Picture You Dead

64

Sunday, 3 November

‘I’m real sorry to be intruding on your cosy Sunday evening, Mr Hegarty,’ said the polite Southern US accent. ‘I know how sacrosanct Sunday evenings are to you English folk.’

Hegarty put down his wine glass, jumped up from the sofa and headed to the living room door.

‘Want me to pause it, darling?’ Natalie asked.

He shook his head and hurried out, closing the door behind him. ‘How can I help you, Mr Kilgore?’ he asked breezily.

‘Well, Mr Hegarty, I’m guessing you noticed some activity outside your home today?’

‘You guess right. It was a little hard not to notice. The whole of Saltdean noticed it, and all the local media.’ He didn’t like the tone of Kilgore’s voice.

‘They sure did, I saw it on the news. Very tragic.’ Kilgore hesitated. ‘If I’m still guessing right, you are wondering about the location. Did this gentleman drop dead on the street outside your house, did someone deposit his body there randomly, or was the location chosen specifically for a reason? Am I correct that’s what you might be wondering right now, Mr Hegarty?’

‘You seem to be talking in riddles, Mr Kilgore. I’m a little confused.’

‘Well, Mr Hegarty, I apologize for that,’ he said, his voice maintaining his courtly charm but with a steely undertow. ‘Confused is the last thing I want you to feel – and my boss, too. We would just like you to understand loud and clear the message we sent to you this morning.’

‘Like a message in a bottle?’ Hegarty said facetiously. ‘Like a dead man in a bottle?’

‘Mr Hegarty,’ Kilgore said, his tone now sounding more steely, ‘a short while ago I gave you photographs of an original Fragonard to copy, and you were paid good money for this job. When we swapped the pictures over at the Kiplings’ house, we discovered the painting on his wall was also a fake. You are the only forger good enough to have done that. So here’s what I think: Goff brought the original to you – and I want it. Here’s the deal. I will come by tomorrow morning, and you will hand me the original. Mess with us again, and the next time you head out to walk your dogs, it won’t be a stranger lying dead on the sidewalk. It will be your wife. Goodnight, Mr Hegarty. Enjoy your evening.’

‘Hey!’ Hegarty said. ‘I haven’t—’

But Kilgore had hung up.

Hegarty quickly hurried upstairs to look out at the pavement to see what was happening. But all looked quiet. The floodlights the CSIs had erected, along with the tent, had gone, and so had the crime scene tape. It was all back to normal, as if nothing had happened.

Which, ironically, now made him feel more vulnerable.