Picture You Dead

51

Thursday, 31 October

The upper level of the car park of the Miller and Carter, formerly the Black Lion pub, in Patcham village at the northern extremity of the city of Brighton and Hove, had been the scene of one of Brighton’s most notorious murders.

It was where, on 12 January 1976, former glamour model Barbara Gaul, wife of millionaire businessman John Gaul, was blasted in the back with a double-barrelled twelve-bore shotgun by two men he had hired to do the hit. She died two months later from her injuries, but while the hitmen were subsequently arrested and given life prison sentences, John Gaul fled to Malta and evaded justice for over a decade before eventually dying, still a free man, from a heart attack.

This secluded car park, accessed by a steep ramp and shielded by bushes, was the location where Robert Kilgore had chosen to meet Archie Goff. The American, always scrupulously punctual, had arrived twenty minutes before his 8 p.m. appointment, reversing his Tesla into a space against the rear of the car park, giving him a clear view of every vehicle arriving. Quickly, he removed a traffic cone from the rear of the car, placing it at the front of the empty space immediately to his right.

Thursdays, traditionally pay day, was a big night out for many, and the car park was filling up rapidly, as a steady stream of vehicles flowed in. Kilgore figured he was unlikely to be noticed by any of the customers arriving, dressed up for their evening out, looking forward to meeting friends and having drinks and a good meal. No one was going to give a toss about a solitary old guy in a car in the dark smoking a cigarette.

He clocked each of the headlights flaring up the ramp: a Porsche; a Jag; a Mini; a plumber’s van. Then, finally, a tired old Astra, its front number plate cracked and at a wonky angle, the exhaust shot. Instantly identifying the car from its registration and from the description Goff had given him over the phone, Kilgore flashed his headlights, once, then opened his door, jumped out, removed the cone and climbed back in, putting the cone in the passenger footwell. Goff drove straight in and wound his window down.

Kilgore lowered his, checking there was no one in earshot. ‘Are we good, Mr Goff?’ he asked.

‘We’re good.’

‘You’re all clear what you need to do?’

‘Yep, I’m on it.’

Kilgore lifted the bubble-wrapped copy of the Fragonard off the passenger seat and passed it through the window to Goff, followed by a burner phone. ‘It’s got one number programmed in. Text it when you’re done and you’ll get back my instructions for the handover.’

‘Leave it to me. That’s when you’ll pay me the balance, yeah?’

Kilgore said nothing for a moment, he just sat staring at the old burglar’s face. There was something about the man he hadn’t cared for when he’d first met him for breakfast at the Grand Hotel, something shifty and evasive in his eyes, and he saw that same look again now. In addition to paying the bail, Mr Piper had agreed a £2,000 fee. ‘That’s when we’ll pay you the balance, Mr Goff.’