‘Oh?’
He picked the dog bowls off the floor and, as they looked at him expectantly, scooped a generous amount of their dry food into each, took a packet of grated Cheddar from the fridge and sprinkled some over each portion. Rambo barked excitedly. Then he squeezed a couple of drops of hemp oil onto the biscuits in both bowls, something they’d read was good for their dogs’ health, made the dogs sit, set down the bowls on the floor and made them wait for a few moments before, with a sweep of his right arm, he said, ‘OK, Rambo, OK, Rocky!’
The dogs fell on their bowls as it they’d been starved for weeks. Hegarty switched on the coffee machine, then grabbed one of the chairs from the table, carried it over to the work surface and climbed onto it, balancing precariously.
‘What are you doing, darling?’ Natalie asked, alarmed.
‘Just getting this down.’ He reached up and gripped either side of the Banksy copy he’d made, of two policemen kissing, unhooked it and lifted it down. Then he climbed off the chair.
‘I liked it there,’ she said.
‘I’ll explain everything later, my love,’ he said and carried it through into his studio, removed his current work, the Lowry copy, from the easel and sat the Banksy there.
He hurried back into the kitchen, ignoring his wife’s quizzical gaze, made himself a double espresso while gobbling down a banana, then took his coffee back into the studio. Setting it down, he picked up a jar of acetone, selected a fresh paintbrush, dipped it in, and then began, gently coating a small area at the top of the Banksy with the chemical.
Within seconds, that part of the Banksy started to dissolve, revealing a section of the painting beneath. He coated a wider section with the acetone, and as more of the Banksy disappeared, more of the painting beneath, in all its brilliant colours and dense texture, was revealed intact.
In less than fifteen minutes, all traces of the Banksy were gone completely.
Despite the rush he was in, Hegarty could not help taking a couple of minutes to admire what lay beneath. It was sensational. He could actually understand anyone being desperate to own this. It was just glorious. Magical.
Then he set to work replacing the wooden frame with a gilded one, identical to the one which had been on the painting when Harry Kipling had brought it to him. He recalled Harry telling him, ironically, that he’d only bought the picture in the first place for the frame.
He stood back and allowed himself a few more precious moments to admire his handiwork. Or rather, the handiwork of one of the long-dead greats.
And despite the fear roiling through him, he couldn’t help himself, he was staring at it wistfully. Respectfully.
Secure on his easel in front of him was the original Fragonard painting of Summer that Harry Kipling had brought him to copy, five weeks ago.
94
Wednesday, 6 November
Outside the Kiplings’ house, Grace and Branson climbed back into their car. Branson, behind the wheel, said, ‘What do you think about their story?’
‘In what sense?’
‘Like, are they telling the truth?’
‘About the robbery?’
‘Uh huh. Exactly.’
‘Are you saying you think we’ve just been spun a load of bull?’ Grace quizzed.
Branson shrugged. ‘ABC, it’s what you’ve always taught me, boss, right?’
Shaking his head, Grace said, ‘Congratulations, it’s taken less than five years of being a detective to turn you into a cynic?’
‘Better than starting off as one from the get-go like you, right?’
Grace smiled. ‘I don’t think the Kiplings are lying. They’ve nothing to gain by giving us a made-up story. I think they’re real. It would be a different ballgame if the painting had been insured for big money.’
‘If you say so,’ Branson replied dubiously.
‘What’s making you so suspicious of them?’ Grace asked him.
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know, something doesn’t feel right about this. They buy a picture in a car boot sale that might be a fake, might be worth a fortune. Invent a tie-up robbery, hit the press and bingo, the picture must be genuine. Yeah? A clever marketing ploy.’
‘Maybe if they still had the painting, but they don’t.’
‘They say they don’t.’
Grace shook his head. ‘I don’t think the Kiplings are wide-boys. They’re just decent people, in my view, and they’ve been to hell and back.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Let’s get back to base, we’ve got our next briefing and I’ll need to update the ACC.’
For the next ten minutes as Branson drove, Grace made a series of calls. His first was to Jack Alexander, asking him to put back the time of their morning briefing to 9.30 a.m. and asking him to organize a substantial outside enquiry team to do a door-to-door around the vicinity of the Kiplings’ home.
Next, just as he was dialling Norman Potting’s number, the DS rang him.
‘Chief, I’ve just had a call from Forensic Services in Guildford. They’ve been experimenting with some new technology on that DNA on the restaurant bill that was in Charlie Porteous’s wallet, and they’ve got a match!’
‘Tell me?’ Grace asked.
‘I think you are going to like this, chief! It’s Ross Briggs.’
Grace thought for an instant. ‘The man who rented the garage for the Audi A6 from Ricky Sharp?’
‘It would appear to be the very same,’ Potting confirmed.
‘Ross Briggs,’ Grace said with clear recall and shooting a glance at Branson. ‘He’s an employee of Art Recovery UK Ltd of which the head honcho is Stuart Piper?’
‘Correct, chief. I have some more intel on him — and his brother — if you’d like to hear it?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘His brother, Maurice, is a total charmer, like Ross, as you know from when we met them. The twins used to have a security business, doing nightclub doors until they got done for GBH fifteen years ago. A nicer pair of identical twins we couldn’t ever hope to meet. Members of the National Front, they also used to advertise themselves on social media as the UK’s prime representatives of the Ku Klux Klan. They beat up a black kiddie pretty badly for no greater sin than he tried to enter a Brighton nightclub. The Briggs brothers got two years each, during which their creditors bankrupted their business. Since their release from prison, they have been employed by Art Recovery UK Ltd.’
Grace banged his right fist into his left palm, repeatedly, with excitement, thinking fast. ‘Good work, Norman. We know there’s another employee of this company, the American, Robert Kilgore. Kilgore and the two Briggs brothers fit the description of the offenders in a nasty tie-up robbery in Brighton last night that I’m about to brief everyone on. One of the witnesses heard the name Ross being used. It all fits. Straight away I felt they were connected. Luke was trying to establish Kilgore’s whereabouts, but it sounds like he’s in Brighton, or certainly was last night. I want you and Velvet to nick both Briggses on suspicion of the murder of Charlie Porteous. You’d better take a Public Order team with you in case they kick off. I’ll also have Kilgore arrested and brought in for questioning in connection with last night’s robbery. And I’ll ask Jon Exton to get a search warrant for Stuart Piper’s house.’
‘I think we might be a little late for that, chief,’ Potting said.
‘What do you mean?’ Grace quizzed.
‘Just had a call from Luke. Piper’s mansion, Bewlay Park, caught fire during the night.’
95
Wednesday, 6 November
At midday, as Daniel Hegarty, following the directions on his Touareg’s satnav, turned into Mackie Crescent, he was tormented by doubt. Was this really the right thing? During his time in prison, all those years back, at the same time as honing his painting skills in copying the greats of the past, he’d also tried to catch up on the education he’d missed out on at school, by reading avidly.