Picture You Dead

97

Wednesday, 6 November

Harry, Freya and Tom climbed out of the police car that had driven them home, shortly before 6 p.m. They were all exhausted, from a combination of their lack of sleep the previous night, then hours of questioning by detectives at Sussex Police HQ this afternoon.

As they walked across the drive to the front door, they saw a white envelope jammed in the letterbox. Harry removed it, barely giving it a glance, and unlocked the door. As they went inside they were greeted by Jinx, giving a mournful miaow.

Freya kneeled and stroked him. ‘Hey, Jinx, are you hungry?’

Jinx miaowed again then shot towards the kitchen, his surefire sign that he wanted food.

‘I need a drink,’ Harry said.

‘I’m going up to my room,’ Tom mumbled.

‘We’ll have an early supper, Tom, darling,’ his mother said.

‘Yeah, OK.’

Harry carried the envelope through into the kitchen, put it on the island unit, then went to the fridge. ‘Glass of white?’ he asked Freya.

‘Sounds a good plan,’ she replied and removed a packet of cat food from the cupboard. As she tore it open and tipped the contents into the bowl, nudging Jinx away until she had finished, Harry unscrewed the cap from the bottle of wine in the fridge, poured out a large glass for Freya, then took out a cold beer for himself, opened it and drank a gulp straight from the can, before perching on a bar stool. ‘Jesus, what a grilling. I felt at times like we were suspects, not victims of crime.’

‘They were just trying to jog our minds. As that detective said, they were trying to see what details we could remember that might be helpful.’

‘Jog our minds? It felt like they were trying to prise mine open with a crowbar!’

She sat down next to him and took a sip of her wine, then glanced down at the envelope. ‘Who’s that from?’

‘Probably a bill,’ he said. It was addressed in blue handwriting to Mr & Mrs Kipling and underlined with a flourish. He picked it up, ripped it open with his finger and pulled out a plain sheet of white paper. On it was a brief note in the same, rather artistic handwriting.

He handed it to Freya and she read it quickly. ‘In the shed?’ she queried, frowning. ‘Hope this compensates you just a little. What does that mean? I’ll go and look.’

‘I’ll get something out of the freezer for dinner. Veggie lasagne?’

‘I’m fine with anything. I can do supper if you want?’

‘No, go foraging in the shed!’

Freya returned a few minutes later holding a rectangular parcel, meticulously wrapped in brown paper and bound with Sellotape. Removing a sharp knife from the caddy, she sliced through the tape and removed the paper, to reveal a layer of bubble-wrap packaging beneath. She removed that too, letting it drop to the floor, and held up the framed painting that was revealed.

It was a painting that had become all too familiar. An ornately framed landscape in oil, ten inches wide by twelve, depicting a summer scene. Two beautiful young lovers picnicking together in elegant eighteenth-century dress, the woman holding a pink parasol. It was a woodland setting, with a lake behind.

They looked at each other for some moments. Then Harry shrugged. ‘We have an empty space on the lounge wall, might as well hang it there, don’t you think?’

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.’