Quintin Jardine - A Coffin For Two

‘Do you know of anyone who can copy Dali’s style?’

‘I know a few fools who try. None of them can get near it.’

‘Someone told me,’ said Prim, all innocence, ‘that Dali’s supposed to have signed some blank sheets before he died.’

‘A legend, Senora. If he signed them, they would be useless, for anyone painting on them would be seen through in an instant. There are people who can copy Miro, who can copy Van Gogh, who can copy Picasso. If it was worth it you could even copy Manuel. But no one can copy Dali.’

I took a chance. ‘Have you ever heard of a man named Ronald Starr?’

I glanced at him as he considered the question. ‘No, Senor, never.’ He looked genuinely blank.

‘Mmm.’ I glanced through to the dining room. There were empty tables in the corner. ‘Do you have a minute to look at something?’

‘Sure.’

While Manuel and Prim moved into the next room, I ran out to the car park, returning with Gavin Scott’s tube, and a flashlight. ‘What do you think of this?’ I asked, spreading the copy on the table and shining the wide beam across it.

The artist leaned across the table, studying the copy, for almost five minutes. At last he straightened up, flexing his great bear shoulders. He smiled. ‘What do I think? I think that I would like to see the original.’

‘Do you think it could be a Dali?’

He shook his head, but with a hint of reluctance. ‘No. I see the signature, but I don’t think so. I almost wish it was.’

‘Why?’ I asked, probing his wistfulness.

‘Because whoever painted this is very dangerous, muy peligroso, with a brush in his hand. This person could forge anything.’

Manuel’s still-life hung, in its heavy black frame, on the wall facing our bed when we woke next morning, just after ten.

‘Well,’ said Prim, propped up on her elbows and gazing at it. ‘That was an expensive night out. Two hundred and fifty quid.’

‘Worth every peseta, all things considered. We got a free assessment of Scott’s picture thrown in.’

She nodded, acknowledging. ‘I suppose so. Should we call him and tell him he’s bought a fake?’

‘No, not yet. I think we owe it to him to find out a bit more. I think someone owes it to Ronnie Starr, too.’

‘So what’s next on the agenda?’

‘I thought we’d go down to Begur to see David Foy, while we’re waiting for Trevor Eames to get back from his voyage. He’s the only other person — apart from Eames — who’s seen the phoney Starr.’

‘Okay. What do we do? Call him first and make an appointment?’

I pondered that one. ‘No, let’s not. Scott gave me his address. Let’s pay him a surprise visit.’

‘Maybe we could take Davidoff.’

‘I think not. We don’t want to terrify the man.’ I rolled over on to my front and tweaked her right nipple. ‘Did you enjoy yourself last night, then? Being courted and all?’

She smiled down at me. ‘Is that what he was doing? I’m flattered.’

‘As if you didn’t know.’

‘Well…’ she said, almost defensively. ‘Davidoff’s wonderful. I don’t care what age he is …’

‘Seventy-five at least, from what he said about the Civil War.’

‘… I’ve never met anyone like him. It’d be great to think that you’ll be like him when you’re old. But you won’t. You’ll have two point four children and a quota of grandchildren. You’ll be straightforward and funny, like your dad, but you won’t be dark and mysterious.’

I felt offended. ‘No, and I won’t be chasing after young women either.’

‘That could be a pity. You know what they say about old fiddles!’

I couldn’t resist it, I reached for her. ‘Sure, but you can play a young one more often!’

We picked up a street map of Begur in the tourist information office, and found Starr’s house without difficulty in the little inland town.

On the way down I had taken a detour, back to Pubol, so that Primavera could see Gala’s castle, and her grave. ‘So sad,’ she had said. ‘That she’s left here all on her own. There’s something, something … not right about it.’

The gift shop was open as usual. Because Davidoff wasn’t there to stop me, and maybe to spite the wee bugger, I bought the Dali book after all.

The Foy villa stood on its own at the top of a little hill. There was a Jag in the garage, and a Citroen Saxo in the driveway when we parked the Frontera in the street at three-thirty. The sky had been leaden all the way down, and as we arrived the first raindrops of the storm began to fall. We jumped out of the car and ran up to the front door.

The man who opened the door was around fifty, but looked very fit for it. He stood about six feet two, with a trim waist and a heavy chest. Frizzy, silver-grey hair rose from his high forehead. Not a man, I sensed at once, you’d be wise to cross.

‘Si?’ he said, staring at us in surprise.

‘Mr Foy? My name’s Blackstone, and this is Ms Phillips. We’re working for Gavin Scott.’

His eyebrows narrowed. Very, very slightly, but they narrowed. ‘Gav? What does he want? Have you come all the way from Edinburgh?’

I shook my head. ‘No. We live here too, just a bit up the coast. We’re private investigators.’

He smiled. ‘Private eyes, eh. Well, you’d better come in.’ He held the big, white door wide for us and ushered us into the house, through to a living-room with a terrace which overlooked the distant Mediterranean.

‘You’re alone here?’ I asked.

‘My wife’s next door, at the neighbours. It’s her bridge afternoon.’ His accent was difficult to place. North of England perhaps.

‘How did you come to know Mr Scott?’ said Prim, as Foy invited us to sit.

‘I used to be a client. Jenny and I were in the rag trade in Glasgow and Newcastle, till we sold out and retired here. Gav and Ida still keep in touch.’

‘They were here in June, yes?’

‘That’s right.’The smile returned. ‘I think I can guess what this is about now. That picture, yes?’

‘Got it in one. Mr Scott has asked us to find out more about it, to try to authenticate it if we can. That means we need to find the man who set up the dinner, and the auction. Have you encountered him again, since then?’

Foy shook his head. ‘The mysterious Mr Starr? No I haven’t.’

‘How about Trevor Eames?’

‘I see him occasionally at the golf club.’

‘Is he a member?’

Foy grinned. ‘To tell you the truth, I’ve never been quite sure. He’s always in tow with someone or other when he’s there, although he never seems to be buying. Never seen him on the course, though.’

‘When he told you about the auction, didn’t it strike you as pretty weird?’

‘This can be a weird place, Mr Blackstone. There’s more than a few people like Starr around here; not exactly kosher.’

I grunted. ‘You can certainly say that about the guy who sold Gavin Scott that picture. For a start, he isn’t Ronald Starr. The real Starr was murdered, almost a year ago. We think he painted the picture that you saw at the auction. And our guess is that the guy who sold it bumped him off.’

‘Fucking hell!’ David Foy slumped back in his cane chair, all of the colour gone suddenly from his face. Then, just as suddenly, he jumped to his feet. ‘I think you’d better go. I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

‘Eh?’ Prim and I stared at him, stunned by the change in his manner.

‘You heard me. Hop it. Get the fuck out.’ He jerked his thumb towards the door, menacingly.

Automatically I stood up, but Prim sat her ground. ‘If you won’t talk to us, Mr Foy,’ she said quietly, ‘would you speak to the Guardia Civil?’