Peter smiles and holds his hand up, waiting for the noise to die down before launching into his its a great pleasure/challenges of tomorrow/forward Scotland speech. The same one he trots out for all these drab little official functions. Opening offices, dedicating park benches, planting trees, you name it he gets dragged into it. But thats what happens when youre an MSP and a bona fide lord to boot. Sixty years of Noblesse oblige.
He finishes with a joke about two old ladies from Castle Hill and Santas magic sack, then unveils the tiny blue plaque commemorating this proud moment for ScotiaBrand Tasty Chickens Ltd.
Photographers flash, hands are shaken, everyone smiles, and finally he can escape.
He turns his back on the dismal little place and marches off towards his Bentley, plipping open the locks before he gets there. Other people in his position need a driver and a horde of staff before theyll go anywhere near the opening of a chicken slaughterhouse, but not him. He has the common touch, it says so in all the papers.
Theres a man waiting for him, leaning against the fence by the car, hands in his pockets, smiling.
Peters mother always maintained that you could learn everything you needed to know about a man by looking at his shoes. This one has black leather brogues, a long black overcoat, well-cut black suit, white shirt, and a scarlet tie. Businessman. Probably with an invitation to another bloody opening.
Mr Forsyth-Leven? The man smiles and sticks out his hand.
Mister? Bloody cheek hes a lord.
Peter works up a smile of his own. Can I help you? He opens the car door just to make sure the man knows he has places to go, people to see, decisions to make.
More like the other way around: I want to talk to you about a unique investment opportunity.
Here we go again.
Well, thats very kind of you Mr. . . ? No name is forthcoming. Some people have no manners. But Im afraid youd have to speak to my office about that. I think-
No. The man holds up a hand. I think youll want to deal with this personally. You see the opportunity is specific to you and you alone.
Of course it is. When is it ever not? Peter sighs. What is it?
Keeping you out of jail, you dirty child-molesting old fucker.
A siren wailed somewhere in the night. The snow had slowly thickened going from drifting icing sugar to dense fat flakes that fell steadily from the dark-orange sky. They stuck to his clothes and hair, made tiny proto-drifts in the clefts of the brick that would grow and grow through the night. Falling on his twisted, broken body at the foot of the cliff. Burying it from sight. Locking him away in its icy embrace.
He smiled and took another mouthful of Armagnac.
Getting near the bottom of the bottle now.
If the weather didnt change, it might be weeks before he was found. Maybe not until the spring. Months. And hed make the headlines all over again. LORD PAEDO FORSYTH-LEVEN BODY FOUND! His face was numb with cold and alcohol, but the tears still burned.
They sit in the Bentley, the man in the overcoat gazing out of the window, while Peter cries one hand cradled against his chest, the other covering his face. Sobbing like a little girl. Which is ironically appropriate.
Finally he sniffs and snivels to a halt, wipes his eyes and nose on a handkerchief.
The Man doesnt even look at him. You finished? Or do I have to break another finger?
I dont mean to do it. . . I just. . . Sometimes. . . I cant help it, theyre-
A hard slap shuts him up.
I dont want to hear you justify why you fuck children, understand? Try telling me again and Ill beat the living shite out of you.
Im sorry. . . The tears are back.
Ill bet you are: sorry you got caught. Shouldnt have left all that kiddie porn on your laptop where someone could just break in and steal it, should you?
I. . . Peter hangs his head. All these years; someone was bound to find out eventually. But it doesnt make it any less painful. What. . . What do you want?
I want the painting. The Pear Tree. Thatll do to start with.
The . . . The Pear Tree? But thats a Monet, its worth. . .
The Man stares at him, face impassive, like a slab of white marble.
Peter clears his throat. Brings his chin up. Shows some of the steel that makes him such a force to be reckoned with on the floor of the Scottish Parliament. And if I dont?
Two choices. One: I beat the shite out of you, then hand you and your laptop full of kiddy filth over to the police.
For the first time in fifty-four years, Peter almost wets himself. He takes a deep breath. And two?
I take you out to Dundas Woods, break every bone in your body, then bury you alive.
I . . . Ill. . . You wouldnt-
Want to try for another fucking finger?
The painting! Ill give you the painting!
The Man smiles. See, thats why you make such a good politician: you know when to compromise. Start the car well go get it now.
But-
Now.
Peter starts the car.
The electrician still hasnt finished installing the new burglar alarm when they get back to the house. Locking the stable door. . . Not that it really matters. In fifteen minutes the only thing worth protecting will be gone.
