‘Why so long?’

  ‘Well I’ve got loads of work on. Then I’ve got to source that canvas. Once I get it over here, I need to remove the painting on it. Then I paint lead white over the canvas which has a dual effect – first it’s what Caravaggio would have used, and secondly it has the big advantage of blocking any X-rays that might be done. Then I’ve got to obtain some period clothing fibres from the kind of apron Caravaggio might have worn back in 1605 – I’ve a couple of contacts, one in the Brighton Museum who might be able to help. Then I’ll need time to do the painting – and weave a few of the period fibres into it. When I’m done with that, making sure I’ve got Caravaggio’s brushstroke technique correct, I’ll need to leave it by a wood-burning stove for at least a couple of weeks to get the craquelure. Then I’ll take it to my mate Billy the Brush’s house – he’s another forger and he smokes sixty fags a day – and leave it there for a while to get a good patina. After that I’ve got to work on the back, faking the markings that are on the original. Then we need a suitable frame – that’s the easy bit.’ He shrugged.

  ‘Yeah, should be OK, those building works are going to take a while. Yeah.’ Then Weasel hesitated, looking anxious. ‘I need a gasper.’ He stood up, went out through the patio doors and sparked up a cigarette.

  Hegarty remained at the table for some moments. He stuffed the thick bundles of banknotes into his pocket, then continued studying the painting. It was a challenge, but hey, he’d copied Caravaggio before. He stood up and went through into his studio, where he had a stacked shelf of books on the pigments the old masters used.

  One of the easiest ways a forgery could be detected was through spectroscopic analysis of materials. Modern oil paints would easily be picked up this way, which was why, when he was making a forgery he intended to be undetectable, he mixed his paints using the original pigments the artist would have used in that period.

  He smiled. This Caravaggio would be no problem. And potentially a very nice earner.

  Just as he went back into the living room, Weasel came in from the balcony, reeking of fresh smoke. ‘What do you think, mate? Do we have a deal?’

  Hegarty nodded, feeling the satisfying bulge of the banknotes in his pocket. ‘We do.’

  17

  Tuesday, 24 September

  Basic physics. But not something they’d ever taught him at school. Two people sleeping in a closed room create warm air. As it hits the cold glass, condensation forms. Archie Goff had learned over the years that once there was heavy condensation on the glass, it was a pretty reliable indicator the occupants of the bedroom were soundly asleep.

  And now, as he watched through his night-vision binoculars, sure enough, his buddy Mr Condensation was there. By midnight, the bay window was getting a little wet. He got the jitters, as he always did at this moment. Pulling on his tight-fitting, unlined leather gloves, then gripping his torch in his teeth, he reached into the sack and pulled out the cardboard box. Opening the lid carefully, he lifted out the now dozy bird and, with a quick movement, snapped its neck.

  Then, dead crow in one hand, sack in the other, he walked in his sneakers, softly, softly, towards the lower bay window, the drawing room, where on a previous survey he’d seen the tell-tale flashing red light of an alarm sensor high up on the wall.

  Held his breath.

  Listened.

  Sweet silence.

  He swung the weighted sack back, then hard forward against the large pane of glass, shattering it. Immediately, he hurled the crow through the gap, straight up towards the blinking red light.

  An instant later he heard the wailing siren of the alarm.

  Yes!

  He retreated across the lawn, took up his position behind a Japanese cloud tree, and raised his binoculars. Some moments later he blinked as a light downstairs flared in the green glow of the night-vision lenses. He watched old man Fry in pyjamas appear close to the window, holding a shotgun, then look down at the crow. Archie could see him mouth the words, lip-reading him.

  Fucking stupid bird.

  Fry leaned down, picked it up by its feet and lobbed it back out through the broken window, onto the lawn.

  Archie knew the Frys had the kind of complex burglar alarm system, favoured by wealthy homeowners, which would require resetting by an engineer. He was betting Martin Fry wouldn’t bother with that now and would wait until morning.

  Sure enough, the old man turned and called out to – presumably – his wife. ‘A ruddy bird! Flown through the bloody window! I’ll let the alarm company know.’

