Quintin Jardine - A Coffin For Two

‘Soutar’s is the biggest in the business north of the border, and Gavin Scott is managing director. The chairman is a Tory life peer, but Mr Scott is the main man. He and his wife, also a director, own all the shares. He bought the business for a song ten years ago when it was on its uppers, and he turned it around. He’s in his early forties, very well respected and very rich. According to the Insider magazine top people survey the Scotts drew down?300,000 between them in salary last year, and the same again in dividend.’

‘They’re not short of a pound then,’ I muttered. ‘I should have flown first class. Is there any other background on them?’

‘Only that he’s a member of the Scottish Arts Council. He was appointed last year.’

Gavin Scott’s map was clear and accurate. It led us straight up the driveway of Westlands, as the sign at the entrance named the property. The house itself wasn’t all that big, but there was a stable block to the side, and beyond a paddock, in which a woman and a girl, wearing Barbour jackets, were exercising steaming horses in the rain.

My new client answered the door himself. Jan had been intending to wait in the car, but I insisted that she came with me. Apart from anything else, I had never met this man; a witness might be handy.

‘Mr Blackstone, Ms More. Come away in.’ Gavin Scott was a stocky bloke, an inch or two shorter than me but thicker in the chest. He had wiry black hair, flecked with grey at the sides, and eyes that shone with a real intensity. My instant impression was that he made me feel comfortable.

‘Bugger of a day, isn’t it,’ he said as he showed us through a panelled hall and into the sitting room. I looked around. As in the hall, much of the wall space was taken up by paintings, a mix of portraits and landscapes, oils and water-colours, all of them looking like originals, and if I was any judge, expensive.

Scott jerked a thumb towards a window at the end of the room, through which we could see the paddock. ‘You must think my wife and daughter are mad, out riding in the rain, but the horses need the exercise.’

A thermos jug and three cups lay on a low table. Our host poured the coffee and offered biscuits, which we declined. ‘Thank you for acting so quickly, Mr Blackstone,’ he said, as we settled into the yellow velvet upholstery. ‘Once I’ve decided to do something, I’m the sort of bloke who wants it to happen yesterday. Your ad was a godsend. It came just at the right time.’

‘That’s good to hear,’ I said. ‘Would you like me to tell you a bit about myself, and about my associates?’

He shook his head and smiled. ‘No need. I’ve checked you out. I have a friend in the police force, DI Michael Dylan. After Ms More explained your background, I asked him. For reasons which will become obvious, I didn’t give him details of why I was asking, but he gave you a glowing report. Two glowing reports, in fact; both on you and on Ms Phillips.’

I concealed my surprise. I knew Mike Dylan, all right. I thought he was a bampot, and until that moment I had believed that he held the same opinion of me.

‘Mike said that Ms Phillips’ sister is involved with Miles Grayson. Is that right?’

‘Dawn? Yes. She’s an actress. She and Miles have just finished a movie together. They’re off in the States now, starting work on another.’ I wondered which had impressed Scott more, Dylan’s OK or our vicarious connection with the mega-rich and famous.

‘Very good. Now, to business. Take a look at these.’ He stood up and walked around behind the couch on which Jan and I were seated. We turned, watching him. Behind us stood a tall easel, and on it was what we took to be a big landscape-style picture covered by a white dust-sheet.

‘Behold,’ said Gavin Scott, dramatically. He switched on a single spotlight set into the ceiling, and whipped off the sheet with a flourish.

Jan and I gasped, in unison. The colour of the picture seemed to explode into the room. It showed a golden desert stretching into the distance. In the background were the white skulls of four horses, with in their midst the unmistakable skeleton of a giraffe. A woman stood in the middle distance, dark-haired and laughing, yet somehow transparent, as if the reflected light of the desert sand was shining through her. Everything caught the eye, but in the foreground, as if he was marching out of the picture, was the dominant figure: a toreador, wearing a blue hat and carrying a red cape. His uniform was full of sparkling colour, but it was his face more than anything in the rest of the picture which grabbed the attention. He wore a smile, yet it was the saddest smile I had ever seen. His eyes were bloodshot and the left one was lightly hooded. From it, a single tear ran down his cheek.

Jan and I rose together from the sofa, as if in respect for the work. We stared at it, both of us philistines when it comes to really fine art, but open-mouthed nonetheless.

‘What is it?’ I was able to gasp, eventually.

‘That, Oz … I can call you Oz, yes? … is the big question.’ Scott replaced the dust sheet. I was glad. I had heard the legend that men who looked at Michelangelo’s statue of David were likely to be driven mad by its beauty. Until that moment, I had found the concept laughable.

Jan and I settled back into the couch opposite our client. ‘Earlier this year, in late June, in fact,’ he said, ‘my wife Ida and I, and our daughter, were on holiday in Begur, in Northern Spain. I believe it’s near where you’re based, Oz.’

‘That’s true,’ I agreed, ‘though I’ve never been there.’

‘We were visiting friends, an old agency client and his wife, who live there full-time. We played a bit of golf at the Pals club, where David Foy, my chum, is a member. One day when we were there we met an English bloke. We bumped into him again by coincidence in Begur, a few days later, and then a third time, at the golf club.’

He paused, as if to let us absorb what he was telling us. ‘On the third occasion, he looked as if he was leading up to something. Eventually, he came out with it. He told us that a very exclusive dinner party had been organised for the next evening, at a very exclusive restaurant in a place called Peretellada.

‘He said that apart from the host there would be seven seats, and that every place would be filled by informal invitation. We asked him if he was going, but he said no, that it was miles too rich for his blood. It was for high rollers only, he said, because at the end of the night, there was to be an auction. A single lot, the nature of which would not be revealed until after the dinner had been served. He said that if anyone rather than an invited guest turned up, the dinner would be cancelled and the auction would not take place. Then he asked David if he would like the last seat at the table.’

He smiled. ‘David’s the perfect host. Without a moment’s hesitation he said that he couldn’t possibly accept unless I was invited too. The guy went out and made a phone call, then came back two minutes later. I was in.’

Scott picked up the jug and refilled our cups. ‘We didn’t tell our wives where we were off to, just that it was the local boys’ club. Instead we sent them and our daughter off to eat in a swank beach-front place at Llafranc, and headed out ourselves, in full evening kit. The restaurant in Peretellada was a very posh affair, inside a big medieval hall.’

I nodded. ‘I know the one you mean,’ I said. ‘I tried to go in there in shorts once. Never got past the door.’

Scott laughed. ‘I can imagine. Anyway, the dinner was in a private room. Our host was waiting for us in the cocktail bar, with champagne. He was an Englishman, and he introduced himself as Ronald Starr, “with two Rs” he said. The six other guests were from all over Europe. There was a Dutchman, a German, an Italian, a Belgian, a Swede, and a Swiss. Starr introduced us all. When it came to me he said that I was a late entrant, and that I had been allowed in because I was Scottish, and not English.