‘Did he hear anything, Norman?’ Polly Sweeney asked.

  ‘No, he said he was plugged in listening to a podcast. He just saw the car going past, in a hurry.’

  ‘That timing fits with the CCTV from Brighton station,’ Grace said. ‘At that hour of night it would have taken Porteous about ten minutes to reach his home from the station. If it was just an opportunist street robbery, the assailant might have simply been prowling the neighbourhood and got lucky.’ He paused. ‘But if that car was the one the offender – or offenders – used then it smacks to me more of someone lying in wait for him. If I was wanting to park up and look inconspicuous in that smart street, I’d choose a car that blended in – smart enough to fit with the other cars that might be seen around that neighbourhood, but not too flash that it stood out. An Audi A6 is a perfect fit. How big a task would it be to identify all Audi A6s of that period in the Brighton and Hove area?’

  Luke Stanstead raised his hand. ‘Boss, I’ve checked and there are 339 registered to Brighton and Hove residents, and a further 1,700 across Sussex. In addition, it’s a popular executive-level vehicle with car rental companies throughout the UK.’

  Grace did some quick mental arithmetic. Over two thousand. It would take massive resources to check on that number of cars. On a live murder investigation he could justify it to his superiors, but not on a speculative cold case. ‘Did you check any reports of stolen ones around that time, Luke?’

  ‘I did, yes. And here’s where it gets very interesting, boss.’

  Grace’s phone rang. Answering, he heard the voice of Lesley Manning, the Chief Constable. ‘Ma’am,’ he said and stood up. ‘If you can just give me one moment, ma’am.’

  He stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. ‘Sorry, I was in a meeting, ma’am.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt you, Roy.’

  ‘It’s fine, not a problem.’

  ‘I just wanted to ask you a rather delicate question. As you know, I always regard all my officers as family. How would you and Cleo feel if I said I would like to attend your son’s funeral?’

  He was momentarily lost for words, and, suddenly choked up, had to take a couple of deep breaths before he could reply. ‘My wife and I would be honoured, ma’am.’

  ‘I’d like to be there, both in a personal capacity, but also on behalf of all officers and police staff of Sussex Police to pay our respects and to support you both – I’m sure it will be a difficult day for you, Roy.’

  He felt tears welling and closed his eyelids against them. It took all his effort to get the words out. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  19

  Wednesday, 25 September

  A subdued Roy Grace re-entered the room and took his place at the head of the oval table. He addressed Stanstead. ‘Apologies, Luke, you were saying about the Audi?’

  ‘Yes, boss, there was an A6 matching this vehicle reported stolen from near Haywards Heath, about twenty miles away, two days before the murder – and recovered the day after – and might be connected.’

  Grace frowned. ‘Did it have the false plates on?’

  ‘No, it had the correct ones.’

  ‘Was it damaged?’

  ‘Quite severely, sir. They say it appeared to have failed to negotiate a sharp bend, mounted the pavement and hit the stone wall of a local recreation ground with the front near-side wing, deploying the airbags. Whoever was driving it seems to have reversed it back onto the road but been unable to drive it further.’

  Grace made a note, then looked up. ‘If these were professionals, which I’m inclined to think at this moment they were, they might have abandoned the car and removed the false plates. Do you have the name and address of the owner?’

  ‘I do, sir. Her name is Monica Thaesler. I’ve made contact with her. She had the Audi repaired, then sold it two years ago – chopped in for a newer model with the dealer Caffyns. The current owner is a lady called Jo Dillan, in Haywards Heath.’

  ‘Nice work, Norman and Luke,’ Grace complimented them. He was thinking of the age-old CSI boast that if anyone had ever been in a room or a vehicle, no matter how long ago, if you gave them enough time they would be able to find out who. All it would take would be just one single clothing fibre or hair follicle or blood spot or fingerprint, or maybe even a shoe print. From his own past experience, he’d seen an offender jailed from DNA obtained from a vehicle found twenty years after a rape and murder. And he knew from a recent discussion on another case with officer Andy Slark at the Sussex Police Collision Investigation Unit that a great amount of information could be obtained from interrogating the onboard computers of modern cars.

