Authors: Dan Latus
B
ack at Risky Point, I led the way inside and we sat down again. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Explain yourself. Let’s hear what you learned from that visit.’
Jac shrugged. ‘I don’t know what he’s up to, of course, but nothing he told us makes much sense. You can’t just run a private art school. Not unless all your students are royalty from somewhere like Saudia Arabia, and money’s not a problem for them – and you’re so private you don’t need licensing. As for scouting the world for extraordinary young talent, well … that’s just nonsense.
‘Also,’ she added, ‘at least some of his Old Masters are fakes, whether he knows it or not.’
‘Really?’ I was surprised by her certainty. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Do you recall that Rembrandt he’s so proud of? Well, the real one is in the Hermitage in St Petersburg. I saw it there last year.’
‘Perhaps they’ve sold it?’
‘The Hermitage?’ She chuckled and shook her head. ‘No way! Some of the others were fakes, too. I’m sure of it.’
‘Not stolen?’
‘Well…. It’s funny you should say that.’
‘I’ll make some coffee,’ I said.
‘So what’s he doing?’ I murmured reflectively.
Jac sipped her coffee and shook her head. ‘No idea, but it’s an interesting question.’
‘Maybe he’s just running art holidays for rich foreigners?’ I suggested. ‘You know – come and paint with us on the beautiful North Yorkshire coast! Bed and breakfast, and jacuzzis in every room.’
‘It’s possible, but in that case you would expect them to publicize what they’re doing, wouldn’t you? They would have to do some marketing.’
‘Probably. Unless Meridion House is so select they don’t need to. Or they don’t need the money. Borovsky has a big yacht as well, moored at the jetty in Port Holland.’
‘Has he now?’ She fluttered her eyelids. ‘My kind of guy!’
I smiled, thinking Jac would look perfectly at home on a big yacht. She was made for it.
She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m sorry, Frank. I must leave you. I have an appointment I must keep. But it’s been an interesting morning. Thank you for inviting me.’
‘Thanks for coming. You’ve given me a lot to think about.’
She smiled. ‘You must visit me sometime.’
‘I’d like that. Where do you live?’
‘Redcar. Like your friend Jimmy, I’m at the end of a long line of fisher folk. He’ll know my father and grandfather, as well as a lot of others in the family. The Picknetts are true Redcar people, and an old fishing family.’
‘Not artists?’
‘Fisher folk,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m the black sheep of the family.’
She brushed my cheek with her lips and left. I was sorry to see her go.
If she’d stayed longer, I reflected, I might have told her about the girl. I might even have wondered aloud if the girl was in any way connected to Meridion House and the national security issue. But that would probably have been a mistake. I had no wish to get Jac into trouble with Bill Peart, or with anyone else. Best to keep such thoughts to myself. So, on balance, it was a good thing she had left.
Back to business. Meridion House. Borovsky. What on earth was going on? I couldn’t make it out.
The best I could come up with was still the lingering thought that the place was some sort of haven for rich, young foreigners with indulgent parents who fancied having a go at painting. Maybe even for kids from Russia, and the bits that had fallen off the old Soviet Union to become separate countries. It would make sense. From what he’d told us, Borovsky would know his way around that part of the world.
By now there must be lots of oligarchs anxious to park their offspring offshore, somewhere safe – safer than home, anyway. It can be dangerous to be the child of a suddenly rich, dubiously rich father, especially if you come from a country where lots of people have scores to settle and kidnapping for ransom is a big and dangerous business.
Then there was the way that Bill Peart had been warned off on grounds of national security. What the hell did that mean? Was Borovsky under investigation, or was he running some sort of clandestine operation approved of by the authorities in this country?
There was also the blue car, and the men that went with it. Maintenance men? I didn’t think so. If they had any role at all at Meridion House, then Borovsky was either in trouble or deep into something shabby.
Instinct told me Borovsky was shabby. So far as I was concerned, all the oligarchs with big boats and untold wealth were shabby. But now it wasn’t only prejudice that warned me about Borovsky. It was also Jac’s certainty that he had fake paintings in his collection, and was passing them off as the real thing. Not for a moment did I doubt Jac’s judgement. Maybe that was prejudice, as well.
I shrugged. Time would tell. Or not. Meanwhile, I had other things to concern and distract me. Like the girl. And, I thought with a smile, like Jac Picknett.
Bill Peart arrived with a smile on his face, too. I regarded him warily.
‘Cracked it!’ he said with satisfaction.
‘The bodies?’
He gave me an enigmatic look and nodded.
‘You never have? I don’t believe you.’
‘Where’s the coffee?’ he asked with evident self-satisfaction.
