UNCLE GEORGE  [Part 10 & Resoution]

By Richard Banks  

We awake to find the window wide open and the sun streaming in between curtains we have neglected to draw. It’s ten thirty and after a half hearted attempt to clear-up we begin the journey back to London and our jobs, which despite the upturn in our fortunes may still be needed.

         On Wednesday we read about us in the on-line editions of the Chronicle and Echo, and by Friday we have reporters from the London papers wanting to speak to us. Of Carew there is no mention. This can only be good news. For him our meeting on Saturday will be about what he thinks can be salvaged from his shabby attempt to defraud us. We can hardly wait to see the look on his face now we have the better of him, but when we get to the road running past the Gallery we find it taped off and a policeman on sentry duty. There’s smoke in the air and ash on the ground. A short distance away a thin plume of smoke is wafting up from the blaze that, although hidden by the bend in the road, can only be that of the Gallery.

         A fire engine departing the scene pulls up on the other side of the tape and the policeman lets it by. We, however, are informed that the road is closed and that we can not pass. We turn around, find a parking place several streets back and return on foot to find the tape back in place but the policeman missing. A trickle of people are taking advantage of his absence to slip by unchallenged. We join them and on arriving at the entrance to the Gallery stare across the car park at the charred remains of the gutted building.

         The wrought iron gates at the entrance to the car park are closed and one of the two policemen standing there tells us that the road is shortly to be reopened and that, for our own safety, we must stand on the far pavement. Any hope of this happening is thwarted by the arrival of further sightseers who finding no space on the pavement have no choice but to spill out onto the road. Among them is a familiar figure who, is walking boldly down the centre of the road. On being saluted by one of the policeman he addresses them in the genial fashion for which he’s now well known. It’s Callow who takes it upon himself to address the crowd and request their dispersal. The fire, he says, is as good as out and the embers must be left to cool. An official statement will be made later that day, until then there is nothing more to be said or seen. The crowd evidently agree and after taking the usual selfies begin to drift-off in the direction they have come. As the crowd thins he spots us and saunters over.

         “Thought I would find you here,” he says. “As you can see your 2 o’clock has been cancelled. I’m afraid you will have to make do with me instead. Why don’t we have a bite to eat at that nice restaurant we were at last Monday. I’ve got quite a lot to tell you.”

         “What’s happened?” asks Ally whose initial bewilderment is beginning to give way to panic. “Has everything been destroyed?”

         “You mean has your precious picture perished in the flames. Alas, the fire spread too quickly, for anything to be saved. But before we get on to that, and while there’s no one within earshot, let’s talk about that letter informing your uncle of his lottery win. You might have got away with it but for the fact that criminals like the Beale’s know many other criminals and once they decided to check-out your story it didn’t take too long before they came across the forger who did it. Unsurprisingly, this led them to believe that the picture had been purchased by your uncle with money they regard as belonging to themselves. A subsequent meeting with Carew was more than enough to confirm their suspicions. Sadly it appears that he was still in the building when the fire took hold.

         “You mean, he’s dead?” Says Ally struggling to get the words out.

         “No doubt about it, I have it on good authority.”

         “You mean the Beale’s? Was it them who did this?”

         “Let’s walk. There’s someone I want you both to meet - the reason why we are having this conversation. Mr Kovac is his name, not his real name of course, but it will do. Mr Kovac is an art dealer on the black web, with clients in the far east, who is keen on adding your picture to the many others he has sold into private collections. While he is not adverse to a fire sale he is less than convinced that what we are offering him is what was in the Gallery until yesterday. We thought that if he was to meet you, the present owner and hear you say that we’re acting on your behalf we would then be able to agree a deal.” 

         “And why should I do that?” I say.

         “Why not. It’s win, win. You receive the insurance money for the picture while the Beale’s get to keep the money Mr Kovac will be giving them. Anyway, what’s the alternative? Do you really want to get on the wrong side of the Beales? You know what they can do. Why put yourselves at risk? No, better if you meet Mr Kovac, tell him that you are willing participants in our little enterprise, then we all walk away much better-off than we were before. Come on now, you know it makes sense. Indeed, given the circumstances, the Beale’s have been unusually generous.”

         It was an offer not to be refused, so we said yes, what else could we do? Our meeting with Mr K, his accountant and a large, muscular man with a boxer’s face lasted little more than thirty minutes, and on eating next to nothing of our meals, we returned to Petherdale.

        

                              

                                    UNCLE GEORGE      [Final Resolution]

The prospect of remaining in Norfolk was now less than appealing and having put Uncle’s  house up for sale we departed back to London hoping against hope that we had seen the last of Callow and the Beale’s. The insurance claim that Mr Wells submitted on our behalf was settled a year later after the various investigations into the fire found no evidence of wrong doing. Of Carew nothing was found beyond charred fragments of bone from which it was not possible to extract DNA.

         We invested our ill-gotten gains in a Surrey mansion but otherwise did nothing likely to come to the attention of the Beale’s who we feared might still do us harm. Thankfully they never have. Others have not been so lucky. In 2021 Seth Beale, the second son of Frankie, was tried at the Old Bailey for murder but discharged when the main witness for the prosecution went missing, never to be seen again. It was in newspaper coverage of the trial that we learned that Frankie had died of a heart attack. While this at first seemed like good news the downside was that his sons were now in charge and, with no fond memories of ‘good old George’, might be thinking that our deal with their father was too generous to ourselves. Six years on from our altercation in a narrow country lane will not have been forgotten.    

         When my firm decided to set-up a new office in Prague I volunteered to help set it up, and Ally, who was in between jobs, came too. It was at the Havelska Market that we made fleeting contact with someone who had even more reason than ourselves to be keeping a low profile. The look of horror on his face when our eyes met was more than enough to tell me that this was no doppelgänger; Carew was alive and, judging by the way he was dressed, doing very nicely. On the crowded pavement he was past us and out of sight in seconds.

         It did not take us long to realise that if Carew was ever to be apprehended by the police what he had to say might well invalidate our insurance claim and send us to prison. Did the Beale’s know he was still alive - they who were supposed to have murdered him? Was there anything that made sense and might not, one day, become a danger to ourselves? It was with a sense of things unravelling that we returned to England in 2023 determined to live our lives to the full and without fear of things we were powerless to prevent. We cherish every day.                                                                    

                                                      *****      

         This document, relating mainly to the events of April 2015, has been lodged with the HSBC bank along with our separate wills which Ally insisted we make following the birth of our son, David George. It is to be handed to him, or his guardian, on the passing of both his parents.

         Having set out the circumstances by which we acquired our fortune my intention has been to both inform and forewarn. If read many years from now, its only function will, I hope, be to entertain - a ripping yarn in which his parents had the starring roles. As outcomes go there can be none better.

 

                                                                                          Phillip Jones

                                                                                            14^th March 2024.

 

[This paper handed to Mr Joseph Jones, executor of Mr Phillip Jones and guardian of his only child, David George, at the reading of the testator’s will on 12^th February 2025 – Caldow & Brent, sols.] 

 Copyright Richard Banks