  He turned to Norman Potting. ‘This could be our vehicle, Norman. Modern cars have over a hundred computer and data recording systems – interrogation of these can reveal a range of information about their journeys and drivers – and passengers. Ask this lady, Jo Dillan, if she would let us have her car for a few days and we’ll pay for a loan car. If she’s not cooperative, you’ll need to persuade her. It might help us eliminate Archie Goff – or not. We can get Forensics all over it, and at the same time see what the Collision Investigation team can come up with. I know they sometimes work with an outfit in the US, called Berla, which specializes in forensically examining onboard infotainment systems, and I understand there’s a UK company doing something similar.’

  ‘Will do, boss,’ Potting replied.

  ‘The UK company is called Harper Shaw,’ Luke Stanstead said.

  Grace thanked him and turned to Wilde. ‘How’ve you been getting on, Velvet?’

  ‘The Porteous Fine Arts gallery was sold after Charlie’s death, boss, to pay his debt. After what happened, his son went down a different career path and didn’t want to be in the art world any longer,’ she replied. ‘But the new owner, Harvey Myman, an American art dealer, kept on most of the original staff, and they are still there. They were helpful but didn’t add much to what we already know. All I was able to confirm with Carrie Hepworth was that Mr Porteous had seemed very excited about a purchase he had just made, and that if he could prove its provenance, it would be the solution to his cash-flow problems. But he had kept tight-lipped about what the painting was. All his other staff members I spoke to confirmed the same thing. I’m still waiting to re-interview Carrie Hepworth.’

  ‘So, we are no further forward on that,’ Grace said.

  Wilde raised a finger in the air. ‘Well, we might be, boss. Yesterday, I drove out to Twineham, to talk to Mr George Astone. He is the wealthy collector who was interested to see this mysterious painting. As we know, the deceased had made an appointment to show it to Astone at 11 a.m. on the morning of Friday, 16 October. So it does seem very probable that Charlie Porteous had the painting with him at the time of his murder.’

  Grace nodded. ‘What did Astone have to say?’

  ‘Wow, sir, you should have seen his house! It’s more like a palace!’ she said, sounding awed. ‘It is vast, in huge grounds.’

  ‘Was he ever burgled by Archie Goff?’ Norman Potting interrupted.

  ‘Not that I know, Norman,’ she said dismissively. ‘George Astone is pretty elderly and wheelchair-bound, very lucid and charming, and had very clear recall. He told me he’d bought a great number of paintings from Porteous over the years – and showed me some of his collection. I’m no expert, but as he took me around it felt like I was in an art gallery. He said that Charlie Porteous had the best nose for paintings of any expert he’d ever met.’

  She had everyone’s attention.

  ‘A couple of days prior to his death, Mr Porteous had apparently phoned Astone, telling him he was certain what he had was a genuine Jean-Honoré Fragonard. That it appeared to be, in his opinion, one of four long-lost paintings Fragonard had made depicting the four seasons. He said these had apparently been documented a long time back in the eighteenth century, hanging in a French aristocrat’s chateau, but had disappeared around the time of the French Revolution, when this particular aristocrat and his family had gone to the guillotine.’

  She glanced at her notes. ‘This fits with what we know. I’ve spoken to an art historian called Sir Toby Maguire, who specializes in this period, who said there is documented evidence these paintings had existed, but may well have been destroyed around that time, as they’ve never been seen since. But Mr Porteous believed this particular one, Spring, had survived. He was offering it for sale to Mr Astone for five million pounds, a bargain price considering, if it was genuine, that one recent auction of a Fragonard painting had sold for seventeen million and another, even more recent auction of a less important work went for over six million.’

  ‘Can we eliminate Astone as a suspect?’ Grace asked.

  ‘I spoke to our Financial Investigations team. Emily Denyer checked and came back to me. George Astone has a net worth of over three hundred and fifty million pounds and no criminal record or known criminal associations. And he’s been confined to a wheelchair following a stroke in 2012.’

  Norman Potting cleared his throat. Everyone turned to look at him.

