‘Oh I do, yes. But I’d like you to explain just what in hell’s name is this picture, Fragonard’s Summer, doing here?’
Both men were briefly distracted by the ping of the doorbell. Natalie would get it, probably the postman, or a delivery of materials, Hegarty thought. He breathed on his coffee to cool it down, then took a sip. ‘It’s a copy. Whenever I’m commissioned to make a copy of a very special painting, I make an extra for myself. It’s what they call in the rag trade cabbage. That’s when they’re making dresses, frocks, whatever, for a designer label, the factory pattern maker regularly over-estimates the amount of cloth they need and they make an extra one or two outfits for themselves, to sell on eBay or in markets. I do something similar with my art.’
‘And how do you tell these copies — cabbage — apart from the original — without lab analysis?’
‘That’s simple. Turn it over and look at the wooden frame of the stretcher.’
Kilgore complied.
Hegarty pointed at an almost microscopic groove in the right-hand cross-member. ‘That’s done with my fingernail, that’s how I tell.’
Kilgore nodded. ‘It’s an impressive copy. I’ve made a point of studying Fragonard’s brushstroke technique and you’ve darn well captured it. The frame’s not the right era, and it’s clearly not an old canvas, but otherwise it’s a great forgery.’
His words were praise delivered with glacial warmth.
‘I’ll take that as a big compliment, coming from you.’ Hegarty stared at him, his unease increasing. ‘So, you said you’ve come here to save my life. I’m all ears.’
The American’s demeanour changed in a way Hegarty couldn’t quite read. ‘Do you have a picture in your home that you value above all others, Mr Hegarty? Or, let me put that question to you another way: do you have a picture here in your home that is worth proper money? Perhaps your favourite painting?’
Without hesitation, Hegarty pointed at one hanging on the wall. It depicted a medieval troubadour in a red tunic and knickerbockers, playing the flute to a beautiful woman in a flowing red dress. She was seated on the ground, in a rural setting, with a man in a tricorn leaning over two more seated ladies and two children behind them. In the immediate background was a surreal latticed archway. Classic fête galante.
‘I thought you might choose this,’ Kilgore said. ‘Watteau. The original is in the Uffizi in Florence.’
Hegarty smiled wryly. ‘Or so the Uffizi thinks.’
Kilgore frowned. ‘I’ve much admired it. I make a point of going to see Botticelli’s Birth of Venus and this particular Watteau on every visit I make to that beautiful city — or a city that would be beautiful if it wasn’t for the constant noise of those infernal mopeds the Italians are obsessed with.’
Hegarty nodded, still smiling. ‘I’m glad to hear it, Mr Kilgore. It makes me happy to know you are able to admire my art when you go to Florence.’
Kilgore walked over to the painting and studied it closely. ‘Are you saying what I think you are, Mr Hegarty?’
He raised his arms defensively. ‘If you admire a painting and it gives you pleasure, does it matter whether it’s the original or a near-perfect copy?’
‘Of course it does,’ Kilgore snapped back with deepening iciness. ‘The original connects you to history, to the world as it was then. If it’s a fake, you are cheating everyone who admires it.’
‘Exactly.’ Hegarty nodded at the painting. ‘In which case, I’d strongly advise you to admire this version.’
Kilgore looked back at the painting and then at the forger. ‘You’re telling me that the Watteau in the Uffizi is a fake and this is the original here?’ he laughed.
Hegarty shrugged.
‘How in God’s name?’
‘I’m asked to copy paintings all the time, Mr Kilgore, mostly to save their owners money on the insurance, and mostly I do a clearly identifiable copy. But just occasionally I make a copy that no one can tell from the original.’ He smiled. ‘And I keep the original for a bit of fun.’
Kilgore looked up at it. ‘You realize what this painting is worth, if it is indeed the original, as you are suggesting?’
‘Of course. Fifteen, maybe twenty, million pounds, but I can never sell it, as you well know. This is one of the most documented and authenticated paintings in the world today. And here it is on the wall of a humble residence in Saltdean.’
Kilgore gave him a look that Hegarty interpreted as almost respect. ‘Well, I’m impressed, Mr Hegarty. If you are telling me the truth, I’m very impressed indeed.’
Hegarty shrugged again. ‘It’s what I do, Mr Kilgore. Can we now get to the point of your visit?’
An instant later there was a terrible scream. Natalie’s voice.
‘DAAAAN!’
71
Monday, 4 November
After he had updated the Acting ACC and obtained her agreement, Roy Grace returned to the next briefing meeting, deep in thought. The words of that sage, the thirteenth-century monk, William of Occam, who posited that the most obvious explanation for anything would usually be the correct one, resonated so often for him. He was looking for that obvious explanation now.
Archie Goff had been badly beaten. Had his assailants planned to kill him after torturing him, or were they just teaching him a lesson? Had his dying on them spared them the job of finishing him off — or had it created a major problem for them?
Or an opportunity?
Thinking out loud, he said, ‘Was Goff being given a punishment for crossing someone, or was he being tortured for information? If the latter, did his torturers get what they wanted before he died?’
‘Isn’t that level of brutality something we associate with Eastern European gangs, boss?’ Jon Exton, who had recently joined the investigation team, replied. ‘From what we know of Goff, he operated as a lone wolf burglar — he’s very unlikely to have been doing business with any of the gangs, he doesn’t have any past form for drugs, or people trafficking. That’s not his thing.’
‘What about if he’d burgled the wrong person?’ Jack Alexander suggested. ‘Perhaps the house of an Albanian mobster — someone like that?’
Grace nodded. ‘It’s a possibility.’
‘Should we look at all the reported burglaries of substantial properties in the time since Goff’s release from prison — and before he went in?’ Alexander suggested.
Grace nodded. ‘But if Goff upset someone enough to have all that done to him, the person he burgled isn’t necessarily the type to think of calling the police as their first resort.’
‘Good point, sir,’ Alexander conceded. Then he appeared distracted by his computer screen.
Grace thought hard again for some moments. ‘We need to try to establish what Goff’s torturers wanted and how many of them there were. Nadiuska identified fresh marks from restraints on Goff’s wrists, ankles and around his chest. I think it’s likely there was more than one person involved in his torture,’ he said to the team. ‘A minimum of two, maybe more.’
‘I agree, boss,’ Branson said.
‘I’m trying to put myself in the mindset of someone torturing their victim, either for retribution or to get information from them, and then their victim unexpectedly dying on them,’ Grace said. ‘They chose a street in a smart residential area. The only thing that makes any possible sense to me, as we discussed, is that this street was specifically chosen, for a reason. To make a statement? To Hegarty?’
‘We do know that some of the Eastern European gangs put bodies of people who’ve crossed them outside the homes of their enemies as a warning,’ Polly Sweeney said.
‘Yes, I’ve had experience of that,’ Grace said. Throughout his career investigating major crimes, he well knew that while every murder was a huge puzzle, hundreds and sometimes thousands of pieces that had to be painstakingly put together, often it was either a piece of sheer luck, or out-of-the-box, blue-sky thinking that ultimately nailed the offenders.