‘What chance do you think you have of catching these people – and getting our painting back?’ Harry Kipling asked.
‘We’re drafting in officers to do a house-to-house in this area, looking for any home that has street-facing CCTV,’ Branson responded. ‘To see if we can get the vehicle’s registration.’
‘You think it was a Tesla?’ Grace butted in. ‘You told the officers who attended last night that an unfamiliar car, a Tesla, was parked outside your house and you gave them a description of the model, I believe?’
‘I did, yes,’ Harry confirmed. ‘I... I should have had the presence of mind to note the registration but I...’ He gestured helplessly.
‘Of course,’ Glenn Branson said with a warm, sympathetic smile.
‘We’ve already put in a request to the Control Room to check all CCTV and ANPR cameras for the registration plates of any Tesla driving in the area around the time of this attack on you all,’ Grace said. ‘Do you have a photograph of this painting?’
The Kiplings turned to each other, frowning. ‘Did we ever—?’ Harry asked. Then he remembered, of course he had. ‘Yes, I took several for an art dealer – they’re on my phone, I can ping them to you.’
‘Good,’ Grace said. ‘I understand there’s an organization called the Art Loss Register which has a worldwide reach. If we can send them an image of the painting, that would block off a number of avenues open to these thieves. We will get it circulated also to all dealers that we can find.’
‘Thank you,’ Harry said.
Grace glanced at his watch. ‘We’re going to have to leave, but we will be arranging to bring you both and your son into Sussex CID HQ later today, with your consent of course, to put each of you through a cognitive witness interview.’ He smiled. ‘That may sound a little alarming, but I assure you it isn’t. We’d like to have you all interviewed by trained officers. They might just be able to jog your memories for some tiny nuggets of detail that could make the difference between catching these offenders and not. Will you all be OK with this?’
Freya, nodding, asked, ‘How long will this take? I’m worried because Tom has diabetes and stress can play havoc with his sugar levels.’
‘We’ll make sure the interviewers are aware of that,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘We could arrange for a doctor to be in attendance if that would help?’
Freya nodded and looked at the Libre app on her phone. ‘I think that would be good, his sugar levels are going up and down crazily at the moment.’
Roy Grace stood up and Glenn Branson followed suit. ‘We’ll arrange for a car to collect you all later,’ the Detective Superintendent said.
‘We’ll be ready,’ Harry said, looking at him. He saw honesty there, genuine concern and something else he’d never imagined seeing in a police officer’s face. Genuine decency.
He saw it in the Detective Inspector’s face, too.
They cared, he realized. They really did bloody care.
93
Wednesday, 6 November
Natalie was at the kitchen table eating her breakfast and reading the morning’s Argus when Hegarty came back in with the dogs and removed his fleece. As he gave her a kiss he saw the front-page headline, for the second day running, was about the murder victim on their doorstep, named as Archie Goff, a career burglar.
There was a photograph of him, along with a smaller, inset photograph of Detective Superintendent Roy Grace, who had held a press conference yesterday, in which he was requesting any members of the public who had seen any unfamiliar people or vehicles in the area on Saturday evening to phone either the Incident Room or Crimestoppers, with both numbers beneath.
‘Anything new in that piece?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘You OK? You’re looking pale.’
‘I’m OK, thanks, just didn’t sleep well again last night.’
‘Me neither. Have something to eat, you’ll feel better. Want me to cook you some eggs?’
‘I’ll just grab some cereal and coffee, something I need to do urgently.’
‘Oh?’
He picked the dog bowls off the floor and, as they looked at him expectantly, scooped a generous amount of their dry food into each, took a packet of grated Cheddar from the fridge and sprinkled some over each portion. Rambo barked excitedly. Then he squeezed a couple of drops of hemp oil onto the biscuits in both bowls, something they’d read was good for their dogs’ health, made the dogs sit, set down the bowls on the floor and made them wait for a few moments before, with a sweep of his right arm, he said, ‘OK, Rambo, OK, Rocky!’
The dogs fell on their bowls as it they’d been starved for weeks. Hegarty switched on the coffee machine, then grabbed one of the chairs from the table, carried it over to the work surface and climbed onto it, balancing precariously.
‘What are you doing, darling?’ Natalie asked, alarmed.
‘Just getting this down.’ He reached up and gripped either side of the Banksy copy he’d made, of two policemen kissing, unhooked it and lifted it down. Then he climbed off the chair.
‘I liked it there,’ she said.
‘I’ll explain everything later, my love,’ he said and carried it through into his studio, removed his current work, the Lowry copy, from the easel and sat the Banksy there.
He hurried back into the kitchen, ignoring his wife’s quizzical gaze, made himself a double espresso while gobbling down a banana, then took his coffee back into the studio. Setting it down, he picked up a jar of acetone, selected a fresh paintbrush, dipped it in, and then began, gently coating a small area at the top of the Banksy with the chemical.
Within seconds, that part of the Banksy started to dissolve, revealing a section of the painting beneath. He coated a wider section with the acetone, and as more of the Banksy disappeared, more of the painting beneath, in all its brilliant colours and dense texture, was revealed intact.
In less than fifteen minutes, all traces of the Banksy were gone completely.
Despite the rush he was in, Hegarty could not help taking a couple of minutes to admire what lay beneath. It was sensational. He could actually understand anyone being desperate to own this. It was just glorious. Magical.
Then he set to work replacing the wooden frame with a gilded one, identical to the one which had been on the painting when Harry Kipling had brought it to him. He recalled Harry telling him, ironically, that he’d only bought the picture in the first place for the frame.
He stood back and allowed himself a few more precious moments to admire his handiwork. Or rather, the handiwork of one of the long-dead greats.
And despite the fear roiling through him, he couldn’t help himself, he was staring at it wistfully. Respectfully.
Secure on his easel in front of him was the original Fragonard painting of Summer that Harry Kipling had brought him to copy, five weeks ago.
94
Wednesday, 6 November
Outside the Kiplings’ house, Grace and Branson climbed back into their car. Branson, behind the wheel, said, ‘What do you think about their story?’
‘In what sense?’
‘Like, are they telling the truth?’
‘About the robbery?’
‘Uh huh. Exactly.’
‘Are you saying you think we’ve just been spun a load of bull?’ Grace quizzed.
Branson shrugged. ‘ABC, it’s what you’ve always taught me, boss, right?’