10 – CON ARTIST

The house is quiet when I return home for a late lunch.

'Dad?' I call out.

No answer.

Maybe he's out working on Mr Preston's case. I push his office door open and then I see him. He's passed out on the couch, snoring softly. Spock rushes over, his claws clicking on the floorboards and licks his face. Dad barely stirs. Spock's windmill tail catches the empty gin bottle on the side table and it falls onto the rug with a thud and rolls under the couch. My hackles instinctively rise.

Then I notice for the first time Dad's favourite photograph of Mum clasped to his heart and my anger dissipates. Today is the anniversary of her death. Dad's face is tired, cracks around his eyes make him look like an old man. His tight curly hair, once a great black Afro that he wore with pride when he was younger is thinning and grey.

Standing there, looking at him, I wonder what Mum would look like today if she was still around. Would she be going grey, would her beauty have faded? I can't imagine so.

I see the stains on Dad's cheeks and appreciate just how much he must miss her.

'Yeah, me too,' I murmur.

I jump as the desk telephone trills. Dad doesn't stir and the answerphone clicks in.

'Hello, this is a message for Mr Drury,' says a woman with a grandmotherly strain to her voice. 'It's Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes here. We had an appointment to discuss the fake Renoir I'd been sold… I have in my diary two o'clock, but… maybe I got it wrong.'

Without thinking twice, I snatch up the phone. 'Hello, Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes? Sorry you got the answerphone there. I'm Noa, Mr Drury's assistant.'

'Oh! Hello! There is someone there!' Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes sounds delighted to be talking to a real person. 'Is Mr Drury running late?'

'I'm afraid so…' I glance at Dad still snoring peacefully. 'In fact, he's been held up with another client. He's asked me to extend his apologies.'

'Oh, that is a pity.' She sounds genuinely disappointed. 'I had Mr Barlow lay out tea and scones especially.'

My stomach rumbles at the thought and I wonder if Dad would mind if I went in his place.

'Anyway, perhaps it's just as well,' says Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes. 'I'm not sure I'd be much help to him with his investigations. It's true I bought my Renoir – or fake Renoir as I found out – from the same dealer as his other client – what was his name?'

'Mr Preston?' I take a wild guess.

'That's right. We were obviously diddled by the same person. But Sam Keyes has been dead a good few years now, as I understand. Killed in a road accident in Africa somewhere. Most unfortunate.' Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes tuts. 'For Sam, that is,' she hurries on. 'Most unfortunate for Sam.'

'I'm sorry to hear that,' I reply, thinking Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes is perhaps thinking more about her own misfortune than Sam Keyes's. 'And for your misfortune too. I'll pass on the message to my – I mean to Mr Drury.'

''Thank you, dear. I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful to his investigations – what, Mr Barlow?' There is the sound of the receiver being covered and muffled voices. 'Hello, are you still there?'

'Yes, I'm here, Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes.'

'Mr Barlow has suggested you tell Mr Drury to look for the company whom I hired as a third-party authenticator of the painting. Silly me, I allowed Sam to recommend them. I ought to have known they were in the con together, but at the time I honestly thought they were being helpful. So charming, you wouldn't think'd harm a fly.'

'Do you remember the name of the company?' I ask.

'Now, let me think. It's closed down now, I believe. They did the authentication at least six years ago. That was another dead end we met during our own investigations. What was it called, Mr Barlow?' Again there is a muffled voice in the background. 'Something about the very old… Ancient World of Art, maybe?'

I write it down on a Post-it note on Dad's desk.

'No, no! I remember now!' Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes exclaims. 'Arts of the Ancient! That's it!'

My pen tears through the pad in my surprise. 'Are-are you sure?'

'Oh, yes. I remember very clearly now. Arts of the Ancient, that was it.'

'Riiiiight,' I say slowly, trying to tame the wild lashings of my imaginations. 'Okay, well, I'll pass that on to Da– I mean, Mr Drury. Thanks for your help, Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes, and I'm sorry Mr Drury wasn't able to make your appointment. I'm sure he'll be in touch.'

We call off and I steady myself against the desk. What have I done? If it's the same Arts of the Ancient that Ross, Grant and Jules ran – and since Jules implied Ross had been doing dodgy deals – this could have been one of them. In which case, I've just told him the way to absolve his sins.

But he seemed so nice! So genuine! I realise with a pang of bitterness that that was what con artists are so good at. I've been had. And if he was capable of fraud on this scale, could he also be capable of murder?

'Oh dear, Spock,' I say mindlessly. 'What have I done?'

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2017

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello everybody and thanks for reading this far! A short chapter today, but we're just over the halfway mark and as ever I'm eager for your input. Even the smallest of feedback can make a huge difference to my confidence and also to the overall quality of the story. So don't be shy! Massive thanks to those who have already left reviews. I'd love to hear from more of you about how you think the story is going. Ciao for now. H.R. Aidan