Picture You Dead

76

Monday, 4 November

Harry Kipling never normally stopped off at a pub for a drink on his way home. Nor was he much of a person for drinking alone, but at this moment he felt badly in need of a pint. Needed to think. Needed some Dutch courage before telling Freya the bloody awful news.

Just one pint then he’d go home and face the music. Shit, what a day. And with the clocks having recently gone back it was dark as he drove towards Brighton, passing the bleak, vast hulk of the long-closed cement works on his left.

Vine Cottage in Steyning had turned in the past days from a minor disaster into a bigger one, and he cursed himself. If only he hadn’t tried to cut corners and make a quick profit, all this could have been averted. But now the structural engineer had glumly informed him that as a result of knocking down the end wall, the house needed to be underpinned. The occupants had been advised to move out and stay in a hotel until it was made safe. He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to explain to Freya that he was now likely to at best break even on this project and more likely make a loss.

At the large roundabout, instead of turning onto the A27 dual carriageway and the quick route home, he chose the coast road, making for a pleasant-looking pub he’d driven past dozens of times, but had never been inside. It was just past 5.30 p.m. and the forecourt was almost empty. He parked, went inside, ordered a pint of Harvey’s in a jug, ignoring a couple of pub bores who were arguing with the landlord about a new striker Brighton and Hove Albion had paid big money for, and took his drink over to a table in a deserted corner.

As he sat down, his phone rang. It was a number he didn’t recognize and he hesitated, debating whether to hit the decline button, but instead he answered it, warily, just in case it might be a new potential client. ‘Hello?’

He heard a buoyant, forceful male voice he vaguely recognized. ‘Mr Kipling?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Barnaby Jackson!’

‘Yes, hello,’ he replied, trying to place the name as well as the voice.

‘From Bonhams in London.’

Now it clicked. ‘Ah, yes, hello.’

‘How are you doing, Mr Kipling?’

‘Yep, OK,’ he responded.

‘Have you had a good day?’

‘Actually, I’ve had better.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. I was wondering if you still have that painting you brought along to us, the one that might be an original Fragonard?’

‘Actually yes, I do.’

‘Have you been able to establish anything more about its provenance, Mr Kipling?’

‘I’m afraid not, nope, it’s pretty much as you saw it.’

‘Well, OK, good. Fine. My colleagues and I have been doing some research and we are pretty certain it could well be authentic. The reason I’m calling is we have a major sale of art from the fête galante period coming up and I thought it might be of interest to you to consider entering this work.’

‘Really?’ He spoke quietly, although the only other people in the saloon bar were still engaged in their discussion with the landlord.

‘This will be the biggest sale of works of this period for some years and we’ll have the top buyers from around the world bidding. There won’t be an opportunity like this, to get top money for this picture, for some while. Obviously, we’d need to run further checks on its authenticity, but I thought I’d give you the chance to consider it for inclusion in this sale. That is of course if you haven’t already made other plans for it?’

‘No, my wife and I haven’t,’ Harry replied, perking up a little. Maybe this was the solution to his problems. So long as the experts Bonhams consulted gave the painting the thumbs-up.

And if they didn’t?

Then no one else would and they’d be no worse off. He didn’t need to speak to Freya, he knew what she would say. Sell it!

‘When is this auction happening?’ he asked.

‘23 January. So we have plenty of time to get its authenticity and provenance checked.’

23 January, Harry thought. Nearly three months away. Hopefully the bank would support them until then. ‘Could you send me an email with your thoughts on the value this could realize, if genuine?’

‘Absolutely!’ Barnaby Jackson replied.