Picture You Dead

79

Monday, 4 November

Harry Kipling had sat in the pub, deep in thought, nursing his single pint for much longer than he realized. It was 7.15 p.m. when he left, and the pub had filled up a lot in the past hour. He texted Freya that he was on his way.

Twenty minutes later he pulled the Volvo up on the forecourt of their house, in the gap Freya always left for him between her Fiat and his Hilux pick-up, and hurried to the front door. As he let himself in, she greeted him with a kiss, but looked concerned. ‘You’re late, darling, I was worried. How was your day?’

‘Sorry, had to have a drink with the quantity surveyor, Adrian, to discuss Vine Cottage.’

‘How did it go?’

He smiled and nodded. ‘Good. I have some interesting news! How was your day?’

‘Not great.’

He followed her through into the kitchen, and opened the fridge door. ‘Glass of wine?’

‘A large one, I need it.’

He unscrewed the cap of the South African Chenin blanc and poured a generous amount into a glass, then took a can of beer, popped it open, and carried both drinks over to the island unit. As they perched on the bar stools he asked, ‘What’s happened?’

Freya held up her phone and tapped the yellow LibreLink app. ‘Tom’s high-glucose alert has been pinging constantly all day. I think he’s going through one of his binge-eating moods,’ she said.

Harry shrugged. ‘Darling, we can’t blame him. Poor lad, all his mates are scoffing sweets and eating junk food crap and swigging sugary drinks, and he’s having to eat like a monk.’

‘There’s plenty of good choices he could make,’ she said.

Harry shook his head. ‘Not when all his mates are eating Haribo Tangfastics, Skittles or Fruit Pastilles, and chips smothered in ketchup, there aren’t. I remember when I was his age, that’s all the kind of stuff I wanted to eat.’

‘You weren’t a Type-1 diabetic, your pancreas could cope with all that rubbish. Tom’s can’t. I rang the head, and he really wasn’t that helpful. He said he’d tried to keep an eye on him, and insisted there are healthy options in the school canteen. I gave him a low-sugar meal when he came home tonight, grilled cod, broccoli and mash, and he looked at me like I was trying to poison him. He ate the mash, pointedly left the fish and broccoli, then took a Magnum from the freezer and went up to his room.’

‘He’s just trying to make a point.’

‘A point? What point?’

‘That he’s fed up being diabetic. That he feels it’s unfair, that he’s been dealt a shitty hand, which he has.’

‘And your point is?’

‘He’s pretty good most of the time. Every now and then he thinks, to hell with it! He’s a bright guy, cut him a little slack. He’ll get it, in time.’

She looked at him dubiously. ‘Now, Harry. Now’s the time, right? Diabetes attacks the extremities. If he doesn’t take care of it now, when he’s older he risks losing toes, having legs amputated and going blind.’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve been reading up a lot about diabetes. Whatever he does now is OK, not great, but OK. Once he’s north of thirty is the time to really start watching it.’

‘I hope to hell you’re right,’ she said. She sipped some wine, looking dubious. ‘So, you said you have some interesting news?’

He smiled. ‘I had a call from a guy at Bonhams, the auctioneers. Barnaby Jackson – one of the people I took the picture to. He said they’re having a major sale of paintings from that period in January, and they’d like to include ours!’

‘He did?’

‘He qualified it by saying if it is genuine. But he suggested that even if they couldn’t establish its provenance as a genuine Fragonard before the sale, they could put it in as “Fragonard or School of Fragonard”, and was confident it would go as that for somewhere between £200,000 and £750,000.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘So you are happy to forget trying to find the other three Fragonard Four Seasons paintings?’ she asked.

‘If you are, I am.’

‘You know I am, we’ve already discussed it endlessly. I’m not interested in millions, however nice that might be. Let’s get what we can for it now, and enjoy the money, right?’

‘Right!’ Harry agreed. ‘I’ll take it up to Bonhams tomorrow and they’ll have it for safe keeping.’ He opened his phone and called up the diary.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘I know it should be OK in that place in Worthing, but you do hear of these places being raided or burned down.’

‘And auctioneers never burn down or get raided?’ he said, smiling.

‘I guess – I... I’m just jumpy about everything at the moment.’

‘Oh shit,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘I’d forgotten I’m playing golf tomorrow – a charity tournament for the Martlets Hospice. I’ll take it on Wednesday or maybe Thursday, there’s no rush.’

‘The sooner we don’t have to worry about it, the better.’

‘We don’t need to worry about it now, darling, right?’

She shrugged.