Adam moved quickly yet calmly, stacking all of the artwork into one single pile leaning against the wall nearest the back door. Ten minutes later, he was supervising the removal of his precious cargo. The painting on the easel was the last item to go — an almost finished Modigliani. Adam smirked at the thought of Jack being so close to it, without ever asking to see beneath the muslin. Frederick Jenkins had taught Adam well, and he’d been an exceptional and obsessive student.
From a wall safe Adam removed ten passports — more superb fakes. These were ‘fog’ passports, created during the genuine online renewal process, using the substitute photograph of a fraudulent applicant. He put all of this into a leather shoulder bag, together with around 300,000 in US dollars, Irish euros and English pounds. The castle that Adam had joked about wasn’t a lie at all. It was a modest chateau in the south of France, complete with cannabis farm. And he also had a large apartment in Amsterdam; in fact, it was the penthouse apartment in the very building Anik had visited with Lieutenant Visser. Of course, neither property was in the name of Adam Border.
Jack got a direct flight back to London, using the one hour and twenty minutes to arrange his thoughts. He had originally assumed that his biggest problem when he returned would be justifying his Irish trip to Ridley. Now he’d have to explain why he let Adam go, for the sake of catching Avril’s killer.
He hoped and prayed to any god who’d listen that Adam Border sent the video footage as he’d promised. Without it, everything rested on getting a clear print off the fire poker. It was now clear that the poker found in the en suite off Avril’s master bedroom was not the murder weapon at all. Jack replayed in his mind the moment that Jag used one finger to straighten the poker on the wall, and the importance of it gave him palpitations.
Jack had packed very carefully, wrapping the cardboard tube in a plastic bag with the sole intention of preserving Adam Border’s fingerprints. Jack would honour the 24-hour head start in order to get the video but, as soon as he had it, he’d make it his mission to find Adam and bring him in.
Jack strode from the airport, knowing that Ridley would be waiting for him. Jack had texted just before his flight took off:
Meet me at the airport. 3.15. I have our killers.
And sure enough there he was, parked in the pick-up area. Jack threw his bag and the cardboard tube into the boot then jumped in the front. ‘We need to get to Avril’s house, sir. I’ll explain everything on the way.’
In the 30-minute drive to Kingston, Ridley didn’t utter a single word. He just listened. Jack omitted the conversation he and Adam had had about parents, upbringing, absent fathers, but everything else was relayed in perfect detail.
Once at Avril’s house, Ridley got a large evidence bag from the boot of his car and they headed towards the open front door. Arnold Hutchinson was sitting on the third stair up. ‘Your call was most intriguing, DCI Ridley. Why are we here?’ Whilst Ridley paused to thank Arnold for opening the house at such short notice, Jack continued into the lounge. The poker, like all of the houses’ contents, was still in place, the entire property being in limbo during the wills dispute.
Jack pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, lifted the poker carefully by the handle and lowered it into the evidence bag. Jack turned to Ridley.
This was currently their only chance of identifying Jag. The video footage would give them facial identification on all of the killers, and it would give them Jag’s number plate when he drove away just before the greenhouse explosion — but right now, the poker was the only physical evidence they had. All they needed was a twelve-point match to Mahoney and they had him.
Jack headed out, followed by Ridley who thanked Hutchinson again for his cooperation.
Jack laid the poker carefully in the boot of Ridley’s car. His cheeks were flushed. He was eager to get back to the station and hand the poker over to forensics. ‘Go home, Jack.’ Ridley was firm: this was an instruction. ‘I’ll rush the poker through with Angel. Tomorrow, get in early. By then we’ll have a name on the print. And, by midday if Adam’s as good as his word, we’ll have the video.’ Ridley was desperate to clear the decks and take Jack to task over his unforgivable level of insubordination — from going to Ireland, to allowing an art thief to walk away — but, right now, he wanted Avril’s killer just as much as Jack did.
When Jack got home, Maggie was on the sofa with her feet up, a white wine spritzer in her hand and a bowl of crisps balanced between her thighs. Hannah was curled up at the other end of the sofa watching Peppa Pig through very tired eyes. She was determined to stay awake, however, as Maggie had told her that Daddy was on his way home.
Jack bundled in through the front door, dropping his bag and the cardboard tube in the hallway. Hannah struggled to her feet, looked over the back of the sofa then bounced up and down on the cushions. ‘Peppa! Peppa!’ she squealed, which Jack, of course, heard as ‘Papa! Papa!’ He beamed, landing a huge kiss on her nose. Maggie crossed her legs, making room for Jack to sit in between the two of them. She was presented with a bottle of Tom Ford perfume and Hannah was given a teddy bear wearing a green hat. She wrapped it in her arms and settled back down to watch the television again.
Jack placed the silver Celtic brooch he’d bought for Penny onto the coffee table and leant over Maggie’s crossed legs, spilling the precariously balanced bowl of crisps into her crotch. Neither of them cared as he gently kissed her. ‘I missed you.’
‘You hungry? I waited for you.’
Jack picked up a crisp from between Maggie’s legs and ate it. ‘So, I see.’
An hour later, Hannah was asleep, Maggie was scrolling through Netflix to find a horror film and Jack was ordering the Chinese takeaway. Penny had been and gone — her yoga started at seven, then she was heading to the pub for a drink with a group from her class. She’d tucked her brooch into the inside pocket of her handbag, so she could show it off later.
As was always the way when watching a film with Maggie, halfway through she worked out the ending, got bored and started talking, despite the fact that Jack was still engrossed.
‘You’ll never guess what’s happened now.’ Jack continued watching the film and eating, whilst he listened. He could guess what she was going to say. ‘Elliot Wetlock’s only gone and resigned. I mean, he’s jumped before he could be pushed, I’m guessing, but you should have heard him. He was actually humble. He apologised to everyone for the inconvenience he’d caused by his constant absences and thanked us for our understanding and brilliant work during the pandemic. Then he did this.’
Maggie reached beneath the sofa cushion she was sitting on, and handed Jack the Evening Standard, already turned to page five. The headline read: SURGEON ADMITS TO HIS PART IN DAUGHTER’S SUICIDE. It was not what Jack had expected Maggie to tell him. Wetlock had presented himself at Hammersmith police station and asked to speak with the detective in charge of the case. He’d admitted supplying his daughter with barbiturates which, although illegal, he’d done on medical grounds to help her through some very tough times. He claimed to have had no clue that she had been storing them up with the intention of taking her own life.
‘What a load of bullshit!’ Jack shouted making Hannah stir in her sleep. ‘He was keeping her addicted, the sick bastard and, in the end he...’ Jack was just about to launch into a tirade of abuse about how criminal and perverted it was for a father to stick a diazepam suppository up his own daughter’s arse with the intention of killing her, when he stopped himself. Maggie didn’t need to know. Not tonight. And not from him.