Page 134 of Hang on St. Christopher

“I think you’ll like this.”

“What is it?”

I went to the car and brought in the Picassos. “Original Picasso screen-prints. Got them from an old friend.”

Beth’s face lit up.

“Originals! Aren’t they worth millions?” she said suspiciously.

“No. Unfortunately not. He made a couple of hundred in this series, so they’re not worth that much. Still, lovely, aren’t they?”

“Yes. And they’ll look terrific in your den, I think. They’re a bit too scandalous to put above the fireplace in the living room.”

Later still, after Beth and Emma had gone to bed.

I looked at the Picassos on the wall.

I had no guilt about it.

Locke had no next of kin. It would go to the Special Branch property room, where it would remain for two or three years while Clare’s investigations got nowhere.

They’d lie in that property room for years until someone nicked them or they got destroyed.

Eventually, ten years from now, some eejit clerk at Special Branch might remember them and they’d get auctioned, and the money would go to the Treasury.

Fuck the Treasury.

And fuck Special Branch.

And fuck this case.

CHAPTER22

THE LAST INTERVIEW

Middle of the night. Cold sweat. A noise in the living room. Gun under pillow, check on Beth, check on Emma, walk down the hall.

Living room overlooking the black sea. A man in a balaclava sitting on the sofa, holding an AK-47.

“Well, this is overly dramatic,” I said.

“Aye, it’s not the Odessa Steps sequence, but it’ll do. Do you know how easy it was to get in here?”

“What do you want to do, kill me?”

“That’s not a serious question, is it? If I wanted that, you’d already be dead.”

“So what do you want?”

O’Roarke took off his balaclava. “You’re naive, Duffy. Do you think twenty miles of sea can protect your family from a mishap?”

“What’s my family got to do with it? I didn’t come afteryourfamily.”

“No. But we’re different men, aren’t we?”

I sat up in the bed, completely awake, drenched with sweat. I hyperventilated for a minute and a half before my breathing regulated and I calmed down. I removed the Glock from underneath the pillow and sat on the edge of the bed for some time. I took a hit on my asthma inhaler and went into the living room. There was no one there. I cleared the house and checked on Emma. She was sleeping deeply. Even the cat was sound asleep in his basket.

I sat down next to him and stroked his head.

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