Picture You Dead

91

Wednesday, 6 November

Rocky and Rambo raced each other up the vast Downland field, in yet another of their eternally futile attempts at catching a seagull, or indeed any kind of bird. Daniel Hegarty watched the creature wait until almost the very last second, as if taunting them, before taking majestically off and soaring high above them.

It was just gone 6.35 a.m. and the charcoal canvas of the pre-dawn sky was veined with thin streaks of yellow and red.

He should be feeling great. Yesterday he’d agreed a commission for a copy of a Norman Rockwell for a well-known actor, for £15,000. It was his third lucrative commission in as many weeks – and he was rapidly approaching the point where he was going to have to either turn down work or offer far longer lead times. But he was feeling far from great this morning, after his second sleepless night in a row. He was deeply troubled. Vexed.

Afraid.

A wintry chill blew through him as he stared, deep in thought, down at the houses of Saltdean and the grey water of the English Channel beyond. He’d tried to be too clever, he realized, and had crossed a line. Put himself into a place where he neither wanted to be nor needed to be, not at this stage of his life and his career.

When Harry Kipling had first brought the Fragonard painting to him, asking him to make a copy, he’d sensed a real opportunity. Kipling was a decent sort, and he’d done a good job on their building extension here, and at a fair price, but he was totally naïve about art. The builder had explained excitedly how he’d bought the picture in a car boot sale, then, after dissolving the ugly painting over it, the stunning work of art beneath had been revealed. He’d taken it to the Antiques Roadshow, where the expert had told him that, if genuine, it could be worth millions. But as Harry had told him, the expert on the show had been unable to ascertain then and there whether it was a genuine Fragonard or not.

That was when Hegarty spotted his opportunity.

Although commissioned to create one copy of the painting, for the Kiplings to display on their lounge wall as insurance while they stored the original safely, until they could get it authenticated or not, Hegarty craftily made two copies. The first, for the lounge wall, was a faithful reproduction, nice quality, but easily detectable as a fake to anyone who knew anything about art. But the second copy was a work he was immensely proud of, one of his finest ever. A true masterpiece!

He used his years of experience in art forgery, even down to his pièce de résistance – mixing pigments with a few clothing fibres from a smock from the mid-1700s, obtained from a mate who worked in the Brighton Museum.

He’d added a few touches to the reverse of the canvas, then, keeping the original himself, had handed both forgeries back to a delighted Harry.

His plan had been simple. Eventually Harry Kipling would attempt to sell the painting, probably through a major London auction house where it would be subject to intense scrutiny – carbon dating, spectrogram analysis and an assessment by a Fragonard expert. That expert, and Hegarty had a pretty good idea who would be called in, would pronounce that painting a fake because of the brushstroke technique – something Hegarty had done deliberately and very subtly, just here and there.

Hegarty’s plan had been at some point in the future to produce the original he’d secretly retained, which he was pretty sure was a genuine Fragonard. He would concoct a convincing story about its provenance and quietly sell it to one of his billionaire Russian or Chinese clients for handsome money. Enough money to never have to work again.

Millions!

But he hadn’t reckoned on someone already owning the other three works in the series, Spring, Autumn and Winter. A serious piece of work. Someone who, he had no doubt at all, would not stop at killing to get that fourth painting.

And it would not be long before Piper went after the Kiplings, just as he’d come after him, he thought with a twinge of guilt. And when Piper got his hands on the painting he’d know it was a fake.

Albeit a damned fine one.

And he would put two and two together.

Hegarty loved Natalie and he loved his life. He’d never met Stuart Piper but knew him by reputation. Billy the Brush had told him about two art dealers who had met with fatal accidents that Piper was reputedly behind. And there were possibly more. Hegarty knew from his own criminal background that some villains you could do business with, and some you couldn’t. The latter would kill anyone who didn’t give them what they wanted. Stuart Piper was one of those.

In the clouds high above he heard a plane. Probably out of Gatwick and heading south. Maybe that’s what he should do, jet off to somewhere in the sun with Natalie and lie low for a while? But he had a stack of commissions to fulfil, and he knew that running from a man like Piper would never set you free of him, it would just delay him catching up with you.

