“Okay, sir. Bye, sir.”

“Goodbye Lawson.”

As soon as he hung up, I went into the living room, turned off the stereo, grabbed my leather jacket, and went back outside into the rain. I looked under the BMW for bombs and drove straight to Archie Simmons’s house.

I parked the Beemer, ran up his path, and banged on his front door.

The light came on upstairs, and I heard him clump down the stairs.

“Who is it?” he demanded.

“Police. Sean Duffy,” I said.

He opened the door. “What is it at this time of night?”

“I need answers and I need them now. Who bought those bloody Picassos?”

“Couldn’t this have waited until the morning?”

“No, it couldn’t.”

“Well, you better come in, then,” he said, looking at the clock, which claimed that it was five to midnight. Five to midnight, and the real excitement of that particular evening still lay ahead.

CHAPTER9

THE CARAVAN SITE

Archie tied his dressing gown tight about him, covering his whiter-than-white old man’s knees.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” he asked reluctantly.

“No, no tea. I just want answers.”

A twinkle glimmered in Archie’s eyes. “Well, I did some digging for you, right enough.”

“And?”

“I found out that the aquatints were sold at an estate sale in Enniscorrey, County Monaghan, in 1987. And what’s more is that I happen to know the auctioneer. Charlie Bannion. Old friend of mine from our UCD days,” he said.

“And?”

“And what?”

“So who bought the bloody paintings?”

“I don’t know, but Charlie will have his record book, and all he has to do is look through it and he’ll get you the customer’s name. If you’re buying a Picasso and you have any intention of selling it in the future, you’ll want to make sure the provenance is watertight, so even if you, for example, pay in cash, you’ll still give your name and add?—”

“Call him.”

“Call who?”

“Charlie.”

“I was going to call him. I’ll call him first thing in the morning.”

“Call him now. Old books and old ledgers are spontaneously combusting for some reason in this case.”

“It’s midnight.”