‘We talked to one lady a few doors up, who’s obsessed with people who let their dogs foul pavements, sir,’ the DS said. ‘She’s a little eccentric in my opinion.’ He glanced at Polly Sweeney who nodded in confirmation and Alexander continued. ‘She has an outward-facing CCTV camera covering the pavement in front of her house and the road beyond, which is there mainly to spy on a neighbour, who she’s convinced deliberately gets his German Shepherd to dump outside her house every evening around 7 p.m. We spoke to her at approximately 8 p.m. last night. She said she’d been reviewing the footage and a white van she didn’t recognize drove past at approximately 6.45 p.m. She claims to know every car and van in her neighbourhood, and this one struck her as odd, especially at that time on a Saturday evening.’
Sweeney took over. ‘She invited us in, to view the footage. The vehicle was a white Ford Transit with no markings. The number plate was recorded but in poor lighting, with a couple of options on one of its numbers and one of its letters. Jack and I ran both through the PNC and came up with two possible vehicles, one belonging to an electrician in Brighton, the other to a funeral director in Eastbourne. We’ve managed to speak to the owners of both, and we’re pretty confident that neither were in Saltdean Saturday evening.’
‘The van was on cloned plates?’ Grace asked.
‘Looks like it, sir,’ Sweeney replied.
‘Good work, Polly and Jack,’ he said, then reflected on this development.
Nadiuska had estimated, very roughly, that Goff’s body had been dumped sometime between 6 and 9 p.m. yesterday evening. And during that time a van, on possibly cloned plates, drove in the direction of the deposition site. ‘Do you have anything more on this van?’ he asked them.
‘No, sir,’ Alexander said. ‘But we’ve been checking the serials for any similar vans that might have been stolen in the Sussex area during the past week, and we’ve been on to — and are still working through — all the local and regional car rental companies that might have rented out a vehicle of this description. We have one so far, from SIXT.’
Grace had long thought that Jack Alexander had a big future as a detective and this latest initiative reinforced that even more. He always acted on his initiatives. ‘Have SIXT got any CCTV, Jack?’
‘They have, sir. They record every customer. Polly and I are hoping to get the CCTV of the one who rented their Transit two days ago, later this morning.’
‘Great stuff. I’m going to see the ACC and suggest it’s about time we merged the investigations. I’m pretty confident she’ll agree.’
70
Monday, 4 November
Hegarty led Kilgore into the open-plan living area, with its magnificent view through the picture-window across to Saltdean Lido and the English Channel beyond, and then into an adjoining room. The bare, stark concrete walls with no windows made it feel like being inside a cave, which was exactly how the artist felt every time he came in here. His man-cave, the place where he was most inspired, away from all distractions.
Copies of paintings, including a Banksy, were among many other works stacked higgledy-piggledy against the walls. Wooden bookshelves on three of the four walls heaved under the weight of reference books on great painters past and modern.
Next to them was a shelf laden with technique manuals. One was titled Master Class in Seascape Painting, another Anatomy Perspective Composition, and above those, Dog Painting — the European Breeds, Techniques of the World’s Greatest Painters and Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century Colour Palettes. They were weighted down by a small, plump, white bag labelled L. Cornelissen & Son, Genuine White Marble Dust. Medium. 1 Kilogram.
Another shelf contained glass jars with brushes of every size in cleaning solution, as well as a rack of palette knives. And in the centre of the room stood a paint-spattered easel, on which was mounted an elaborate Lowry, evidently a work in progress, as some of the dozens of thin figures populating what looked like a factory forecourt had not yet been coloured in.
The tart reek of stale cigarette smoke on Kilgore’s clothes mingled with the smells of oil paint and turpentine. The American looked around in wonder, as he did every time he came here, into the master’s inner sanctum. ‘Banksy now?’ he said.
‘Uh huh.’
‘Oh boy, Mr Hegarty, is there any artist, past or present, you can’t copy?’
Hegarty smiled, waiting for Kilgore to get to the point of his visit, but the man seemed in no hurry. ‘I can copy anyone. But if you want me to forge something that a world authority on the artist could trust, then yes, there is a limit. It’s hard to buy canvases dating back much before the sixteenth century. So if you wanted me to fake a Giotto, who was painting back in the fourteenth century, I’d have to level with you and say I could do an exquisite copy, but not a fake that would stand up to analysis.’
Kilgore walked across the room and looked at the densely stacked rows of framed and unframed canvases leaning against the walls. Without being invited, he lifted a few blank canvases out of the way and began rummaging through a stack of paintings behind them.
‘You said you’ve come here to save my life, Mr Kilgore.’
The American took his time before responding, picking his way through several paintings — all bearing the Daniel Hegarty signature. ‘Mr Hegarty, I can assure you this is why I am here.’ His focus immediately returned to the paintings. He looked at several Hegarty-signed Picassos. After some moments, he said, ‘You know, I always thought Picasso was a bit of a jerk and so overrated. Hell, the guy signed napkins in restaurants instead of paying the bills. You ever tried doing that?’
‘I’ve dined out courtesy of Señor Picasso plenty of times,’ Hegarty replied with a cheeky grin. ‘He’s been good to me.’ But despite his humour, he was feeling increasingly uncomfortable having this man in his house, in his cave. And the tone of his voice wasn’t helping. Despite Kilgore’s exaggerated politeness, Hegarty felt a growing sense of menace.
‘Is there a dead artist of stature who hasn’t been good to you, Mr Hegarty?’ Kilgore challenged.
‘I’ve not tried the Mona Lisa yet — Leonardo set the bar pretty high, although I’ve heard rumours that the one in the Louvre might be a fake — a very fine copy. What do you think?’
Kilgore nodded thoughtfully. ‘Nothing ever surprises me in the art world, Mr Hegarty. But then, nothing ever surprises me about conspiracy theory, either.’
‘How about you and your boss commission me to paint the original?’
‘Very witty,’ he replied, with no trace of humour now in his voice. He flipped around a canvas that was face-in to the wall. ‘Well, hey, what do we have here?’
At that moment, Natalie appeared with a tray, and set down mugs and a plate of biscuits on a small table.
Hegarty blew her a kiss of thanks.
She mouthed back, ‘I’m off to the S.’
Natalie volunteered as a Samaritan. Their rule was that they always remained anonymous — just in case someone who knew them rang in.
Hegarty blew her another kiss, deeply proud of the tough and incredibly worthwhile work his wife did, then turned to Kilgore, who was studying the painting carefully. As she left the room, he asked, in a distinctly abrasive tone, ‘You want to explain just what this is exactly, Hegarty?’
After his wife’s footsteps had faded away, Hegarty replied, ‘Mr Kilgore, I have a busy morning — do you want to get to the point?’