Hegarty’s plan had been at some point in the future to produce the original he’d secretly retained, which he was pretty sure was a genuine Fragonard. He would concoct a convincing story about its provenance and quietly sell it to one of his billionaire Russian or Chinese clients for handsome money. Enough money to never have to work again.
Millions!
But he hadn’t reckoned on someone already owning the other three works in the series, Spring, Autumn and Winter. A serious piece of work. Someone who, he had no doubt at all, would not stop at killing to get that fourth painting.
And it would not be long before Piper went after the Kiplings, just as he’d come after him, he thought with a twinge of guilt. And when Piper got his hands on the painting he’d know it was a fake.
Albeit a damned fine one.
And he would put two and two together.
Hegarty loved Natalie and he loved his life. He’d never met Stuart Piper but knew him by reputation. Billy the Brush had told him about two art dealers who had met with fatal accidents that Piper was reputedly behind. And there were possibly more. Hegarty knew from his own criminal background that some villains you could do business with, and some you couldn’t. The latter would kill anyone who didn’t give them what they wanted. Stuart Piper was one of those.
In the clouds high above he heard a plane. Probably out of Gatwick and heading south. Maybe that’s what he should do, jet off to somewhere in the sun with Natalie and lie low for a while? But he had a stack of commissions to fulfil, and he knew that running from a man like Piper would never set you free of him, it would just delay him catching up with you.
A warbling sound distracted him. His ringtone.
Puzzled about who might be calling at this hour, he dug his phone out of his pocket and looked at the display. It was Harry Kipling.
He hesitated. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He tried to think of the reasons Kipling might have to call him, and could only come up with one. The one he did not want to face. Ignore the call?
No, he was too curious. Taking a deep breath, he answered, trying to sound more cheerful and guileless than he felt. ‘Harry! How are you? Must be synchronicity, I was just thinking about you. To what do I owe this honour?’
The builder, sounding deeply distressed, apologized for calling him so early, then told him what had happened. When he finished, Hegarty said, ‘Shit. What a bummer.’
‘You could say that.’
‘You gave him the original, which you had in the secure unit?’
‘I didn’t have any choice, Daniel. These guys were proper scary, you know? I think they would have killed Tom, our son, if I hadn’t done what they demanded.’
‘God, I don’t know what to say, Harry,’ he replied, and at this moment he didn’t. He saw his dogs chasing a rabbit, which to his mild relief vanished down a hole. ‘Do you have any idea who these people were, Harry?’
‘No, I just thought I’d call you in case you have any idea.’
‘Can you describe them?’
‘One, the bastard in charge, was American. Tall, creepy, he had a kind of Southern accent, but I never saw his face. They were all wearing balaclavas. The other two were like henchmen – bouncer types. One of them was called Ross or something like that.’
The cold wind blowing through Hegarty just got colder. ‘Doesn’t ring any bell with me,’ he lied. ‘I’m sorry, Harry, but it doesn’t sound like anyone I’ve ever had dealings with. What did the police say?’
‘Nothing really. They’ll do their best, and all that. It’s been handed over to their Major Crime Team, whatever that means, and we’re all going to be interviewed in depth later today.’
‘How’s your wife and your boy?’ Hegarty asked, doing his best to sound sincerely concerned, and that wasn’t hard – he was seriously concerned, not only for the Kiplings, but for himself and Natalie.
‘Pretty bloody traumatized.’
‘I can only imagine, what an ordeal. That’s terrible, Harry. And you’ve lost the painting?’
‘Both of them. God knows how much the original is worth.’
‘And you didn’t insure it?’
‘No, as I told the police, we didn’t know what value to put on it. And if it was worth millions, I probably couldn’t have afforded the insurance anyway. That’s why I had you make a copy, so I could put the original in a safe place.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’ Hegarty asked, his mind in turmoil too now, his worst fear confirmed.
‘No, I... I just called you on the off-chance you might know something.’
‘I so wish, Harry. This is terrible. I wish I did know these people, I really wish I bloody did. I wish I could do something for you.’
‘Maybe you could speak to your contacts in the art world in case any of them get offered the painting – they might try to offload it quickly.’
‘Of course, Harry, I’ll make some discreet calls – I’ll bell you if I have any luck.’
‘Thanks, I’d really appreciate that.’
Hegarty ended the call with a storm of panic raging through him. This was happening sooner than he’d feared. When Piper realized what he had was a fake, and for sure he would, he would almost certainly come after him. And next time his window cleaners might not be around. Nor anyone else.
He called the dogs. Whistled. Called them again, urgently. He wanted to get home – he had an idea. It wasn’t ideal but it might work. He’d always subscribed to the view where possible that if you wanted to conceal something, hiding it in plain sight was often the best idea.
He glanced at his watch. The robbery had taken place around 9 p.m. last night, from what Harry had told him. With luck Piper wouldn’t see the painting until this morning. Then it would take him time to get the American and the henchmen for a return visit to his own house. He could just give them the painting and hope that would be the end of it, but screw that. Not after their threats to his darling Natalie and himself. He wasn’t going to give those bastards anything.
The more he thought about his plan, the more he liked it. As he headed back down the hill, the dogs lured by a biscuit each, he smiled. It was the first time he’d smiled in two days.
92
Wednesday, 6 November
Shortly before 8 a.m. the doorbell rang. Harry Kipling peered through the spyhole and saw two men in suits. Keeping the chain on, he opened the door a fraction. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Mr Kipling?’ A calm, direct voice.
‘Yes – who are you?’
Through the crack he saw a hand hold up a police warrant card.
‘Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Inspector Branson of the Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team, sir. May we come in? This is just a quick visit to check you are all OK.’
‘Yes, of course, thank you.’ Harry closed the door, slipped the chain from the lock and opened it again. Two smartly dressed men stood there, one white, with neat, close-cropped fair hair, the other taller, black and bald, wearing a flamboyant tie.
A few minutes later Harry and Freya were seated in the kitchen, just as last night, with the two senior detectives opposite them. Both of them had politely rejected Freya’s offer of tea or coffee.
‘I’m very sorry for your ordeal, Mr and Mrs Kipling, and for what your son was put through,’ Roy Grace said. ‘I’m sure it’s no consolation if I tell you violent domestic robberies of this type are extremely rare, and we are taking this very seriously indeed.’