  The old man faffed around for some minutes, disappearing briefly then returning and taping what looked like a square of cardboard over the busted frame. Then the light went off.

  Archie tossed the brick into a dense bush and waited. Half an hour. With the empty sack tucked down his front, he made his way over to the bay window. He pushed away the temporary cardboard and reached down his gloved hand for the latch, hoping there wasn’t a window lock, but not a problem if there was. He had a glass cutter on his tool belt.

  The latch lifted and the window opened silently. He hoisted himself up on the frame, ignoring the pain from his arthritic joints, found a purchase for his hands inside, and swung himself in, dropping silently to his feet on the carpet.

  First rule, before he began work on any job, was to find a backup exit. He shot his torch beam around the large room, divided by two marble columns, and could see it was a treasure trove. Silver ornaments on every surface, on tables, on shelves, and in a number of fine antique display cabinets. Then out into the hall, with more silver on every surface, which he eyed greedily.

  Along, past a grand staircase and through a doorway into a warm kitchen with patio doors on the far side. As he had expected from the plans on his phone.

  Perfect.

  Softly, he made his way across the conservatory, past the large, cushioned wicker chairs and sofa, to the doors. His escape route!

  He kneeled and slid the bottom bolt then reached up and released the top one. He tested the handle and pushed one door a fraction. It opened easily. He left it ajar. Now he had two escape routes, should he need them.

  Grabbing all the kitchen towels he could see, he returned to the hall, and began scooping up every silver object, wrapping each in a towel, then dropping them into his sack. On some jobs he would have checked for a hallmark, to make sure he wasn’t wasting time with silver-plate, but here he knew it was all going to be pukka.

  Next, he turned right through a door which, from his memory of the plans, should be the dining room. It was. And more ornate silver, some of it quite large. Two pairs of small candelabras sat on the table. He laid them in his sack, too.

  He checked the drawers of a large cherrywood sideboard, after lifting all the silver from the top of it, starting bottom upwards, so there was no need to close a drawer before opening the next. But there were just plates and linen in these.

  His sack was already heavy. And he was heady with excitement. He’d no idea how much value he’d taken already, but if his source was right, he must be well into thousands of pounds, if not more. Perhaps way, way more. The Frys had single pieces worth upwards of £20,000 each and some way higher than that. Most of what he was taking would end up in the melt, which was the safest way to dispose of it. No trace. He was in a treasure trove, and he was on a roll!

  Just the drawing room to go, maybe chance a look around for the safe, and then he’d be out of here.

  As he went back into the hall a light, shining from halfway up the stairs, blinded him.

  ‘Stop right there, you bloody bastard, or I’ll shoot!’ a coarse male voice that sounded like it meant business yelled at him. ‘I will shoot! I assure you!’

  Archie froze. Dazzled with light and panic.

  His brain swirled with confusion. How? How the hell?

  He thought of Isabella. His promise. Doing night work as a security guard.

  He was shaking, totally panic-stricken. Could he run with his loot?

  ‘One move and I’ll shoot, you scumbag! Stay right where you are!’

  Archie knew just one thing, clung to that one thing. The man would not shoot him in the back from fear of being prosecuted. Still gripping the sack, he spun and fled towards the kitchen.

  ‘Stop! Stop right there! Stop! I will shoot!’

  In the jigging light of his torch beam, Archie sprinted around the island unit, across the kitchen and through into the conservatory. He reached the patio door, pushed it further open and ran through out into the night air.

  Free!

  He knew that the far end of the Frys’ land ended at the woods. He began to sprint towards them.

  Then the ground disappeared under his feet.

  For a fleeting instant there was just nothing. He was falling.

  Then he was underwater, choking on warm, chlorinated water.

  Ridiculously warm, like being in a bath, his brain messaged him, for just a fraction of a second, before he got another message.

  This time it was delivered by a pyjama-clad old man, standing at the edge of the swimming pool, as Archie broke the surface, gasping for air and coughing up water. Martin Fry was shining a flashlight and pointing a double-barrelled shotgun down at him.

