‘My employer and I have reason to believe it might be.’

  Hegarty whistled. ‘So, two questions. Firstly, where the hell is it, and why couldn’t you bring it here – assuming it’s not hot? And secondly, why do you want a copy?’

  ‘Too many questions, Mr Hegarty.’

  He gave Kilgore a sideways look. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Just tell me how long you’d need.’

  ‘Four weeks, maybe six weeks to be safe.’

  ‘What? Six weeks? You’re busy?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah, but that’s not the issue. I can do the copy in a couple of days, no problem, but I need to get rid of the smell of the oil and the varnish – that’s the giveaway with a copy of an old master. I can buy canvas from around this same period that Fragonard was painting, in the late seventeen hundreds, but not the paints themselves. I’d have to grind them up from the same plants and insects Fragonard used to make his pigments. Cochineal, all of that, if you want to avoid modern tests rumbling it. Then I’d need to get the craquelure on it. After that, my mate Billy, a chain smoker, has it in his house for a few days – that way the paintings get properly aged.’

  ‘For my purposes and my employer’s none of that will be necessary,’ Kilgore said. ‘All we need is a perfect facsimile. We’re not talking about sophistication here. The people who currently have this picture already think it might be a fake – a Sexton Blake, as you call it – but they aren’t certain. Let’s just say all we want to do is convince them it is a fake, for sure.’

  Hegarty looked at him levelly, then grinned broadly. ‘I think I’m beginning to understand your game.’

  Kilgore nodded, unsmiling. ‘A perfect copy, two days?’

  ‘Give me three.’

  ‘And your price?’

  ‘Ten thousand.’

  ‘That’s a lot more than the last commission we gave you.’

  ‘This is a lot harder.’

  The American pursed his lips, then nodded. ‘I’ll grant you that. It had better be good.’

  ‘Robert, it will look good. Just don’t smell it or subject it to forensic analysis. Do we have a deal?’

  Kilgore reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a wad of £50 notes held together by an elastic band.

  50

  Monday, 28 October

  It was an old habit, dating back to when, early in his career, Roy Grace had first transferred from uniform to CID. As a junior Detective Constable at Brighton police station, he tried to learn as much as he could about the city’s crime and its criminals, and found the best resource was the constantly updated computer log of all reported crime and incidents, and the follow-ups. These were known traditionally as serials, as each incident was given a serial number.

  From his very first day in CID, he would come in early, before his shift began, and read through the serials of the past twenty-four hours. Over the years, with his highly retentive – near photographic – memory, he had built up an encyclopaedic knowledge of all the regular offenders, as well as being on top of any changes in crime patterns, from house burglaries to moped theft, to street crimes, to internet fraud.

  Even though he had long since moved into Major Crime, dealing mostly with homicide, reading the serials was still the way he liked to start his working day, seeing what was going on in his city, which he still considered his manor, as well as throughout the counties of Sussex and Surrey, which came under his remit. And scanning them at 7.45 a.m. on this Monday morning, he saw all the usual weekend detritus of fights in pubs, bars and streets in many of the town centres of Sussex, as well as burglaries, vehicle thefts, street robberies, a flasher, an assault, and someone missing after a midnight swim. But then he came to one serial that stopped him in his tracks.

  He read it through carefully, noting the names of the victims and the attending officers then, fifteen minutes later, carried it in his head through into the briefing of Operation Canvas.

  Seated with his team in the conference room, he opened the meeting by saying, ‘Last week at our meeting I raised the issue of the couple who had brought along a painting to the Antiques Roadshow. The pictures expert was very excited. He thought it might be one of the long-lost paintings the French artist Jean-Honoré Fragonard had done of the four seasons.’

  He continued. ‘In light of the possible connection to Charlie Porteous, we made some enquiries and found out the name and address of the couple who took it to the show, a Mr and Mrs Kipling – Harry and Freya. He’s a builder and she’s a teacher, living in Patcham. Norman and Velvet subsequently visited them and talked to Mrs Kipling.’ He glanced at both detectives by way of acknowledgment. ‘They reported back that they believed Mrs Kipling’s story that they bought the painting in a car boot sale because they liked the frame. At that point there was another painting over the possible high-value one beneath.’

