Picture You Dead

14

Tuesday, 24 September

They called him Weasel as much for the way he moved as how he looked. Although, real weasels were diurnal, and he was mostly nocturnal. He was the kind of man, Daniel Hegarty had once joked, who would follow you in through a turnstile and come out in front of you without having paid.

The two of them went back a long way, to kids growing up on the Moulsecoomb estate in Brighton, where they had both begun their criminal careers. Hegarty had gone out burgling with his dad from the age of ten, when he was small enough to crawl through cat-flaps and unlock doors, and Weasel, back in his early teens, was adept at hot-wiring cars and taking Hegarty for joyrides.

Hegarty had ultimately carved out a successful career, initially as an art forger and latterly building up a celebrity clientele by honing his talents into copying the works of great artists, from the old masters to more contemporary artists such as Picasso, Modigliani and Lowry, and signing his own name on the paintings – at least most of the time. Weasel scraped a more modest living, in between spells in prison, turning his hand to any nefarious jobs he could get hold of, from couriering drugs to stealing vehicles to order, to fencing high-value stolen goods. He also occasionally acted as a runner for local art forgers, selling their work or obtaining new commissions for them.

At 10.15 p.m. on this Tuesday night, Daniel Hegarty and his wife, Natalie, were relaxing on the sofa in their Saltdean home, to the east of Brighton, with their Jack Russell terriers, Rocky and Rambo, watching the news on television. Or at least, Hegarty was watching while his wife and both dogs dozed, snoring, when his phone pinged with a text from Weasel, saying he was outside their house and asking if they were still up. Daniel Hegarty had a feeling this wasn’t exactly a social visit.

As he eased himself off the sofa, trying not to disturb Natalie and the dogs, she looked up at him with a start. ‘What’s up?’

‘Weasel – he’s outside, wants a quick chat.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘God, not him. Be careful about anything he wants.’

Hegarty, a burly sixty-year-old, with greying hair gelled into short, tousled spikes, and a genial smile, said, ‘Always careful of him, gorgeous.’

Their large semi-detached house was arranged with its open-plan living room down a short flight of stairs at the back, to take advantage of the fine views across the post-war urban development of Saltdean, with its wide expanse of greensward and the Lido, to the English Channel. As he entered his studio, off the living room, Rocky and Rambo got up and followed him, assuming their duty as guard dogs by bursting into frenzied yapping.

He walked past a copy of a huge Norman Rockwell painting which was leaning against a wall, one he’d recently completed for a client. He was particularly proud of this work, depicting a bunch of smoking jurors rounding on a female one who was clearly, as the story in the picture told, holding out on the verdict. Reaching the front door and doing his best to keep the agitated dogs behind him, he opened it cautiously.

It had been some months since he’d last seen Weasel and he stood there, in the chiaroscuro of the security light and darkness beyond, clutching a small brown package. Slight, with badly dyed black hair that flopped over one side of his forehead in a style similar to Hitler, an oily smile, a cheap suit, huge shirt collar reminiscent of the 1960s and horrible green loafers, he looked like he always did – furtive.

Hegarty had been to his wedding, decades ago, and remembered Weasel, on the supposedly happiest day of his life, looking wary even on that occasion. He’d posed with his bride for the photographer, outside the church, and even in that moment seemed to be looking nervously beyond the camera, warily searching the assembled company for coppers.

‘Dan!’ He held out his bony free hand. ‘Good to see you, Dan.’ His voice whiny as ever.

Hegarty looked down at the package under his arm. ‘You working for Amazon now, mate?’

‘Very funny. I’ve got something a bit interesting here – a little job for you.’

‘It’s a bit late, mate.’

‘Yeah, sorry about that.’ Then Weasel’s attention was drawn to the Heritage plaque beside the front door. It read, Daniel Hegarty, Master Forger.

‘Blue plaque? That’s new, yeah? Thought you only got one of these if you was dead?’

‘Or if you reach one hundred years old.’

Weasel squinted at him. ‘Pardon my ignorance, but you don’t look like you qualify for either of those criteria. Know what I’m saying?’

Hegarty grinned. ‘There is another criteria.’

‘Yeah?’

He nodded. ‘Forging it.’

Weasel broke into a grin. ‘Brilliant, mate, well brilliant!’

Despite his annoyance at being disturbed this late, Hegarty realized he was pleased to see his old pal. ‘Want a drink?’

‘Better stick to something soft, I’m driving. Not like the old days when we drove around pissed all the time, is it?’

Hegarty opened the door wider, then realized Weasel was already inside the house.