Through the services of Robert Kilgore, as well as his own extensive network, over the past forty years Piper had found or had stolen for him – he didn’t care how ruthlessly – lost paintings in Argentina, Brazil, Spain, Austria, Germany, Sweden, Holland among other countries, as well as here in the UK. Many originals he’d put into auctions, but some he’d retained, either because he loved them or to speculate on their values rising. On the ones he had retained, he’d also engaged the services of Daniel Hegarty to make exquisite copies, which he’d passed off as originals, relying on the increasing global feeding frenzy for the old masters.
See that gap, Bobby?
How many times, Kilgore wondered, had Piper talked about that gap on his wall? It was the boss’s obsession. Like a child who had to have a particular toy or else it would throw a tantrum.
They remained in front of the three Fragonard paintings, with Piper still staring at the blank space, the gap. Autumn and Winter had both been acquired for a fraction of their real worth from a bent French lawyer handling an executor sale. He had asked Kilgore to identify them after they were found hanging in a modest house in Nantes in France. Spring he’d acquired through more ruthless means.
‘Bobby, do you know the difference between five million and fifty million pounds?’ Piper quizzed.
Puzzled, Kilgore shook his head. ‘You got me on that one, boss. Forty-five million?’ he ventured, taking a stab at humour, attempting to get the boss to lighten up, even though he knew that was doomed to fail.
The two dogs sat at heel. As he stroked their heads, Piper said to Kilgore, ‘Bobby, your answer of forty-five million is about the right answer.’
Kilgore beamed, his face wrinkling. ‘Well, goddamn it, I hit a home run!’ Then he watched the boss closely for one sign that he was happy, which would be a faint glint in his eyes or a widening of his lips. There was neither. Piper stared back at him.
‘You might be right on the maths, Bobby, but you’re missing the point.’ He walked up to the wall and tapped the empty space. ‘That gap. That’s the difference between five million and fifty million pounds. The missing painting. Summer.’
‘Got you now, boss,’ Kilgore said.
‘It’s out there somewhere, if it has survived. The one missing painting Fragonard did of the four seasons. I’m guessing it is still in France, but just maybe it’s here in England like the third one we found. If we can get our hands on it, with the four together we are looking at a value of fifty million plus. I’ve asked you before, Bobby, and I’m running out of patience. We are going to find it, Bobby, aren’t we?’
Kilgore nodded. ‘Oh yes, boss. We found Spring, Autumn and Winter. We’re going to find Summer. We sure are. It has to be somewhere. Lurking unidentified in some French house is my best guess. But, hey, you’re right, boss. It might just be here – or anywhere in the world.’
Piper looked at him. ‘I want it up on that wall. Find it. Whatever it takes. Fucking find it.’
29
Saturday, 28 September
When Harry and Freya reached the grimy old Volvo estate, they thanked the two security guards who’d escorted them to the car park. One of them, a cheeky chappie, had carried the painting for them. As he handed it to Harry, he jabbed a finger at the carrier bag and quipped, ‘Didn’t know you could buy old masters in Lidl.’
‘Only on their special-offer days,’ Harry retorted, smiling from ear to ear. He was walking on air, this was a dream! An absolute dream! In a minute he’d wake up, and yet, as he rested the painting down on the grass and rummaged in his pocket for the car keys, the two guards waiting patiently, saying they would keep watch just to make sure no one followed them out of the car park, Harry knew it wasn’t a dream, it was real. And the possibility that he and Freya might now be rich was real.
‘Shit.’ He dropped the keys onto the ground, kneeled and retrieved them, then his hand was shaking so much he fumbled for some moments to hit the button on the key fob. Finally the locks thunked. He opened the front and rear passenger doors to let some of the heat out, then hesitated for a moment about where to put the painting. It had been in the boot, inside the tailgate, on the way here. But what if someone rear-ended them? he wondered. For safety he placed it between the front and rear seats, wedging it with the two pillows they always kept in the car for long journeys.
Easing himself behind the wheel, he thanked the security guards again, and as Freya belted herself up, he tried to push the ignition key in. And failed. His hand was still shaking too much. ‘God, I don’t know if I can even drive,’ he said. ‘I’m like – I’m just jangling!’
‘Want me to?’
‘No, I’ll – I’ll be – you know.’ He shrugged, tried and missed again.
‘A couple of deep breaths, darling,’ Freya said.
He tried again, conscious of the guards still waiting, succeeded, twisted the key and the engine fired. He drove slowly over the bumpy grass until they reached the road, then pulled out onto it in the direction of Brighton.
After a few moments he glanced at Freya and said, ‘Can you believe it? Incredible, eh? We might be rich – as in seriously rich! We might be multimillionaires!’
She gave him one of those smiles she always did when he got over-enthusiastic, and which annoyed him because they felt so damned patronizing. ‘Harry, there’s a very big if. You heard what the expert said – Mr Desouta: If it can be proven to have actually been painted by Fragonard himself.’
‘Darling, he’d never have said that unless he was pretty certain.’
She gave him a sideways look. ‘What the Antiques Roadshow team have to do is make good television. There’s a reason why it’s called Antiques Roadshow – because it’s a show. They need the wow factor, they want the audience watching to get a thrill; you saw how he milked it for the cameras.’
‘Did he?’
‘You didn’t?’
‘Anyhow,’ he said with a sly grin, ‘I put a bottle of bubbly in the fridge last night, just in case. I think we should pop the cork when we get home.’
She shook her head. ‘Let’s save it. I don’t want us to build up our hopes. He told us to take it to Christie’s or Sotheby’s to get it looked at properly, and that they might be able to tell us if it is genuine or not.’
‘I’m planning to do that first thing next week,’ he said.
‘Can you afford the time? I thought you were on a deadline with that loft conversion. Aren’t you on a penalty if you don’t finish it by next weekend?’
‘Afford the time? I can leave Darryl in charge for the day, it’s all down to him and Phil at the moment for the next two days.’ Darryl was his main carpenter, trustworthy and reliable, as was Darryl’s assistant, Phil. ‘Anyhow, whoever I take it to will probably need me to leave it with them. I’ve got to sort out Steyning on Monday, but I can whizz up to London first thing Tuesday and be back down by midday.’
‘On the train?’
He shook his head. ‘No way, I’m not risking doing something dumb like leaving it or getting it bashed in a packed carriage. I’ll drive it up.’ He reached across with his left arm, took her hand and squeezed it. ‘I’ve got a good feeling about this, my love, a really good feeling. Don’t you?’