  Potting and Wilde both nodded in confirmation.

  ‘I’ve just this morning checked the weekend serials and guess what? It appears the Kiplings had a burglary at their home on Saturday night.’

  ‘Was the painting taken, boss?’ Jack Alexander asked.

  ‘Nothing was taken, apparently.’

  Grace looked around at the sea of frowns. ‘The couple called it in at a quarter to two on Sunday morning. A response crew, PCs John Alldridge and Dave Simmons, attended. They reported there was very clear evidence of a break-in – a windowpane was smashed – but nothing appeared to have been taken. In a follow-up post on the serials, Alldridge concluded that the couple may have disturbed the intruder who fled empty-handed.’ He paused. ‘My sense is that it is too much of a coincidence to dismiss that an attempted burglary was made on the Kiplings less than a week after Antiques Roadshow broadcast their possible Fragonard painting.’ He looked at the team and saw nods of agreement.

  ‘Norman and Velvet, how did you get on with Stuart Piper and with the Slippery Finn?’

  Jack Alexander raised a hand. ‘Boss, Polly Sweeney and I went to see Jorma Mahlanen, at Norman’s request, because Norman had a series of medical appointments he needed to attend. Mahlanen was, as expected, evasive. He did finally admit, under questioning, that he knew Charlie Porteous, and had over the years bought a number of works of art from him. He also said that Porteous had contacted him, a few days before his death, saying he had what he believed to be an original Fragonard painting of spring, part of his Four Seasons. But he said the price Porteous wanted was too rich for him.’

  ‘And that was how much?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Five million pounds,’ Alexander replied.

  ‘That fits with the value Desouta put on the painting on the Antiques Roadshow,’ Grace said. ‘Could Mahlanen offer any explanation why his number was on the burner phone of one of the offenders we suspect murdered Porteous?’

  Alexander shook his head and Sweeney nodded in confirmation. ‘He couldn’t, no.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘He showed us some of his paintings and said that a quarter of a million pounds is pretty much the top price he ever pays.’ He shrugged.

  Grace turned to Financial Investigator Emily Denyer. ‘Emily, what intel do we have on how Mahlanen accumulated his wealth?’

  Denyer shook her head. ‘None, sir. He has a large number of legitimate business interests, and from the research I carried out, while the maths don’t add up, so far we have nothing to prove any criminal activity.’

  ‘But you believe Mahlanen is involved in some?’

  ‘Oh yes. But whether it’s drugs or cybercrime, I can’t yet say.’

  ‘OK,’ Grace replied. ‘You’ll keep on him?’

  ‘For sure, sir.’

  ‘So what about Stuart Piper?’

  ‘Norman and Velvet interviewed him later in the week,’ Alexander said.

  ‘Yes, chief,’ Potting said, taking over. ‘And a real charmer he is.’ He looked at Wilde for confirmation. She nodded. ‘A real charmer – not.’

  ‘He lives in a proper fuck-off historic house, guarded like Fort Knox,’ Potting said, ‘with hunks of hired muscle.’

  ‘He has unbelievable artwork on the walls,’ Wilde added. ‘Like, the National Gallery eat your heart out!’

  ‘He gave us an alibi for the night of Porteous’s murder, on 16 October 2015, chief,’ Potting continued. ‘That he was in his home in Barbados, where he normally spends the winter months. He has a very disfigured face, from a homophobic attack on him back in 1979, and claims that damp weather hurts his skin.’

  Grace looked down at his notes. ‘Norman, in a previous briefing you told me that while Piper is not on the British police radar, he is on Interpol’s watchlist. What’s that about?’

  ‘Well,’ Potting said, looking pleased with himself. ‘I’ve been doing some digging over the weekend and spoken to a few of our Interpol contacts. It would appear that Piper has amassed a fortune from recovering works of art that have disappeared over the centuries – looted during times of trouble dating back from the French Revolution to the Nazi occupations. On the surface, all legit, and Piper has never had charges brought against him in any jurisdiction, but it would appear that many of these works of art that he has miraculously found might be very good forgeries. But here’s a big problem for us, chief.’ He fell silent.

