Picture You Dead

68

Monday, 4 November

When one door slammed shut in Daniel Hegarty’s face – and on two occasions in his distant past it had been a cell door – another always opened. Born with a happy disposition, he sailed through life, riding the waves on a combination of charm and immense talent. And, normally, he slept well, the sleep of the innocent.

But not last night, after Robert Kilgore’s deeply unpleasant phone call, which he hadn’t shared with Natalie. In the past, whenever he’d had a problem he would talk it through with her, and his sanguine wife would always have a pragmatic solution. A problem shared is a problem halved was one of his mantras. He should have shared this particular one, but last night she’d seemed in such a happy and relaxed mood, he hadn’t wanted to break that. So instead he’d kept it to himself, ending up drinking more red wine than he should, in the hope of it making Kilgore’s menacing words go away.

But of course, it hadn’t. And as always when he’d drunk too much, he lay awake in the middle of the night, his head aching and his thoughts in turmoil, sleeping fitfully and waking frequently at the slightest sound, with a feeling of dread.

Finally, his bedside clock showing 6 a.m., feeling exhausted but wired, he slipped out of bed, pulled on a tracksuit and fleece, went downstairs, tugged on his wellingtons, then opened the kitchen door to Rocky and Rambo, who jumped up at him, barking excitedly. He shushed them with their first treat of the day, a cocktail sausage each, clipped on their leads and took them out on the dark pavement, where there was no dead body today. The forensics teams had not returned.

Wanting to clear his head, he took the dogs for a much longer walk across the Downs than his usual forty-minute morning constitutional before returning home. He showered and then had a breakfast of porridge and fresh fruit at the kitchen table, while watching the 8 a.m. local news.

The main item, ahead of Brexit for a change, was the dead body outside his house. Natalie joined him, eating some even more healthy, high-protein gunk the colour of dog faeces she’d whizzed up in the Nutribullet. ‘So, my darling, you never told me about that call last night. Who was it?’

He shrugged. ‘It was—’

He stopped as a familiar face appeared on television. It took a second to realize why it was familiar – it was himself, standing on the pavement with the blue and white crime scene tape and the white tent in the background. Talking directly to the camera, he was saying, ‘It was just a complete shock! I took our dogs out for a walk, as I do every morning, and saw this man lying there. I rushed over to see if I could help him, but he wasn’t moving. I did a first aid course years ago and tried to remember the protocols. But as soon as I touched him, I was pretty sure he was deceased. I... I did the only thing I could think of, which was to dial 999.’

‘You have no idea who this man was?’ the reporter asked.

‘None at all – I’ve never seen him before – ever.’

‘Do you have any idea why he was here outside your house?’ she pressed.

Hegarty watched himself shrug and give a bemused smile. ‘Absolutely none at all.’

The interview ended and Natalie looked at him. ‘Is that true?’

He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean. I married you because I love you, but I’m not naive. I know that you work for some dodgy people. A dead body outside our front gate? Was that pure chance or is someone you’ve upset sending you a message? I think you owe me that answer, at least.’

Suddenly both dogs began barking and ran upstairs towards the door. Moments later the bell rang. A long, sharp, insistent ring.

Hegarty saw the instant look of panic in his wife’s face.

‘It’s OK,’ he said.

‘Is it?’

As he approached the front door, the dogs barking even more frantically, Natalie called out, her voice wracked with concern, ‘Use the spyhole.’

‘Don’t worry, I will.’

He raised the flap and peered through the tiny hole in the door. Despite the distorted image, he instantly recognized the man standing a short distance back.

‘It’s OK,’ he said. He unhooked the safety chain, and leaning down, with one hand holding both of the dogs’ collars, opened the door with the other.

Robert Kilgore stood there, all smiles, dapper and faintly flamboyant as ever, in a dark suit with a small green-and-white-spotted bow tie. ‘I’m real sorry to intrude so early, Mr Hegarty, and without an appointment,’ he said, his voice so sincere he almost sounded as if he meant it. ‘Would this be a convenient moment to have a chat?’

‘Come in,’ Hegarty replied tersely.

Kilgore stepped through the doorway, then kneeled and made a massive fuss of the dogs, letting them lick his face, tickling their bellies, then to Hegarty’s surprise digging a couple of treats out of his pocket.

‘All right with you if I give them these?’

‘They’ll love you forever.’ Kilgore seemed very different today from his cold, threatening voice of last night, Hegarty thought.

Kilgore fed the treats from the palm of his hand, then stood up and addressed Natalie, who was standing warily behind her husband. ‘Good morning, Mrs Hegarty, nice to make your acquaintance again.’

She responded with a polite but cool, ‘Nice to see you again, too, Mr Kilgore. Can I offer you some tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee would be good, black, no cream.’ He smiled. ‘My apologies, guess after thirty years in your country I should have gotten used to saying milk rather than cream, but some habits, you know...’ He shrugged.

‘Shall we go to my office?’ Hegarty suggested, then turned to his wife. ‘I’ll do the coffees, darling.’

‘I’ll get them, no problem. One for you, too?’

‘Please.’

As Natalie walked off towards the kitchen, the two men stood for a moment in uncomfortable silence. Then Kilgore said, his voice lowered to little more than a whisper, ‘I’m here on serious business, Mr Hegarty, so I hope you’re not going to mess with me. I’ve come here to save your life.’