Fortunately for Kilgore, his subsequent attempts at establishing the provenance – while maintaining the total anonymity of his boss – looked increasingly promising. Two scholars, considered the world’s experts on Fragonard, had created in 1982 what had become accepted as the authorized list of his works. It included an entry for the four lost Fragonard paintings of the four seasons. Their provenance, right back to the family who had owned the now-demolished chateau, was well documented along with prints of each of the paintings that had been made in Fragonard’s studio.
His next step, to confirm his assessment, had been to hand the paintings over to the octogenarian fine arts consultant to several top auction houses, Sir George Shaw, the renowned world expert on French masters. Shaw had first taken microscopic paint samples from a certified original Fragonard to compare the pigments that had been used by the artist. They had passed this test. Shaw had one final stage – the one he had told Kilgore about many times before – and which had previously exposed as a forgery many seemingly perfect originals.
The brushstroke technique of an artist was as unique as his or her handwriting. It was sometimes, but not always, possible through microscopic examination to detect if these brushstrokes were the original flourish of the artist with gay abandon, or the slower and more painstaking attempt at mimicking them. In much the same way, Shaw had explained, that a handwriting forgery could be detected.
Shaw had declared these pictures, without doubt in his opinion, to be the work of Fragonard.
Just as he had, subsequently, made the same declaration on the painting Charlie Porteous had had in his possession.
When word had reached Piper that Charlie Porteous was surreptitiously showing around to an expert what might be another of the missing Four Seasons paintings, Piper’s interest – and excitement – had been piqued. Quite apart from how it might enrich his life, he was well aware how having three of the four would potentially enrich his coffers, should he ever need to sell. But there was a big, pretty near unsurmountable, problem. He’d done business with Porteous once, and to his chagrin was well aware that the dealer would never in a million years do business with him again.
It was his own fault, he rued. He’d stiffed the famous London art dealer a few years earlier with a brilliant Tintoretto fake, commissioned from Daniel Hegarty, and executed to perfection by the forger, right down to the stencils on the back and the auction lot numbers of previous salerooms. Every detail was correct, especially the brushstroke technique that Tintoretto himself employed and which Hegarty had perfected.
Then, out of the blue, the long-lost original of the Tintoretto had turned up in Venezuela, in a haul of art looted by the Nazis – and with unassailable provenance. Charlie Porteous had come after him for the two million quid he’d paid, and Piper had told him to go fuck himself.
Porteous had been faced with a massive hit, both financially and reputationally. Even after the Venezuelan art dealer who had made the discovery had been found shot dead in an underground car park, and the original had conveniently disappeared, there was not a lot of love lost between Porteous and Piper.
Which was why, when Piper heard that Porteous might have a long-lost Fragonard Four Seasons painting, and that the expert was excited that it might be original, he knew that the respected dealer wouldn’t have sold it to him, not in a million years. Not for any money.
But he had to have that painting.
Which left him with two options.
Pay big money through an intermediary.
Or.
He’d gone for the second option, and it had worked out fine. Since October 2015, the Fragonard Spring that Porteous had been in possession of was securely hung on the wall in front of him, to the left of the onyx gap. Because of the vagaries of proof in the art world, regardless of who had seen and opined on this painting, no one was ever going to be able to definitively link it to the death of Charlie Porteous.
Piper blew another smoke ring. A magnificent one, even if he said so himself. It circled, then spiralled towards the three Fragonards, getting broader and thinner as it rose. Just one more, to fill that gap.
Tomorrow morning, after that scumbag forger had been taught a lesson by Bobby Kilgore, that gap would be gone. Filled by the original that Hegarty would hand over.
Filling a long, aching and hard-won gap in Piper’s life.
As well as adding several zeros to his net worth.
68
Monday, 4 November
When one door slammed shut in Daniel Hegarty’s face – and on two occasions in his distant past it had been a cell door – another always opened. Born with a happy disposition, he sailed through life, riding the waves on a combination of charm and immense talent. And, normally, he slept well, the sleep of the innocent.
But not last night, after Robert Kilgore’s deeply unpleasant phone call, which he hadn’t shared with Natalie. In the past, whenever he’d had a problem he would talk it through with her, and his sanguine wife would always have a pragmatic solution. A problem shared is a problem halved was one of his mantras. He should have shared this particular one, but last night she’d seemed in such a happy and relaxed mood, he hadn’t wanted to break that. So instead he’d kept it to himself, ending up drinking more red wine than he should, in the hope of it making Kilgore’s menacing words go away.
But of course, it hadn’t. And as always when he’d drunk too much, he lay awake in the middle of the night, his head aching and his thoughts in turmoil, sleeping fitfully and waking frequently at the slightest sound, with a feeling of dread.
Finally, his bedside clock showing 6 a.m., feeling exhausted but wired, he slipped out of bed, pulled on a tracksuit and fleece, went downstairs, tugged on his wellingtons, then opened the kitchen door to Rocky and Rambo, who jumped up at him, barking excitedly. He shushed them with their first treat of the day, a cocktail sausage each, clipped on their leads and took them out on the dark pavement, where there was no dead body today. The forensics teams had not returned.
Wanting to clear his head, he took the dogs for a much longer walk across the Downs than his usual forty-minute morning constitutional before returning home. He showered and then had a breakfast of porridge and fresh fruit at the kitchen table, while watching the 8 a.m. local news.
The main item, ahead of Brexit for a change, was the dead body outside his house. Natalie joined him, eating some even more healthy, high-protein gunk the colour of dog faeces she’d whizzed up in the Nutribullet. ‘So, my darling, you never told me about that call last night. Who was it?’
He shrugged. ‘It was—’
He stopped as a familiar face appeared on television. It took a second to realize why it was familiar – it was himself, standing on the pavement with the blue and white crime scene tape and the white tent in the background. Talking directly to the camera, he was saying, ‘It was just a complete shock! I took our dogs out for a walk, as I do every morning, and saw this man lying there. I rushed over to see if I could help him, but he wasn’t moving. I did a first aid course years ago and tried to remember the protocols. But as soon as I touched him, I was pretty sure he was deceased. I... I did the only thing I could think of, which was to dial 999.’