Dryden smelt the canvas again. ‘A few questions. What if there’s a different story? What if it’s spent the last sixty-odd years buried under the old PoW camp? What if someone took it, robbed a grave, robbed Vee Hilgay a second time?’
But Russell was ready for that. ‘Vee needs the money now, right? She’s in the home, you should visit. A warehouse for the dying – she says that a lot. She ain’t gonna be there long either way…’
Dryden nodded, folding the paper carefully over the moonlit scene. ‘Josh took it. Took it that morning when he uncovered the bones.’ Russ looked at his feet, suddenly still. ‘Why wasn’t it picked up in the raid on the flat?’ asked Dryden.
Russell ran a finger along the gilt-edged frame. ‘He ain’t that clever, Josh – nor the rest. He knew the pearls were fakes but couldn’t get a clear sight of the picture. When he did he said it was rubbish too. Victorian crap, bric-à-brac, a granny picture. So they let me take it home.’
‘Home?’ said Dryden, seeing the burnt-out cars, the eviscerated sofas on the Jubilee Estate.
‘Then you came round and saw Vee and said about the Dadd… No way we could flog it then, eh? Too hot, much too hot. But Vee needs the money. So we found a way. You told Josh about the Italians at Buskeybay. We were gonna stash it out there – let it turn up. Then I spotted the clearance coming up at auction. We got an old frame for it: perfect, so we took our chance.’
Dryden, laughing at last, pictured the scene in the Flynn family home. The Formica kitchen table, the three-inch pile shaggy purple carpet, and Richard Dadd’s £im masterpiece hanging opposite a flight of plaster ducks.
43
The lounge of Cedarwood Retirement Home was decorated in baby blue, clashing horribly with the floral upholstery on the dozen upright armchairs. Vee Hilgay was by the window, some papers on her lap, her hand holding back the net curtain so that she could see out into the gardens. Beside her on a plastic tray lay her evening meal, untouched, the gravy congealing over pre-sliced pork. Her trademark Tony Benn mug was on the floor beside her.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ said Dryden.
Vee turned. ‘There you are. Russ said you’d come,’ she said, brushing a hand across the milky, moonlike eye.
Then she saw the package. Dryden had had it reframed that afternoon in simple pine. She ripped off the brown paper, letting it fall to the floor, then she stood, setting the picture up in the high-backed chair.
‘The experts say it’s worth a million,’ said Dryden, laughing.
She didn’t take her eyes off it. ‘It’s worth much more than that,’ she said.
The bell rang for bedtime, but she ignored it.
‘Champagne,’ she said, walking towards the door. ‘Where can we drink champagne?’