Vanished

Chapter 42

Adam had then sent a one-word text message from the quad bike as he hurtled back towards his studio:

This was an escape that had been planned from the moment he arrived, but he’d put it into action when he’d left his studio to take the phone call.

Adam moved quickly yet calmly, stacking all of the artwork into one single pile leaning against the wall nearest the back door. Ten minutes later, he was supervising the removal of his precious cargo. The painting on the easel was the last item to go — an almost finished Modigliani. Adam smirked at the thought of Jack being so close to it, without ever asking to see beneath the muslin. Frederick Jenkins had taught Adam well, and he’d been an exceptional and obsessive student.

From a wall safe Adam removed ten passports — more superb fakes. These were ‘fog’ passports, created during the genuine online renewal process, using the substitute photograph of a fraudulent applicant. He put all of this into a leather shoulder bag, together with around 300,000 in US dollars, Irish euros and English pounds. The castle that Adam had joked about wasn’t a lie at all. It was a modest chateau in the south of France, complete with cannabis farm. And he also had a large apartment in Amsterdam; in fact, it was the penthouse apartment in the very building Anik had visited with Lieutenant Visser. Of course, neither property was in the name of Adam Border.

Jack got a direct flight back to London, using the one hour and twenty minutes to arrange his thoughts. He had originally assumed that his biggest problem when he returned would be justifying his Irish trip to Ridley. Now he’d have to explain why he let Adam go, for the sake of catching Avril’s killer.

He hoped and prayed to any god who’d listen that Adam Border sent the video footage as he’d promised. Without it, everything rested on getting a clear print off the fire poker. It was now clear that the poker found in the en suite off Avril’s master bedroom was not the murder weapon at all. Jack replayed in his mind the moment that Jag used one finger to straighten the poker on the wall, and the importance of it gave him palpitations.

Jack had packed very carefully, wrapping the cardboard tube in a plastic bag with the sole intention of preserving Adam Border’s fingerprints. Jack would honour the 24-hour head start in order to get the video but, as soon as he had it, he’d make it his mission to find Adam and bring him in.

Jack strode from the airport, knowing that Ridley would be waiting for him. Jack had texted just before his flight took off:

And sure enough there he was, parked in the pick-up area. Jack threw his bag and the cardboard tube into the boot then jumped in the front. ‘We need to get to Avril’s house, sir. I’ll explain everything on the way.’

In the 30-minute drive to Kingston, Ridley didn’t utter a single word. He just listened. Jack omitted the conversation he and Adam had had about parents, upbringing, absent fathers, but everything else was relayed in perfect detail.

Once at Avril’s house, Ridley got a large evidence bag from the boot of his car and they headed towards the open front door. Arnold Hutchinson was sitting on the third stair up. ‘Your call was most intriguing, DCI Ridley. Why are we here?’ Whilst Ridley paused to thank Arnold for opening the house at such short notice, Jack continued into the lounge. The poker, like all of the houses’ contents, was still in place, the entire property being in limbo during the wills dispute.

Jack pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, lifted the poker carefully by the handle and lowered it into the evidence bag. Jack turned to Ridley.

This was currently their only chance of identifying Jag. The video footage would give them facial identification on all of the killers, and it would give them Jag’s number plate when he drove away just before the greenhouse explosion — but right now, the poker was the only physical evidence they had. All they needed was a twelve-point match to Mahoney and they had him.

Jack headed out, followed by Ridley who thanked Hutchinson again for his cooperation.

Jack laid the poker carefully in the boot of Ridley’s car. His cheeks were flushed. He was eager to get back to the station and hand the poker over to forensics. ‘Go home, Jack.’ Ridley was firm: this was an instruction. ‘I’ll rush the poker through with Angel. Tomorrow, get in early. By then we’ll have a name on the print. And, by midday if Adam’s as good as his word, we’ll have the video.’ Ridley was desperate to clear the decks and take Jack to task over his unforgivable level of insubordination — from going to Ireland, to allowing an art thief to walk away — but, right now, he wanted Avril’s killer just as much as Jack did.

