Picture You Dead

89

Tuesday, 5 November

Kilgore frowned at Piper, then shook his head firmly. ‘Sir, you are mistaken.’

‘The only mistake I’ve made was to trust you.’ Piper staggered towards him menacingly. ‘Are you pulling a fast one on me, Bobby? After all these years of trusting you and making you rich, you’re now trying to screw me, right? Think you can take me for a fool or what?’

‘Sir, I’m sorry, I’m not with you. I’m honestly not with you.’

‘Really? Who are you with? The fairies at the bottom of the garden? I’m telling you this is a fake. A good fake, I’ll grant you that one small concession. But it’s a fake.’ He grabbed Kilgore’s jacket lapels, shaking them furiously. ‘Where’s the original, Bobby? What have you done with it? Where’s the bloody original?’

Kilgore was totally flabbergasted. ‘This is the original, sir.’

‘You liar. You double-crossing liar.’ Piper released him and pushed him back so hard Kilgore stumbled, bashing into the sofa. Then, jabbing his cigar at him, Piper sneered, ‘You cheating bloody thief.’

Glaring at him, his eyes looking like they were struggling to focus, Piper demanded, ‘So where did you park your tiny brain when you visited Daniel Hegarty? When he told you he could fake pretty much any painting if he had enough time? And the only way to tell a fake from the original would be a single groove carved by his fingernail in the back of the frame?’ He held the reverse of the painting up to Kilgore’s face. ‘See that? See that groove?’

To his dismay, Kilgore saw it.

Piper was pointing at a very faint, barely noticeable mark in the back of the frame. He looked up, with cognac-fuelled belligerence, at his employee. ‘So?’

‘I did what you asked me, sir,’ Kilgore said.

‘You double-crossing loser!’ Piper slurred. ‘You Mississippi snake oil salesman. You see that? That groove? You’re bloody double-crossing me.’

Piper lashed out with his right fist. But so slowly, Kilgore saw it coming, ducked and parried it. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Please, I brought you what Harry Kipling gave me.’

‘You fucking liar.’ Piper lashed out again, and this time his fist struck Kilgore’s face, sending him crashing, momentarily stunned, to the floor.

Piper stood over him, feeling triumphant. ‘Anything more you’d like to add, Bobby babe?’

Kilgore looked up at him in astonishment. At his partner-in-crime for the past fifteen years. Together, they’d plundered the art world, lining their own pockets handsomely. Now the man he’d always respectfully called the boss had seemingly turned against him.

And Kilgore wasn’t having that.

He lashed out with a foot, striking Piper’s right leg, surprising him. Crying out in pain, the cigar falling to the carpet, Piper staggered back, crashed into one of the silver candelabras, sending it toppling over onto the sofa on the far side of the coffee table, and fell over backwards himself.

Kilgore climbed to his feet. Piper lay on the floor, looking up, confused and in pain.

Kilgore saw two of the candles burning holes in the sofa. He hesitated, his anger fogging the deep loyalty he’d once had to this man.

Piper, still on the floor, slurred, ‘You total wanker! You’ve bust my leg. You’re a thief. You’re fired, get out of my house and don’t come back.’

A sudden whoomph startled Kilgore. A large part of the centre of the sofa was now well alight, crackling like dry timber. Thick, black, acrid smoke rose from it. Kilgore hesitated, thinking, wondering what the hell to do. Even in the few seconds he stood there, the flames took further hold. It didn’t seem to have registered with Piper.

He hurried to the door and ran out into the Long Gallery. There was a fire extinguisher out here, somewhere, he’d walked past it a thousand times – where the hell was it? Strangely, he wasn’t panicking, he felt calm. So calm he surprised himself. Calm but very angry.

Fake?

You cheating bloody thief.

The words ringing in his ears smarted, stoking a long-buried furnace of anger inside him. He hurried along, past painting after painting, and finally saw the silver fire extinguisher a short way ahead, beneath a coiled fire hose.

And stopped in his tracks. Thinking.

He looked both ways. There was no one around. The twins had gone off-duty. None of Piper’s domestic staff were around after 6 p.m. It was just the two of them at this hour.

Turning, he strode quickly back to the doorway of the Hidden Salon. A blast of heat greeted him as he reached it, and he saw that the ceiling above the burning sofa was now smouldering, looking like it was about to burst into flames at any moment.

‘Fuck you!’ slurred Piper. ‘What the fuck’s happening? Jesus, help me up, call the fire brigade!’ He held up an arm towards Kilgore.

Without replying, Kilgore backed away, slammed the door shut, turned the large brass key in the lock then removed and pocketed it.

A second later he heard frantic hammering on the other side. Piper’s voice screaming his name increasingly desperately, Bobby, Bobby, BOBBY!

‘Nice knowing you, sir. I never believed I would have the pleasure of this moment where I can actually picture you dead,’ he murmured, then strode quickly away, out of the house and into his Tesla.

As he drove off, he felt calmer than he had felt in far too many years. Heading through the pitch darkness down the drive towards the gates, he dug the cigarette pack from his pocket, shook out a Camel and sparked his lighter.

The smoke smelled so sweet, so much better than the aroma of those interminable cigars – and the stench of burning sofa.

He took a long drag, inhaling the sweet taste.

It tasted of freedom.

The gates that opened ahead bade him freedom, too.

Had Harry Kipling pulled a double flanker? he wondered, or more likely was it Daniel Hegarty? It had to be Hegarty, he reckoned. He had talked in the past about dealers in Russia and China and some Middle Eastern countries who would pay big money for stolen works of art. If that was Hegarty’s game then he would rumble him, and Hegarty would be forced to cut a deal with him.

Kilgore smiled. A smile that was cold and warm at the same time. The Germans had a word for this, for getting pleasure from someone else’s misfortune, and he tried to recall it as the gates opened and he headed out onto the road and away from the Piper mansion for the last time. Then it came to him. Yes. Schadenfreude.

In the darkness of the country road, a couple of miles south of Piper’s house, he travelled past dense woods on either side. He checked the mirror for any sign of a red glow in the distance behind him. There was just darkness. But not for much longer, he guessed.

Coming up to his left was a lay-by. He slowed, glided the silent car to a halt and climbed out, leaving the headlights on. There was dense undergrowth, perfect, he thought. Then, removing the large, ancient brass key from his pocket, and wiping it clean of fingerprints, just as a precaution, but a pretty unnecessary one, he figured, he tossed the key deep into the centre of a massive, sprawling gorse bush. Then he got back into the car and drove on, treating himself to another cigarette, and another smile. He’d always liked that word and now he knew why. Schadenfreude. Oh yes.