  ‘And that is?’ Grace quizzed.

  ‘Well, from what I’ve discovered, the last thing the galleries or private collectors of these works, for which they’ve paid huge sums, want to know is that they might be forgeries, which makes identification extremely difficult. Added to which there are a few forgers, working with old canvases and old materials, whose work is apparently near impossible to detect.’

  Grace frowned. ‘Does Piper have Fragonards amongst his collection?’

  ‘He said it would be a dream to have one, sir,’ Velvet Wilde said.

  ‘Do you believe him?’ Grace asked.

  ‘He’s very hard to read, sir. He has very little movement of his facial muscles.’

  ‘There is something I’d like to add from my research of the weekend, chief,’ Potting said, and shot a glance towards Stanstead. ‘I asked Luke to look back into Stuart Piper’s history. Back in 1979, when he was attacked, he very nearly died from his injuries and spent the best part of the following year having his face reconstructed. The records show that the three offenders who carried out this attack were subsequently identified and convicted. During the six years after their release from prison, at two-year intervals, all three were attacked and left with serious injuries. None of these link back to Stuart Piper, but it does seem perhaps a little coincidental.’

  ‘You’re suggesting these were reprisal attacks either carried out by Piper or orchestrated by him, Norman?’ Grace asked.

  ‘They might have been, chief. Just a thought. But just supposing Piper was capable of carrying out – or ordering – retribution back then, is it a big stretch to imagine he might resort to murder to get his hands on a painting as valuable as the Fragonard Spring that Charlie Porteous had in his possession?’

  Grace considered this for some moments before responding. ‘It’s an interesting hypothesis, Norman, but as you just said, a bit of a stretch. It sounds from what you’ve said that Piper’s MO is finding long-lost works of art around the world, ostensibly returning them to their rightful owners, and either collecting reward money or being duplicitous, having them expertly copied by forgers, retaining originals and passing off forgeries. There’s nothing to suggest he is a brazen art thief, is there? Does he have any past form for burglary or suspected burglary?’

  ‘Well – no, chief,’ Potting replied reluctantly.

  ‘It doesn’t make any sense that someone of his wealth would need to resort to murder.’ He looked at Wilde. ‘What do you think, Velvet?’

  ‘The only reason I can think of, sir, is if he knew the whereabouts of some or all of the other three Fragonard paintings in the series. Or indeed had them himself.’

  ‘He told you he didn’t, right?’ Grace pressed.

  ‘He alluded to that, yes.’

  ‘But he might not have been telling the truth,’ Potting added.

  Grace nodded. ‘The only way we’d find that out is by searching his house, and from what you’re telling me, we don’t have anything like enough to obtain a warrant. I think we should add him to our list of POIs, but with no further action for the moment.’ He looked again at Potting and Wilde. They nodded agreement.

  51

  Thursday, 31 October

  The upper level of the car park of the Miller and Carter, formerly the Black Lion pub, in Patcham village at the northern extremity of the city of Brighton and Hove, had been the scene of one of Brighton’s most notorious murders.

  It was where, on 12 January 1976, former glamour model Barbara Gaul, wife of millionaire businessman John Gaul, was blasted in the back with a double-barrelled twelve-bore shotgun by two men he had hired to do the hit. She died two months later from her injuries, but while the hitmen were subsequently arrested and given life prison sentences, John Gaul fled to Malta and evaded justice for over a decade before eventually dying, still a free man, from a heart attack.

  This secluded car park, accessed by a steep ramp and shielded by bushes, was the location where Robert Kilgore had chosen to meet Archie Goff. The American, always scrupulously punctual, had arrived twenty minutes before his 8 p.m. appointment, reversing his Tesla into a space against the rear of the car park, giving him a clear view of every vehicle arriving. Quickly, he removed a traffic cone from the rear of the car, placing it at the front of the empty space immediately to his right.

