Page 57 of My Lord
She smiled sadly. “Let’s spend the weekend together, please?”
“Absolutely. I look forward to that.”
As I walked to the front door, she asked me to wait. She rifled around in a drawer in her kitchen and presented me with a key. Although a small gesture, it felt significant.
She stood in the doorway and I faced her. She had her arms wrapped around her body to ward off the chill. I wrapped mine around her and held her close.
“We fit so well, don’t we?” she said.
She raised her face and I kissed her goodnight. I twisted the key in my hand as I walked to my car and I thought about her the whole journey home.
I had pulled into my car park when my mobile rang. I frowned at the unknown caller displayed and noted the time was just gone midnight. “Hello?”
“Alex, can you hear me? The line is cracking up.” I didn’t recognise the voice at all.
“I can hear you. Who is this?”
“Duncan. Please, don’t put the phone down. I need to speak to you.”
“You need to tell me what the fuck you’ve done with my mother’s painting!” I shouted down the phone as I felt my face flush with rage.
“Her painting is with Sotheby’s,” he said, and it was clear there was confusion in his voice. “They were meant to contact her.”
“You stole her painting,” I said, although even I could hear the sentence was said without conviction.
“No, I didn’t. Is that what you think?”
“What the fuck are you calling me for then?” I demanded.
“Sure, I’ve done some stupid things in my life, but stealing your mother’s painting isn’t one of them. I am genuinely fond of her and I was ringing because I wanted the opportunity to explain.”
“First, how did you get this number? Second, explain what? You took her painting; she didn’t see you again.”
“She gave me your card, that’s how I got your number. I took her painting on her insistence of having it re-valued for insurance purposes, and I happened to be going to London that day. She rang Sotheby’s and made the arrangements. She isn’t answering her phone to me.”
“Explain where you went, then,” I said, not trusting him but also, not trusting that my mother hadn’t done that, either.
“America, she knew I was leaving but I did say when I returned, I’d make contact and I’ve returned.” A crackling noise obscured the rest of his sentence and the line went dead.
“What the fuck are you on about, Duncan?” I whispered as I entered the lift.
I called Mackenzie. “I’ve had the strangest conversation. The art thief rang me, he might not be a theft after all.”
“You up for a late-night drink?” he asked.
“Sure, swing on by. You can stay here if it gets too late,” I said. I disconnected the call and walked into my apartment.
Mackenzie was buzzing at the front door of my building within a half hour of our call. I let him in and set the coffee machine to pour. I also grabbed a decanter of whisky and two cut glass tumblers. By the time I’d placed those on the coffee table, he was at the apartment door.
“Evening,” he said, as I let him in. “Did you have a good one?”
“Lovely, you?”
“Entertaining,” he said, and then laughed. “What did the art thief say?”
I repeated what Duncan had said, and as I did, I scrolled through my phone to see if his number had recorded. Annoyingly, it hadn’t.
“What does your gut tell you?” Mackenzie asked.