  ‘Don’t even think about trying to get out,’ the old man said. Then he kicked Archie hard in the face as he made a last, desperate try.

  18

  Wednesday, 25 September

  Chastened by Cleo’s rebuke last week, but taking on board what she had said, Roy Grace had managed to catch Glenn for an early coffee the day after their drink and persuade him to ditch the idea of sending Siobhan flowers.

  To his relief, Glenn had come to much the same conclusion, telling him that although they’d spent the night at their separate flats in the city, he’d spoken to Siobhan at length and apologized, and told her she should go ahead with her piece for the Argus, although he still had some private doubts. Nearly a week later, Roy was pleased to see his friend seemed a little less despondent today, but he still had a mountain to climb on the bigger family issue that was creating such a divide at the moment.

  At 9 a.m., seated at the table in the conference room of the Major Crime suite, he made a note of the date and time in his investigator’s notebook, then, addressing his assembled team, he said, ‘OK, good morning, everyone, this is the second review meeting of Operation Canvas, and I’m pleased to say we have made some significant progress during this past week. Before we get onto that, I don’t know if any of you saw on the serials that Archie Goff was nicked last night after breaking into a country mansion near Bolney?’

  ‘That old dinosaur!’ Potting exclaimed. ‘He’s still around? He’s knocking on a bit, isn’t he?’

  ‘Like you, Norman?’ Velvet Wilde said, making herself laugh out loud.

  ‘Thanks, Velvet, very witty,’ Potting said.

  ‘Just saying.’

  ‘Children!’ Roy Grace addressed them. ‘Let’s not get personal, OK?’

  ‘Sorry, boss,’ the DC said.

  ‘It’s about time they binned Archie and threw away the key,’ Polly Sweeney said, then added with mock sympathy, ‘Bless his little cotton socks!’

  Archie Goff had been on the police radar as a serial country house burglar for as long as Roy Grace had been in the police. He remembered, early on as a young PC on Response, being one of several officers who had attended after he’d triggered an alarm in a mansion in Dyke Road Avenue. ‘I’ve checked the records and Archie was last released from prison on 2 October 2015, just two weeks before Charlie Porteous was robbed and murdered.’

  Sweeney raised her hand and Grace nodded at her. ‘Yes, Polly?’

  ‘From memory, I don’t think Archie Goff’s ever been known to use violence in his burglaries, boss,’ she said.

  ‘Correct, Polly. I’ve checked his recent records and he usually goes after jewellery, silver and small high-value antiques. He’s been known to steal art, small-sized pictures, but I’ve been reading through his case files and interviews earlier this morning and although he’s never been a grass, he has admitted in the past to stealing items to order. While he’s in police custody we should talk to him. I’d like you and Jack to interview him, scare him a little about being implicated in murder, and see if he says anything useful.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ she said.

  Alexander turned to Potting. ‘Why dinosaur, Norman?’

  ‘Because that’s what crims like him are,’ Potting replied. ‘Career burglars are a dying breed. Today’s younger generation have much easier pickings with drug dealing or internet scamming, but they’re scum compared to the likes of him. Polly’s right about him never using violence. I nicked him once and he was scrupulously polite. He actually said, “It’s a fair cop, guv”.’ Potting looked around. ‘When did anyone in this room last hear a villain say that outside of a re-run of Dixon of Dock Green?’

  Smiling, Grace leaned over his shoulder and pointed at a large photograph that had been added to a whiteboard behind him. It was an elaborate, beautiful painting depicting two lovers in a forest, sun-dappled trees, a waterfall and hundreds of daffodils. It was in an ornate frame and looked as if it might be very old. ‘We believe this is the picture Charlie Porteous had with him at the time of his murder.’ He turned to Stanstead. ‘Over to you, Luke.’

  ‘I’ve been in contact with an organization, the Art Loss Register, which as its name indicates is a pretty definitive list of all known stolen or lost works of art. I’m informed it’s the most respected database in the art world by all dealers who are offered a painting – or any other object of art – for sale – kind of like their first port of call. Its principal, Julian Radcliffe – incidentally, a very charming and helpful man – was contacted on Thursday, 1 October 2015, by Charlie Porteous, who he said was a regular client that he had a lot of respect for. Porteous asked him to check on a number of paintings he had been offered, which was a regular occurrence. Porteous emailed photographs of them, one of which he had identified as a possible work of the eighteenth-century French artist Jean-Honoré Fragonard.’

