Picture You Dead

11

Sunday, 22 September

‘What do you mean?’ Freya said, standing a short distance back. ‘Something underneath? Like a palimpsest?’

Harry was beaming with excitement. ‘A what?’

‘A palimpsest – it’s when you have a piece of paper – or parchment – with writing on, that’s overwritten something else that was there before. But where if you look closely, you can see the original text beneath – or an impression of it.’

‘Exactly – but in this case in paint. Look at the centre of the woman’s face.’

She stared hard. At the jagged, roughly circular gap inside the blackened edges, at the space where most of the face had been. Replacing it was an exquisitely detailed painting of part of a tree, part of a woman’s arm, and what looked like sunlit water beyond. After some moments she said, ‘You’re right, there is something underneath. Very definitely.’

‘What if it’s a long-lost old master?’

She gave him a reproachful look. ‘Really? In a car boot sale?’

‘It does happen, we’ve seen it on Antiques Roadshow, right?’

‘We’ve also seen on Fake or Fortune? where people have bought what they thought was an old master, and which turned out to be a fake,’ she said. ‘Someone probably painted over it because it was a rubbish picture.’

He carried the painting out into the darkness of the hallway, laid it against the bottom of the staircase, safely away from light, then hurried upstairs to his den, grabbed his laptop and went back down into the conservatory. He sat on the sofa, flipped open the lid and began tapping the keys.

‘What are you doing?’ Freya asked.

‘Googling,’ he replied. ‘I’m looking up solvents that could dissolve a surface painting.’

‘To reveal whatever’s underneath?’

‘Exactly.’

She looked at him dubiously. ‘My love, you’re a house builder, not a picture expert. You don’t want to risk damaging what’s underneath – on the one in a million chance there is something of value. If you’re not careful you’ll dissolve what’s underneath, too. You’d be better off looking up picture restorers. Talk to a professional. Maybe you should take it to an expert, to see what they think.’

He cocked his head quizzically. ‘So, you actually believe there might be something of value, do you?’

She shook her head. ‘One in a million is what I said.’

‘Yep, well, right now I’ll take those odds.’

She gave him a strange look. ‘Something I should know about?’

‘No – I – you know – was just thinking wouldn’t it be amazing if we found we had something of real value. It does happen.’

‘Who was that guy you did the extension for a couple of years ago? The famous art forger – in Rottingdean?’

‘Saltdean,’ he replied.

‘What was his name – Daniel something?’

Harry nodded. ‘Hegarty. Daniel Hegarty.’

‘That’s it. He copied all kinds of artists, didn’t he?’

‘Yeah, he’s really good.’ Harry nodded. ‘These days he makes good money by faking old paintings but signing them himself – his DH signature now has kudos – he has quite a celebrity clientele.’

‘So, he’d probably know how to remove a surface painting, don’t you think? Would he tell you?’

‘Brilliant idea!’ Cricket forgotten as well as the barbecue, he pulled up his contacts list on his phone. ‘I’ll bell him.’

Ten minutes later, ending the call to a very chatty Hegarty, Harry beamed at his wife. ‘He’s told me exactly what to do – acetone and cotton buds! He says it’ll dissolve anything relatively recent, but if the painting beneath is genuinely old, it will be so hardened the acetone won’t touch it. He said to do it slowly, bit by bit.’

He shot a glance at Tom who, oblivious to the excitement, continued to lie on the sofa, the world around him blotted out by his headphones. Whether he was watching the cricket or simply staring at the back of his own eyeballs, Harry had no idea.

‘Where can you get acetone from?’ he asked.

She smiled. ‘Simples – my dressing table. Nail varnish remover.’