‘And your employer has put up my bail of fifty thousand quid because he would like me to take a better photograph of this painting?’
Kilgore scratched the back of his head evasively. ‘That’s pretty much it, yes. My employer knows the location of three of these paintings, Spring, Autumn and Winter. The one missing to make the series complete is Summer and he believes this might just be that painting.’
‘Where is it now?’
Kilgore smiled again. ‘Well, this is where you are going to earn your money. Our understanding is that you have a reputation as someone who knows how to enter a house, regardless of the alarm systems it may have, that is correct, sir?’
Archie looked back at him, thinking hard for some moments before he responded. ‘I have my methods.’
‘You worked as an apprentice then a master locksmith for some years, I believe?’
‘Correct,’ Archie said reluctantly.
‘Then more recently, after one of your – shall we say politely – regular residences in the establishment you have just left, you enrolled as a mature student in a City and Guilds electrician course, focusing on burglar alarm systems.’
Archie waited while his coffee and orange juice were served, then lowered his head and said, irritably, ‘You’ve done your research. Want me to give you a prize? Go ahead, choose from the middle shelf – a fluffy duck or a pink sheep or a goldfish in a bowl?’
Kilgore smiled, but this time it was a less friendly one, his teeth looking more piranha than gentleman. More Devil. And his tone matched. ‘Mr Goff, my employer did not put up this generous sum of money for your release in order to play games. He will expect value for his money, so can we stop right now the idea this is in any way – excuse my language – a pissing contest?’
Archie bristled. ‘Perhaps you could tell me your employer’s name?’
‘That is not something, for now, you need to know. If you are not happy with our terms, your chauffeur outside will return you to prison, my employer will withdraw his security and that will be the end of it. The choice is entirely yours. Are you in or out?’
‘Not much of a choice, is it?’ Archie said resentfully.
‘I would say, given your past form, it’s a better choice than you deserve, sir,’ Kilgore said, his tone becoming increasingly cold and hard.
Archie weighed the options in his mind. He could just walk out of this room and head home. But the menace in Kilgore’s tone suggested that would not lead to a good outcome. And he wanted, very badly, to spend some time free with Isabella, before his inevitable prison sentence when he was convicted. He shrugged. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘What exactly do I have to do?’
Kilgore leaned forward, picked up the brown envelope and removed from it some more photographs, which he laid out on the table, glancing a wary eye to ensure the server wasn’t returning. ‘Please take a look at these, Mr Goff.’
Archie picked up the first one. It was a photograph of a street he recognized immediately, lined on one side with similar-looking houses and bungalows. None of the properties were exactly grand, but Archie knew the street and knew they were all middle class and desirable.
‘Recognize where this is, Mr Goff?’
He nodded. He’d burgled several of these houses earlier in his career before he’d made a speciality in the rich pickings of grander country houses. ‘Yeah, Patcham.’
Kilgore looked pleased. ‘I understand from the research my employer has carried out that one of your first prison sentences was for breaking and entering in one of these houses, some thirty years ago?’
Archie stiffened. ‘How do you know that?’
‘I can assure you, Mr Goff, my employer did not get where he is today through poor research. He chose you because he believes you are the best person for this task. Please take a look at the next photograph.’
Archie lifted it up and it was a close-up of one of the houses. A Volvo estate and a Fiat 500 were parked in the driveway alongside a van. The corner property looked less well kept than most in this street.
‘How difficult would it be for you to gain access to this house, Mr Goff?’ Kilgore asked.
‘If your employer has done the kind of research you say he does, then I’m guessing he knows what security systems are installed, right?’
‘Oh yes. In the past three days extra security locks have been fitted to all doors and windows. A fake burglar alarm box has been installed. Additionally, a CCTV camera has been fitted.’
‘Urban properties aren’t my thing these days, Mr Kilgore. But I’m sure this one is possible.’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear that.’ Kilgore picked up the small leather bag on the table and handed it to Archie. ‘This contains a high-definition camera. I’m now going to instruct you on exactly the photographs my employer requires you to take of the Fragonard painting in this house. And anything else you can find that might tell us stuff of interest about the Kipling family, like financial documents – bank statements, things like that.’
‘And that’s all?’ Archie asked, almost incredulous. ‘You really just want me to take photographs? Not steal anything?’
The piranha teeth appeared again between Kilgore’s thin lips. ‘For stage one, yes.’ Then he patted the pockets of his jacket, momentarily looking more anxious than confident Devil. ‘What do you say about stepping outside for a quick smoke before your breakfast arrives?’
45
Thursday, 24 October
A note in Norman Potting’s diary told him that Stuart Piper had been scheduled to return from his second home in Barbados a few days ago.
The DS had originally planned to pounce on him on his first day back, hitting him hopefully at a disadvantage when he would be jet-lagged and not thinking as sharply as he might otherwise. But a series of medical tests on Potting’s suspected throat cancer had intervened and this was now his first opportunity. He was driving the unmarked Ford Focus along a narrow country lane accompanied by Velvet Wilde.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked her.
‘Going? With what?’ she asked spikily, in her Belfast accent. Although they’d been buddied-up several times recently, she’d still not warmed to the ageing, totally non-politically correct detective.
‘Your partner’s pregnancy. The IVF?’
‘Just had another failure,’ she responded gloomily. ‘How did your medical tests go?’ She looked at the moving arrow on the satnav. ‘We’re close now,’ she added.
‘It’s looking good. As I said to the boss, it may be just a polyp which the quack says could be removed easily, but I need some more scans and stuff.’
‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘That it might just be a polyp.’
‘Hopefully.’ He paused then said, ‘Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but if you need a donor, I’d always be up for it. You know, just to help out a colleague.’
For a moment she was floored, but not by his generosity. ‘Well, yep, thanks, Norman, but that won’t be necessary.’ She restrained herself from adding, not if you were the last man on earth.
Then she said, ‘Coming up on our left!’
They drove alongside a tall, imposing and clearly very old stone wall, topped with spiked defences, for several hundred yards, before they reached what looked like it must be the main entrance. A pair of closed wrought-iron gates set between pillars topped with stone balls, with a lodge just inside. A discreet sign, gold lettering on a black background, read BEWLAY PARK. Two CCTV cameras, perched like birds alongside the balls, looked down at them, and there was a phone panel inset on the right-hand pillar, with another camera.