‘Coming right up.’
He planted himself at the kitchen table and stared happily out of the window while I did my usual job. Proper coffee, this time. Not just instant. This was a celebration. Pity it was a bit early to bring out the bottle as well.
‘I could live somewhere like this when I retire,’ Bill said dreamily.
‘You? You’d be bored to death.’
He shook his head. ‘I would just fish all day long.’
‘Except when it was raining?’
‘Except then.’ He turned and fixed me with his business stare. ‘I knew there had to be something going on in Port Holland. I just knew it. You don’t get three bodies on the beach for no reason.’
‘And there was something going on?’
He nodded. ‘Drugs. I guessed that, as well. We picked up a couple of local lads in Whitby who were flogging the stuff.’
‘They told you what happened on the beach?’
‘Not yet. But they will. Once they see there’s no way out.’
My optimism evaporated. If I had brought the whisky bottle out, I would have put it back again now.
‘Local lads didn’t saw off three heads and six hands, Bill.’
‘Maybe not, but they’ll lead us to who did.’
I planted two mugs of coffee on the table and sat down.
‘You don’t think so?’ Bill said, suddenly looking anxious.
I shook my head. ‘I don’t. Killing three people is big stuff. Lads flogging penny packets in Whitby won’t know enough to help you much.’
‘How come you know so much about it all of a sudden?’ he asked, becoming aggressive.
I looked at him and said, ‘You need a rest, Bill. This is getting to you. You should step back a bit, and take it easy.’
He began to sulk. The black mood was upon him. The gloom was palpable.
‘I went to Meridion House this morning,’ I told him.
‘What for? I thought I instructed you to keep away.’
I shook my head. ‘No, you didn’t. I would have gone anyway. I had an invite from Mr Borovsky to look at his paintings.’
Bill looked at me suspiciously. ‘Keep away, Frank. There’s things going on there that neither you nor I understand.’
‘Speak for yourself. Anyway, I understand some things well enough. Borovsky is trouble. He shouldn’t be here. And you should be looking into it – never mind your bloody pension!’
‘Aye, well,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Let’s solve these murders first.’
‘I thought you already had?’
‘So did I, until you put me straight.’ He finished his coffee quickly and got up to leave.
It was time to check on Jimmy again. Before I went across to see how he was doing, I looked through the kitchen. One or two more things I’d thought I had were missing: another tin of sardines, bread from the freezer again, a couple of apples.
It wasn’t much. Just enough to keep a person in hiding alive a bit longer. I wondered where she was, but I thought I knew that already.
N
ot only was she alive, she was somewhere nearby.
It wasn’t surprising that I hadn’t spotted her. Not really. The truth was that I had been searching for a body, alive or not, out in the open. It hadn’t occurred to me that I should be looking for a resourceful and determined fugitive intent on survival – and staying hidden.
I smiled again. Then I winced as a particularly violent squall hit the corner of the house and sleet or hail pattered against the windows. I didn’t like to think of anyone out there on a night like this. It wasn’t necessary either. If only I could contact her!
I wondered yet again who and what she was. I had very little to go on.
She was foreign. Probably European. No more than thirty. In good shape. Tough. Resilient. Brave. And running scared, very scared.
Good instincts, too, I reflected. She had known or sensed she couldn’t stay and be sure of being safe with me. Exhausted and weak as she was that first night, she had known she had to get out before it was light. She had known they would come for her, whoever ‘they’ were.
She couldn’t be far away, wherever she was. She might
even have seen what had gone on here. My forays. The trashing of my house, and the assault on Jimmy Mack. But she had needed food. So she had stayed close and re-visited my house when I was away. I wondered why. Why hadn’t she just taken off?
Whatever the reason, she hadn’t. And she couldn’t be far away. That first morning, in her condition, just before daylight came, she would have known she wouldn’t be able to get far. And she must have been terrified of being caught out in the open. So she had had to find somewhere close by.
I looked out of the window and grimaced. Wherever she was, it wasn’t going to be very warm or comfortable. It didn’t bear thinking about. I would have to see what I could do.
The night had come early, and it had come before I had got round to preparing for it. The curtains were open still. I left them open and switched on one or two more lights. Then I went round the house, and packed a suitcase with clothes. Time for business. I put on a suit, a clean shirt and a tie. Then I went round switching off all the lights. After that, I left and locked the door.
The Land Rover started easily enough, which pleased me more than I can say. It was an agreeable habit the old thing had developed. I let the engine run and warm up, while I scraped the windows free of ice and hoped some of the chill would be taken off the interior. It would never get truly warm inside my vehicle, which was a good additional reason to be wearing a heavy top coat as well as the layers underneath. Even wearing heavy walking boots made sense, although warmth wasn’t the only or even the main reason for wearing them.
