Tom nodded, managed somehow, with his arms still bound behind him, to get to his feet. He sagged, looking around bewildered, then passed out, falling to the floor and striking the side of his head on the coffee table. A stream of blood poured from it onto the carpet.
Harry watched in horror. He had to do something. Powered by desperation, somehow, with the heavy chair attached to him, he got to his feet. Thinking wildly, he staggered a few inches then fell sideways. The impact with the floor was enough to rip the tape holding him to the chair free. He rolled over, got to his knees then pushed himself up, his arms still tightly bound behind him.
Shit, how long did Tom have?
Where was a sharp edge?
The doorway. Of course!
He went over to the door, turned to have his back against it, then began rubbing the tape binding his hands against the edge of the door, trying to find the sharp edge of the brass latch.
He found it.
A minute later his arms came free.
Jesus.
Waving to Freya to hold on, he rushed to the table, broke the glucagon injector free of its container, dialled the one milligram dose he and Freya had learned was what they should give in the event of a hypo, and jabbed it into his unconscious, bleeding son’s arm. Then he raced into the kitchen, grabbed a knife and cut Freya free, and she ripped the tape away from her mouth.
‘Oh God, oh God,’ was all she could say for a moment, as she staggered towards her son and kneeled down, hugging him.
Harry picked up his phone and dialled 999. When the operator answered, he asked for an ambulance, urgently, and the police.
88
Tuesday, 5 November
Stuart Piper looked at his watch: 10.06 p.m. He was sitting on his sofa in the Hidden Salon, feeling distinctly on edge. And when he was edgy he got angry. And when he got angry he got drunk, which made him even more angry. As he was now.
Where the hell was that fool Kilgore? He should have been here a good hour ago by his reckoning. Had it all gone to rat-shit? Everything at the moment seemed to have gone to rat-shit. Like the police sniffing around a bit too much. Like this damned cigar which wasn’t drawing properly. And like the fire in the grate that wasn’t burning properly tonight, either. Had his fool of a housekeeper laid it badly?
Even the candles in the two candelabras did not seem to be as bright or steady as normal. They were flickering and it was annoying him.
Even his blasted cognac tasted rank tonight.
He clicked the Dupont lighter and held the flame to the end of his Cohiba Esplendidos, sucking hard. But it was like trying to suck air through a vacuum. Reaching for his silver cutter, he clipped off a further piece of the tip and tried again. Still no joy.
In a fit of temper, he stood up and tossed the £60 cigar into the open fire, went over to the humidor and selected another one. He clipped it, lit it, and drew hard. Better but still not great. No cigar, he thought, humourlessly, too angry to even smile at his private joke.
Clamping the fresh Cohiba in his mouth, he picked up the tall bellows beside the grate and pumped some life into the fire, watching his discarded cigar burn for some moments. Then he sat back down and looked at his phone, tempted to call Kilgore to find out what the hell was happening. But they’d agreed radio silence, and he figured if things had gone tits up, it wouldn’t be smart to have a traceable call.
He sat back down on the edge of the sofa and drank some more cognac, draining the glass. Restless, he stood up again, went over to the drinks cabinet, feeling a little woozy, and refilled it to a much higher level than usual. And took a large gulp of it as he sat back down, momentarily closing his eyes and wincing against the sharp burn in his throat.
Then he took several hard puffs on the cigar until a reassuring red glow and halo of grey ash appeared. As he did so he felt a draught of cold air; the candles all guttered in unison, and he heard a sound behind him.
The door was open, and Robert Kilgore came through, a broad beam on his face, holding a package encased in bubble wrap.
‘What’s kept you?’ Piper demanded.
Kilgore held up the package. ‘Doing what you asked me to do, sir. Mission accomplished!’ He propped the package gently against the wall where the other three Fragonards were hung, above, then looked back at Piper proudly. ‘I think you’re going to be a very happy man, sir.’
‘That’s for me to decide, I don’t need you telling me, Bobby.’ He puffed again on his cigar and took another gulp of his brandy. ‘So, let me see.’
Kilgore gave him a smile that irritated him, then, seemingly in no hurry, fished a pack of Camels from his pocket and shook a cigarette from the pack. He jammed it between his lips, produced a plastic lighter from another pocket and lit it. ‘I could sure use a drink,’ he said, nodding at Piper’s glass, then taking a long drag of his Camel.
‘Would you mind putting that out, please, Bobby?’ Piper said sharply.
Kilgore held the cigarette up with a puzzled expression. ‘I’m sorry, boss, you’re smoking, I figured—’
Piper stood up, abruptly, then swayed on his feet and nearly fell backwards down onto the sofa. Shit, he was very definitely a little bit drunk, he realized. Actually, more than a little bit. Stabilizing himself, he strode unsteadily over to Kilgore, snatched the cigarette from his fingers, carried it over to the coffee table and crushed it out in the ashtray. ‘I don’t want that cheap thing polluting my Havana. Understand?’
Kilgore looked at him warily. ‘I’m sorry, boss.’
‘The picture?’
Kilgore pulled away the bubble wrap, lifting the small, framed painting clear, and handed it proudly to Piper. ‘It’s sure going to look just fine in that gap,’ he said.
Piper did not reply. He was holding the painting under the light of the chandelier, examining it carefully. Then, setting it down on one of the sofas, propping it against a cushion, he switched on the torch app of his phone and spent several minutes examining every detail of it, without commenting.
‘Looks pretty original to me, I’d say, and the original frame,’ Kilgore said quietly. He’d seen the boss’s drunken tantrums before. Truth was he was getting pretty fed up with the way the boss treated him.
Piper turned to the reverse and began an equally scrupulous inspection under the torch beam.
Kilgore watched.
‘This came from the Kiplings’ home?’ Piper asked.
‘Well, not exactly, sir. I do also have the one that was in their home, which is an obvious fake.’ He then explained where Harry Kipling had been storing this one.
Piper continued to study the reverse in silence. Suddenly, to Kilgore’s utter surprise, his boss hurled the painting to the floor. ‘You moron,’ Piper shouted. ‘You total and utter moron!’
Kilgore frowned. ‘I’m sorry, sir, what do you mean?’
Piper glared at him. ‘What do I mean? I thought you were an art expert! This is not an original, it’s a fake. It’s a fake, for God’s sake, man!’
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.