Peter parks the Bentley and clambers out. Its getting colder. He watches The Man slowly turn in a circle, taking in the house and its surroundings. Probably casing the joint, like they did on the television.
Fletcher Road is festooned with big Victorian homes, mansions, tall wrought-iron gates, walled gardens, and old money. This is where the citys elite live the people whove kept the city running for generations. People like Peter.
The Man nods. Very impressive. He frowns at the electrician screwing a blue and yellow plastic box to the outside wall. Shame its one of the old two-five-fifties. Take a professional about forty seconds to short out the box and get in. He smiles. If you like, I can recommend something a bit less . . . amateurish?
Heat courses across Peters cheeks. Can we just get on with this please?
A shrug. Well, dont blame me next time some junkie scumbag robs you blind, OK?
Peter turns his back on him and storms inside. The painting is in the dining room: a pear tree at sunset, one golden fruit hanging between the dark green leaves, the sky a wash of raging fire, fading to indigo and black. Its the most expensive thing hes ever owned. Its worth more than the house. He trembles as he touches the frame.
Theres a whistle behind him. Then, Beautiful. . .
My grandfather brought it back from France at the end of World War One. He. . . Hes about to launch into the story of how the old man bought it from Monet himself, when he realizes theres no point. The Man isnt interested in art, hes only interested in what its worth. It doesnt matter.
Peter lifts the picture down from the wall and lays it on the table.
The Man unfurls a large holdall, then stands there, staring at the painting. First time I saw it: I was seven. My dad took me to this exhibition at the gallery. I remember looking at it and thinking, thats the most beautiful thing Ive ever seen.
Peter closes his eyes. Over the last forty years hes lent the painting only four times. He should have never let it out of the house. If hed kept it safe, this man wouldnt be here now.
Theres a zipping sound, and when Peter opens his eyes again The Pear Tree is gone.
The Man takes the holdall off the table and puts the strap across his shoulders. Get your lawyer to draw up the transfer of ownership. I want it sorted by the end of the week.
End of the week: tomorrow Friday the 23rd. That might not be possible. . . his voice sounds flat and dead. Hes lost everything. The paintings just the tip of the iceberg: after this itll be money, jewellery, the car. Everything will be sold off. Stripped away until theres nothing left. And then The Man will either kill him, or hand him over to the police.
Well, youd better hope- Hes interrupted by Peters mobile phone ringing Wagners Tristan and Isolde. Peter pulls the mobile out and answers it. Force of habit.
Hello?
Pete? Pete, its me: Tony.
Peter groans. As if today wasnt bad enough.
Pete, weve got big trouble!
Its too late.
Too late? Shit! Theyre not there are they? Pete, are the police there? Oh FUCK!
Peter sighs. Tony has always been excitable an unfortunate consequence of dealing in illegal images and video files.
No, the police arent here. Im. . . He looks at The Man who shakes his head. The meaning is clear: this is just between the two of them. Margarets not doing too well. Which was true enough. If he was lucky, the throat cancer would take her before the money ran out and The Man turned on him. Shed never have to know.
Peter sighs. Tony has always been excitable an unfortunate consequence of dealing in illegal images and video files.
No, the police arent here. Im. . . He looks at The Man who shakes his head. The meaning is clear: this is just between the two of them. Margarets not doing too well. Which was true enough. If he was lucky, the throat cancer would take her before the money ran out and The Man turned on him. Shed never have to know.
What the fuck do I care about your bloody wife? Theyve arrested someone: that fucking idiot school teacher. Hell talk!
Peter actually laughs. Throws his head back and laughs.
Pete? What the fucks wrong with you? Did you not hear what I said? Hell turn us in!
The Man puts a hand on Peters shoulder. Whats so damn funny?
I want my painting back. He grins like a maniac. Theyve arrested someone in the same . . . club. And as soon as he talks its all out in the open. Youve just lost your leverage.
Like hell I have.
Everyone will know. Ill be ruined anyway. So tell whoever you like: its not going to make any difference. He pulls back his shoulders. Now give me back my bloody painting!
Theres a pause, then The Man narrows his eyes. Who is it? Whove they arrested?
James Kirkhill he teaches English at Kingsmeath Secondary.
And theyve not picked up anyone else in your club?
No.
Good. The Man pats him on the back. Then I have another investment opportunity for you and your friends. . .
The Armagnac was nearly finished, just one or two mouthfuls left and it would be time. One small step for mankind, one giant leap for Lord Peter Forsyth-Leven. It wasnt just his face that was numb now his hands were like frozen claws, he couldnt feel his feet but that didnt matter. Soon he wouldnt be feeling anything ever again.