Simon Beckett - Fine Lines

A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He had me pinned up against the wall, his fists bunching my shirt under my throat. I wriggled slightly to ease the pressure on my windpipe. “It’s not me you should be angry at. It’s Marty. He’s the one who’s responsible for all this. He’s the one who’s humiliated you. If you want to kill someone, kill him.”

I could feel his hold on my shirt slacken. He stared at me. “You’re not serious.”

“Aren’t I?”

“Kill Marty?”

“Why not?”

His hands dropped away. He stepped back. “Jesus, you mean it, don’t you?”

I massaged my throat. My shirt was torn. “A few moments ago you were ready to kill me. So why not him?”

“Oh, this is...” He turned and walked a few paces away, shaking his head. “This is getting stupid.”

“Just think about it.”

“Think about what? Committing fucking murder? Forget it, Donald! I’m not interested!”

“Why?”

“Why? What do you mean, “why”? Why do you think? Okay, so I lost my temper just now, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to top someone just for the sake of it!”

“I’m not asking you to do anything for the sake of it. Just tell me why you won’t at least consider killing Marty? You’re obviously capable.” My stomach ached where he had punched me. I tried to ignore it.

Zeppo shook his head again. “Oh, for Christ’s sake! I’ve no intention of spending the rest of my life in prison just because you want to get rid of somebody’s boyfriend! Jesus!”

“And if you could do it without being caught out? Would you consider it then?”

“Oh, I suppose you’ve already got the perfect murder worked out, have you?”

“No. But assuming we could think of something?”

“No!”

“Why not? If you could be assured of not being found out? Why not?”

“I can’t believe you’re even talking about this.”

A small part of me shared his surprise. Even as I was speaking I wondered how long this intention had been brooding in my subconscious. “Give me a reason. Why wouldn’t you?”

He turned to face me again. “All right, then. Why should I?”

My argument came as smoothly as if it had been scripted in advance. “For the same reason you do everything else. Money.”

He gave a short laugh. “Oh, no. Even I draw the line somewhere, and this is it.”

“Are you trying to tell me you object on moral grounds?”

“If you like.”

“I’m afraid I don’t believe you.”

His finger stabbed out at me. “Well, fuck you, and fuck your stupid ideas. I want my money by tomorrow afternoon, or I’m going to tell your precious Anna exactly what her sweet old boss has been trying to do!”

“She’s in Amsterdam.”

“Then I’ll tell her when she gets back!”

“In which case the vice squad will receive some very interesting photographs. With your name and address.” I smiled. “As they may do anyway.” He took a step towards me. “And as they certainly will if anything unfortunate were to happen to me,” I added.

Zeppo paused. “Get fucked.” He went towards the door.

“On your way out, you might have a look in the study,” I said. He stopped, looking back at me suspiciously.

“Why?”

“There’s a picture in there you might be interested in.”

“Shove it.” He began to walk downstairs. I followed him.

“I think you might like to see this one.” He reached the bottom of the stairs and headed for the front door. “The room’s right next to you now. It’d be a shame not to have a look.”

Zeppo turned. “What are you up to?”

“Don’t be such a cynic, Zeppo. I merely want to show you something I think you’ll be interested in.” I opened the door to the study and waited. He hesitated, but curiosity won. He went in.

“All right. Show me.”

“It’s this one.” I indicated a small canvas on the wall. “What do you think of it?”

He gave a cautious shrug. “So so. Why?”

“It’s a sketch by Jean Cocteau. Have you heard of him?”

“Yeah.” I could not tell from his expression if he had or not. I went on anyway.

“In that case you’ll know how rare this is. Cocteau’s famous for his films, but he also made a few quite celebrated sketches in the twenties. This is one of them. It was given to me as a present many years ago, which was the only reason I held on to it. I’ve never really liked it. At the time it had some value as a curio. Do you know how much it’s worth now?”

“No.”

I told him. He appeared unimpressed. “Congratulations. I hope you’ve got it insured. What’s that got to do with me?”

“I thought, with you being in a related field to the film industry, that you might like it?”

He looked at me in surprise. “What?”

“Kill Marty and it’s yours.”

For once I had the pleasure of seeing Zeppo thrown completely off-balance. “Are you serious?”

“Perfectly.”

“You’d give me that to kill him?”

“That’s what I said.”

He looked at the painting, then back to me. “Is it real?”

“Of course it’s real! You don’t think I’d hang a copy in my own home, do you? Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

He regarded the sketch again. I let the idea sink in.

“It’s really worth as much as that?” he asked at last.

“Oh yes. Obviously, it could be a little more, or a little less. But that’s approximately what it would fetch at auction, if you decided to sell it. You can always make your own enquiries if you don’t believe me. So long as you’re subtle about it.”

He studied it again. I doubted it was out of any aesthetic appreciation. I wondered which was the greater lure, the value of the sketch, or the name of the artist. As well as being avaricious, Zeppo was also a poseur. I knew the thought of possessing such a piece would appeal to him.

Slowly, he began to shake his head. “No. Nice try, Donald, but no. No way.” Something about the way he said it made me keep silent. “No, it’s... it’s...” He shook his head more emphatically. “It’s too risky.” I said nothing. “Sleeping with someone’s one thing, but this...” He looked at me, waiting for my response.

“It’s your choice.”

He began shaking his head again. But his eyes continually strayed to the picture. “No... I mean, how can we be sure that we wouldn’t be caught?”

I had him. Trying not to smile too smugly, I took him by the arm and led him back into the lounge.

“Why don’t we have another drink while we discuss it?” I said.

I telephoned Marty shortly before six o’clock the following evening. As I expected, there was no answer. But instead of hanging up I let it ring on, emptily. I wanted it to be ringing when he arrived home. And if I was on the line, no one else could be.

Anna had called me that morning. I had not gone into the gallery until late. It had been five o’clock before Zeppo and I had finalised everything, and I had slept through the alarm. I had only just opened when she rang, and for once I did not feel inclined to talk to her.

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

“Everything’s fine. I’m sorry to bother you, but I was thinking about tonight’s auction. I wondered, since we got the Hopper for less than you expected, if I should go a bit higher for the Burns? I wouldn’t do it without asking you, but I thought you might want to use the money you’d saved.”

It was an effort to apply myself to the question. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t really want to pay any more for it. Just stick with the existing limit.”

She sounded disappointed. “Oh. Okay. You don’t mind me asking, do you? Only I started thinking about it last night, so I thought I’d better ask you about it.”