‘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.
Potting responded eagerly, although his voice sounded a little strange, a bit croaky, and there was a knock on his door less than a couple of minutes later.
‘Yes, chief?’ he said as he entered, his voice definitely sounding a little hoarse, as if he’d been shouting. He stood massaging his neck between his finger and thumb, and Grace could see the worry in the detective’s eyes.
Grace signalled for him to sit, and Potting perched on one of the two chairs in front of his desk. He was looking, as he had been for several days now, paler and less confident than normal. Grace knew the detective was living on his own and probably didn’t have many people – if anyone – to share his worries with. But he saw something in the way the DS was looking at him that reminded him of the fear in his father’s eyes, despite the brave face he’d tried to put on after his diagnosis of cancer.
‘Sorry about my voice, chief.’ He coughed as if trying to clear his throat. ‘Woke up with it like this.’ He grinned nervously. ‘Just a bit of a frog in my throat. What can I do? Better than a toad in my hole some might say!’
‘I just thought it would be good to have a quick catch-up on your health, Norman. Do you have any news?’
‘Thanks for asking, chief. That’s really kind. I don’t want to trouble you with my problems at this really tough time for you. But I am worried – shit scared, to be honest with you.’