When Jack got home, Maggie was on the sofa with her feet up, a white wine spritzer in her hand and a bowl of crisps balanced between her thighs. Hannah was curled up at the other end of the sofa watching Peppa Pig through very tired eyes. She was determined to stay awake, however, as Maggie had told her that Daddy was on his way home.

Jack bundled in through the front door, dropping his bag and the cardboard tube in the hallway. Hannah struggled to her feet, looked over the back of the sofa then bounced up and down on the cushions. ‘Peppa! Peppa!’ she squealed, which Jack, of course, heard as ‘Papa! Papa!’ He beamed, landing a huge kiss on her nose. Maggie crossed her legs, making room for Jack to sit in between the two of them. She was presented with a bottle of Tom Ford perfume and Hannah was given a teddy bear wearing a green hat. She wrapped it in her arms and settled back down to watch the television again.

Jack placed the silver Celtic brooch he’d bought for Penny onto the coffee table and leant over Maggie’s crossed legs, spilling the precariously balanced bowl of crisps into her crotch. Neither of them cared as he gently kissed her. ‘I missed you.’

‘You hungry? I waited for you.’

Jack picked up a crisp from between Maggie’s legs and ate it. ‘So, I see.’

An hour later, Hannah was asleep, Maggie was scrolling through Netflix to find a horror film and Jack was ordering the Chinese takeaway. Penny had been and gone — her yoga started at seven, then she was heading to the pub for a drink with a group from her class. She’d tucked her brooch into the inside pocket of her handbag, so she could show it off later.

As was always the way when watching a film with Maggie, halfway through she worked out the ending, got bored and started talking, despite the fact that Jack was still engrossed.

‘You’ll never guess what’s happened now.’ Jack continued watching the film and eating, whilst he listened. He could guess what she was going to say. ‘Elliot Wetlock’s only gone and resigned. I mean, he’s jumped before he could be pushed, I’m guessing, but you should have heard him. He was actually humble. He apologised to everyone for the inconvenience he’d caused by his constant absences and thanked us for our understanding and brilliant work during the pandemic. Then he did this.’

Maggie reached beneath the sofa cushion she was sitting on, and handed Jack the Evening Standard, already turned to page five. The headline read: SURGEON ADMITS TO HIS PART IN DAUGHTER’S SUICIDE. It was not what Jack had expected Maggie to tell him. Wetlock had presented himself at Hammersmith police station and asked to speak with the detective in charge of the case. He’d admitted supplying his daughter with barbiturates which, although illegal, he’d done on medical grounds to help her through some very tough times. He claimed to have had no clue that she had been storing them up with the intention of taking her own life.

‘What a load of bullshit!’ Jack shouted making Hannah stir in her sleep. ‘He was keeping her addicted, the sick bastard and, in the end he...’ Jack was just about to launch into a tirade of abuse about how criminal and perverted it was for a father to stick a diazepam suppository up his own daughter’s arse with the intention of killing her, when he stopped himself. Maggie didn’t need to know. Not tonight. And not from him.

She agreed that there was definitely something very wrong with Wetlock and his daughter’s relationship, but she also clung onto the last remnants of loyalty she felt towards her old mentor. ‘He was an exceptional surgeon whose training I’ll value forever. Shame he also turned out to be a bloody weirdo. Based on his behaviour in recent months, the hospital breathed a communal sigh of relief that he’s gone, if I’m honest.’

Maggie nibbled on the final piece of prawn toast as she got round to asking Jack about his trip to Ireland. What she specifically wanted to know about was the hotel he’d suggested might be nice for a mini honeymoon. Jack left her with the brochure whilst he went upstairs to unpack.