  Thursdays, traditionally pay day, was a big night out for many, and the car park was filling up rapidly, as a steady stream of vehicles flowed in. Kilgore figured he was unlikely to be noticed by any of the customers arriving, dressed up for their evening out, looking forward to meeting friends and having drinks and a good meal. No one was going to give a toss about a solitary old guy in a car in the dark smoking a cigarette.

  He clocked each of the headlights flaring up the ramp: a Porsche; a Jag; a Mini; a plumber’s van. Then, finally, a tired old Astra, its front number plate cracked and at a wonky angle, the exhaust shot. Instantly identifying the car from its registration and from the description Goff had given him over the phone, Kilgore flashed his headlights, once, then opened his door, jumped out, removed the cone and climbed back in, putting the cone in the passenger footwell. Goff drove straight in and wound his window down.

  Kilgore lowered his, checking there was no one in earshot. ‘Are we good, Mr Goff?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re good.’

  ‘You’re all clear what you need to do?’

  ‘Yep, I’m on it.’

  Kilgore lifted the bubble-wrapped copy of the Fragonard off the passenger seat and passed it through the window to Goff, followed by a burner phone. ‘It’s got one number programmed in. Text it when you’re done and you’ll get back my instructions for the handover.’

  ‘Leave it to me. That’s when you’ll pay me the balance, yeah?’

  Kilgore said nothing for a moment, he just sat staring at the old burglar’s face. There was something about the man he hadn’t cared for when he’d first met him for breakfast at the Grand Hotel, something shifty and evasive in his eyes, and he saw that same look again now. In addition to paying the bail, Mr Piper had agreed a £2,000 fee. ‘That’s when we’ll pay you the balance, Mr Goff.’

  52

  Friday, 1 November

  Archie Goff drove slowly up the steep residential street of Mackie Crescent in Patcham. It was, coincidentally, just half a mile or so from where he’d been handed the painting last night. As he passed a row of tennis courts to his right, the Kiplings’ house appeared on his left, on a street corner, and he clocked that the driveway was empty, apart from Harry Kipling’s pick-up. Neither Harry’s Volvo estate nor Freya’s Fiat 500 were there. Good.

  From the daily surveillance he had carried out this week, he had established that Harry Kipling left for work at 7.30 a.m., pretty much on the nose, every morning, and Freya Kipling around twenty minutes later. She always returned around 4.30 p.m., with their droopy-looking son with his headphones. Yesterday she had gone out again, twenty minutes later, dressed like she was going to some kind of fitness class. And yesterday, instead of 5 p.m., her husband returned closer to 5.30 p.m. and unloaded a bunch of groceries from his car.

  The only time Harry had come back in the morning had been on Monday, when he shot home around midday to pick up some building supplies.

  Turning left in front of the house and heading up the hill, with small houses and bungalows on either side of the road, Archie found a parking space between two cars. They were outside the yellow-line zone here, so he didn’t need to worry about the car getting ticketed and logged.

  He climbed out, wearing a hi-vis jacket, black trousers, trainers and a baseball cap. Then he lifted the bubble-wrapped painting, now in a layer of brown paper, from the rear seat, along with a clipboard, locked the car, then walked casually away, parcel and clipboard under his arm, and back down towards the Kiplings’ house.

  It was a tip an old lag in prison had given him many years ago, that if you didn’t want to arouse curiosity in a neighbourhood, then wear a yellow hi-vis jacket and carry a clipboard, it would make you pretty much invisible.

  Mackie Crescent was deserted, apart from a tubby elderly woman on a mobility scooter, heading away from him, down the hill on the pavement on the far side of the road, along by the tennis courts. Heading to the shops in the village, he guessed, patting his jacket pocket for the copy of the back door key he’d had cut from the wax impression he’d taken when he’d broken into the house last Saturday night, although he guessed it might not be of any use now. He was still annoyed at himself for breaking that rear windowpane. He’d intended to simply cut it out, reach in and unlock the security chain in place on the back door, then re-putty the glass back. But he’d not been expecting the pane to be rotten – certainly not in a builder’s home – and it had fallen out, taking him by surprise.