Picture You Dead

87

Tuesday, 5 November

It was approaching 9 p.m. when Harry drove the Volvo onto the driveway of his house. The American took possession of the painting and the three of them walked up to the front door.

‘You have what you want,’ Harry said. ‘Will you now leave us alone and let me give our son his meds?’ He held out his hand for the injector kit.

Kilgore replied, ‘First we open the package. I don’t want to be taken for a fool, Mr Kipling.’

As they entered the house, Harry heard the sound of a football game. He rushed through to the lounge and to his relief he saw that Tom was still conscious, but still looking woozy. There was only a faint expression of recognition in his face. Freya seemed OK, but he could see the terror in her eyes. Their guard was holding the TV remote and watching the game.

‘Can you get me a knife?’ Kilgore, still holding the package, asked Harry. Then, irked, he turned to the heavy with the remote. ‘Turn that goddamn thing off.’

‘Boss, it’s a big game—’

‘Goddamn turn it off!’

He turned it off.

Harry gave Freya a nervous, reassuring smile, hurried to the kitchen and returned with a small serrated knife which he handed to the American. Then he watched as the man cut away the tape securing the cardboard, followed by the bubble wrap. There was no excitement in his actions, no sense of a child tearing open Christmas wrapping; just something coldly forensic about him.

Lifting the framed painting clear, Kilgore held it up to the light and examined it carefully, then turned it over and studied the canvas back. Finally, he turned to Harry. ‘This is the painting you bought at a car boot sale, is that right?’

‘It is,’ he replied. ‘Well, just to be clear, it wasn’t this painting that I actually thought I was buying. I bought a painting with a hideous old lady’s face on it, because I liked the frame, not the painting itself. We later discovered this one was underneath. As you can see, it’s the same original frame as you must have seen on the Antiques Roadshow.’

Kilgore handed the painting to the heavy who’d accompanied them on the journey, picked up Freya’s phone from the coffee table, tapped in the code, then tapped the app and held it to the disc on Tom’s arm. Then he showed the readout to Freya and Harry.

2. The arrow was still pointing down.

Harry saw only one doughnut had been eaten.

Kilgore dug his hand in his pocket, pulled out the injector kit and put it down on the coffee table, alongside the phones and doughnuts.

‘Guess you folk had better give this lad a pretty big dose after we’ve gone. I wouldn’t leave it for too long, if you know what I’m saying.’

Before Harry could react, he felt his arms seized and pulled behind him. An instant later, grey gaffer tape was being wound around him, pinning his arms back. Then he was forced down onto the same chair as before and taped to it.

‘At least give our son a bite of another doughnut.’

He watched the American lift Daniel Hegarty’s copy of the Fragonard off the wall. Kilgore turned to him. ‘You won’t mind if I take this too?’

‘Like I have a choice?’

Harry saw the serpent smile through the slit in the balaclava. ‘We all have choices in life all the time, Mr Kipling. But choices come with consequences. My employer, as I said, made you a very generous offer of fifty thousand pounds, and your choice was to reject it. Now you have the consequence.’ He paused. ‘It shouldn’t take you too long to free yourself from your bindings. Fifteen or twenty minutes. Tom should still be alive then, and we’ll be long gone. Enjoy the rest of your evening.’

An instant later, before he could respond, a strip of gaffer tape was pulled tight across Harry’s mouth.

The three men left the room. As he stared at Freya, he heard the click of the front door closing. Then he looked at Tom. He tried to stand but the heavy chair he was taped to dragged him back down. He frantically signalled to Tom, who was barely focusing.

Tom nodded, managed somehow, with his arms still bound behind him, to get to his feet. He sagged, looking around bewildered, then passed out, falling to the floor and striking the side of his head on the coffee table. A stream of blood poured from it onto the carpet.

Harry watched in horror. He had to do something. Powered by desperation, somehow, with the heavy chair attached to him, he got to his feet. Thinking wildly, he staggered a few inches then fell sideways. The impact with the floor was enough to rip the tape holding him to the chair free. He rolled over, got to his knees then pushed himself up, his arms still tightly bound behind him.

Shit, how long did Tom have?

Where was a sharp edge?

The doorway. Of course!

He went over to the door, turned to have his back against it, then began rubbing the tape binding his hands against the edge of the door, trying to find the sharp edge of the brass latch.

He found it.

A minute later his arms came free.

Jesus.

Waving to Freya to hold on, he rushed to the table, broke the glucagon injector free of its container, dialled the one milligram dose he and Freya had learned was what they should give in the event of a hypo, and jabbed it into his unconscious, bleeding son’s arm. Then he raced into the kitchen, grabbed a knife and cut Freya free, and she ripped the tape away from her mouth.

‘Oh God, oh God,’ was all she could say for a moment, as she staggered towards her son and kneeled down, hugging him.

Harry picked up his phone and dialled 999. When the operator answered, he asked for an ambulance, urgently, and the police.