In his office, Jack laid the cardboard tube, still inside the plastic bag, down onto the desk. As he got a pair of nitrile gloves from his desk drawer, he was momentarily distracted by the contents of his rubbish bin. He rustled through screwed-up bits of paper and chocolate wrappers, uncovering a paper pharmacy bag inside which was a receipt for a plastic syringe. Jack found an old lighter and lit the edge of the receipt, then the bag. As each burnt down to his fingers, he placed them into half a cup of cold tea that had been on his desk since before he went to Ireland.

Jack stood in the shadows of the overhanging trees in the far corner of the doctors’ car park. He was invisible from every angle so, when Wetlock drove into his parking space which was only yards from the trees, he had no clue that Jack was there. Wetlock got out of his car and, as usual, pushed his wing-mirror in so that it wouldn’t get bumped by anyone using the footpath that ran past his driver’s side. Angel had loaned her fingerprint kit to Jack on the proviso that he didn’t end up asking her to run a set of prints ‘off the books’. It was a time-consuming favour and she never got anything in return. Jack had promised. It took him thirty seconds to remove Wetlock’s print from the back of the wing-mirror and ten seconds to clean away all of the powder residue.

Jack hadn’t given his actions a second thought until he’d seen the headline in the Evening Standard. It pissed him off that Wetlock might get away with murder, and Jack decided that he would help Lyle to find enough ex-student doctors to come forwards and give evidence relating to Wetlock’s historic drug crimes. Then the death of Tania could be reopened and Wetlock might get the sentence he actually deserved.

But right now Jack needed to refocus on Adam Border.

Jack kept the latex gloves on, and carefully cut the plastic bag from round the cardboard tube, so as not to smudge any fingerprints. Using the tips of his fingers, he pulled the white plastic cap out of the end of the tube and removed the rolled-up canvas scroll from inside.

The rolled canvas measured around fourteen inches by twenty and was frayed along each edge. It was slightly brown with age and small rust-stained holes showed where it had been attached to the original wooden frame. Once fully unrolled, Jack sat back and took in the image of a dark-faced young man with unruly hair. In the bottom right-hand corner was a faint signature in black paint: A. Giacometti. As he looked at the painting, Jack’s heart pounded in his chest. What exactly had Adam given him? On the reverse of the canvas was a small gallery sticker with faded writing: La Belle Epoque at Villa Massena, Art Museum Marseilles 1940.

Jack rolled the canvas back up and searched through the stacks of papers he’d copied from the numerous inventory lists given to him by Arnold Hutchinson and additional information about various artists he’d found for himself on the internet and in the library. The original list of paintings acquired by Frederick Jenkins over his forty years as a collector was hugely impressive and complete with purchase dates, gallery names and provenance details. Of course, now Jack doubted everything he read. They could have been fakes for all he knew.

Van Gogh, Picasso, Warhol... then some more unusual names such as Zao Wou-Ki and William de Kooning. There were heavy black pencil rings around a Henri Matisse. Paintings listed often had a ‘P’ printed beside them and, under ‘Pre-Raphaelite’ was Rossetti, underlined. Towards the bottom of the list, Jack found what he was looking for. A reference to Giacometti. The painting Jack had just received was apparently part of a collection bought in a silent auction along with a Keith Haring and a Jean Michel Basquiat.

Jack glanced at the rolled canvas sitting on his desk and was certain it had to be a copy. Not that he could tell. But fake or real, what on earth was he supposed to do with it now? And why had Adam given it to him?

As Maggie’s slow, cautious footsteps made their way upstairs, Jack knew that she must be carrying Hannah. He slid the canvas into a shallow drawer and decided that he’d research his newly acquired Giacometti properly tomorrow.

Maggie’s 5 a.m. alarm woke them both with the gentle sound of harp music, which got less gentle the more they ignored it.

Jack took charge of the coffee, which was becoming more of a morning habit with each passing day, whilst Maggie got Hannah up and dressed. Maggie was running late — so when she came down with Hannah in her arms saying that she needed the old car as it had the car seat in it, Jack, without thinking, agreed. Maggie was out the door and away by the time he realised that if he intended to drive anywhere today, he’d be going in a pea-green Nissan Micra.