He was feeling hungry, and as he now needed to leave the painting for an hour, while the cocktail of chemicals he’d just brushed on did their work in ageing the picture, it was a good time for lunch. He would make himself a ham and tomato sandwich on sourdough, using some of the delicious Serrano ham he’d bought from a local deli, and maybe a small beer to steady his nerves, and inspire him to dash off a few convincing saleroom marks on the rear of the canvas this afternoon.
The doorbell rang. Instantly the dogs raced up the stairs in a tornado of yapping. He frowned, not expecting anyone. Probably a new book he had ordered from Amazon to help him with a very lucrative fresh commission, copying a Dante Gabriel Rossetti painting for a rogue middleman he’d known for years, Ron Patchouli, as slippery as the oil but less fragrant.
The fixer, who had handed him the picture along with a down-payment of £10,000 in cash, had told him the copy was for a wealthy Saudi client who loved the English poet and artist’s work. Hegarty knew the painting, it was famous, considered one of Rossetti’s finest works, and formed part of a collection in a Midlands stately home. ‘Is this hot?’ he’d asked him dubiously.
‘Nah,’ Patchouli had replied brazenly. ‘We’ve only borrowed it!’
Rocky and Rambo raced ahead of him up the stairs and began jumping up and down against the front door. Warily, he peered through the spyhole, in case it was Kilgore and his boys, and saw two people standing outside, a portly man in a suit and a smartly dressed woman beside him. Engaging the safety chain, he opened the door a crack, and above the yapping of his dogs asked, ‘May I help you?’
‘Mr Daniel Hegarty?’ asked the female with a Belfast accent.
‘Who are you?’
The man held up a warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Potting and Detective Constable Wilde from the Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team. Could we have a word with you, sir?’
‘Is this about the body?’
‘We won’t take up too much of your time, sir,’ the female officer said pleasantly. ‘We appreciate you’ve probably had your fill of police around here in the past twenty-four hours.’
Unhooking the chain and grappling with the dogs at the same time, Hegarty let them in, closing the door quickly to keep the dogs safe. Immediately the female detective kneeled and began making a fuss over both of them, while her male colleague stood looking at them warily.
‘Do they bite?’ Potting asked.
‘Yeah,’ Hegarty replied. ‘All dogs bite, that’s how they eat. But it’s all right, they’ve already had a whole postman today, so they’re not hungry.’
As he led them through, Hegarty heard a voice and a crackle of static behind him, then indicated for the detectives to sit at the table at which he and Natalie had, just a few hours earlier, been held captive by Kilgore.
The female officer stopped to look at the Lowry on the easel. ‘I like that – is this the kind of painting you do?’
Hegarty waved his arms expansively around the room, pointing at a Picasso, the Banksy and a Caravaggio. ‘I like to think I can turn my hand to pretty much any artist,’ he said. ‘Like art, do you?’
‘I do.’ Then she gave him a pointed look, her voice turning sharper. ‘When it’s genuine.’
He laughed. ‘You’ve come to the wrong place then.’
The one with the cheap suit and gruff voice looked up at the Banksy on the wall. ‘Two coppers snogging – what’s that about?’
‘Two million quid, if it’s the original,’ Hegarty retorted facetiously.
Potting cleared his throat, then focusing on the purpose of their visit asked, ‘Mr Hegarty, does the name Archie Goff mean anything to you?’
He thought for a moment. The name rang a very faint bell, maybe somewhere way back in the city’s criminal community. He shook his head. ‘No, why?’
‘He was the unfortunate person you found yesterday morning on the pavement outside your house. We are trying to establish whether his body was put there at random or whether you might have had some connection with the deceased.’
‘You’re a detective?’ Hegarty said.
Potting gave him a wary look. ‘I am, yes.’
‘Well, Detective Sergeant Potting, I was the one who found the body yesterday morning. Don’t you think if I knew him, if I recognized this Archie Goff, I’d have said so?’
‘Unless you had something to hide,’ Potting fired back sharply. He leaned across the table a little closer to Hegarty and, watching his face carefully, asked, ‘Does the name Stuart Piper mean anything to you?’
The hesitation before Hegarty replied was enough. Further confirmation came as, shaking his head and smiling politely, he raised a hand and scratched his hair at the back of his head. Both signs, Potting knew, might indicate someone was lying.
‘No, no, it doesn’t,’ he answered.
‘Are you certain, Mr Hegarty?’ Potting pressed.
‘Stuart Piper, you said?’
‘Correct. You’ve never done any work for him in the past?’
Hegarty felt a flash of discomfort. Something in the expression of the two detectives indicated they knew more than they were letting on at this moment. ‘Stuart Piper?’ he repeated, feigning deep thought. ‘Actually, that name does ring a bell.’ Then, as he lapsed into deep thought again, he was no longer feigning it. And he had to mask his smile as he came up with his response. ‘I’ve not dealt with Piper directly, but there is a gentleman you might want to talk to. He’s an American, based here, name of Robert Kilgore. Nasty piece of work; you might find it helpful to have a word with him.’
‘Where might we find him?’ DC Wilde asked.
‘I believe he’s employed by Mr Piper. But I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention I told you that.’ He shot both detectives a look which they acknowledged.
‘You’ve been very helpful,’ Norman Potting said.
‘What kind of dealings with Mr Kilgore did you have?’ DC Wilde pressed.
Hegarty shrugged. ‘None that I was very happy about.’
‘Can you expand?’ she asked.
‘Client confidentiality,’ he replied with a wink.
‘Do we gather you don’t care for Mr Kilgore?’ Potting asked.
‘You could say so,’ Hegarty replied with a grin. ‘And I’m not faking it.’
76
Monday, 4 November
Harry Kipling never normally stopped off at a pub for a drink on his way home. Nor was he much of a person for drinking alone, but at this moment he felt badly in need of a pint. Needed to think. Needed some Dutch courage before telling Freya the bloody awful news.
Just one pint then he’d go home and face the music. Shit, what a day. And with the clocks having recently gone back it was dark as he drove towards Brighton, passing the bleak, vast hulk of the long-closed cement works on his left.
Vine Cottage in Steyning had turned in the past days from a minor disaster into a bigger one, and he cursed himself. If only he hadn’t tried to cut corners and make a quick profit, all this could have been averted. But now the structural engineer had glumly informed him that as a result of knocking down the end wall, the house needed to be underpinned. The occupants had been advised to move out and stay in a hotel until it was made safe. He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to explain to Freya that he was now likely to at best break even on this project and more likely make a loss.
At the large roundabout, instead of turning onto the A27 dual carriageway and the quick route home, he chose the coast road, making for a pleasant-looking pub he’d driven past dozens of times, but had never been inside. It was just past 5.30 p.m. and the forecourt was almost empty. He parked, went inside, ordered a pint of Harvey’s in a jug, ignoring a couple of pub bores who were arguing with the landlord about a new striker Brighton and Hove Albion had paid big money for, and took his drink over to a table in a deserted corner.