I bumped my way along the track until I hit the road. Then I turned north and drove away with a healthy roar and dipped headlights, with the wipers doing their best to keep up with the incoming sleet. I drove a mile down the road, slowed down and turned off onto a broad gravelled area where the highway authority kept piles of grit for winter conditions.
I got out, locked up and set off to walk back to Risky Point. I went the hard way, across fields and rough ground, trying to follow a track that wasn’t up to much at the best of times, even in broad daylight.
It took me getting on for an hour, which I hoped would be time enough. To be honest, I wasn’t prepared to give it more than that. Enough was enough on a night like this.
The track brought me closer to Jimmy’s cottage than to mine. So I stood for a while in the lee of his shed and waited. Another half hour, I thought. No more.
I could see next to nothing. It was another of those really black nights, and it was colder and wetter than ever. The ground was starting to white over with sleet on top of frost, but all I could see of my place was a vague bulky shadow.
I checked my watch two or three times. Finally it was time. The half hour was up. Thank God for that!
I set out, not troubling to move cautiously now. I walked briskly across to my cottage and opened the front door without hesitation. I stepped inside, and knew instantly that my instincts had not let me down.
‘Hello!’ I called softly. ‘You can come out now.’
She had stoked the stove. I could hear the kindling crackling, and I could smell it. She was here. I didn’t have to look far. Even without switching on the lights I could see the shape in front of the stove.
I closed the curtains before I put any lights on. She was sitting on the floor, as close to the stove as she could possibly get, with a quilt wrapped round her. She had to be frozen.
I drew the curtains and went through to the kitchen to close the small window properly. No need to leave that wedged slightly open any longer.
She just stared defiantly at me when I returned. I smiled encouragingly and put the kettle on. I seemed to have been doing that more than usual lately. Time I moved somewhere with room service.
I took off my overcoat and threw it over the back of the sofa. Then I removed my suit jacket and stripped off my tie. I replaced them with a fleece I took from a peg near the font door.
‘It’s cold out there,’ I said, rubbing my hands together and pulling a wooden chair close to the stove.
‘I thought you had gone,’ she said in a toneless voice. ‘I believed I could spend some time here.’
‘You were meant to think that.’ I smiled and added, ‘I’m pleased it worked! I’m glad you’re here again.’
‘You are?’
I nodded. ‘I’m tired of searching for you. It’s wearing me out. You didn’t need to leave in the first place. I would have helped you – I did help you,’ I pointed out.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t know that. Also, I would have brought trouble to your door.’
I didn’t bother saying that she had anyway. Instead I got up as the kettle whistled. ‘Tea or coffee?’
‘I like tea. Thank you.’
‘Hungry?’
She shook her head.
‘You must be!’
‘I had some food. I …’ She shrugged, guessing that I knew what she had taken.
‘It’s all right,’ I assured her. ‘I know about the bread.’
‘I am sorry. It was necessary.’
‘I know it was.’
I made her some tea, and me some coffee. I decided to leave the question of food for now. We could come back to that.
I decided to leave most of my questions, too. This was a moment for building a link, not frightening her away again.
‘Where is your car?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t hear it return.’
‘Don’t worry about that. I will collect it later.’
Already I could imagine Jimmy’s face as I explained this latest development. I just hoped he would see it as good entertainment.
‘It is nice here,’ she said after a few moments of silence.
‘Nicer than outside, anyway.’
‘It is your house?’
I nodded.
‘You live here alone, I think.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘You have no woman?’
‘I live alone.’
‘And the old man is your friend?’
‘My neighbour and my friend, yes. That’s Jimmy Mack. I’m Frank Doy.’
The way forward, I had decided, was probably not to ask questions. Ask a direct question, nothing happened. Better to let her make the running.
‘You are a fisherman, too?’
‘Like Jimmy? No.’
‘What is your profession?’
I smiled. ‘None. I have no profession.’
She looked puzzled. ‘But you own a house?’
‘I make a living. So I own a house.’
She considered this and then asked the next obvious question. ‘How do you make a living?’
‘I’m a private investigator, amongst other things. Security consultant, as well.’
That shut her up. For a minute or two all I could hear was the howl of the wind, the rattle of sleet against the windows and blazing logs shifting inside the stove. I was just starting to think it was time to prepare some food when she surprised me all over again.
‘A private investigator?’ she said, articulating the words slowly. ‘Is this true?’
I nodded.
‘That is very interesting,’ she said, looking at me afresh.