this is what you called me about. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Like you said, it could easily be mistaken for the original that was stolen.”
“The technical difference being that this is a genuine fake.”
Hart stood admiring the painting.
“But that is what you’ve come here for. To see whether or not I was telling you the truth when you telephoned me.”
“And I’m still not sure, because this painting could be either. And I’m not qualified to determine that.”
“So you are already presuming that what you are looking at is the original painting by Vermeer? And if that is the case, then I must demand you tell me the name of my accuser.”
“I really don’t have that information, and that is the truth. Whoever it is, he, she or they are not my boss. I’m beginning to wonder if any of it means anything. So far as I’m concerned, I think I’m wasting my time.”
“Well, I’m certain that I’m wasting mine. But I do have a small confession to make. My only excuse for bringing you in here is because I never tire of looking at such magnificent beauty. Do you know anything about art?”
“Not much, but I’m learning fast. The one thing I do know is that it’s very easy to get hooked on it.”