A warbling sound distracted him. His ringtone.

Puzzled about who might be calling at this hour, he dug his phone out of his pocket and looked at the display. It was Harry Kipling.

He hesitated. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He tried to think of the reasons Kipling might have to call him, and could only come up with one. The one he did not want to face. Ignore the call?

No, he was too curious. Taking a deep breath, he answered, trying to sound more cheerful and guileless than he felt. ‘Harry! How are you? Must be synchronicity, I was just thinking about you. To what do I owe this honour?’

The builder, sounding deeply distressed, apologized for calling him so early, then told him what had happened. When he finished, Hegarty said, ‘Shit. What a bummer.’

‘You could say that.’

‘You gave him the original, which you had in the secure unit?’

‘I didn’t have any choice, Daniel. These guys were proper scary, you know? I think they would have killed Tom, our son, if I hadn’t done what they demanded.’

‘God, I don’t know what to say, Harry,’ he replied, and at this moment he didn’t. He saw his dogs chasing a rabbit, which to his mild relief vanished down a hole. ‘Do you have any idea who these people were, Harry?’

‘No, I just thought I’d call you in case you have any idea.’

‘Can you describe them?’

‘One, the bastard in charge, was American. Tall, creepy, he had a kind of Southern accent, but I never saw his face. They were all wearing balaclavas. The other two were like henchmen – bouncer types. One of them was called Ross or something like that.’

The cold wind blowing through Hegarty just got colder. ‘Doesn’t ring any bell with me,’ he lied. ‘I’m sorry, Harry, but it doesn’t sound like anyone I’ve ever had dealings with. What did the police say?’

‘Nothing really. They’ll do their best, and all that. It’s been handed over to their Major Crime Team, whatever that means, and we’re all going to be interviewed in depth later today.’

‘How’s your wife and your boy?’ Hegarty asked, doing his best to sound sincerely concerned, and that wasn’t hard – he was seriously concerned, not only for the Kiplings, but for himself and Natalie.

‘Pretty bloody traumatized.’

‘I can only imagine, what an ordeal. That’s terrible, Harry. And you’ve lost the painting?’

‘Both of them. God knows how much the original is worth.’

‘And you didn’t insure it?’

‘No, as I told the police, we didn’t know what value to put on it. And if it was worth millions, I probably couldn’t have afforded the insurance anyway. That’s why I had you make a copy, so I could put the original in a safe place.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’ Hegarty asked, his mind in turmoil too now, his worst fear confirmed.

‘No, I... I just called you on the off-chance you might know something.’

‘I so wish, Harry. This is terrible. I wish I did know these people, I really wish I bloody did. I wish I could do something for you.’

‘Maybe you could speak to your contacts in the art world in case any of them get offered the painting – they might try to offload it quickly.’

‘Of course, Harry, I’ll make some discreet calls – I’ll bell you if I have any luck.’

‘Thanks, I’d really appreciate that.’

Hegarty ended the call with a storm of panic raging through him. This was happening sooner than he’d feared. When Piper realized what he had was a fake, and for sure he would, he would almost certainly come after him. And next time his window cleaners might not be around. Nor anyone else.

He called the dogs. Whistled. Called them again, urgently. He wanted to get home – he had an idea. It wasn’t ideal but it might work. He’d always subscribed to the view where possible that if you wanted to conceal something, hiding it in plain sight was often the best idea.

He glanced at his watch. The robbery had taken place around 9 p.m. last night, from what Harry had told him. With luck Piper wouldn’t see the painting until this morning. Then it would take him time to get the American and the henchmen for a return visit to his own house. He could just give them the painting and hope that would be the end of it, but screw that. Not after their threats to his darling Natalie and himself. He wasn’t going to give those bastards anything.

The more he thought about his plan, the more he liked it. As he headed back down the hill, the dogs lured by a biscuit each, he smiled. It was the first time he’d smiled in two days.