  Stanstead turned to the photograph of the painting on the whiteboard. ‘This picture.’

  ‘The bloody paparazzi got me having a quiet picnic with my lover!’ Potting said.

  Everyone grinned, except Velvet Wilde. ‘Which one are you, Norman?’ she asked. ‘The one having a pee behind the tree in the distance?’

  That brought a laugh from the whole team, including Grace. Then, serious once more, he said, ‘Excellent work, Luke. What did Radcliffe report back to Porteous?’

  ‘That painting wasn’t on his radar, sir. I spoke to him yesterday and he told me that, while there is documented evidence that Fragonard created a series of four paintings of the four seasons in the 1770s, acquired by an aristocratic French patron a few years before the French Revolution, there has been no sighting of them ever since. He admits it is possible that they might have survived and still exist, but he couldn’t possibly tell from this photograph whether this was a genuine painting by Fragonard or not.’

  Grace nodded. ‘So he concedes it’s not out of the question this is a genuine Fragonard work and was in Charlie Porteous’s possession at the time of his murder?’

  ‘He does, sir, with the caveats I’ve just given.’

  ‘Good work, Luke.’ Turning to Potting, Grace said, ‘OK, Norman, you have something to report – you seem to be going gangbusters!’

  Holding his clumsy frame bolt upright and puffing out his chest, the DS looked rather pleased with himself. ‘Well, chief,’ he nodded at Stanstead, ‘thanks to Luke’s intel work, I met with the Mr and Mrs Lee who were house-sitting for a Mr and Mrs Malby, owners of a house a short distance from the Porteouses’ at the time of his murder. Mr Lee is a professional dogwalker, and he and his wife, Elizabeth, also house-sit for a number of clients. And as Luke had correctly told us last week, Mr Lee is a bit of an insomniac. He told me he went out for a walk along Tongdean Avenue at 12.52 a.m. on the morning of Friday, 16 October 2015. He was able to be precise about the time due to his Garmin fitness watch which tracked all his movements.’

  Potting coughed, clearing a frog in his throat, took a sip of water then went on. ‘He saw a car accelerating fiercely away from the direction of the Porteous house – although he did not know exactly where it had come from. But he was surprised to see a vehicle at that hour being driven at speed. It’s an expensive and exclusive neighbourhood, although Mr Lee told me it is favoured in the daytime by driving instructors as a good place for their customers to practise U-turns. He’s a former soldier who worked for a time as a car salesman after his discharge from the army, so is very aware of car makes and models. He identified this vehicle as a recent model – at the time – an Audi A6, dark-coloured, and rather diligently made a note of as much of its registration plate as he could catch, just in case, he said. We’ve subsequently identified the vehicle through a process of elimination and run a PNC check and the plate turns out to be false – but cleverly false.’

  ‘In what way cleverly false, Norman?’ Grace asked.

  Potting puffed his chest out even more proudly. ‘A dark green A6 came up, registered to a Mr Brian Harris, with an address in Saltdean. I went to the address, a bungalow, and spoke to Mr Harris. He is an affable disabled widower of eighty-five. On the evening of Thursday, 15 October 2015, he was hosting a bridge evening at his home. He assured me he was not out burning rubber in Tongdean Avenue in the small hours of the Friday morning.’ The DS gave a wry smile. ‘I would have to say he doesn’t seem the type, which makes me think whoever was driving that Audi was on cloned plates.’

  ‘Norman,’ Glenn Branson asked, ‘did this Joe Lee see anything at the entrance to the Porteouses’ house? Did he see Porteous’s Bentley?’

  Potting shook his head. ‘He says he didn’t – but you need to bear in mind that the home of the couple where he was house-sitting was a good quarter of a mile along the road, and Lee was walking in the opposite direction.’