Picture You Dead

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?’

‘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!’