Jill put aside her coffee and was about to give Bea a call when she heard the Gallery’s front door open. She got up from her desk.
‘This is a surprise. What are you doing here?’ She smiled at William Phillips and realised she was glad to see him.
‘Thought I’d come and take another look at Kevin’s exhibition, but it looks like I’m too late.’ He looked at the empty walls.
‘The exhibition finished last Friday. We’re waiting on a shipment of Byron Willis’s paintings. If you’re interested, I can send you an invitation.’
‘I’d like that. Got time for a coffee?’
Jill looked at her watch. ‘A quick one.’
They walked across the road to the coffee shop and sat down at a table by the front door. From where they sat, Jill could see if anyone entered the gallery. They ordered coffee, a cappuccino for her and a double espresso for him.
‘I have a confession to make.’ William looked into her eyes and gently stroked the back of her hand. ‘I didn’t come to the gallery to see Kevin’s exhibition. I came to see you.’
Jill looked down at his hand on hers. After his mother’s murder investigation had ended, Jill hadn’t heard from him again. At the time, she thought it was because she wasn’t an easy person to get to know. She was also a police officer. She had the feeling her choice of career didn’t sit easily with him.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Jill said. William was old enough to be her father and was carrying enough baggage to fill an Airbus A-330. She had problems of her own: there were questions about her father’s death she needed answers to, especially now that Morrissey was alleging he was corrupt; the prime suspect in her undercover operation was missing; and she still had to sit the Bull Ring.
‘You don’t have to say anything, just come to dinner with me.’
Jill took back her hand and tucked her hair behind her ear. She knew William liked opera, ballet, and expensive dinners. She liked the beach, Thai food, and cheap wine. She skimmed a scoop of milk froth with a spoon.
‘Apart from wanting to see you, I also wanted to ask your advice,’ William said.
Jill raised her eyebrows. She crossed her legs and looked at him. ‘What sort of advice?’
‘I wanted to ask you about some paintings Stockland and Lewis bought.’
‘What do you want to know?’ She swallowed a spoonful of froth.
‘You remember the Miró in my office?’
‘Of course I do. How could I forget it? Don’t get me talking about Joan Miró, William, or we’ll be here all day.’
‘I think it could be a fake,’ he said.
Jill put down her spoon and looked up from her coffee.
‘Our accounts people have been going through the assets register. We’re missing provenance certificates. Can you tell by looking at a painting, if it’s the real thing? If the Miró turns out to be a fake, there’s a very good chance the rest of the art works on our office walls are fakes as well.’
She remembered the day she walked into his office and broke the news to him that his mother had been found dead in the kitchen of her house. That was when she had noticed the Miró on the wall behind his desk. There had been no doubt in her mind, even then, that it was anything but an original.
‘I'm no expert when it comes to authenticating original art. It’s a specialist field. Maybe if you contact the gallery where you bought it, they might be able to help.’
‘I'd like you to have a look at it before I call them. Have you got time to come by my office and tell me what you think?’
‘I can probably get away on Wednesday, during my lunch break.’
‘Perfect.’ William sat back in his chair. ‘It makes you wonder why anyone would buy a major work of art with all this talk of art fraud in the papers. It must be affecting business at The Dunworth.’
‘The Gallery has a good reputation and we always issue a certificate of authenticity. But, to be honest, even they aren’t worth the paper they’re written on.’ Jill finished her coffee. ‘What was the name of the gallery where Stockland and Lewis bought the paintings?’
‘It was The Winfred. They’re supposed to be reputable dealers.’