After a brief silence, Norman Potting quizzed, ‘How similar, Jack? Do you know how accurately the sensors measured? After all, we knew they were about the same height already.’
‘He said that within the sensor computer parameters, the driver was six foot one and the passenger six foot. Both weighing approximately one hundred and ten kilograms.’
Potting turned to Velvet Wilde. ‘Stuart Piper’s house? His hired muscle, they fit that description, right?’
‘So do a lot of people, Norman,’ she replied.
Potting raised a finger in the air. ‘Ah, but the muscle guys are identical twins.’
‘Piper’s bodyguards?’ Grace quizzed sharply.
‘Yes, chief,’ Potting said.
‘It wouldn’t necessarily rule them out, Norman. Identical twins aren’t always exactly the same height, and we’re talking just one inch difference here.’
Potting conceded with a reluctant nod.
Grace carried on. ‘First Piper pops up on the crashed Audi’s phone list. Which indicates that Porteous’s killer knew him. He appears to be a major player in the art world, and significantly, although he has no criminal record, he is on an Interpol watch list. You don’t make that list without good reason.’
Potting raised his hand. ‘I have spoken over the weekend to a helpful American detective at Interpol, sir,’ he said. ‘To see if we can get any updates on what we already know, and there is something of possible significance. They believe Piper and a former US national who works for him, by the name of Robert Kilgore – now domiciled in the UK – have an inside track on a substantial number of high-value art works that were looted by the Nazis during the Second World War and ended up in Brazil, Chile and Argentina. They don’t have enough for an arrest warrant for either man at this stage, but they have a financial investigation team looking into recent payments that may be linked to them.’
‘Do we know the whereabouts of this Robert Kilgore?’ Grace asked.
‘I’m working on it – he owns a property, an apartment on the seafront in Kemp Town. He also has properties in Savannah, Georgia, and in Buenos Aires, Argentina.’
Grace frowned at the latter. ‘A bolthole?’
‘Could well be, chief. But it could simply be for business purposes – several countries on the South American continent have historically provided a safe haven for looted art.’
‘As well as for looters themselves,’ Grace added. ‘Yes, it would make sense for someone like him to have some kind of a base there. Good work, Norman. If he’s here in England at the moment, we need to talk to him.’ Grace turned to Wilde and Potting. ‘Remind us, what impression did you get from Stuart Piper when you went to his house recently?’
‘Apart from the bum’s rush from him and his heavies, chief?’ Potting said, only partly in jest.
‘I think we got that he’s not the nicest or most helpful man,’ Wilde added. ‘He was very reticent about Porteous, claiming he’d never had dealings with him. Almost pretending he’d never heard of him. Norman and I discussed that afterwards and it seemed strange. Piper is clearly a very rich man, with vast amounts of period art in his house. Porteous was a major London art dealer. It struck us as unlikely that they wouldn’t have known each other.’
‘Perhaps we’d get more out of him by bringing him in for questioning,’ Grace said. ‘A proper cognitive witness interview out of the comfort zone of his home.’
‘I don’t think he’ll make that easy, chief,’ Potting replied. ‘Just to give you a heads-up on him, he’s like a lion who reckons he’s king of the jungle.’
‘So we should be afraid of him, Norman?’ the Detective Superintendent quizzed. ‘Are you scared of him, is that what you are saying?’
Potting mumbled, awkwardly, ‘Well, no, not exactly, no, chief.’
Grace replied, ‘Norman, it’s a very dangerous world if police are ever afraid of a criminal, and that will never happen on my watch, OK? A lion might be king of the jungle. But throw him into the shark tank and he’s just another meal.’ He paused. ‘Do you understand?’
‘I do, chief.’
‘Good. After you and Velvet have spoken to Hegarty, I’d like you both to invite Stuart Piper to come in voluntarily for questioning. But in case he doesn’t want to do that willingly, suggest you may return with a search warrant. I’ve a feeling he’s the kind of guy who might not want his house searched.’
Potting looked at Wilde and saw her complicit smile. ‘With pleasure, chief,’ he said.
In her Belfast accent, DC Wilde said, ‘When I was a child, Sundays were a day of rest. The Lord’s day. Not yesterday, though.’
‘The Lord works in mysterious ways, Velvet,’ Grace retorted.
‘You’d like to think, wouldn’t you, sir, that even murderers turn up for Holy Communion?’ she said.
With a wry smile, Grace said, ‘That’s the problem. Far too many of them do. It’s something my old mentor said, many years ago. Do you know what a murderer looks like? I’ll tell you. He looks like you and me.’
72
Monday, 4 November
Daniel Hegarty, reacting to the terrified scream from his wife, made a desperate lunge for the doorway of his man-cave. Kilgore blocked it, startling Hegarty by pulling out a gun with a silencer attached as he did so. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d stay right there,’ he said icily, pointing the small black weapon straight at him.
Hegarty hesitated.
Moving the gun closer to the forger, Kilgore said, ‘My employer doesn’t like vermin, as you’ve already seen.’
The two men stared at each other with hatred in their eyes.
‘My employer also doesn’t like being cheated, Mr Hegarty. And I can assure you no one will hear a gunshot in here.’
Hegarty debated charging the old man but hesitated at the deadly serious expression on his face – he looked like he really would pull the trigger. An instant later, another man appeared behind Kilgore. A tall, muscular hunk, dressed in black, with a face that looked tough enough to break a sledgehammer.
‘Would you mind turning around please, Mr Hegarty, and putting your hands behind your back.’
‘Go fuck yourself.’
Unfazed and still consummately polite, Kilgore said, ‘Mr Hegarty, we really do not want to have to hurt your wife, but if you don’t do what I ask you, I’m afraid we will.’
As if on cue, Natalie screamed again in terror. ‘Daniel – Daniel!’
Again, Hegarty stiffened, preparing to lunge. ‘You do not touch my wife,’ he yelled at him.
‘We’ll do whatever the hell we want, Mr Hegarty. If you do not cooperate we will hurt her real bad. Now turn around.’
Very reluctantly and slowly, Hegarty obeyed. He heard footsteps, then rough, powerful hands seized his arms, forcing his hands together, palm to palm, then sharp wires cut into his wrists. He tried to move his hands, but they were bound together as if he had been handcuffed.
A massive hand on his shoulder spun him around until he was face to face with the hulk in black, breathing in a reek of last night’s garlic only faintly masked by mint gum. ‘Follow me, yeah?’
‘Where’s my wife? What have you done to her, you bastards?’
Behind the hulk, he now saw Kilgore standing in the middle of their living area, still with the gun in his hand. ‘Fuck you, Kilgore.’
‘There’s really no need for bad language, Mr Hegarty,’ he said calmly.
‘Not in your twisted fucking mind,’ Hegarty retorted.
Before he could duck, Kilgore swung at him. The force of the gun striking his cheek sent him flying; dazed, he lost his footing and fell painfully on his back, on the floor.