  ‘You have something you want to say, Norman?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Ted Bundy, chief. Just saying.’

  Grace frowned. ‘Saying what, exactly?’

  ‘That serial killer who raped and murdered scores of women used a false plaster cast on his arm. He’d get some of his victims to help him lift something into his van, then whack them over the head.’

  ‘And your point is?’ he asked curtly.

  Potting shrugged. ‘ABC, boss, it’s what you’ve always drummed into us, isn’t it? Assume nothing, Believe no one, Check everything.’

  Velvet went on. ‘If George Astone was faking being disabled, he deserves a sodding Oscar. One half of his face is lopsided and his speech is slurred. He has no movement at all in his left arm and can only move two fingers on his right hand, enough to press the buttons on his motorized wheelchair. Luke, as a wheelchair user, what do you think – does it sound like he’s faking his condition?’

  ‘From what I’ve heard, he needs the wheelchair,’ Luke said.

  ‘OK?’ She glared at Potting.

  ‘I surrender, Velvet,’ the DS said. ‘Humble apologies.’

  She locked eyes with him for some moments, still glaring, then addressed Roy Grace. ‘Mr Astone also said something that might be of significant interest, sir. He told me he’d heard rumours, through the grapevine, that there was another collector in Sussex who had two of the other three paintings – the other three missing Fragonard Four Seasons.’

  ‘What was he able to tell you about this collector, Velvet?’ Grace pressed.

  She shook her head. ‘He said it was only a rumour, and that was back then, four years ago.’

  ‘Rumours always come from somewhere,’ Grace said. ‘Did he tell you the source?’

  ‘No, sir. I did press him on that but he was very dismissive about it.’

  ‘Do you think he was hiding something?’ Glenn Branson asked.

  ‘I don’t think so, sir, no. He seemed genuinely upset about the murder – he’d regarded Charlie Porteous as a friend. He said he’d heard that rumour a couple of years earlier but couldn’t remember from whom or where.’

  ‘Couldn’t remember or didn’t want to say?’ Grace pressed.

  ‘In my opinion, he genuinely could not remember, sir. Possibly due to his stroke.’

  Grace made a note then looked up thoughtfully, before continuing. ‘Polly, I’m giving you the action of becoming an instant authority in French old masters. Find out all the dealers and collectors in Sussex, Surrey, Kent and Hampshire who might have an interest in these paintings – and among the collectors, all those with pockets deep enough to afford to buy a Fragonard.’

  He turned to DS Alexander. ‘Jack, although this smacks of being a specifically targeted robbery, the fact that at the same time Charlie Porteous’s valuable Rolex, wallet and wedding band were taken indicates it could simply have been a random street robbery by a prowler in that exclusive neighbourhood. If so, that offender would either have offloaded what he’d stolen to a fence, or would have tried to sell the items himself. There are still many jewellers in the Brighton and Hove environs today who deal in second-hand watches and rings. I think it’s worth talking to them again to see if you can jog any memories. The wedding ring had distinct markings on the reverse, the initials of Porteous and his wife and the date of their wedding.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘As for the painting,’ Grace continued. ‘There are a number of local auction galleries in the area, such as Gorringe’s in Lewes and Bellmans in Billingshurst. Talk to them to see if you can jog any memories of someone bringing a painting of this period into them around this time.’

  He turned to Stanstead. ‘Luke, work with Polly, it would be useful if you could compile a list of all London art dealers capable of handling a painting of this value.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Next, Grace turned to Potting. ‘Norman, check back with the ANPR camera records to see when and where the index of the Audi A6 was picked up between Wednesday, 14 October 2015, and Friday the 16th.’

  ‘On it, chief.’

  Grace checked his watch. He had a meeting with Cassian Pewe’s temporary replacement, Acting ACC Hannah Robinson, in just under ten minutes and it would not make a good first impression to be late. ‘Any questions, anyone?’

  Branson raised his hand. ‘Boss, if Charlie Porteous had one of the Fragonard Four Seasons paintings, and George Astone’s rumour mill is correct and another local collector has another two, presumably that means the fourth might be around, somewhere, doesn’t it?’

