Twelve Days of Winter: Crime at Christmas

But that’s what happens when you’re 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 Santa’s 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 they’ll go anywhere near the opening of a chicken slaughterhouse, but not him. He has ‘the common touch’, it says so in all the papers.

There’s a man waiting for him, leaning against the fence by the car, hands in his pockets, smiling.

Peter’s 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 – he’s 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, that’s very kind of you Mr. . . ?’ No name is forthcoming. Some people have no manners. ‘But I’m afraid you’d have to speak to my office about that. I think-’

‘No.’ The man holds up a hand. ‘I think you’ll 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 didn’t change, it might be weeks before he was found. Maybe not until the spring. Months. And he’d 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 doesn’t even look at him. ‘You finished? Or do I have to break another finger?’

‘I don’t mean to do it. . . I just. . . Sometimes. . . I can’t help it, they’re-’

A hard slap shuts him up.

‘I don’t want to hear you justify why you fuck children, understand? Try telling me again and I’ll beat the living shite out of you.’

‘I’m sorry. . .’ The tears are back.

‘I’ll bet you are: sorry you got caught. Shouldn’t 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 doesn’t make it any less painful. ‘What. . . What do you want?’

‘I want the painting. The Pear Tree. That’ll do to start with.’

‘The . . . The Pear Tree? But that’s a Monet, it’s 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 don’t?’

‘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 . . . I’ll. . . You wouldn’t-’

‘Want to try for another fucking finger?’

‘The painting! I’ll give you the painting!’

The Man smiles. ‘See, that’s why you make such a good politician: you know when to compromise. Start the car – we’ll go get it now.’

‘But-’

‘Now.’

Peter starts the car.

The electrician still hasn’t 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. It’s 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 city’s elite live – the people who’ve 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 it’s 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 Peter’s cheeks. ‘Can we just get on with this please?’

A shrug. ‘Well, don’t 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. It’s the most expensive thing he’s ever owned. It’s worth more than the house. He trembles as he touches the frame.

There’s a whistle behind him. Then, ‘Beautiful. . .’

‘My grandfather brought it back from France at the end of World War One. He. . .’ He’s about to launch into the story of how the old man bought it from Monet himself, when he realizes there’s no point. The Man isn’t interested in art, he’s only interested in what it’s worth. ‘It doesn’t 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, that’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’

Peter closes his eyes. Over the last forty years he’s lent the painting only four times. He should have never let it out of the house. If he’d kept it safe, this man wouldn’t be here now.

There’s 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. He’s lost everything. The painting’s just the tip of the iceberg: after this it’ll be money, jewellery, the car. Everything will be sold off. Stripped away until there’s nothing left. And then The Man will either kill him, or hand him over to the police.

‘Well, you’d better hope-’ He’s interrupted by Peter’s mobile phone ringing – Wagner’s Tristan