Freya shook her head. ‘No, Harry, I don’t think so.’
He studied it for some moments approvingly. ‘Daniel Hegarty’s work does have some value. You can see why, can’t you, when you look at this?’ He turned it so she could see it full on.
‘He’s good,’ she said grudgingly. ‘But I don’t want it hanging in the lounge. I don’t want it in the house.’
Surprised by her vehemence, Harry said, ‘Darling, Daniel Hegarty’s a really decent guy. He’s clearly genuinely sorry for what we’ve been through – I could tell from his voice when I spoke to him this morning. At least we have this as a memento.’
She looked angry. ‘A memento of what, exactly? A memento of being tied up and our son’s life threatened?’
He shrugged and stared at his beer can. ‘Our dreams?’
‘Our dreams or yours?’ She softened a little, seeing how upset he looked. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. Look, even if the police catch those vile people and get the painting back, we still won’t know whether it was genuine or just a good forgery, right?’
‘We’d soon find out.’
‘Fine. And if it turned out to be a forgery and worth no more than the twenty quid you paid for it, would we be any worse off?’
He thought for a moment, then smiled. ‘No. But we can all dream, can’t we?’
She smiled back, wistfully. ‘Harry, my love, do you remember the words you once wrote to me in an anniversary card? Not long after Tom was born?’
He frowned. ‘I’m trying to remember.’
‘Well, I’ve never forgotten. You wrote, To my darling Freya and our baby Tom. We’re living the dream. Let’s never forget it.’ She smiled again. ‘Remember now?’
He did. He nodded. ‘Yep.’
‘For me that’s never changed. Our life, being with you, having this amazing, wonderful son, and sweet Jinx, that’s the dream. I don’t need to be a multimillionaire to make my life complete. Being with the people I love does that.’ She jabbed a finger at the painting. ‘Has that damned thing enhanced our lives in any way? Has it brought us any luck? I don’t think so, it’s just brought a load of grief. The damned thing could have burned our house down. Tom might have died last night. We were happy before that painting came into our lives, screwed with our heads, gave us the fantasy that we’d won the lottery. I don’t want to hang it in the lounge, I want to throw it in the bin.’
98
Friday, 8 November
One of the things Roy Grace loved about his job was the constant variety. And there had been plenty of that during the past forty-eight hours for sure.
He had spent part of Wednesday in full PPE treading carefully – and sometimes crawling – around the most damaged part of the interior of Bewlay Park with his Crime Scene Manager. They had discovered that all the CCTV recordings had gone.
Later that afternoon at Worthing Mortuary, he and Glenn had donned surgical gowns and masks for the grim and lengthy Home Office postmortem of Stuart Piper. His body was too charred for visual identity to be formally confirmed, but on the basis of location and build of body, they were confident it was him. DNA and dental records would hopefully confirm it shortly.
Grace was glad the postmortem was taking place in Worthing rather than the Brighton and Hove Mortuary, so Cleo would not have to be present, although Darren had offered to take over from her during these final weeks of her pregnancy any time she didn’t feel up to it.
Charred bodies were always a horrific sight, and although he’d seen more than enough during his career, they always disturbed him, as if playing tricks with his mind. Visually, charred bodies looked like props in a horror movie, but the inescapable horror was that each, like the one in front of him now, had been a living human being. And the sweet smell of cooked meat churned his stomach. The postmortems of dead children were the only ones that disturbed him more. And he could see, from the expression in Glenn’s eyes above his mask, that he was equally uncomfortable, as was the Coroner’s Officer. The only ones in the room who had seemed unperturbed were the CSI photographer, James Gartrell, and the Home Office pathologist, Dr Frazer Theobald.
Yesterday, Grace and his team had spent interviewing suspects, and now twenty-four hours later, on this Friday afternoon, everything was completely different again. He was wearing his full-dress police uniform, crisply pressed, his black shoes spit and polished to a military shine. Just a few hours ago, at 11 a.m., with Cleo elegantly dressed and carrying her pregnancy with real style, Norman Potting spick and span in his uniform, and elderly, frail Joyce Moy, they had been in the grandeur of Buckingham Palace for the investiture ceremony. And, no getting over it, it had felt special. Really special. And he had felt nervous as hell.
The Queen’s Gallantry Medal had been presented to him by a resplendent Prince Charles, accompanied by his wife, the Duchess of Cornwall, looking striking. What had surprised him most of all was the warmth of the royal couple, and in particular, just how well briefed the Duchess had been, how charming she was – and just how retentive her memory, especially considering the huge number of people they were seeing that morning.
Her first comment had been to tell him he must be very good at holding his breath. To which he had replied, ‘In the presence of royalty, always, ma’am!’
Grinning, she had retorted, ‘I understand you swam through a doorway into a flooded room to search for a trapped boy, with no idea whether you had enough in your lungs to reach him, let alone to bring him out to safety – if he was even still alive.’
From somewhere deep inside him, he’d found the wit to reply, ‘One of the things this job teaches you, ma’am, is to hold your tongue. I guess holding your breath comes later.’
She had laughed.
And he was recounting this now to the Chief Constable, Lesley Manning, and ACC Hannah Robinson, in an area of the canteen of Sussex Police HQ that had been cordoned off for the reception, hosted by the Chief Constable, in their honour. A lavish spread of sandwiches and cakes had been laid on, as well as a celebratory glass of bubbly for everyone. Those who had been invited included the Mayor of Brighton and Hove, who was due to make a short speech, Emma-Jane Boutwood, Jack Alexander, Luke Stanstead, Velvet Wilde, Glenn Branson and Siobhan Sheldrake, in an off-duty capacity as Glenn’s fiancée and not as a reporter, and Beth Durham, Head of Corporate Communications.
Roy Grace’s medal hung from a red, white and blue ribbon pinned to his chest. It was a small, silver coin, with an effigy of the Queen’s head on one side and the wording of the medal, beneath a crown, on the reverse. It was placed next to his Queen’s Jubilee medal. Joyce Moy, standing near him and engaged in conversation with the Police and Crime Commissioner, proudly held her daughter’s in its small blue display box.
Behind him, he heard Cleo. ‘Prince Charles really was lovely, he asked me when I was due to give birth and did we know if it was a boy or a girl? He was a regular bloke – except I was shaking, almost pinching myself, you know, that this wasn’t a Prince Charles lookalike, but the real person, our future King!’
Grace smiled, then said to Lesley Manning and Hannah Robinson, ‘I have to say, I’ve never known Norman Potting so quiet. I watched him talking to the Duchess with total respect – he was genuinely in awe – not many people are capable of having that effect on him!’
The Chief replied quietly, after checking Potting wasn’t in earshot. ‘His humour can rub people up the wrong way.’
‘He’s had years of practice, ma’am,’ Grace said with a smile. ‘But I will be very sorry the day he retires, he’s one of the best.’