  Grace nodded. ‘It does, yes. It’s a possibility. Any thoughts where to start?’

  ‘I do, boss, yes,’ Branson replied. ‘I think you’re on the money to get that Audi examined. What did they use to say in the old cop movies? Follow that car!’

  Grace smiled, glad his friend had some of his humour back. ‘Good,’ he replied. ‘Let’s do it. Our next meeting will be Wednesday at 9 a.m. So, until then, follow that car!’

  20

  Wednesday, 25 September

  During Cassian Pewe’s tenure as Assistant Chief Constable, standing outside his door had always sent Roy Grace time-travelling back to his school days where, for one misdemeanour or another – mostly being argumentative with those teachers who made their subjects crashingly dull – he was a frequent flier to the headmaster’s office.

  A somewhat fierce man, with a short temper and the arrogance of a hardened old lag, Reginald Bute showed very early on that he did not see eye to eye with young Roy Grace, and made that very clear in his school reports. He has a lot to learn if he wishes to follow in his father’s footsteps in the police force. At present he is on course for a career in manual labour or menial jobs, he had written in one.

  Reginald Bute’s door had looked very similar to the door to the ACC’s office, and with each ACC who had been his boss, he felt the same nervousness waiting for the call to enter. But not today. And this time there was no bellow from the room. The door was opened calmly by the new ACC, smiling warmly at him.

  Hannah Robinson was a little shorter than Grace, neat and elegant in her uniform white shirt, epaulettes and black-and-white-chequered cravat. Her brown hair was clipped up into a small bun that looked both retro and modern at the same time. ‘Roy,’ she greeted him, ‘how very good to see you, come in. Can I offer you tea or coffee?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, ma’am.’ He noticed just how very different this office felt to when Pewe was here, as if a dark cloud had dissolved and it was now flooded with light and even warmth. There were photos of her husband and two children on her desk, and her running shoes and kit were stacked on a chair in the corner.

  Robinson ushered him to an L-shaped sofa and sat facing him. ‘So, I thought it would be good to have a chat,’ she said, ‘and an update on Operation Canvas.’

  ‘Indeed – first, ma’am, I’d like to congratulate you on your promotion. I’m very much looking forward to working with you. I remember when you were on my team, about four years ago, right, and without wanting to sound a creep, I always knew you were destined for the top.’

  She grinned. ‘That’s very kind of you to say so.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘Good, and you’re not doing too badly yourself! Let’s hope we can still work together well as teammates. I’m aware that you’ve had something of an unhappy history with the former ACC.’

  ‘You could say that, ma’am.’

  Again she smiled. ‘I’m looking forward to a much healthier working relationship.’

  ‘So am I – without saying too much about your predecessor, I don’t think he always understood what was needed during a major operation.’

  ‘Well, perhaps sometime you can elaborate on some of that history and we’ll see what we can change going forward. Perhaps we can have that discussion before I meet with your Crime and Operations counterparts, as I really do want us as a team to work closely together. Joined-up, I think is the expression.’

  Privately, Grace winced, hoping she wasn’t going to start using any of the motivational gobbledegook that Pewe used to spout all the time. But he didn’t let it show on his face. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Absolutely.’ Then he nodded towards her kit on the chair. ‘I see you are still running, ma’am.’

  ‘When it’s just us, Roy, call me Hannah. How about we go out for a run one lunchtime and I’ll see if you can keep up with me!’

  ‘Ha!’ he said. ‘Fighting talk – is that a challenge?’

  ‘Consider it a gauntlet thrown down!’

  21

  Thursday, 26 September

  Buoyed by his meeting with the Acting ACC yesterday, Roy Grace sat in his office shortly after 8 a.m., buried in paperwork from the twenty-seven crates of files from Nick Sloan’s original investigation on Operation Canvas, preparing for next week’s briefing. It was a tedious but vital task. As he sipped his increasingly tepid coffee, he suddenly realized he’d not spoken to Norman Potting about his cancer scare for some time. He had been so consumed by his own grief he’d not thought about Norman. He picked up his phone and called the DS, inviting him in for a chat, and quite welcoming the distraction.