She nodded. ‘It’s a nice dream, but how on earth would we start looking for the other three — even if they’ve survived?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know how the art world works. But if what we’ve found is original, who’s to say the other three aren’t out there somewhere? Maybe three other art collectors or museums that have one or more of them? Someone who has all three of the others who would jump at doing a deal?’
Freya shook her head. ‘You are right, my love, we have no idea how the art world works. And we don’t know anyone who does.’
‘We do,’ he replied. ‘I built an extension on his house in Saltdean, and did his loft conversion, about three years ago. He paid us in cash, fastest payer we ever had!’
‘Daniel Hegarty? The guy you called about the nail varnish?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘But he’s a complete crook, isn’t he?’
‘No, he was once, but not any more. He’s considered the best art forger in the country, if not the world. He can copy any painting and make it look even more authentic than the original. Collectors use him to make copies of paintings they own that are too expensive to insure, so they hang his copies in their homes and store the original in a bank vault.’
‘So how could he help us?’
‘I talked to him a lot when I was working on his house. He knows the art world inside out. I think he is the guy we need.’
‘To find the other three Fragonards?’
Harry shook his head. ‘Maybe even better than that,’ he said. ‘I have a plan. Trust me.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re going to commission him to forge the other three?’
He shook his head. ‘Just trust me.’
30
Monday, 30 September
The cortège proceeded slowly up the narrow hill, then came to a halt outside the thirteenth-century exterior of All Saints Church, Patcham. Roy Grace and Cleo sat in the first black limousine behind the hearse. On the seats behind them were Anette and Ingo Lippert, who had acted in loco parentis for Bruno when his mother, Sandy, had died in Munich. Between Anette and Ingo sat their son Erik, Bruno’s best friend. The three of them had flown over to attend the funeral and Grace was very touched that they had made the journey.
All of them were in sombre dark clothing. Roy Grace, wearing a dark suit and plain black tie, gripped Cleo’s hand tightly. She was dressed all in black, with a hat and veil.
Grace’s sister and her family were in the limousine behind, Sandy’s parents in the one behind that, followed by another containing Cleo’s parents, her sister, Charlie, and her boyfriend.
Throughout the journey from their cottage in Henfield, Roy had been mostly silent, staring fixated at the hearse in front of them, with the small coffin in the rear that was painted in the red and white colours of Bruno’s favourite football team, Bayern Munich, the lid decked in red and white flowers. Inside the coffin, accompanying Bruno on his final journey, was a framed photograph of the Bayern Munich squad, signed To Bruno, by each footballer — which Ingo Lippert had somehow obtained. There was a second signed and framed photograph with him also, from his local hero, Pascal Groß. The other item was a model Porsche 911 GT3, Bruno’s favourite car.
Everything was feeling surreal to him. This son who he hadn’t even known existed eighteen months ago was being buried today.
He’d originally wanted to be a pall-bearer, but Cleo had talked him out of it and now, numbly sitting here, occasionally looking down at the typed words of his brief eulogy on the two sheets of A4 paper, he was glad of his decision. With his emotions in utter turmoil, he really wasn’t sure he’d have been able to hold it together. He wasn’t even sure how he was going to get through the eulogy. Cleo had told him it didn’t matter if he faltered, or cried, whatever, they would understand. All of those at the funeral who had ever had to give one themselves would know how hard it was.
And, shit, it was really hard. Far, far harder than the funerals of his father and later his mother — at least they’d had reasonably long lives, but poor Bruno had had just eleven years.
They’d decided on this church, because it was where he and Sandy had been married, where they’d had the memorial service for her after her death and where she was now buried, in the pretty graveyard at the rear. Later, after the service, Bruno would be interred in a plot close to her.
The current vicar of All Saints had kindly allowed their friend, and the man who had married them, the Reverend Ish Smale, to officiate today. Ish was a former rock singer, who’d taken Holy Orders relatively late in life, and Roy and Cleo felt he would bring a personal touch and warmth to this service.
Looking to his right, through the side window, Roy Grace was surprised by the number of people present. Far more than he had been expecting were gathered on the grassy knoll outside the church.
The funeral home director, Thomas Greenhaisen, in black top hat and tails, opened the rear door on Cleo’s side and she slid out followed by Grace, squinting against the sudden, bright mid-morning sunlight, then politely waited for the Lipperts to climb out, too. The doors of the limousines behind were opened by identically dressed undertakers, and when all of them were out of their cars, Greenhaisen signalled for Roy and Cleo to follow him.
The crowd, which seemed even larger now, stood respectfully either side of the path. Grace could barely look at any of them as he walked side by side with Cleo towards the church’s main entrance. Colleagues and friends, among whom he clocked Michael and Victoria Somers and their daughter, Jaye — his god-daughter — who was looking startlingly grown up.
Heading up the path he noticed, attached to a fence to his right, a green defibrillator sign. Bringing the dead back to life, he thought.
As they reached the porch, where a top-hatted figure stood on either side, he was handed an order-of-service sheet, which he clutched as he was ushered down the aisle of the empty Norman interior of the church and shown where to sit in the front pew. The dry, faintly musty smell brought back so many contrasting memories. He and Cleo stood aside to allow the Lipperts to go in first, Anette, then Erik, followed by tall, charming Ingo, who paused to squeeze his shoulder and gave him a solemn but reassuring smile.
Cleo went in next, then he followed.
The three Germans immediately kneeled in prayer, joined by Cleo. Roy sat, uncertain whether he had anything to say to a God who had allowed his son to die, and looked down at the service sheet.
A smiling Bruno stared at him from the cover, a photograph he remembered taking himself, outside the towering south wall of the Amex Stadium. It was one of the many games they’d attended together, where Bruno had been so passionate about the new football team he’d adopted.
Grace stared at the photograph. Bruno’s fair hair was immaculate as ever, as he stood proudly in his blue and white Seagulls strip, arms behind him, beaming like he owned the place.
Below was his name, date of birth and date of death.
Death, Roy thought.
The past twenty years of his career had been all about death.
He unhooked the kneeler and went down on his knees, not because he had any religious views but because he could hear all the people shuffling in behind him, and he could not bear to face anyone.
Cupping his face in his hands, his eyes closed, blotting out everything, he kneeled and reflected. Life’s slender thread. We took our existence so much for granted, but it could be snuffed out in an instant. He was remembering two traffic officers he was friends with telling him of two fatals they’d attended in the same week. In both, a person driving on their own, along a straight stretch of road on a dry day, had veered across into the path of an oncoming lorry and been killed instantly. The subsequent investigations had shown that both the victims had been texting in the moments before the collisions.