She nodded, looking solemn suddenly. ‘I understand his late fiancée, Bella, was one of the best, too.’
‘She was. Something the Duchess asked me this morning was how I felt about all the criticism the police come under. I told her that in an organization with so many people there were always going to be a few bad pennies and they needed to be ruthlessly dealt with. But should we be judged on those or on the good and brave things the vast majority of officers do? That, when everyone else is running from danger, we and the other emergency services are the ones running towards it. I told her that was why the medal means so much to me and to all other officers who receive it. And unlike myself, some, like Joyce Moy’s daughter, never get to receive it in person.’ He looked at them both. ‘I think the Duchess really took that on board.’
99
Sunday, 10 November
In the soggy winter months, car boot sales were generally held on firm ground, and one of the largest in the area, which Harry and Freya Kipling regularly attended, was on Sunday mornings in the vast car park of Brighton Racecourse.
Harry drove the Volvo up the long, steep hill of Elm Grove. It was a wide, mostly residential street in the centre of the city that, near the top, climbed past the grimy facade of the city’s second hospital, the Brighton General, and on up to the racecourse at the top. He drove slowly, as if reluctant to reach their destination, with deep misgivings about what they were about to do. Thinking about the painting lying in the rear behind them, and all that might have been.
Freya was adamant she did not want the painting Hegarty had left for them in the shed, and which Harry had leaned against the lounge wall hoping she would change her mind. But she didn’t. The painting just gave her a bad feeling every time she looked at it – no way could she live with it, after the nightmare they had been through.
He began to see her point. The painting sat there like it was waving two fingers at them. Taunting them. Shouting at them, Hey, dumbos, if I was the real deal, think just how rich you might become!
Freya was right, he realized, as she so often was. Keeping this memento of all they had lost would be a constant reminder. A constant wagging finger. There had been no word from the police in the past few days. He’d rung the detective, DI Branson, on Friday and left a message. The DI had returned the call yesterday, informing him that there were a number of developments and he hoped to have further news for him really soon.
There had been a lot of coverage on Radio Sussex and in the Argus about a fire in a country house in which a major art collector had died, and a large number of immensely valuable works of art had been destroyed. But the robbery at their house, which had occupied a large amount of column inches a couple of days ago, had now dropped off the newspaper’s radar.
Harry paid the entry fee, drove onto the concourse of Brighton Racecourse, followed the directions indicated by a young man in a yellow fluorescent tabard and parked the car. Then he and Freya climbed out into the misty damp morning air. He opened the boot, removed the painting, which they’d wrapped in clear polythene, and together they headed towards the stalls, looking for one that either specialized in paintings, or had some on display.
After a couple of rows, they found a stall stacked with fairly uninspiring paintings – a couple of fox-hunting scenes, a few landscapes, a terrible portrait of a dog just recognizable as a Labrador. A bored-looking woman with a plump face, and a massive tangle of blonde hair beneath a headscarf, was seated behind the trestle table, sheltered partly by the tailgate of her Toyota off-roader right behind her and partly by a golfing umbrella. She was smoking a roll-up, with a steaming mug of tea beside her.
Harry unwrapped the painting and held it up. ‘Might this be of any interest?’
She peered at it. ‘Looks like one of those – what d’ya call ’em, French artist fête things – fête galante, that’s it – I did actually study art although you wouldn’t believe it with the crap I flog here.’ She took a swig of her drink then a drag of her cigarette and looked closer. ‘Too bad it’s not an original, eh? Be worth a few bob.’ She took another drag of her cigarette, then suddenly eyed Harry and Freya suspiciously. ‘Where did you get this from?’
‘It’s a Daniel Hegarty copy,’ Harry said. ‘He gave it to us – a gift – I did a little building work for him. But we don’t have anywhere for it to hang. Do you know him?’
‘I’ve had a few of his come through here over the years.’ She looked at the painting again, carefully, turned it over and studied the reverse. ‘That Hegarty, he always does a thorough job. Clever man he is, big talent. The problem is it’s not signed, so is pretty much worthless. If you had Hegarty’s signature on the back, it would be worth a few bob – people collect him, you know?’ She studied it some more. ‘I do quite like this, might keep it for myself, got a perfect place for it in my new home in France. I’ll give you a tenner for it.’
Harry, ignoring the yes glance from Freya, said, ‘We’re looking for a bit more. Thirty?’
She shook her head, took another drag of her cigarette and coughed. ‘Fifteen.’
‘Twenty-five,’ Harry said.
‘I’ll give you twenty, best offer, take it or leave it, love.’
‘We’ll take it,’ Freya butted in.
The woman nodded and handed over a £20 note. ‘Yeah, I can see this in my lounge. Got just the place for it.’
As Freya palmed the banknote, the woman took the painting and put it straight into the back of her vehicle.
‘Good riddance,’ Freya said quietly, as they walked away.
‘I guess at least we’re even,’ Harry replied. ‘I paid twenty for it and we’ve got twenty back.’
Freya gave him a sideways smile. ‘Pretty much how you run your business. Maybe with a little coaching you’ll learn how to get a better return on your business.’
Harry shrugged. ‘We do OK, don’t we?’
She squeezed his hand. ‘We do OK.’
100
Saturday, 16 November
‘You know, it seems to me, darling,’ Cleo said, looking up from The Times Magazine, ‘that some criminals are born with a self-destruct gene.’
Grace gave her a wry smile. ‘Yep, very fortunately for us.’
‘Like your Robert Kilgore. He might have got clean away if it hadn’t been for – what – his temper?’
He leaned forward on the sofa and stroked Humphrey, who had snuggled up to his feet, still a bit damp from their long morning run over the fields. ‘Sometimes it’s almost as if they get to a point where they think they’re invincible, and then something happens and they lose the plot. If he hadn’t, he could well have got away. Fugitives can still disappear in South America – certainly if they have money, and it looks like he had plenty.’
‘What an idiot,’ she said.
He smiled, but it was tinged with sadness as he stared at the mobile phone on the coffee table in front of him.
Outside it was pelting with rain, but inside their cottage, with a fire roaring in the wood-burning stove, it was toasty warm. Noah was sitting on the floor, a fireguard and the closed doors of the stove keeping him safe, as he studiously put pieces of Playmobil together.
Showered and changed after his run, Grace was feeling healthier. And the events of the past week had left him feeling much better, having produced a real result for his new ACC on their first case together.