Picture You Dead

95

Wednesday, 6 November

At midday, as Daniel Hegarty, following the directions on his Touareg’s satnav, turned into Mackie Crescent, he was tormented by doubt. Was this really the right thing? During his time in prison, all those years back, at the same time as honing his painting skills in copying the greats of the past, he’d also tried to catch up on the education he’d missed out on at school, by reading avidly.

He’d discovered to his surprise that he loved Shakespeare, in particular for the colour of his language. And the plays of the grand old bard he had loved the best were the tragedies, in particular Othello, which for some reason struck a deep chord in him and inspired some of the work he’d done while inside.

As he shot a wistful glance at the rectangular parcel on the passenger seat beside him, and the envelope beside it, some of the words of Othello came back to him.

Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away. Richer than all his tribe.

He was about to do just that now.

But did he have a choice?

If Piper sent his henchmen back to his house and found the painting, God knows what reprisals he might exact. He could cope with a beating, but no way could he risk any harm to Natalie, the woman he loved, the most precious thing in his life. They were happy, they were in a good place, she was all the riches he needed. She was richer than any pearl. Richer than any damned painting was worth.

You are doing the right thing.

There was some quote about doing the right thing that he was trying to remember, but in his ragbag-of-nerves state he could not think what the hell it was, at this moment.

The satnav informed him his destination was a quarter of a mile ahead.

Then, as he drove up the street he saw, diagonally opposite tennis courts to his right, a marked police four-by-four parked on the left.

He hit the brakes and pulled into the kerb. A few hundred yards ahead he now saw a uniform copper walk out of a driveway, followed by Harry Kipling, a fair-haired woman – presumably Harry’s wife – and a teenage boy. The copper opened the rear door and the woman and boy climbed in, Harry going round to the front passenger door. Moments later the vehicle made a U-turn and headed back down the road in his direction.

Hegarty shrank down low, making himself as invisible as he could, until he saw the vehicle receding into the distance.

He stayed still for some moments, just in case for any reason they came back. Close one, he thought, feeling beads of perspiration popping on his brow. He’d reckoned on the Kiplings being at work and the boy at school. Although it wouldn’t really have mattered if one of them had been at home, he had his story ready for them. But this made it easier, less explaining to do. As he was about to drive on, his phone rang, the number withheld.

He answered furtively, even though there was no one in earshot. ‘Daniel Hegarty speaking.’

It was Weasel. ‘You on a secure phone?’

‘No, I don’t have a secure phone, I’m legit these days.’

‘Haha, that’s funny. Listen, you ever heard of the Fates?’

Immediately Hegarty stiffened. ‘Why are you asking?’

‘Contact of mine has got a billionaire client in China who likes them French artists from the seventeenth century.’

‘They’re called fête galante,’ Hegarty corrected him.

‘Yeah, right, that’s it. Well I’ve got a shopping list of artists’ names – what’s old Billy the Brush got on the back of his business card?’

‘I don’t know,’ Hegarty said impatiently, wanting to get on.

‘Filling spaces on rich men’s walls,’ Weasel said. ‘Good, eh?’

‘Can we talk later, Jimmy, I’m in the middle of something.’

‘I’ve got to get back with a quick answer. This Hong Kong geezer pays proper money – and he’s not bothered about provenance. What he’s after, top of the list, is work by Fragonard.’

Suddenly, Weasel had his full attention. ‘Fragonard? Jean-Honoré Fragonard?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one. I think we have an opportunity here, mate, a real one, know what I mean. You could knock one up, but we’ve only got a few days – this man’s buyer is over in London now, goes back next week. He’s bent as a nine-bob note – probably be a four-way split of the money – there’s another middleman involved. It would have to be a pukka job, the full Hegarty works. Are you in?’

‘Let me think about it and I’ll bell you back.’

After he hung up, he sat for some minutes, thinking. Tempting, so tempting. But he thought not, not this time. There would always be other opportunities, but right at this moment he only had one chance to do the right thing. He started the car and drove on.

Reaching the Kiplings’ house, he saw the open gates, but the driveway was full with three vehicles, a pick-up truck, a Volvo estate and a little Fiat. He pulled up against the kerb, hurried around to the passenger door and took out the painting and the envelope, then walked through onto the driveway of the pleasant if slightly dilapidated-looking house.

There were two wheelie bins to the right of the house, and a narrow path beside them leading through into the lush back garden.

It was a corner property and the garden was completely private, not overlooked by anyone, to his relief. He walked over the wet grass of the lawn to the shed and opened the door. It smelled of creosote and oil. A lawnmower sat in there, along with a row of tools. Garden loungers and chairs and their cushions, stowed away for winter, filled much of the rest of the interior that had not been claimed by cobwebs.

Brushing one out of his hair, Hegarty sidled past a stack of cushions, placed the parcelled painting against the far wall, then left, closing the door firmly behind him. He walked back around the side of the house, onto the driveway, jammed the envelope into the letterbox, then hurried back out to his car and drove off.

As he did so, feeling a massive weight lifted from his shoulders, that expression he’d been trying to remember earlier was actually something Kilgore had said to him.

Integrity is doing the right thing, even when no one is watching.

Yeah.

He’d done the right thing. For himself, for Natalie, and for the Kiplings. He hoped they would appreciate it.