‘I don’t know,’ Hegarty said impatiently, wanting to get on.
‘Filling spaces on rich men’s walls,’ Weasel said. ‘Good, eh?’
‘Can we talk later, Jimmy, I’m in the middle of something.’
‘I’ve got to get back with a quick answer. This Hong Kong geezer pays proper money – and he’s not bothered about provenance. What he’s after, top of the list, is work by Fragonard.’
Suddenly, Weasel had his full attention. ‘Fragonard? Jean-Honoré Fragonard?’
‘Yeah, that’s the one. I think we have an opportunity here, mate, a real one, know what I mean. You could knock one up, but we’ve only got a few days – this man’s buyer is over in London now, goes back next week. He’s bent as a nine-bob note – probably be a four-way split of the money – there’s another middleman involved. It would have to be a pukka job, the full Hegarty works. Are you in?’
‘Let me think about it and I’ll bell you back.’
After he hung up, he sat for some minutes, thinking. Tempting, so tempting. But he thought not, not this time. There would always be other opportunities, but right at this moment he only had one chance to do the right thing. He started the car and drove on.
Reaching the Kiplings’ house, he saw the open gates, but the driveway was full with three vehicles, a pick-up truck, a Volvo estate and a little Fiat. He pulled up against the kerb, hurried around to the passenger door and took out the painting and the envelope, then walked through onto the driveway of the pleasant if slightly dilapidated-looking house.
There were two wheelie bins to the right of the house, and a narrow path beside them leading through into the lush back garden.
It was a corner property and the garden was completely private, not overlooked by anyone, to his relief. He walked over the wet grass of the lawn to the shed and opened the door. It smelled of creosote and oil. A lawnmower sat in there, along with a row of tools. Garden loungers and chairs and their cushions, stowed away for winter, filled much of the rest of the interior that had not been claimed by cobwebs.
Brushing one out of his hair, Hegarty sidled past a stack of cushions, placed the parcelled painting against the far wall, then left, closing the door firmly behind him. He walked back around the side of the house, onto the driveway, jammed the envelope into the letterbox, then hurried back out to his car and drove off.
As he did so, feeling a massive weight lifted from his shoulders, that expression he’d been trying to remember earlier was actually something Kilgore had said to him.
Integrity is doing the right thing, even when no one is watching.
Yeah.
He’d done the right thing. For himself, for Natalie, and for the Kiplings. He hoped they would appreciate it.
96
Wednesday, 6 November
Glenn Branson drove on blue lights towards Piper’s house, while Roy Grace concentrated on his phone. He had deputized Norman Potting to take the delayed morning briefing, and updated the ACC by email, apologizing for having to cancel their meeting, but trusted she would understand his reasons.
In any event, he would be seeing her Friday. He and Cleo, together with Norman Potting and his late fiancée’s mother, Joyce Moy, were going to Buckingham Palace. Bella Moy had been posthumously awarded the Queen’s Gallantry Medal after saving the life of a young girl in a blaze and then tragically losing her own. Roy was also receiving the Queen’s Gallantry Medal for saving the life of a young boy in a water-filled tunnel at Shoreham Fort.
Twenty minutes later, hurtling past dense woods to their right, the satnav indicated it was two miles to their destination. Then, with less than half a mile to go, they saw a police car angled across the imposing front gates. It reversed to allow them through.
As they drove up the long avenue of trees the air rapidly began to smell foul. The stench of burnt paint, wet, charred wood and other burnt materials. Flecks of ash fluttered in the blustery wind like flights of grey butterflies. Then, rounding a curve, an horrific sight came into view.
The magnificent house he and Glenn had visited, only yesterday, looked in a sorry state. Part of the central portion of the roof had collapsed, leaving it open to the elements, with curls of smoke rising from it, and there were dark scorch marks down part of the facade’s upper floors with a row of windows gone.
Several fire engines, one with a turntable ladder, were parked haphazardly in front of the mansion, as well as a Fire Investigation Unit truck, and an assortment of cars and vans, two of which belonged to Crime Scene Investigators, surrounded by pools of water and pieces of blackened debris. Grace also noted a dark green coroner’s van, indicating there had been at least one fatality.
Fire hoses lay all over the ground, running into the house, and there was a small army of Fire and Rescue officers in full protective gear, some wearing breathing apparatus.
As they pulled up, a man Grace recognized, also in protective Fire and Rescue uniform, approached. Tony Kent, the Chief Fire Officer for West Sussex. He had the good looks of a movie actor, with short, dark hair, alert blue eyes and, at this moment, a very grim expression. In his free time he played bass guitar with a local band, and Grace remembered years ago attending a gig in a pub with his then wife, Sandy, and Kent’s wife, Jan.
‘Good to see you again, Tony.’
‘You too, sir.’
Grace knew that until a fire was completely under control, the Fire and Rescue officers had primacy over the scene.
‘What can you tell us?’
‘Well, from what we’ve been able to establish so far, the fire broke out in a room on the first floor, which has been gutted. But the house’s elaborate sprinkler system kicked in, fortunately, preventing the blaze from spreading much further. So far we’ve found one body. There’s a housekeeper who lived in a cottage on the estate who said the owner lived on his own in the big house.’
‘Stuart Piper?’
‘Yes, she said that was his name. He’s missing.’
As Kent was speaking, Grace saw a man wearing breathing apparatus emerge from the front door.
Kent turned and saw him, too. ‘Terrence – Terry – Stephens, the Fire Investigator, may be able to tell you more – he’s just been inside.’ He turned and waved at the man, who removed his headgear and walked towards them.
Grace and Branson climbed out of the car and Kent introduced them.
Pulling off his thick gloves, the Fire Investigator shook their hands, looking solemn. ‘The only good news is we’ve not found any other bodies,’ he said. ‘So far at least.’
‘What can you tell us about the body?’ Grace asked.
‘Well, it’s early days. But it already looks suspicious to me.’
‘In what way?’ Grace pressed.
‘Well, it looks like the location of the body is pretty much in the seat of the fire, although we can’t be sure of that until we’ve done a lot more investigating. But there’s something very odd about it.’
‘Odd?’ Grace asked. ‘Suspicious?’
‘Possibly,’ Stephens said.
‘Can we go in and have a look?’
‘Not at the moment, the building isn’t safe.’
As if to confirm his words, they were all startled by a loud crashing sound somewhere inside the house, followed by a plume of smoke or dust – it was impossible to tell which – rising through the gaping hole in the roof.
‘I might be able to get you inside in a couple of hours,’ Stephens said. ‘I guess you’ll be wanting your Crime Scene Manager and CSIs to go in?’
‘When it’s safe,’ Grace said.
Terry Stephens tapped a camera on a mounting on his chest. ‘I can show you the footage, if that would be helpful?’